Next chapter update will be on Friday 7th March.
"Maggie, baby, I was gone for just two days, and you let a stranger into my house?" Mrs. Brown's voice dripped with disapproval as she swept into the hallway, her dramatic entrance immediately establishing her presence.
"Mom, Melinda isn't a stranger. She's my friend," Maggie protested, crossing her arms defensively.
"And what will the other witches think of me? That I'm some low-class witch who allows… anyone into my home?" Maggie's mother exclaimed, pacing up and down the hallway in exaggerated frustration, her long gown swirling around her like a dark cloud.
She was a middle-aged woman in her late forties, though she meticulously cultivated an image of youthful vibrancy, dressing and carrying herself like she was twenty-five. Her sharp, asymmetrical bob haircut, streaked with bold black and white highlights, framed her face with an air of sophisticated elegance. She wore a long, flowing dark gown that swept the floor, completely concealing the heeled black shoes beneath it. Her commanding presence was heightened by her reputation as one of the few witches capable of wielding both light and darkness magic. Many called her "The Witch of Morning and Night," a title that had propelled her status within the coven, making her a soon-to-be province head, a position of significant power and influence.
"Mrs. Brown, I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've caused," Melinda said softly, her voice weak and strained, drifting from the staircase as she slowly, carefully descended the steps. She still looked pale and drained, the lingering effects of whatever magical exertion she had undergone, gripping the banister for support, her movements slow and deliberate.
Mrs. Brown gasped dramatically, recoiling as if she'd just seen a ghost, her eyes widening in theatrical surprise. "Oh my goodness, it spoke!" she shrieked, pointing a long, manicured finger dramatically at Melinda.
"Mother!" Maggie snapped, glaring at her mother with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "You will not speak to my friend like that."
"And what will you do about it, Maggie?" Mrs. Brown said, narrowing her eyes, her lips curling into a thin, disapproving line. "You're grounded."
"You can't do that!" Maggie shot back, her voice rising in indignation.
"I just did," her mother said coolly, her tone dismissive. "Now, go to your room while I deal with this… mistake of yours."
"No!" Maggie yelled, stepping between her mother and Melinda, her hands clenched into fists, her body tense and defiant. "You're not going to touch her."
"Move out of my way, Maggie," her mother warned, her tone sharp and threatening, her eyes flashing with anger.
"No, Mother," Maggie said firmly, her voice unwavering, though her heart was pounding in her chest. "I'm done with you controlling my life. I'm moving out."
Her mother let out a sharp, derisive laugh, folding her arms across her chest. "And where exactly will you go?" she challenged, her voice dripping with skepticism.
Maggie hesitated for only a moment, a flicker of doubt crossing her face, before replying, "I'm going to Dad's."
The words left her lips, and she immediately regretted them. The shift in her mother's demeanor was instant and dramatic. Her smug, condescending expression dropped, replaced by a dark, cold frown, her eyes hardening.
"What did you just say?" her mother demanded, her voice laced with fury, a dangerous edge to it.
Maggie swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, but stood her ground, even as doubt clawed at her resolve. She had to be firm. She wasn't a child anymore. "I said… I'm going to Dad's," she repeated, though her voice wavered slightly, betraying her inner turmoil. She glanced back at Melinda, who was slumped against the staircase railing, barely able to keep herself upright, her face pale and drawn.
Her mother straightened, her posture becoming rigid, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Very well, Margaret Brown," she said with icy finality, her voice dripping with disdain and a chilling undercurrent of threat.
"I can't believe she actually kicked me out," Maggie grumbled, standing on the wet curb, trying to hail a taxi in the pouring rain. The downpour was relentless, soaking her favorite white dress, turning it translucent and clinging to her skin. Melinda, leaning heavily on her shoulder for support, wasn't faring any better. She was trembling from the cold, her lips slightly blue, her breathing shallow.
"Ugh, I hate rain," Maggie muttered, shivering as a cab finally pulled up to the curb. She cursed under her breath as she struggled to keep her balance while helping Melinda into the taxi, her frustration mounting with each passing moment.
Melinda mumbled something faintly, her voice barely audible over the drumming rain.
"What did you say?" Maggie asked, bending closer to catch her words.
"I can't believe your full name is Margaret," Melinda said with a weak laugh, her eyes closing briefly.
Maggie chuckled despite herself, the tension of the situation momentarily easing. "Yeah, well, I guess we all have our secrets," she said, smirking playfully as the driver stepped out of the cab to grab their bags from the trunk.
She eased Melinda into the backseat of the taxi, careful not to jostle her too much, her movements gentle and concerned. The driver gave her a curious, slightly raised eyebrow look as she climbed in after her friend, the damp hem of her dress brushing against the worn upholstery.
"What's wrong with her?" the driver asked, his voice laced with casual curiosity.
Maggie smiled slyly, offering a plausible, if slightly embellished, explanation. "Her date ghosted her, so she's had a little too much to drink," she said, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face, her tone light and dismissive.
The driver shrugged, accepting her explanation without further question, shutting the trunk with a soft thud and hopping back into the driver's seat. As the cab pulled away from the curb, Maggie glanced at Melinda, who had already started to drift off, her head resting against Maggie's shoulder, her breathing shallow and even.
For the first time in hours, since the confrontation with her mother, Maggie allowed herself a small sigh of relief, a moment of respite in the midst of the chaos.
Maggie had never been away from home without a driver and one of the family's luxurious, chauffeured cars. Yet here she was, navigating unfamiliar territory, the bustling city streets, with no money to speak of and a friend who looked like she was knocking on death's door, her health precarious.
It wasn't exactly a fun experience, to put it mildly, but Maggie was determined to see it through. She had made a promise to Melinda, and she wasn't going to back down. Their journey to Pentos required two separate train rides from their city, a considerable distance, with the tickets paid for using the cash Melinda had cleverly, if somewhat ethically ambiguously, swiped from the motel cashier.
Now, on their second train ride, Melinda looked marginally better, a small improvement that gave Maggie a sliver of hope. Her pale complexion was starting to regain some color, and she managed small bursts of conversation, her voice still weak, before drifting back to sleep, her body conserving its energy. Maggie understood what was happening. Melinda's body was caught in a vicious, cruel cycle—torn between healing her injured hand and restoring her depleted magic. It was a frustrating, agonizing paradox: her body couldn't regenerate magic until her injuries healed completely, but it couldn't heal without sufficient magic to fuel the process.
The witches called it a cold state, a term that perfectly captured the stagnant, precarious nature of Melinda's condition. Maggie wished she could perform a magic infusion to help her friend, to jumpstart her healing, but their magic operated in entirely different domains, like oil and water. Attempting to mix them, to force their magical energies to interact, would be like throwing a glass of water onto a blazing fire—ineffective at best, and potentially catastrophic at worst, possibly causing unforeseen magical backlash. The only solution, as frustrating as it was, was to let Melinda's body recover naturally, to allow its own internal mechanisms to work their slow, painstaking magic, no matter how long it took.
"Melinda?" Maggie called softly, gently nudging her friend's shoulder.
"Hmm?" Melinda stirred, her voice barely audible, her eyes fluttering open.
"Can you walk?" Maggie asked, watching her closely, her expression filled with concern.
"I can manage," Melinda replied, though her shaky voice and labored breathing suggested otherwise. She was clearly trying to put on a brave face, to downplay her weakness.
"Good. We'll be at our stop soon, okay?" Maggie said, her tone gentle and reassuring.
Melinda didn't respond. Instead, her breathing grew slow and steady, her eyelids drooping—she was already asleep again, her body shutting down to conserve energy. Maggie sighed, a small sound of worry escaping her lips, and adjusted the thin blanket over her friend, making sure she was tucked in snugly and warm.
Turning back to the train window, Maggie stared at the passing scenery, the blur of trees and fields a monotonous backdrop to her thoughts. The rhythmic clatter of the train tracks, the gentle rocking motion of the carriage, was almost hypnotic.
"Approaching Pentos City stop in 5 minutes," the conductor's voice crackled over the train's intercom, jolting Maggie out of her reverie.
Maggie inhaled deeply, bracing herself for the next leg of their journey. They were almost there, almost at their destination.
"Melinda?" Maggie called out repeatedly, shaking her gently but firmly, but there was no response. Melinda remained limp and unresponsive, lost in the depths of sleep. With a frustrated sigh, Maggie grabbed Melinda's limp arm and threw it over her shoulder, supporting her weight as best she could. Balancing her weight awkwardly, she bent to grab their single, overstuffed luggage bag.
The train carriage was packed with passengers, and moving through the crowded aisle with both Melinda and the bag was like trying to swim through quicksand. Her muscles screamed in protest with each step, the weight of her friend and the luggage bag pressing down on her, but she kept going, driven by a mixture of determination and desperation. The strain was too much, though, and she stumbled, her foot catching on someone's carelessly placed bag. They both went crashing to the grimy floor of the train just as the train lurched to a sudden stop, throwing the passengers forward.
"Shit!" Maggie hissed, scrambling to her knees, trying to regain her balance and help Melinda. "Melinda, please, you have to wake up!" she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, her panic rising.
The train doors hissed open, but the other passengers, eager to disembark, ignored them, stepping over and around them. "Please, hold the door!" Maggie called out desperately, her voice swallowed by the noise and the rush of people. She tried again, louder this time. "Hold the door, please!"
No one stopped. The crowd surged past, stepping around them like they were invisible, their footsteps echoing on the grimy floor of the train carriage. To the rushing passengers, they were probably just two disoriented or drunk teenagers making a scene, another minor inconvenience in their busy lives.
Then a commanding voice cut through the chaos, silencing the murmur of the crowd. "Hold the door!"
The authoritative roar sent a ripple of surprise through the throng of people. The train doors jolted to a halt, and the train's motion paused abruptly, throwing some standing passengers off balance. Maggie turned to see a young man, no older than twenty-five, standing a few feet behind them, his expression a mixture of concern and annoyance.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a lean, athletic build. He wore a simple but practical outfit: a plain white shirt, light blue washed jeans, and scuffed, work-worn boots. A red knitted head warmer sat snugly on his head, letting a bit of his brown hair peek out from beneath it. His sharp, clean features, which might have seemed severe, were softened by a bright, genuine smile that reached his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was calm but firm, radiating an air of quiet confidence.
"Let me help."
Without waiting for permission, or even a word of thanks, he bent down and effortlessly scooped Melinda into his arms, carrying her in a classic princess-style hold, her limp body cradled against his chest. Maggie could only blink in surprise, momentarily speechless, as he pushed through the dense crowd with her trailing behind, pulling their overstuffed luggage bag with surprising ease. It was as if the sea of people parted for him, making way for his purposeful advance, as if he commanded their respect, or perhaps, their unconscious obedience.
At the train's exit, he jumped down smoothly onto the platform, his movements fluid and graceful, and carefully placed Melinda against a nearby railing, supporting her gently. He turned back to Maggie, extending a hand to help her down from the train. For a moment, her heart thudded louder than the noise around her, a strange, unfamiliar flutter in her chest, and she wasn't sure why.
What is this feeling? she wondered, her thoughts momentarily distracted, as his firm hands gripped her waist and guided her safely down onto the platform.
If her mother had been here, she would have had a conniption, possibly even casting a hex, for letting a stranger touch her like that. The thought brought a wry smile to Maggie's lips.
The young man stood with them, his eyes assessing Melinda's condition briefly, his expression concerned, before glancing back at Maggie.
"Are you not going to head back to the train?" Maggie asked, confused by his lingering presence. The train doors were still open, waiting.
"And leave you two witches here?" he replied with a scoff, his tone light but his eyes serious. "Hell no."
Maggie froze, her breath catching in her throat. "Witches?" she whispered to herself, the realization dawning slowly, the pieces clicking into place.
Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of fear and adrenaline, as the faint but persistent buzzing sound at the back of her head grew louder, a telltale sign of her magic. How had she missed it? Her magic was low—nearly depleted—from using it to generate light and warmth for Melinda on the cold train, a selfless act of care. She was so distracted and drained, so focused on Melinda's well-being, that she hadn't noticed the subtle shift in her own magical state.
This boy wasn't a normal. He was one of them.
He tapped lightly on the side of the train carriage, a seemingly casual gesture, and the doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing them off from the train's interior. The train rumbled to life and began to move away from the station, leaving the three of them standing on the platform.
Maggie stepped protectively in front of Melinda, blocking the boy's path, her posture defensive despite her exhaustion and depleted magic. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice sharp and wary.
"You can call me Tod. Short for Tobby," he replied with a disarming grin, his eyes twinkling.
"There's no 'D' in Tobby…" Maggie muttered, her suspicion growing, before shaking her head, dismissing the minor inconsistency. "Wait, that's not important. What are you?"
Tod tilted his head slightly, the grin still plastered on his face, his expression unreadable. "We should probably get out of the station first. It's too cold here, and your friend—if she were awake—would agree. I promise I won't hurt you."
Maggie narrowed her eyes, not fully trusting him, but deep down, she knew he was right. She was too weak to stop him even if he had bad intentions, her magic reserves dangerously low, and at this point, she desperately needed all the help she could get.
"Fine," she relented, her voice sharp and laced with reluctant acceptance. "But I'm watching you."
"Sure, sure," Tod said with a casual wave of his hand, removing his knitted head warmer and placing it gently on her head. "You look like you need this more than I do."
Before she could respond, he moved past her with an easy grace, bent down, and lifted Melinda into his arms again with effortless strength. Adjusting her weight gently, he began walking away, his movements purposeful and confident.
Maggie hesitated for a moment, still on edge, her mind racing with questions and suspicions. She wasn't sure if she should trust him, but she knew she didn't have much choice.
Tod stopped and glanced back at her, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Are you coming, or do you need a formal invitation?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
She jerked out of her daze, quickly adjusted the head warmer on her head, a small, involuntary smile touching her lips, and jogged after him, her initial apprehension slowly giving way to a cautious curiosity.
Maggie would never have believed Tod lived in such a place. Calling it an apartment would have been a gross understatement—it was a sprawling mansion, a veritable palace. They had barely stepped out of the taxi when her jaw dropped at the sheer magnificence of the sight before her.
Convincing her to come here hadn't been easy. From the way he dressed, she had initially pegged him as some deadbeat college kid, a struggling student living hand-to-mouth, but clearly, she had been dramatically wrong. Standing before the towering, ornate iron gates, Tod ignored the incessant buzzing of his phone in his pocket, a high-end model that belied his casual attire, and signaled for the gates to open with a subtle gesture.
The mansion was massive, its scale breathtaking, with two driveways curving gracefully towards a large, detached garage that could easily house a dozen cars. The building itself looked like a restored castle, the kind Maggie had only seen in movies or picture books, its stone facade gleaming in the dim light. Pentos was known for being a high-class, affluent city, a hub of wealth and privilege, but this level of grandeur was beyond anything she could have imagined.
A small group of servants, dressed in crisp, uniform attire, emerged as they approached the mansion's entrance, their movements efficient and discreet. One of them, a woman with a kind face and gentle hands, took Melinda from Tod's arms with practiced care, her expression concerned. He turned to Maggie with a smirk, his eyes twinkling. "Your friend is safe. I promise I won't eat her—or you," he said, his tone playful but with a hint of something darker beneath the surface.
"That's… oddly specific," Maggie replied, narrowing her eyes, her suspicion piqued by his choice of words.
Tod laughed, a low, rumbling sound, offering his hand to help her up the wide, stone staircase leading to the mansion's entrance. She hesitated for a moment, still wary, before accepting it, his touch surprisingly warm and reassuring. The grand double doors swung open silently, revealing an opulent interior that took her breath away. The walls were covered in elegant light brown wallpaper, and soft, plush black rugs muffled their footsteps, creating an atmosphere of quiet luxury. Two grand staircases, intricately carved and polished to a high sheen, led up to the second floor, flanked by a line of impeccably dressed servants who stood at attention, their expressions neutral and professional.
"You're not a prince or something, are you?" Maggie asked, her voice tinged with disbelief as she took in the luxurious surroundings, her mind struggling to reconcile this reality with the image she had formed of Tod.
Tod chuckled again, giving her a small, teasing nod, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before leading her up one of the grand staircases.
They walked down a long hallway with pristine white walls, passing several closed doors, each one more ornate than the last, until they reached the last one at the end. Maggie hesitated, glancing at him, her concern for Melinda still paramount. "What about Melinda?"
"She's being assessed by our medical staff and given the best treatment we can provide," Tod assured her, his tone calm and steady, his expression reassuring. "She's in good hands."
"Why are you helping me?" Maggie asked, her voice dropping, her wariness returning as she instinctively stepped back, putting some distance between them.
Tod followed her step, closing the distance between them once again. Her back hit the cool surface of the closed door, and his large frame loomed over her, his presence suddenly overwhelming. One hand rested against the doorframe, effectively blocking her path, his proximity making her heart race.
Maggie turned her face away, her breath catching in her throat, her senses heightened. He gently tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His deep sea-green eyes seemed to pull her in, their intensity captivating, and his voice dropped to a soft, almost dangerous tone. "I find you very beautiful," he said, a slow, seductive smile playing on his lips.
Maggie's thoughts scrambled, her carefully constructed defenses crumbling under the intensity of his gaze and the unexpected compliment. She cursed herself for noticing how striking his eyes were, how warm his smile seemed. Her hand crept along the door behind her until her fingers found the handle. She twisted it, pushing the door open, creating an escape route.
Tod stumbled slightly, caught off guard by her sudden move, but recovered quickly, his smile widening. Maggie slipped inside the room, grinning mischievously as she waved playfully. "See you later, prince charming," she said, her voice laced with teasing sarcasm, before closing the door firmly in his face, leaving him standing in the hallway.
Tod stood there for a few seconds, a bemused smile still playing on his lips as he gazed at the locked door, seemingly unperturbed by Maggie's abrupt departure. He let out a soft chuckle, a low, rumbling sound, before he cleared his throat and turned to walk away, his footsteps echoing softly down the hallway. Maggie remained pressed against the door, her breath shaky and uneven, her heart still pounding in her chest, as she listened to his footsteps fade into the distance, the silence that followed amplifying the lingering tension in the air.
She needed a quick, hot shower to wash away the grime and the chill of the rain, and to change her clothes. Her once-pristine white dress, her favorite, was now stained and ruined beyond repair, the delicate fabric torn and muddied. She sighed, a small sound of frustration escaping her lips, thinking it would take a miracle, or at least a powerful cleaning spell, to save it. The thought of her father, the designer, and the beautiful dresses he made, flickered through her mind, a pang of longing hitting her. She unzipped the ruined dress, letting it slip off her shoulders, revealing her plain white cotton underwear beneath, the simple fabric a stark contrast to the elegant gown she had been wearing just hours before.
The cool air of the room hit her bare ribs, sending a shiver down her spine, as she moved to lock the window, securing her privacy in this unfamiliar, opulent room. A hot shower was first on her list, a necessity to soothe her tired muscles and clear her head, followed by a substantial meal, as she hadn't eaten properly all day. And then, she'd set off to find her dad. That was the plan—a simple, straightforward plan, nothing more, nothing less. She would find her father, explain everything, and hopefully, find some refuge from the chaos that had engulfed her life. She hoped he'd be willing to take her in, to offer her the sanctuary she so desperately needed.