5 – Highsun 19 / 1 – Ash Moon 11
The cottage was quiet except for the faint rustle of parchment as I spread out my grandmother's grimoires, notes, and loose scraps of parchment across the table and floor.
The Angel stood near the corner of the room, still as a statue, arms folded neatly behind his back, wings invisible but somehow implied in the space around him. If I didn't glance every few minutes to make sure he was breathing, I could've sworn he'd turned to stone, like a very judgmental gargoyle.
"All right," I muttered to myself, tugging my hair. "If I stabilize the base with yarrow oil… could fix the structure. Maybe." I glanced over at him. No reaction. "Or maybe it'll make my face explode. Honestly, that's also a valid option for getting out of this…"
He didn't blink.
"Maybe if I swap moonwort for angelica?" I said, half to myself, half to test again if the statue would speak already.
Finally, he stirred. "If you cannot remember the correct substitution, perhaps you should not be playing with volatile enchantments at two in the morning."
I scowled at him. "You could at least pretend to be helpful." My voice trailed off into a mumble of frustration and I rifled through a small drawer of ingredients.
"I am guiding," he replied smoothly. "You are alive. That is guidance enough, considering your current competence level."
I huffed and turned back to grandmother's grimoires, old loose pages in her script, even a few notes written on scrap fabric—all scattered around the cauldron. "You know," I said under my breath, "for a divine being, you're not very… nice."
"And for a witch," he countered, "you are remarkably unprepared."
I threw him a glare over my shoulder but didn't have the energy to argue. He'd win anyway… Angels probably got debating lessons before they grew feathers.
The cauldron was freshly scrubbed, the chalk circle redrawn. I leaned over the grimoires again, muttering through ingredients, comparing margins, leaving ripped scraps behind to bookmark interesting pages. My fingers left smudges of charcoal over various pages.
The cottage was quiet except for the soft bubbling of the cleansing solution to boil before the cauldron's next use and the relentless whisper of my thoughts. Don't mess this up. Don't make it worse. Not again.
"If I layer it—" I began. "A correct glamour potion on top of the failed one might—"
"Might destabilize both and cause a magical implosion," the Angel said without looking up from inspecting a shelf. "A bold strategy. Unwise, but bold."
"Right," I muttered, snapping the book closed. "So no layering."
"That would be the sensible choice."
I chewed the inside of my cheek, thinking. "Then maybe I need a counter-potion. One that can undo the glamour entirely instead of masking it."
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, "A reasonable deduction."
That single phrase —the barest flicker of approval— made my stomach flip. I pretended not to notice.
I started digging through the notes again, searching for counter-potions. The ingredients were simple enough: powdered amaranth, dewwater, a drop of personal essence, and the ash of the failed brew. Simple, yes. But simplicity had betrayed me before.
"Your second line is missing a syllable." "The flame is too high." "Witchlet, even the page says 'a pinch' of the lunar dirt; why have you measured out a spoonful?"
I frown and blush as I follow his 'advice', not even able to argue as I make the corrections that would've had me working for days again if not for his notes… Notes I had just been fishing for, no?
Finally, when it seemed that he was satisfied, for now, I breathed in and tried to calm my nerves. "I can do this," I told myself firmly.
"I will restrain my commentary," he said, which felt like the celestial equivalent of saying this should be entertaining.
I rolled my eyes but began pouring in the ingredients, this time triple-checking everything. Clean spoon. Clean ladle. Measured clockwise, not counterclockwise. When I hesitated over a rune's pronunciation, I caught him watching me.
"Um," I said, holding up the grimoire. "This one. Is it kael-thra or kiel-tra?"
He tilted his head. "If you value your hairline, choose the second."
I nodded solemnly. "Second it is."
The potion began to shimmer faintly as I worked, an opalescent color forming on the surface, like soap bubbles reflecting starlight. So far, so good. My heart picked up speed.
He stood by the window now, faintly illuminated by the candlelight. His presence filled the air—not warm, not cold, just heavy. Like gravity, if gravity also came with constant judgment.
"Fifteen stirs counterclockwise," I murmured, counting aloud. "Err, perhaps seventeen—" I start to say when I see not much is changing, and start to lean into my natural preference for the number seven…
"Fifteen," he corrected calmly.
I grimaced. "Right. Fifteen."
When I reached twelve, the potion gave an alarming pop, releasing a puff of golden smoke that smelled faintly like burnt sugar. I yelped, scrambling to adjust the contents mid-bubble, muttering curses and prayers at the same time. After a minute, it wasn't helping still, and I started to really panic as darker smoke rose.
"Oh no, oh no—"
I darted back, waving the smoke away. The potion hissed, bubbles swelling dangerously. He didn't move, didn't even blink.
"Are you just going to stand there?" I questioned desperately.
"I cannot intervene directly," he said mildly. "But if you wish to keep your face, stir wider circles, and consider adjusting the order of the next ingredients." I winced.
I scrambled to do as he said, reaching for the ash first to pour before the dewwater, making sure my wrist slowed and widened the circles I wrote into the liquid. Slowly, the potion settled, the violent churning replaced by a soft, steady glow. The reaction slowed; bubbling easing to a gentle shimmer again.
The air relaxed with it. So did I.
I wiped sweat from my brow; his expression didn't change. Well… there was a ghost of something —satisfaction, maybe— flickering in his eyes.
I slumped into the nearest chair. "You could've corrected me earlier instead of watching me nearly destroy the kitchen."
He arched an eyebrow. "I did say it. You merely chose panic over comprehension."
I wanted to throw a spoon at him. I didn't. Barely.
After various minutes, the potion settled into a translucent silver color, swirling lazily like mist trapped in liquid. I bent close and sniffed cautiously. It smelled like clean rain and old books—not burnt fur. That had to be a good sign.
For the first time in days, something inside me unclenched. "I think I actually did it."
"Surprising," he said.
I ignored him. I poured a bit into a small vial, carefully corking it, and set it aside. Then, holding my breath, I plopped a spoonful onto my palm, rubbed my hands together, and smeared it over my face without another thought. After all, I don't think the angel would let me get this far with a failed potion… right?
A faint fizzing sound. Then burning. Then—
I ran to the mirror on the wall, and saw how my face began to shift. The puffiness shrank, the uneven tone softened, and the faintly greenish tinge receded. I gasped, and my pouting and teary-eyed me finally reappeared.
It wasn't perfect yet. My reflection was still a little off, still slightly swollen and strange — but it was me, mostly. Human. Recognizable. More like I'd had an allergic reaction to a peanut instead of having spent the last few days looking like a huge toad.
A breath left my chest like a weight being lifted. I cried and laughed, half hysterical, half overjoyed, the tears pricking my eyes. "It worked. Oh, stars, it actually worked!"
Behind me, he said nothing. I turned, grinning despite myself. "See? You thought I'd explode."
"I hoped you wouldn't," he replied, voice quieter than before, eyes narrowed though soft.
I blinked, surprised by the faint gentleness in his tone. But when I met his gaze, something flickered there—confusion? He looked at me as though noticing someone familiar. And then his expression froze, unreadable.
Heat rushed to my face. "What?" I asked awkwardly. "Do I still have… something weird?" I quickly turned back to the mirror and patted my face, "Have I gone back to being half-toad??"
He didn't answer right away. "No," he said finally, composed again. "Merely… unexpected."
That didn't help. I went back to the cauldron, muttering, "Well, sorry for offending celestial expectations with my half-fixed face."
He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, his voice softened slightly. "You've done well, witchlet." He gave a faint tilt of his head, the ghost of a smile threatening the edges of his lips before disappearing. "You are still learning," he said, tone neutral, but I caught the subtle warmth behind it.
My throat tightened. That small praise —his first true one— felt like sunlight after a storm. I smiled down at the potion, cheeks warm.
I poured some into another jar. "This bunch's for the Duke's daughter," I said, tucking it safely away in my basket. "She deserves to have her own face back too, finally. Poor thing…"
The Angel inclined his head, approving but silent.
With the current happiness I felt, I shot him a nervous, shy look. "You know, it's… kind of nice having someone guide me like this. My grandmother left notes, but she also left a lot of… ambiguity. Now, I can avoid mistakes she might have made herself. It's… helpful. Thank you."
He tilted his head slightly again, silent approval or faint curiosity—I couldn't tell. My cheeks warmed. I muttered to myself, pretending not to notice.
As the cauldron cooled, I pulled out parchment, quills, and ink, scribbling notes with my shaky hand—not copying my grandmother's this time. After all, half of them were riddles or strange abbreviations that made sense to no one but her. And as far as I know, she didn't have anyone guiding her… She must've learned alone, made mistakes alone, guessed at missing steps alone.
He watched quietly.
"Starting your own spellbook?" he asked eventually, tone softer than his usual scolding or annoyed drawl.
I shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "If I don't, I'll keep repeating mistakes as I try to decipher other's notes. Perhaps even follow in their mistakes. I'd rather make my own; my adjustments, improvements, updated recipes and ingredient lists… Besides…" I hesitated, then added softly, "…it helps having assistance that I don't believe my predecessors had…"
Something unreadable crossed his face—maybe amusement, maybe approval. "A risky philosophy. But not a wrong one."
We worked in silence after that—or rather, I worked, and he observed like a bored museum guard. Still, his presence felt less heavy now.
When I finished bottling and putting everything away, I turned to the rest of the cottage. The air felt clearer somehow—like the disaster of the last few days had finally begun to settle. But peace never lasted long in my world.
"All right," I muttered, rolling up my sleeves and decided to make use of my newfound confidence. "Next step: protection."
"Protection?"
"I can't just leave everything behind," I said. "If I can cloak the house, maybe I'll be able to stay…"
He watched me drag old boxes from under tables, sneezing through clouds of dust as I opened them and pulled out things way older than me: my great-grandmother's ingredients, cracked charms, tarnished amulets.
I proceeded to try everything.
Salt lines. Mirror wards. Threaded sigils. Layered glamours. Read out charms and spells.
None of them held. Nothing was strong enough. The light flickered out of each one after a few seconds, or worse, sputtered like a dying candle; the air in the garden would shimmer faintly, but there were always gaps, like moth-eaten fabric. Sweat prickled at my neck. My throat tightened.
After another failed attempt in the garden, I shut the door behind me again and leaned against it with a pout.
"This isn't something you can brute-force with hope and chalk," the Angel said, commenting dryly on my stubbornness.
"I know that!" I snapped, then immediately regretted it. I wiped my face with my sleeve. "I just… I have to try."
He didn't reply, just watched—calm, silent, judging, infuriating.
And then, suddenly, he frowned deeply. His head turned sharply, like he had just caught a sound inaudible to me.
"What?" I whispered.
"They've found you," he said simply.
The words dropped like a stone in my chest. "How close?"
He didn't look at me. "Close enough. I cannot distract them with owls and falling branches this time. You need to hide. Now."
My pulse roared in my ears.
Without thinking, I grabbed my basket from the table, stuffed it with food and other things I knew I couldn't just part with and then I took his sleeve with my other hand. "The cellar," I breathed. "Let's go down to the cellar."
He didn't argue. His hand pressed against my back to lead me—firm, cold, steady. The room blurred as we moved, candles flickered out without smoke, the dawn and shadows moved in.
I turned back just in time to see and hear the gate door open, look up at the Angel in fear, and saw his eyes gleam faintly gold —a warning, a promise, or maybe something in between— before he pushed me behind the stairs, kicked the rug over the concealed door on the floor and quickly pulled it open. I jumped in to the small space and stepped aside as he followed, and with a flick of his hand, he closed the door and covered the door again with his magic, hiding us in the darkness.