Page 25 of The Witch’s Spell (Season of the Witch #4)

“The delicate balance of magic that sustains a fairy portal is easily disturbed.

Even the slightest shift in the flow of energy between the realms can cause a portal to malfunction.

This disruption may appear as nothing more than a flicker in the air, a sudden gust of wind, or a strange sensation on the skin, but the consequences can be far-reaching.

Creatures from Fairyland may slip through unnoticed, drawn by the instability of the portal, or worse, the human world may be inundated with chaotic bursts of fairy magic.

Such incidents often result in storms, bizarre weather patterns, or even alterations to the landscape itself, where the laws of nature bend and twist under the influence of the fae.

“For those who seek to use the portals for their own purposes, the risks are immense. Few have the wisdom or strength to truly understand the forces at play. It is said that only those with deep knowledge of both realms and a profound connection to the flow of magic can hope to pass through the portal safely, without causing unintended harm. Many would-be travelers have tried to cross into Fairyland, only to disappear without a trace, their fates sealed by the magic that lingers at the portal’s edge.

Some legends even speak of those who stepped through and found themselves forever lost between worlds, caught in the turbulent ebb and flow of magical energies. ”

When I come to the end of the paragraph, I pause, letting my eyes skim the page, returning time and again to the words that jumped out at me.

Balance. Energy. Instability.

“The storm . . .” Thorne whispers.

I tear my eyes from the page. “Yes. The one that came through when you—” I glance around, but Welma is nowhere to be seen.

Despite this, I lower my voice. “The one that came through when you used the portal. I think you’re right: the sudden burst of magic caused an imbalance in our worlds. Now the portal is unstable.”

Thorne is rubbing that same strand of hair again, rolling it back and forth along his forefinger and thumb. “But how do we correct it? How do I send it back if the portal refuses to open for me?”

I consult the book still lying open in my lap, but the chapter is short, and it offers no guidance on how to fix a fairy portal after throwing it off-balance.

Chewing my lip, I try to recall my lessons at Coven Crest, some of the basics we were taught in our early classes. Only problem is we were taught very little about fairies, and what we did learn was rudimentary at best.

“Tell me about fairy magic,” I say. Then I realize I don’t know if Thorne even has magic. I don’t know if all fairies possess abilities or if only a few are born with gifts, like humans and witches here in our realm. “Do you—” I glance around again, but still no Welma. “Do you have magic?”

Thorne’s thumb and forefinger pause in their worrying at his hair. With a small smile, he directs his attention to the hearth, where the fire has started to burn low. I follow his gaze, and with a whoosh of air and sparking of flame, the fire roars back to life. I let out a small gasp.

“Yes,” he says, leaning back in the armchair.

“I have magic. Most fairies do. But it doesn’t work like yours.

.. At least, not exactly. It’s more unpredictable, tied closely to our environment and our emotions.

Rather than being something separate from or outside of us, it’s part of us, an extension of our life force.

Like spring storms, our magic can be wild, untamed.

I’ve had it all my life, yet I feel I’ve only just begun to grasp the very edge of my understanding of how it works.

” He sighs and props his sharp chin upon his hand. “I wish I were less useless.”

Slowly, with no fresh wood to devour, the fire dies down again. I close the book and set it aside, then lean on the plush armrest.

“I wouldn’t say my magic is the opposite, really, but it takes more intention to work with, to control.

” I push to my feet to begin pacing the rug in front of the hearth.

Thorne’s silver eyes track me as I walk to and fro, my thick socks whispering with every step.

“As an earth witch, my magic is deeply tied to plants, the seasons, the natural flow of energy. It’s the opposite of untamed; it’s gentle, subtle.

” I move my hands as I speak, trying to work through this one idea at a time.

“There’s a rhythm and pattern to it.” Then I stop and turn to face him.

“Perhaps I could use my magic to somehow... balance it out. Restore stability to the portal.”

Thorne is nodding, forehead furrowed again. “How? What would such a thing even look like?”

Chewing my lip, I cross one arm atop my belly and reach up with the other hand to grasp the necklace my mother gave me when she was here for Samhain. My fingers find the crystal quartz and black tourmaline, and an idea occurs to me.

“Maybe I could use one of my grounding rituals. I could cast a circle, use crystals for balance and protection. Perhaps I can counteract the chaotic energy that came through with the storm, soothe it just enough for you to attempt to open the portal again.”

“That could work. It’s worth a shot.”

“Then . . . we have a plan?” I ask.

Thorne’s smile is soft in the waning firelight.

Overhead, the sunlight has shifted, and it slants through the windows in such a way as to darken the corners of the library, making it feel like you might get lost should you take a wrong turn down one of the aisles.

But it’s comforting, in a way, like being embraced by warm arms in the dark.

Welma emerges suddenly from one of the back rooms, and I jump at her appearance.

“Sorry, dear,” she says, removing her spectacles from her nose. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Any luck with the book? ”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “I’d like to take it home, read it all the way through.”

“Of course, of course. Bring it over.”

I fetch the book and carry it to the desk, where Welma fills out the slip of parchment tucked inside the front of the book.

“No rush,” she says. “This isn’t exactly one of our popular titles.

” Her smile is small and friendly. Then her eyes flash open.

“Oh, gooseberries. I was supposed to meet Liora for tea ten minutes ago.” Hurriedly, she flutters around the desk and toward the front door, where our cloaks are all hanging on hooks in the entryway.

“I’ll be back in a half hour or so. I’d be happy to pull more books for you when I get back. ”

“Oh, all right.”

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Blackveil,” Welma says as she clasps her cloak about her neck.

“You as well, miss,” he says in return.

Her cheeks flare pink again, and she waves him off with a chuckle. Then the door opens and closes, letting in a cool draft that makes the flames whip about in the hearth. As soon as the door clicks behind her, the two of us are left in relative silence.

And I feel Welma’s absence acutely , the fact that Thorne and I are in the empty library all alone, with dark corners and a crackling fire and—

“Do you want to look for more material?” Thorne asks.

When I turn, I find him standing beside the armchair, leaning on his cane, his free hand tucked into the front pocket of his trousers.

He’s wearing a vest atop his cotton tunic, with gleaming buttons and a slim fit that accentuates his shoulders.

It’s not so unlike the fine clothing Rowan wore when my family visited for Samhain. Maybe it’s of fairy make.

“Or perhaps one of those love stories you enjoy so much?” His lips pull up on one side.

The idea of taking a few books back home and getting lost in a fictional world for a while sounds lovely—even if I know the most responsible thing to do would be focusing on getting the fairy portal functioning again.

“I don’t know,” I start to say, but Thorne turns away, already heading for the shelves, his cane thumping pleasantly on the lovingly worn floorboards as he goes.

“Are they here?” he calls from an aisle of books, his melodic voice weaving through the hundreds of books organized so meticulously on each shelf.

Finally stepping away from the desk, I place Secrets of Fairyland next to my teacup on the table beside the armchair, then go in search of Thorne. I find him in a section on animals and pet care, his head tipped curiously to one side. It makes me giggle, and his eyes flash to mine.

“What?”

“They’re over here.” I wave for him to follow, and he trails behind me as I find the section I’m looking for.

There are a number of books still on the shelf from when I was younger, a teenager first discovering love and the feel of a boy’s innocent touch.

But it seems Welma has added a number of new titles to the library’s collection since last I was here.

One catches my attention. It has a light purple cloth cover, and the title stamped upon the spine says Under Lavender Skies. It’s on the top shelf .

I press onto my toes, reaching for the novel. But the shelves are a bit tall even for me, and my fingers just barely graze the spine.

Then Thorne is behind me, his chest brushing my back, his hand passing over the top of mine to grasp the book and pull it smoothly from the shelf.

“Thank you,” I say, turning and reaching for it.

But he’s wearing a playful smirk, and he lifts it just out of my reach.

“Thorne,” I warn, arms crossing as a smile tugs on my mouth. “Give it to me.”

“So hasty,” he says while setting his cane aside and leaning back against one of the heavy wooden shelves, draping himself along it with inhuman grace. “I’m just curious, is all.”

His lithe fingers begin to flip through the pages. The parchment ruffles in the quiet library, sending up the peaceful scent of ink and paper. His eyes track the pages smoothly, and then he stops, finger tracing the text.

“Oh,” he says, brows rising. “So, this is the type of story you like to read.”