Page 2 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

Hours later, the storm begins to weaken, the rain slowing and the wind easing, though the sea remains angry but manageable. I return to town shortly before midnight to find Moonhaven still awake, harbor lanterns burning along the docks where dozens of residents have gathered near the shoreline. The fishing vessel I spotted earlier rests against the pier, damaged but intact.

I approach the crowd and the conversations quiet, not completely, just enough for me to notice, as always.

A fisherman I recognize from years of harbor repairs steps forward, his arm bleeding.

"The healer's occupied," he says awkwardly. "Can you look at this?"

"Of course," I reply, setting down my satchel.

The wound isn't serious, just a deep cut from shattered wood. I clean it with seawater and channel magic through my fingertips until it closes.

"Thank you," he sighs in relief.

"You're welcome."

For a while I think he might say something else, but instead he steps back, and the distance returns, invisible and familiar.

Another woman approaches carrying a frightened child.

"His fever returned," she says quietly.

I kneel in front of them. The boy clings to his mother's coat, his wide eyes studying the silver-blue glow around my hands. Fear flickers across his face, not because of me, but because of what he's been taught.

I smile anyway. "May I help?"

The child hesitates before nodding, and a few seconds later the fever begins to break. His breathing steadies, color returns to his cheeks, and his mother relaxes.

"Thank you, Reina," she says, rising and taking her son's hand. Neither of them looks back as they rejoin the crowd.

People always accept my help. They simply never accept me, and the distinction stopped surprising me years ago. That doesn't mean it stopped hurting.

Near the docks, several fishermen discuss the storm, their voices drifting across the harbor.

"I've never seen fog move like that," one mutters.

"It wasn't natural," another agrees. "Felt wrong. I heard voices."

My attention sharpens. Voices?

"What kind of voices?" someone asks.

The fisherman shakes his head. "I don't know. Couldn't make out the words."

The conversation continues without me. No one invites me closer, no one asks my opinion, despite magical storms being, quite literally, my responsibility. A bitter laugh almost escapes me before I swallow it.

The crowd slowly disperses until only harbor workers remain. Gideon emerges from the docks carrying paperwork, his tired eyes finding mine.

"You're the reason they made it back," he says.

"The lighthouse deserves most of the credit," I reply, glancing toward the vessel.

"Still." His expression softens. "Thank you."

The sincerity reaches me unaware. Gideon has always treated me fairly, not warmly but fairly, and in Moonhaven that counts for something.

"I was just doing my job," I say.

His gaze shifts toward the water. "The weather keeps getting stranger."