I've always loved the sound of books opening.
There's something reverent about it—the weight of a spine loosening, the scent of ink and parchment released like incense. It's a kind of magic, in its own way. But lately, even my favorite texts can't keep up with me.
By ten, I've outgrown every academic textbook in my school.
They've stopped testing me.
They've started watching me.
"You could graduate high school now," Don says over breakfast one morning, eyes skimming a letter from the school board. "Or go to university early."
Maggie scoffs, gracefully sipping her tea. "Please, let her enjoy childhood for a few more years. Besides, society doesn't like prodigies—it fetishizes and then devours them."
I raise an eyebrow, stabbing a strawberry with my fork. "Thanks for the visual, Mum."
She smiles at me over her teacup. "You're welcome, darling."
My life is a patchwork of contradictions.
By day, I'm the enviable child of power and privilege—charming, soft-spoken, devastatingly sharp when I choose to be. I attend social events in pale gold dresses, hair brushed into waves, smile poised just between innocence and allure.
By night, I draw blood-soaked sigils on polished floors and test the boundaries of time.
Maggie ensures I can float through high society without leaving a ripple.
We host quarterly charity galas, seasonal festivals, curated salons for witches hidden in the upper crust. Our estate becomes a place of elegance and whispered secrets.
I learn how to curtsy just enough to amuse but not submit.
How to smile just wide enough to disarm.
How to wear silk like armor.
"Eyes forward, posture sharp, kindness optional," Maggie murmurs before each event, brushing a final touch of shimmer across my cheeks.
"Yes, Mum," I sigh, tugging on my pearl earrings. "Anything else? Shall I wear a sign that says 'too dangerous to touch'?"
She laughs. "No need. You wear it in your eyes."
Don grounds me in the old ways.
We travel often—never for show, always for learning.
He takes me to Petra to study ley lines carved into red stone.
To Alexandria where hidden shelves in the library ruins hold grimoires passed through whispers.
To a mountain shrine in Kyoto, where spirits still linger at the torii gate.
Each place leaves a mark.
Each tale he tells—a relic wrapped in reverence—anchors me more to this world.
"You're still becoming," he says, one night by a desert fire in Morocco.
"I'm always becoming," I reply.
He doesn't disagree.
I teach now.
Not openly. Not in class.
But to those I've claimed—my coven.
My voice is low and calm. My hands graceful as I show them how to mix potions, draw sigils, think beyond the taught spellwork.
Beth sits closest, always.
She knows when to step in. When to let me lead. When to offer a question that's more like a mirror for the rest.
I never thought I'd enjoy teaching. But I do.
Not because of the praise.
Because of the control.
Because they look at me with trust and terror. Reverence.
And I love that.
Still, I'm not unkind.
I keep warm blankets in the secret training room. Tea always brewing. I teach the youngest how to stretch before spellcasting. I read them poetry. History. Lore.
I care.
Because they're mine.
And no one else will care for them like I do.
Beth and I sit beneath the willow tree one afternoon, sun dappled across the grass. She leans against me, head resting on my shoulder.
"You're changing," she says.
I glance at her. "Aging?"
She shakes her head. "No. You're… more beautiful."
I blink.
She continues, "Like your features are sharpening—but not in a scary way. Like you're becoming clearer."
I've seen it too.
My reflection has taken on a sculpted quality. My skin glows faintly in moonlight. My eyes—green like emerald glass—seem to hold light even in darkness.
Maggie attributes it to Void adaptation. The rituals. The enhancements.
But I think it's more.
This body is growing into me.
Into what I am.
The Chronolock spell is still not ready.
It's close.
But time magic demands perfection.
Don helps me refine the triangulation. Maggie works with me on the decoy enchantments.
Beth gathers reagents from markets around the world—under the guise of her family's travels.
We're close.
But not yet.
When I'm twelve, I'll cast it.
And if it works?
I'll own the key to everything.
One night, I lay in bed, half-awake, soul drifting gently along the edge of the astral plane.
I reach out, just to feel.
Touch the threads of reality like a harp.
But one of the threads… snaps back.
I jolt upright, breath stolen.
Something out there—something strong—just brushed against me.
Maggie enters a moment later, uninvited but somehow expected.
"You felt it too," she says.
"Something moved," I whisper.
"Yes."
Don appears in the doorway, eyes serious. "We don't know what it was. But it didn't see you."
"Are you sure?"
"No," he admits. "But your cloak is intact."
A beat of silence.
"Do you think it was—"
"No names," Maggie says sharply. "Not in this house."
I sleep poorly that night.
Not out of fear.
But because it reminded me—
This world isn't safe.
And I'm still not ready.
The next morning, I pretend nothing happened.
I dress in sky blue, attend a museum gala with Maggie, dazzle the adults with my charm and composure.
I spin in circles for the press photos, laugh when asked about my favorite classical composer.
"Stravinsky," I answer, deadpan. "Because his music sounds like it's challenging the orchestra to survive."
The reporter laughs nervously.
Maggie chokes on her champagne.
Later that night, curled in a velvet chair beside the hearth, Don looks over a map of temporal lines I drew by hand.
"You do realize," he says, "if your spell succeeds, the world will feel the ripple."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that?"
I tilt my head, smile slowly.
"I'm counting on it."
But I keep the biggest surprise for myself.
Something small, but jarring.
A book. Left on my desk when I return from class.
Not from Don. Not from Maggie.
No note. No trace of magic.
But I know this book.
It's from the Men of Letters archive.
A sigil-heavy compendium of demon traps, angelic wards, and alchemical transmutation.
It should not be here.
It should not exist in my space.
But it is.
And on the inside cover, in looping black ink:
"You're not the only one watching."
I stare at the words, heart thudding.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Just a pulse of awareness.
This world is alive.
It remembers.
It responds.
I close the book.
And smile.