Anger surged past fear for a moment, freezing me in place. This witch had destroyed my dearest treasure—Emily’s grimoire.

That tingling surged right along with my rage, and I took a step forward, ready to…

Ready to what? I wasn’t overly strong, and despite maybe wriggling my finger under Augustin’s power, I wasn’t a witch who could cast a spell. So… that left me with confronting her while she set me ablaze like she had the grimoire.

Mischief nudged my leg with her head.

Okay, then, plan B. I could rush on and hope to make it to the end of the block before she recognized me, then turn and scurry off to wherever that street led, or I could spin around and hope she wouldn’t recognize me from behind. Although… Mischief was identifiable from any angle.

Mischief nudged me again. Once she had my attention, she backtracked about two yards and peered at me from behind a little alcove between two of the buildings.

“Works for me.” I hurried over, tucked in beside her, and found despite my petite stature, even pressed against the wrought-iron gate at my back, the space couldn’t fully conceal me. “This will only help if she doesn’t head our way.”

An older woman walking past gave me a quizzical expression. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, nothing. Sorry, just talking to my dog.”

She opened her mouth to respond but then seemed to think better of it and continued on her way.

I peered out from the small bit of cover the alcove provided, hoping beyond hope the raven-haired woman had gone into the art shop or maybe turned down the next block.

She hadn’t. Instead, she’d crossed over and still headed toward us, just a few buildings away.

At this point, I couldn’t run, and no way would she simply pass and fail to notice a woman and dog pretending to be invisible. I tried anyway, wedging myself against the wrought iron, banging my elbow on the gate handle in the process.

Gate handle! Swiveling slightly, I grasped the handle—the iron cold under my palm—and gave a twist. Nothing happened.

“Oh, come on. Just one little break. Please!” That tingling sensation built in my blood once more, bringing with it a tiny surge of hope.

I’d moved my finger with it before, right? Maybe? If I had, then…

Then I thought I knew what that meant. Maybe Mischief was right. Maybe I somehow now had what I’d longed for my whole life.

Mischief moved closer, pulling completely out of view and wedging herself against my legs. Magic. Maeve.

The tingling grew warmer. I breathed out a small, slow breath. “Open. Please, please open.” I twisted the handle again, and this time, it clicked. Warmth shot up my arm to my shoulder, and I whipped toward Mischief. “Yeah… magic!”

I pushed open the gate, which squealed loudly. Mischief rushed in and scurried down the narrow path, and I quickly closed the gate and followed. My heels clicked over the cobblestone path, echoing off the brick walls of the buildings, hopefully louder in my ears than in reality.

Mischief turned the corner, and I trailed right behind her. A second later, we stepped into a small, lush courtyard.

I smothered the temptation to peer around the corner and see if the black-haired woman walked past the iron gate or if she’d noticed us and followed. We’d hear if she opened the gate, so no reason to check and risk being seen.

Even so, I pressed my back against the wall, straining my ears, trying to convince myself I’d recognize her footsteps as she walked past. But I couldn’t. The footfalls that wafted back to the courtyard were indistinguishable from one another. Plus, I had no idea what stores were between her and us. Maybe she’d already walked by, or perhaps she wouldn’t for another twenty minutes.

It didn’t matter. If she’d seen us, she’d already be entering the gate. We just needed to wait. Mischief had already reached that conclusion; she sat on the opposite side, staring down at the fish swimming in the basin of a small fountain, not concerned in the slightest.

Trusting her instincts, I crossed the space in about five steps and sat down beside her on the edge of the fountain. “I’ve always known you were smart, but it turns out you’re beyond brilliant.”

She spared me the briefest of glances, then returned to staring at the glittering goldfish.

I sank my fingers into her fur. “Yeah, I know. Not news to you.”

Instead of annoyance, her laughter sounded in my mind. At our momentary safety and at her nearness, my heart began to calm.

“All in all, we aren’t doing too badly. We’ve already uncovered some secrets, avoided fireball guy and… well… fireball gal, I guess. Maybe we’ll call her book-burning gal to mix it up and be more accurate.”

Mischief didn’t dignify my musings with a response. Instead, she gingerly lifted one white paw and tapped the surface of the water. The largest goldfish swam up and appeared to nibble at her cute little toe beans. With a grunt, Mischief placed her paw back on dry ground.

“What is it with witches and fire anyway? Sure, the grimoire had a few spells about fire, but… I don’t know…” I shrugged as Mischief peered up at me. “Considering all the centuries of witch burning, I kind of figured using fire would always be a last resort. Looks like I got those details wrong in the books.”

Mischief sank down onto the cobblestones and rested her head over her crossed front paws, opting for a nap.

“Might as well. We’re going to be here a while.” I started to pat her head again but refrained, not wanting to disturb her. Instead, I leaned my back against the wall and did a brief check of where we were.

The courtyard, a little rectangle probably no more than fifteen feet by eight, was almost as lovely as the one behind Rosalind’s. One planter held a towering palm tree; all the others sported various tropical plants—each thick, lush, and beautiful. A small metal table and chairs sat in the center, and only then did I notice the cobblestone pattern on the ground spread out in concentric circles, like ripples over the surface of water.

The air smelled faintly of damp brick and something floral I couldn’t name.

All three walls were tucked away from view of the alley, and each wall held a set of narrow French doors, painted a deep yellow. Two appeared to have curtains drawn behind them, and the other provided a view into someone’s unlit living room. I couldn’t quite make out the interior.

At the realization, I nearly hopped up to leave. The last thing we needed was for whoever lived there to come out and accuse us of trespassing.

No… my world had changed. The actual last thing we needed was to be set on fire by some crazed witch.

If someone discovered us, I could just claim the gate was open, and we hadn’t realized we were on private property. They likely wouldn’t assume I magically opened their lock… unless this was another witch courtyard. Then they’d use my presence here to claim I wasn’t human after all since I’d used magic.

Used magic. I’d used magic!

My worry about the courtyard owners vanished, and I stared down at my hands. They didn’t look any different. Small, pale, an old scar on the index finger of my left hand—a vestige of a paring knife messing up the middle of my fingerprint. But they’d done magic, unlocked a gate just by asking.

The spell I’d repeated for a witch coming into her power after discovering the grimoire came back to me. Had it finally taken effect? Was I getting my wish, what I’d fantasized about my entire childhood, kept secret from my mother… and later indulged in while writing all my books?

I knew better. That spell was for witches, for the young reaching puberty. Not the eighteen-year-old woman I’d been when I’d discovered Emily’s grimoire, and definitely not the twenty-four-year-old writer I was now.

If not a spell, then… what? The tingling sensation had started when I’d woken after being captured by Rosalind at the cathedral. Maybe in my sleep, she’d done—

No, of course not. Rosalind hadn’t accidentally given me magic.

The tingle returned, seemed to build at my temples. Right where Eudora had gripped my face.

Eudora! That light that had traveled from Eudora as she lay dying in my arms and into me. I had the feral witch’s power. She’d given it to me. Maybe by accident, some weird transfer during death that…?

No. I felt again her fingernails digging into my temples. Could see the golden light between us, the golden light she’d forced into me. The same golden light that had led me from the witch courtyard and through the Quarter.

The feral witch had intentionally given me her magic.

Proof I hadn’t killed her. But who would believe that? They’d all assume I murdered her to steal her magic somehow. Was stealing magic possible? I didn’t remember such a spell in Emily’s grimoire, but maybe my subconscious had pulled it out from the recesses of my…

No. Eudora had given me her powers.

On purpose.

Why did she give me her powers?

I wasn’t Maeve the writer, or the prisoner, or the accused murderer. I was just a girl with a wish so old it had grown roots inside me. And that wish had come true.

However, no part of me believed the feral witch had been some sort of fairy godmother dishing out wishes.

So… why had Eudora given me my heart’s desire?

I’d always heard to be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

All sounds of life drifting in from the Quarter vanished, drowned out by my pounding heart, by my heavy breathing. Loud enough it woke Mischief, who lifted her head to stare at me.

“Magic, Mischief. I have magic.” I wished I could take my whisper back as soon as the words left my lips, fearing I’d somehow ruined it.

Mischief blinked, smacked her chops, and returned to her nap, seeming bored. After all, she’d already told me this.

Well… that made one of us. I’d never been less bored. Or more hopeful. I gripped the edge of the stone fountain, feeling shaky. My fingers slipped over something, pulling my attention down.

Moss grew along the edge down to the water, where the goldfish had gathered around my shadow, staring up through the lily-pad leaves, probably hoping I’d feed them.

I focused on the small bud barely breaking the surface of the water, the slightest hint of purple beneath its green seams.

That buzz in my veins grew stronger, warmer. “Okay, Emily, no more pretending, this time it’s real.” I slipped my hand beneath the surface and cupped the bud in my palm, so its long stem slid between my second and third fingers. “Open.”

Nothing. Zilch. Nada. I’d been so certain for a second, I didn’t believe it when nothing happened. The bud didn’t so much as quiver.

A tear rolled down my cheek and dripped into the water.

Abandoning her nap, Mischief shuffled over and pressed herself against my legs as she often did. Again. Do. Again.

“Okay. Only…”

How?

The desperate thought barely formed before I realized the answer.

The grimoire might be gone, but I practically had the whole thing memorized. Hope returned, smaller than the tiny bud I still held in my palm. I didn’t have to sort through my memory because I knew which one. Some of the spells had titles, but this one didn’t. Instead, painted flowers and trees, wheat and herbs, filled every space unoccupied by words.

“Flora flush and green, holding power deep in thee.” The tingling in my veins nearly burnt. “Hasten the foreseen, bloom for me.”

The bud glowed a soft gold for a solitary breath, and then it opened, the seams parting, forming a small cup-shaped bloom in my palm. Layer upon layer of purple petals spread out, giving way to the white interior and then the gilded center.

Mischief popped up beside me, resting both her front paws on the edge of the fountain, her tail wagging furiously as she studied the lily-pad blossom. She looked up at me with a grin.

“Magic, Mischief! Magic!” Tears flowed freely. I cupped her face with my free hand. “I don’t understand, but…”

What if the Matriarch found out? Even if I survived the Quarter, solved Eudora’s murder, and managed not to get purged, she’d work some spell and steal the magic away.

“I don’t understand, but I’m not giving it back.”

Maeve. Magic. Mischief beamed at me. Keep.