Page 53 of Summer L.A.W.

“Someone who’s not one of ours,” Brianna added.

Magda raised her mug. “Cheers to that. Now if someone could brew me a boyfriend, I’ll handle the revisions.”

They laughed, the sound echoing off the library’s curved ceiling. The camaraderie filled the room with warmth, teasing, and the unspoken truth that every witch at the table, even the confident ones, still wanted her own version of happily ever after.

When the laughter faded, Magda smiled. “All right, that’s enough humiliation for one evening. I’m going to check on my plants before they start gossiping about me too.”

The greenhouse welcomed her like an exhale. Warm air kissed her skin, scented with lavender, damp earth, and the faint glow of moonlight through glass.

Rows of lush greenery shimmered faintly with residual magic. Some plants healed, soothed, and occasionally tried to bite a pest. Wally hopped beside her, pouch bulging with herb clippings like a proud farmer.

“You think they’re right, Wally?” she asked, brushing a leaf. “Maybe my love scenes are missing something because I am.”

Wally tilted his head, then offered a chewed-on marigold.

“Thanks, mate,” she said with a half-laugh. “Romantic advice from a marsupial. That’s my life.”

He chuffed softly and hopped to his favorite spot under a fern.

Magda sat at her workbench, fingers tracing the edge of a chipped teacup. She loved this place. She loved the hush of soil, the pulse of living things, the way the mansion itself seemed to hum approval around her. She was the League’s healer, the one who coaxed things to grow, brewed potions to mend hearts and bones alike. But lately, every bloom she coaxed open only reminded her how tightly her own heart stayed closed.

Maybe that could change.

She reached for her mug of tea, now cold. The greenhouse hummed softly, vines rustling in their sleep. She was about to blow out the candle when the air shimmered faintly above the shelf of drying herbs.

The shimmer brightened into a circle of pale light. Bas’s face appeared inside it, serene and amused as ever.

“Magda, darling. You look like you’re about to hex a houseplant.”

Magda sighed. “Not a hex. Just a pep talk. The begonias are better listeners than most people.”

Bas’s mouth curved. “Then I’ll try to keep up.”

The sound of her voice tugged something warm in Magda’s chest. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that calm, grounded authority. The High Priestess always seemed to know when one of her witches was quietly spiraling.

Bas tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “Tell me, why the late-night gloom? I can feel it through the ley lines.”

Magda hesitated. Then, because there was no point lying to someone who could read auras from an ocean away, she said, “We were critiquing tonight. Their stories sizzled, mine… didn’t.”

“Ah. The eternal curse of the gentle soul in a room full of fireworks.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Or is it your inner critic? Every writer thinks their first draft is shit. Even Ernest Hemingway said something to that effect.”

“No, he said every writer’s first draft is shit.”

“So why are you expecting yours to be perfect?” Bas leaned forward, and the image crackled faintly. “You know, passion isn’t only about fire. Sometimes it’s about growth. You need roots deep enough to weather storms.”

“I have plenty of roots,” Magda muttered. “What I’m missing is a storm.”

Bas chuckled, low and knowing. “Then perhaps it’s time you brewed one.”

Magda blinked. “Brewed a storm?”

“Or whatever it is your heart needs. You make elixirs for everyone else’s wounds, darling. When was the last time you concocted something just for yourself?”

The question hung there, heavy as humidity.