Page 96 of Where the Roses Bloom

“Or spiritually armed,” Delilah added, gesturing towardthe punch bowl. “That’s fortified with elderflower and rosehip for heart-healing.”

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” I stammered. “I mean…I’m so sorry, but I don’t even remember everyone’s name.”

“Well, I’m Delilah,” Delilah said.

“Very helpful,” I shot back.

“We haven’t really talked much,” Jamie said, stepping forward to offer his hand. “Jamie Wright. You came into the bookstore looking for stuff on hauntings a few weeks back…figured that made you my people. And this is my cousin Flora.”

The blonde stepped forward, her handshake warm but steady. “It’s a pleasure,” she said. Her eyes flicked over me, sharp but kind. “I go way back with the Wards…wasn’t sure how Rhett could’ve possibly pulled a witch, but Jamie was confident.”

“I’m not really a witch,” I started, but Jasmine cleared her throat.

“The magic you worked at Anita Mae’s delivery says otherwise.”

Flora’s gaze didn’t waver. “See, that’s the thing. Around here, ‘witch’ isn’t some fixed category. It’s a sliding scale. You make tinctures, you trust your gut, you walk into haunted houses without blinking? That’s witch enough for me.”

She sipped her punch, but her eyes stayed on me like she was reading something no one else could see. “Truth is, any woman who owns what she is—and doesn’t flinch when the world tries to shame her for it—is already halfway to witchdom.”

I let out a startled laugh, cheeks warm.

“Plus,” she added, smile curling at the edges, “you’ve got the Ward look now.”

I blinked. “What look?”

Her gaze softened just a little. “The look of someone who’s seen what can’t be unseen. Who’d face down a demon before breakfast and still remember to say thank you at the bakery. All the Wards carry it… though not so much these days. Not since you came to town.”

Something in her tone sent a ripple through me—like she meant more than she said, like she knew more than I’d asked.

“Yeah…maybe we should talk more sometime,” I said, voice a little unsteady.

“Maybe we should.”

Flora clinked her glass against mine, a soft, amused little cheers, and turned to help Ivy with the banner—finally getting it strung across the window where it caught the afternoon light like a wink.

“Well,” Delilah said, clapping her hands. “Now that our bride has been emotionally disarmed, how about we eat too many scones and cry about the power of love?”

“I thought you said this wasn’t going to be that kind of party,” I muttered.

“It wasn’t,” Delilah shot back. “But now I’m in my feelings.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling as I took a seat at the table. Jasmine sat beside me, using the hand not holding her baby to pass over the lemon bars. “For the record, even I’m a little emotional,” she murmured.

We all got our own glasses of punch—which, thanks to Jamie, hadnotbeen spiked prior to our arrival—and then Delilah raised her glass. “To sacred unions and cursed houses,” she said.

“To women who don’t flinch,” Jamie added.

“To lemon bars and love spells,” Jasmine grinned.

Then they all looked at me.

I blinked. “Uh…to friends who throw weird-ass parties in libraries?”

Delilah laughed. “Cheers!”

Then we all clinked glasses…and I realized I wasn’t just Rhett Ward’s woman anymore. I wasn’t the outsider who was still carving her way in.

No…this crooked, haunted, magical place had made room for me.