Chapter 2 — Chapter 1

Seraphine

*Seraphine*

“Just one little spell. No big deal. I’ve got this.” I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart as I gather the ingredients. My cottage feels smaller than ever, the cluttered space pressing in on me. A cracked cauldron sits untouched in the corner since last month’s failed brew, and spell books teeter in uneven stacks, their worn spines mocking my every doubt. I clutch one tightly, my hands trembling as if it might slip through my fingers and expose me for the fraud I fear I am.

“Come on, Seraphine,” I mutter under my breath, “you can do this. It’s just a simple protection charm. Easy as breathing.” But I need this to work—not just for the client, but to prove I’m not the family disappointment. Last year’s disaster still stings, when a botched warding spell cost me a client and earned me a lecture from Dad about “Blackwood standards.” I can’t fail again.

Ashling scampers across the table, knocking over a vial of crushed lavender. “My bad, but chaos is my specialty!” she chirps, her bushy tail twitching with mischief. “Sure you want lavender? I’ve got some prime acorns stashed if you need a substitute.”

I roll my eyes. “Ashling, for the last time, acorns aren’t a magical cure-all.”

“Says you,” she retorts, scampering up my arm to perch on my shoulder. “They’re still underrated, and I stand by it.”

“That’s because you’re a squirrel.” I huff, glancing around the cluttered space. Most witches bond with sleek cats or majestic owls—predators with gravitas. Me? I got a nut-obsessed scavenger. “You always think acorns are the answer.”

Ashling ignores me. “Oh! Don’t forget the moonstone. It’s under that pile of books you toppled yesterday.”

“*You* toppled them. And those books are how I earn my keep,” I grumble, thankful I tidied the bookkeeping ledgers sprawled across half my dining table earlier.

“Me. You. Same difference.” Ashling is shameless, eyeing me as I sift through the paperwork. “If that moonstone were a serpent, it’d have struck you and slithered off to a wizard’s court by now. It’s right under that black file.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, retrieving the smooth, iridescent stone. “At least you’re useful sometimes.”

Ashling swats the back of my head. “I’m useful for plenty. Like reminding you your client’s due in five minutes, and you haven’t even lit the candles yet.”

“By the stars!” I scramble to arrange the candles in a circle, my hands shaking as I light each one with a trembling match. “Why did I agree to this? I’ll botch it, just like always.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” Ashling’s tone softens. “You’ve got this. Just… try not to set the cottage ablaze this time, alright?”

I snort despite my nerves. “Thanks for the faith.”

As I finish the setup, my gaze drifts out the window toward my parents’ house. Its pristine, upmarket suburban facade hides the powerful witches within—witches whose magic should course through my veins. They expect me to guard the Blackwood grimoire someday, but I can’t even guard a teacup. The memory of Vera, barely thirteen, conjuring a flawless shield spell while I fumbled a basic charm, burns in my chest. I swallow hard, shoving down the familiar ache of inadequacy.

“Okay, Seraphine,” I tell myself firmly. “You can do this. It’s just one spell. How hard can it be?”

A knock at the door startles me, nearly toppling a vial of rosemary oil. I smooth a hand over my auburn hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear.

“Coming!” I call, my voice cracking. I clear my throat and try again. “Just a moment!”

Ashling darts to the windowsill. “Ooh, she looks fancy. Better put on your game face, Ro!”

I take a deep breath, steadying myself and plastering on what I hope is a confident smile as I open the door.

“Welcome,” I say, ushering in a well-dressed woman in her forties. “Please, come in. I’m Seraphine Blackwood.”

The client steps inside, her eyes scanning the cluttered cottage, lingering on a flickering rune-etched lantern casting shadows over spell-scarred walls. “I’m Margaret. I heard you might help with… a delicate matter.”

“Of course,” I nod, gesturing to a chair. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you some tea?”

Margaret shakes her head, perching on the chair’s edge. “No, thank you. I’d rather get straight to business, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly,” I say, sitting across from her. My hands fidget in my lap, and I force them still. “What can I help you with today?”

Margaret lowers her voice, her fingers twisting nervously. “I’ve lost something precious. A family heirloom—a locket that belonged to my husband’s grandmother. He’ll be furious if he learns it’s gone. I’ve searched everywhere, but it’s… vanished. I hoped you could use your abilities to find it.”

I nod, aiming for a sage, mysterious air, though her skeptical look tells me I’ve missed the mark. I settle for a smile. “A locator spell. Yes, I can certainly help with that.”

Ashling chooses that moment to leap onto the table between us, dropping an acorn with a clatter. Margaret gasps, startled.

*Blast it, Ashling!*

I laugh nervously, shooing her away. “Sorry about that. My familiar can be a bit… enthusiastic.”

Margaret eyes Ashling warily. “Is that… a squirrel?”

“Yes, she is,” I say, my cheeks warming. “Ashling’s quite talented, actually. She has a knack for finding things.”

“Right,” Margaret says, unconvinced. “Well, can you help me or not?”

I straighten, pushing insecurities aside. “Absolutely. A locator spell is well within my capabilities. We’ll have your locket found in no time.” Ashling makes a noise suspiciously like a snort, but I refuse to glance her way.

I take a deep breath, centering myself as I prepare to cast the spell. My palms slick with sweat as I grip the moonstone, the magic tingling sharp and unsteady in my fingertips. Margaret watches expectantly, her hands trembling slightly in her lap—a quiet reminder of her desperation. Ashling perches on a nearby shelf, her beady eyes fixed on me.

“Okay,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice. “Let’s begin.”

I close my eyes, focusing on the energy around me. My breath hitches as I start the incantation, hands moving in intricate patterns. At first, it feels right—the magic builds, a faint hum in my bones. Then, a whisper brushes my mind, faint and deep with a strange accent. *“I don’t give a damn…”* I falter, brows furrowing, but shake it off, refocusing.

Then chaos erupts.

A burst of sparks flares from the candles, and Margaret yelps. I stumble over the words, trying to regain control, but objects lift—books, vials, Margaret’s purse—spinning in the air.

“Is this… normal?” Margaret asks, her voice pitching higher as she ducks a floating teacup.

“Absolutely!” I lie, frantically gesturing to stabilize the spell. “All part of the process!”

*“That’s not what I said, damn it!”* The voice returns, louder, a deep baritone cutting through my focus. The teacup crashes onto the table, splattering hot contents.

“What on earth…?” Margaret blurts, jerking back.

“Oops!” I clap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, just a small hiccup.”

“Hiccup?” Margaret’s brows knit. “I thought this was magic.”

“Yes, of course! Sometimes it’s just a matter of… realigning the energies…” I babble, refocusing on the tingling in my fingertips. An image flickers in my mind—an oval cameo—before the voice intrudes again. *“You are out of your mind!”*

“What?” I swivel, glaring at Ashling. “Not now!” But she looks as startled as I feel, paws clasped. The teacup lifts again, joined by a vase, spinning faster. A surge of energy hits as I touch the moonstone, and a vortex forms, roaring as it devours papers and vials in its hungry swirl.

Margaret’s eyes widen in alarm. “What’s happening?”

“It’s, uh, part of the process,” I stammer, fingers trembling as I push my glasses up. Ashling leaps toward the ingredients, colliding with a vial of glittering powder. It explodes, coating everything—including a startled Margaret—in shimmering dust.

“Oh my God,” Margaret sputters, spitting glitter. “I trusted you with my grandmother’s memory!”

I open my mouth to respond, but the vortex spins faster, pulling Margaret’s chair toward it. She shrieks, clutching the armrests.

“Don’t worry!” I shout over the din. “I’ve got this under control!”

But I don’t. The energy coalesces around Margaret, and with a flash, she turns a vibrant navy blue from head to toe.

“What in the world?” Margaret shrieks, staring at her hands. Then, she starts hiccupping uncontrollably.

I clap a hand over my mouth, torn between horror and hysteria. “I’m so sorry! I can fix this, I swear!”

“Fix this?” She half-stands, eyes wide. “I’m *blue!*”

“It’s alright… just give me a moment to—” A sharp tug of familiar magic prickles my skin just before the door bursts open.

“Seraphine, what on earth is going on? I felt the disturbance from—” Dad stops, eyes widening.

*“This is ridiculous!”* The voice echoes in my head, startling me. My wrist flicks unintentionally, sending a burst of energy at Dad. With a pop and flash, he turns the same navy blue as Margaret.

“Seraphine!” he exclaims, staring at his hands in shock.

I let out a strangled laugh, turning to a panicked squeak. “Dad! I’m so sorry! I don’t know what’s happening!”

Margaret, still hiccupping, glares at Dad. “Mr. Blackwood! *hic* What kind of *hic* operation is this *hic*?”

Dad, ever composed despite his hue, nods. “I assure you, Mrs…?”

“Hen- *hic* -derson,” she snaps between hiccups, bristling. “My *hic* yoga instructor said to *hic* come here. A big *hic* mistake!”

“Mrs. Henderson,” Dad says smoothly, “this is a small mishap. I’ll rectify it if you’ll allow me. We Blackwoods deal in ancient wards, not trivial trinkets, but I’ll handle this.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve *her*!” Margaret glares at me.

My cheeks burn as I bite my lip. “I’m really very sorry,” I whisper.

“Now, now, Mrs. Henderson, no need to worry.” As Dad works his magic, I see Ashling inching toward the door. “Oh no, you don’t,” I mutter, reaching for her. *Pop! Flash!* She leaps, and I stare in horror as her tail transforms into bluebells.

“What the heck?! You’ve made me a floral arrangement!” Ashling squeaks, bolting out the door, petals trailing behind.

“Ashling, wait!” I call, but she’s gone.

Dad finishes, restoring Margaret’s color and stopping her hiccups. He shoots me a look—*We’ll talk later*—and escorts her out, leaving me amid the chaos.

I slump into a chair, pushing my glasses atop my head and burying my face in my hands. I reach for a small charm on the table—a family token from better days—clutching it as despair washes over me. “Why do I even try?”

Because I’m a Blackwood. Because there’s a void in our family since Althea… I stop the thought, the pain too raw.

A hand on my shoulder lifts my gaze. Dad stands beside me, concern and amusement in his eyes. “I’ve charmed Mrs. Henderson. She won’t recall the incident. She shouldn’t have had our details. This isn’t our specialty.”

“Dad, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what went wrong.” Tears prick my eyes.

He sits, patting my shoulder. “It’s alright, Seraphine. Mishaps happen. But perhaps… more practice before clients?”

I nod miserably. “What did I do wrong?”

“Well,” he examines the scattered components, “you used vervain instead of valerian, and switched verses, turning a locator spell into a color hex.”

I groan, mortified. “I’m such a failure.”

“No, you’re not,” he says firmly. “You’ll figure it out when you’re ready.” His tone is kind, but I hear the unspoken comparison. Vera mastered this at thirteen. I’m twice that and still floundering. And Althea… she would’ve—

I halt the thought, heart aching.

“You’ll get there, Ro-Ro.” Dad shoulder-bumps me. “Now, let’s fix my complexion, shall we?” He glances at his sapphire nails, smirking. “I look like a smurf!”

I manage a choked laugh, fleeting as it is.

As Dad leaves, I survey the mess—broken vials, scattered herbs, glitter everywhere. I start tidying, replaying the catastrophe. I’m knee-deep in debris when a soft hum of magic buzzes outside, followed by a knock.

*Please, not another client.*

“Coming!” I call, forcing cheer despite frayed nerves. I open the door to Vera, her perfect dark eyebrows raised as she takes in my disheveled state.

“Rough day?” she asks, stepping in uninvited.

I sigh, running a hand through tangled hair. “You could say that.”

Vera’s eyes widen at the chaos. “Wow, Ro. What happened? Looks like a magical storm hit.”

“Pretty much,” I mutter, grabbing a broom. “I tried a locator spell for a client. It… didn’t go well.”

Vera’s lips twitch, holding back a laugh. “I can see that. Something turned blue, I’m guessing?”

I groan. “How’d you know?”

She nods at the kitchen counter, where fruit and roses are bright blue. “Just a hunch. Plus, you’ve got blue glitter on your cheek.” She points.

I rub my face, embarrassment creeping up my neck. “Wonderful.”

Vera softens. “Hey, it’s okay. We all have off days.”

“Yeah, but your off days don’t involve turning clients blue and giving them hiccups,” I grumble.

She laughs, then stifles it at my expression. “Sorry. Hiccups? Really?”

I crack a small smile. “Yeah. Total disaster.”

Vera rolls up her sleeves. “Let me help clean up. Then we can go over that locator spell again, Ro. You’re close, just… not quite there.” Her words, though kind, sting with effortless confidence.

We tackle the glittering wreckage in silence, each sweep of the broom a reminder of my mess. I pause, glancing at Dad’s lingering blue tint in my mind. “Remember when Dad accidentally dyed his beard green at Yule? Took him a week to notice.”

Vera chuckles. “How could I forget? He swore it was ‘festive.’”

Ashling’s chittering draws my attention to the window. She’s back, flowery tail swishing as she scampers in.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I sigh. “Ashling, I’m so sorry about your tail.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” She glares, paws twisting. I reach for her, but she darts away.

“Here, let me fix it,” I say, raising my hands.

“Oh, no way!” Ashling’s eyes widen, leaping behind books.

Vera chuckles. “Maybe I should handle this, sis.”

I slump, nodding. “Yeah, probably.”

With a graceful wave, Vera murmurs a spell, restoring Ashling’s bushy tail. Ashling inspects it, nodding. Then, softer, she mutters, “You’ll get it next time, Ro. I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, the pang of inadequacy sharp against their ease.

Ashling tilts her head. “What’s with the long face?”

“Don’t play innocent,” I say. “I heard you during the spell. That deep voice with the accent? *‘That’s not what I said, damn it!’* Remember?”

Ashling shakes her head, perplexed. “Honey, if I could do accents, I’d be charming crows, not stuck in this magical mess of a cottage.”

“What are you talking about, Ro?” Vera pauses, broom in hand.

I frown, uncertain. “I… heard a voice. During the spell. It wasn’t Ashling?”

They exchange a look. “I didn’t hear anything,” Ashling insists. “Seriously, not me.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “But it was so clear… someone.”

Vera smiles gently. “Maybe it was your imagination? Stress plays tricks.”

She doesn’t believe me. Neither does Ashling. Am I losing it, too? As I sweep the last glitter, the voice’s echo lingers, a cold whisper against my thoughts. Was it a spell echo, or something—someone—else? I have to find out.