Page 119 of Nash
"I'm casting." I stare at the design. "Frankie, I don't know any spells. I barely know how to boil water without setting off the smoke alarm."
"You don't need spells. You have instinct. The same instinct that told you to put negative space in this design that forms a protection sigil you've never studied. Your hands know things your conscious mind hasn't caught up to."
I look at my hands. The hands that hold tattoo machines, coffee mugs, Nash's jaw, and newborn babies' fists. The hands that drew Nash's portrait in a sketchbook I hid under romance novels. The hands that apparently cast protection spells without filing the proper paperwork.
"So what does that make me?" I say. "Am I a Muggle? Am I the Muggle who accidentally wandered into Hogwarts and nobody told her to leave, so now I'm just sitting in the Great Hall eating magical food with my magical hands going 'this is fine'? Because that's what this feels like, Frankie. It feels like I've been living in a supernatural world for months, and my classification is 'it's complicated.' I'm the witch-adjacent woman standing next to the magic going 'cool, cool, cool' while my hands apparently enchant tattoos without consulting me. I don't even have a category. Witch-adjacent isn't a category. That's the supernatural equivalent of 'we'll get back to you' on a job application."
Frankie laughs. It's full, warm; her head tips back. She presses her fingers to her mouth. When she looks at me again, her eyes are bright.
"This," she says. "This is why I hired you. Why I trusted you with Leo and why I'm telling you any of this." She drops her hand. "I told you my grandmother was a witch, and you asked if you were a Muggle. You found a vampire in my basement, then you sat down and talked to him about ham sandwiches. I just told you your hands carry supernatural power, and your first response was to file a complaint about your classification status." Her voice drops into the register that changes rooms. "Do you know how rare that is, Ruby? Do you know how many people would have run? Would have questioned everything? Would have looked at me differently?"
"Why would I look at you differently? You're Frankie. You make aggressive soup and you're very bendy when we play Twister. Which Leo is going to love, by the way. You know, when that happens. Because it is going to happen. The witchcraft is just... more Frankie."
Her eyes stay bright. She blinks once. Hard.
"You love without conditions," she murmurs. "You loved Leo before you understood what he was and loved Arden without knowing what he is. You love every person who sits in your chair, and the love goes into the ink. The ink carries it into their skin." She holds my gaze. "The craft manifests differently in every person who carries it, and what you carry isn't the lineage. It's the intention. The love you pour into every design, every line, every piece. That love has power. The power has always been there. I've just been creating the conditions for it to grow."
"You've been training me."
"I've been creating conditions. You've been training yourself."
I sit with it. The weight of what she's telling me. What it means for every piece I've ever drawn. The shop is quiet except for the sage crackling and the candles burning. The weight of the morning presses against my ribs. Nash's bare investigation notes on the kitchen table. My father's disclosure in motion. The twins at the clubhouse. And now this. My art carries power I didn't know about, nurtured by a woman who waited for me to be ready because the waiting was its own kind of love.
"Thank you," I say. "For not telling me sooner. I would have second-guessed every line."
"I know. That's why I waited." Frankie's hand lands on my shoulder. The weight of trust transferred through a grip. "Don't overthink the art. Overthinking kills the instinct, and the instinct is the point."
"Easy for you to say. You've had your whole life to not overthink your witchcraft. I've had four minutes."
"You've had months. You just didn't have the vocabulary."
The back door at the end of the hall past the counter opens without a sound. Arden stands in the frame with an insulated bag in one hand, the kind Frankie uses for Leo's food deliveries. He crosses the shop without acknowledging me, sets the bag on the counter by the basement door, and turns to leave.
"Arden," I say. "Always a pleasure. Love the entrance. Very dramatic. Extremely on-brand for an immortal being who does security at a sex club."
He pauses at the back door. His dark eyes shift to me. The gaze holds for two seconds. Then he's gone, the door pulling shut without sound.
I look at Frankie. "So. You, Leo, Arden, the basement. How does all of this work? Long-term, I mean. Leo can't live in your basement forever."
"It's complicated."
"Everything in this town is complicated. Complicated is the civic motto. It's on the welcome sign. 'Welcome to Willowridge: Where Your Boss Is a Witch, Your Coworker Is a Vampire, and Your Boyfriend's Security Consultant Is an Immortal Being With Unresolved Family Drama.'"
Frankie carries the sage dish back to the shelf and sets it in its position. Three inches to the right of where Nash moved it during the prank war, the recalibration so precise it accounts for the disruption and overcorrects.
"Don't overthink the art," she says. "Overthinking kills the instinct, and the instinct is the point."
"I'm going to overthink the art."
"I know. Do it anyway." She crosses to her station and starts setting up as if she didn't just rearrange my entire understanding of reality over sage smoke and bare feet.
I set up my station. Organize my inks. Prep the transfer paper. The morning passes in the quiet of two women setting up stations. One of them is a witch. The other one's hands apparently cast spells. Somehow this is just Tuesday.
At noon, I flip the sign and unlock the front door. Nash fills the frame the way Nash fills every frame, shoulders first, the scan running, his eyes finding me before they find the room. He nods at the prospect through the glass. The prospect leaves.
He crosses to my station. Takes his position at the wall. Arms crossed. Forearms on display.
"War room productive?" I ask. Casual. My back to him, organizing ink bottles I already organized an hour ago.
