Page 129 of Magical Moonbeam

Not because I feared who it might be—

But because Ialready knew.

Chapter Thirty-Two

"Mom, this place is so cool. It’s like Stonewick, but all goth."

The voice hit me like a slap.

Not a metaphorical one, either.

It was like reality cracked, sharp and cold, splitting open under my feet as my daughter’s voice rang out on the doorstep.

My knees gave the faintest buckle, and for a moment, I wasn’t Maeve Bellemore, headmistress, Hedge witch, curse-breaker. I was just a mother hearing her child’s voice where she absolutely should not be.

Celeste.

She appeared behind Gideon, her dark auburn curls loosely bouncing, a charcoal-gray sweater dress hugging her tall frame as she practically skipped behind him.

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, not fear. There was even a grin, crooked and earnest and painfully familiar, pulling at her mouth.

The room spun.

No. No, no, no.

“Celeste?” I whispered, but it came out strangled like my lungs had forgotten how to function.

Gideon’s smile widened. Not smug. Not gloating. Worse. It was warm. Pleased.

“Well,” he drawled, “this is turning out to be even more delightful than I expected. A little mother-daughter reunion in the moonlight. How poetic.”

I didn’t hear him after that. Not really.

Because she ran toward me.

She ran, arms open, smile bright, her laughter echoing against the eerie stone walls of Shadowick like some twisted lullaby from a dream. My feet were rooted, my heart somewhere in my throat, and I couldn't breathe until her arms wrapped around me and her head pressed against my shoulder.

She was real.

Solid.

Warm.

“Oh my god, Mom,” she said, pulling back slightly to look at me. “This place iswild. It’s like Stonewick’s moody twin. And that guy—” She jerked her thumb behind her, toward Gideon. “—is hilarious. Super intense. But he knows so much about magic. He said I have potential. Isn’t that crazy?”

I stared at her.

At her eyes.

They were shining.

Not enchanted. Not vacant.

Happy.

Terrifyingly happy.

“Oh, honey,” I whispered. My fingers gripped her arms without thinking, as if I were trying to anchor her here, to anchor myself to the sheer impossibility of what was happening. “What are you doing here?”