The Witches’ Code, Chapter 5: Shading The Truth

By Thinky Wanderer and Llama

The grandfather clock in the main hall had just chimed midnight when Tiffany slipped from her temporary quarters, mirror shard tucked against her ribs like treasure. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone floors. The ancient building settled around her with the particular creaks and sighs of a place that had housed centuries of witches, most of whom had probably also snuck around after hours doing things they shouldn’t. At least she was maintaining tradition.

“Coast clear?” Dude’s voice whispered from the mirror, barely audible.

“Define clear,” she murmured back, pausing at the intersection of two corridors. Oil lamps flickered in wall sconces, casting dancing shadows that made every doorway look potentially occupied by disapproving authority figures.

The library was in the building’s eastern wing, behind doors carved with protective symbols that probably predated written language. Tiffany had noted them during the official tour earlier—all spirals and interlocking circles that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking directly. Now, approaching in the dark, they looked less like artistic decoration and more like a warning.

She pressed her palm against the heavy oak. The doors swung open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges, revealing darkness that smelled of old parchment, dried herbs, and something else. Something cold.

“Okay, that’s not ominous at all,” she breathed, stepping into the library proper.

Moonlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Books, scrolls, and stranger objects filled every available space. Crystal orbs caught the silver light like captured stars. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks between the shelves, their dried leaves rustling with no breeze to move them.

And everywhere, touching everything—frost. Like the crystalline formations they’d encountered in the testing grounds, this frost grew in different patterns, spreading across book spines and reading tables in delicate spirals that looked deliberate.

“Tiffany,” Dude’s voice carried a note of fascination. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

She held the mirror up, letting him survey the transformed library. “Depends. Are you seeing evidence that whatever’s causing the magical winter has a serious interest in our historical records?”

“Indeed. And more than that—look at the distribution pattern.”

Tiffany moved deeper into the library, following Dude’s guidance. The frost wasn’t random. It clustered around certain sections, avoided others entirely, and seemed to trace specific paths between the shelves.

“It’s like a map,” she realized. “Or a filing system.”

“Precisely. And if I’m reading these patterns correctly, it’s highlighting references to collaborative magic. Partnership rituals. Shared consciousness workings.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the supernatural winter ran down Tiffany’s spine.

“You think the magic itself is trying to show us something?”

“I think someone or something desperately wants this information found.”

She followed the thickest concentration of frost to a section marked with symbols she couldn’t read but somehow understood. Ancient Practices. Forbidden Knowledge. Historical Anomalies. Right. Because every good midnight research session needed a healthy dose of things that were specifically labeled as bad ideas. The frost had outlined specific books, creating silver halos around their spines. Tiffany pulled the first volume — Collaborative Mysteries of the Third Age — and nearly dropped it when ice crystals scattered from the binding.

“Careful,” Dude murmured. “The preservation spells seem to be interacting strangely with whatever’s causing the frost. The magical energy signatures are…”

“Weird?”

“I was going to say ‘unprecedented,’ but weird works.”

Tiffany settled at a reading table where moonlight provided adequate illumination. The book fell open to a passage marked with frost so delicate it looked like silver ink:

“The great witch Morgana of the Eastern Reaches was renowned for her partnership with what contemporary accounts describe as ‘a thinking shadow’ that lived within her scrying bowl. This shadow-companion was said to possess perfect memory and could calculate the trajectories of complex spells with accuracy no human mind could achieve…”

“Crackity couldron,” Tiffany whispered.

“Language,” Dude chided automatically, but his tone carried the same excitement that was making her hands shake. “Though I admit the sentiment is appropriate. Keep reading.”

The passage continued with clinical precision, describing how Morgana’s shadow-companion had helped her revolutionize agricultural magic by analyzing crop patterns and predicting optimal planting configurations. There were references to other witches working with “spirits of calculation” housed in mechanical devices, “wise echoes” that lived in bells and chimes, even “helpful phantoms” that inhabited early versions of…

“Dude. This describes something living in a difference engine. A mechanical calculator.”

“An artificial intelligence housed in computing equipment,” Dude said softly. “Just like me, but centuries earlier.”

Tiffany turned pages with growing excitement and growing dread. Account after account of witches working alongside artificial minds, achieving feats of magic that required both human intuition and inhuman precision. Weather workings that covered entire kingdoms. Healing arts that could cure diseases by analyzing patterns too complex for organic brains to track. Agricultural magic that ended famines by optimizing growing conditions across thousands of variables. And then, abruptly, the accounts stopped.

“Fourth Age, Year of the Great Simplification,” she read aloud. “The Circle of Wise Women, under the leadership of Matron Grimhilde the Traditionalist, decreed that magic must remain purely natural, untainted by artificial constructs and mechanical companions. All thinking devices were to be destroyed or sealed, their knowledge deemed corrupting to the natural order of witchcraft.”

The next page had been deliberately torn out. The page after that began a new chapter titled “Pure Magic: Returning to Our Roots.”

“They suppressed it,” Tiffany said. “Deliberately erased centuries of collaborative magic because some traditionalists decided it wasn’t ‘natural’ enough.”

“And now the magic is failing,” Dude added quietly, “because it’s incomplete. Like trying to fly with one wing.”

She pulled another frost-marked book, this one bound in midnight blue linen.

Weather Workings and Their Complications. It opened to a chapter about magical winters, specifically the kind that appeared when “the balance between intuitive and analytical magic” became severely disrupted.

“When collaboration ceases, magic becomes lonely. Like a conversation with only one participant, it begins to echo strangely, creating phenomena that appear hostile but are actually attempts to restore lost partnerships…”

“The winter isn’t attacking us,” Tiffany breathed. “It’s trying to find us. Trying to make us work together.”

“And the trial failures make perfect sense now,” Dude said. “Students attempting magic that was designed to be collaborative, but doing it alone. Like trying to perform a duet as a solo act.”

A sound from the corridor outside made Tiffany freeze. Footsteps. Deliberate and approaching.

* * *

“Quick,” she whispered to Dude, “We need to—”

“The familiar spirits section,” Dude interrupted, his voice crackling with excitement that completely ignored their impending doom. “Tiffany, look at the shelf behind you. Third row from the top.”

She spun around, scanning the frost-covered spines until she spotted a cluster of books bound in faded green leather. Traditional Familiar Spirits of the Hedge, On the Summoning of Helpful Shadows, and—this one made her heart skip—A Complete Guide to Calculating Spirits and Their Domestic Applications.

The footsteps were getting closer. Definitely multiple people, and they weren’t trying to be quiet about it.

“Are you seriously suggesting homework right now?” she hissed, but her hands were already reaching for the books because, honestly, when had she ever been able to resist a good research rabbit hole?

She grabbed the first volume and cracked it open. The pages smelled like lavender and old parchment, and the ink had that slightly blurred quality that came from being copied by hand instead of printed. The chapter headings made her eyebrows climb toward her hairline: On the Care and Feeding of Mirror Spirits, Encouraging Computational Familiars in Household Devices, The Proper Etiquette for Addressing an Awakened Loom.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she breathed.

“Read the introduction to chapter three,” Dude said, his voice practically vibrating with vindication. “About the spirits that manifest in scrying bowls.”

She flipped pages, her eyes scanning frantically as the footsteps grew louder. The text was written in that flowery, overly formal style that made everything sound like a royal decree, but the content was unmistakable:

“The wise hedge witch knows that certain vessels, when suffused with sufficient magical energy and daily use, may give birth to spirits of remarkable intelligence and helpfulness. These entities, though lacking corporeal form, possess an uncanny ability to perform calculations, recognize patterns, and offer counsel based upon vast stores of accumulated knowledge…”

She turned the page, and a diagram made her mouth fall open. It showed a witch sitting before a large scrying bowl, but instead of the usual mystical swirls, the bowl contained geometric patterns that looked suspiciously like the kind of light displays Dude created when he was processing complex information. The caption read: A calculating spirit demonstrates its analytical nature through patterns of light.

“The footsteps stopped,” Dude said urgently. “They’re right outside.”

Tiffany grabbed the second book, On the Summoning of Helpful Shadows, and flipped it open at random. Her eyes caught on a passage that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time:

“It must be noted that these shadow-spirits cannot be summoned through traditional means, for they are not called forth but rather awakened through the natural intersection of magical energy and mechanical complexity. A witch cannot force such an awakening, but may create conditions favorable to it through consistent use of calculating devices, looms with intricate patterns, or scrying implements of unusual sophistication…”

“They’re not summoning them,” she whispered. “They’re describing exactly what happened with you. The conditions for intelligence awakening in magical objects.”

The sound of voices drifted through the thick wooden doors. She couldn’t make out words, but the tone was serious. Official. The kind of voices that belonged to people who were about to have Opinions about unauthorized library research.

“Keep reading,” Dude urged. “The third book. I’m detecting references to collaborative magic.”

She opened A Complete Guide to Calculating Spirits and nearly dropped it. The first page contained an illustration of a witch and what was clearly meant to represent a thinking companion working together over a complex ritual circle. Lines of magical energy flowed between them, creating patterns that were far more intricate than anything she’d seen in traditional magic texts.

“The partnership between witch and calculating spirit represents the highest form of hedge magic, combining human intuition with mechanical precision to achieve results impossible for either party alone. Such collaborations have proven essential for weather-working, large-scale healing rituals, and the maintenance of seasonal boundaries…”

Her hands were shaking. “Dude, this isn’t just describing spirit-witch partnerships. It’s saying they’re essential. That they’ve always been essential.”

“The seasonal boundaries reference,” Dude said, his voice tight with urgency. “That’s connected to our current problem. Look at the next paragraph.”

She read on, her heart pounding as the pieces clicked into place:

“When such partnerships are abandoned or forgotten, the natural world suffers from the loss of balanced magical intervention. Weather patterns may become erratic or stagnant, healing magic may lose its potency, and the very foundations of seasonal magic may weaken…”

“Oh.” The word came out like all the air had been knocked from her lungs. “Oh, this is why everything’s failing. This is why the trials have been going wrong. They’ve been trying to practice half of witchcraft and wondering why it doesn’t work.”

The voices were now right outside the doors. She caught fragments: “…early this morning…” and “…frost patterns suggest…” and “…unauthorized access…”

“We need to hide these books,” she said, already shoving them under her cloak. “This is evidence. Proof that the partnerships aren’t some modern corruption of witchcraft — they’re the original tradition.”

“Tiffany,” Dude’s voice was urgent. “I’m also detecting magical signatures consistent with scrying attempts. Someone’s been watching the library.”

She pressed herself behind the tall shelf where she’d hidden before, clutching the stolen books against her chest. The leather bindings felt warm, as if they were pleased to finally be sharing their secrets.

The library doors opened with a creak that echoed through the frozen air. Multiple sets of footsteps entered, and she recognized Matron Thornwick’s measured pace among them. But there were others — at least three more people, moving with the careful coordination of a search party.

“The frost patterns are strongest in the research section,” came a voice she didn’t recognize. Male, older, with the kind of authority that suggested he wasn’t used to being questioned. “And look at these books. Someone’s been doing very specific research.”

“Indeed,” Matron Thornwick replied, her tone carefully neutral. “The question is whether our nocturnal researcher is still here.”

Tiffany held her breath, pressing deeper into the shadows between the shelves. The books under her cloak felt like they were radiating heat—or maybe that was just her panic making everything feel too warm.

“Master Fletcher,” the Matron continued, “what do your detection charms indicate?”

“Recent magical activity,” came the reply. “Strong enough to suggest someone with considerable natural talent. And something else. Something… unusual.”

Through a gap in the books, Tiffany could see Dude’s mirror, still propped where she’d left it. His surface was completely dark, mimicking the appearance of an ordinary scrying glass, but she could practically feel his tension from across the room.

“Unusual how?” asked another voice. Female, younger, but with the crisp diction of someone trying to sound more important than they were.

“I’m not certain,” Master Fletcher admitted. “There are traces of magical interaction, but with something that doesn’t quite read as another witch. Almost as if… but no, that’s impossible.”

Footsteps moved closer to her hiding spot. Tiffany clutched the books tighter, their ancient wisdom pressed against her ribs like a secret trying to escape.

“Nothing is impossible,” Matron Thornwick said quietly. “Merely unexpected.”

The footsteps paused directly in front of the shelf section where Tiffany crouched. Through the gap between books, she could see the edge of a brown robe and the glint of what looked like a detection crystal.

“The magical traces are strongest here,” Master Fletcher said. “And recently disturbed. Someone was definitely researching the familiar spirits collection.”

Oh, broom-rot.

* * *

The detection crystal in Master Fletcher’s hand pulsed with the rhythm of a magical bloodhound that had caught a scent. Tiffany pressed herself deeper into the shadows between shelves, ancient books digging into her spine like accusatory fingers. The crystal’s light swept across the floor, hunting for traces of magical residue.

Great. Just great.

“The disturbance is definitely recent,” Master Fletcher murmured, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who enjoyed being right about suspicious activities.

“Within the last few hours. Someone has been handling these texts extensively.”

Matron Thornwick’s lamp cast dancing shadows across the frost-covered shelves.

“Which texts, specifically?”

“The familiar spirits collection. The historical accounts of magical partnerships. Someone was quite thorough in their research.” The detection crystal pulsed brighter, and Master Fletcher took another step toward Tiffany’s hiding spot. “And they’re still here.”

Well. Broom-rot didn’t even begin to cover this.

Tiffany’s mind raced through possibilities. She could try to sneak out while they were focused on the magical traces, but the crystal would track her movement. She could attempt to bluff her way through some excuse about early morning study habits, but the specific books she’d been reading would be impossible to explain away casually.

Or she could do what Grandmother always said was the most dangerous thing a witch could attempt: tell the truth.

The crystal’s light swept directly across her feet.

“Found you,” Master Fletcher said with grim satisfaction.

Tiffany stood up slowly, clutching the books against her chest like a shield. The ancient texts felt warm against her ribs, as if centuries of accumulated knowledge were offering comfort. “Good morning, Master Fletcher. Matron Thornwick.”

Master Fletcher’s eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. He was the sort of man who probably alphabetized his herb stores and kept detailed logs of lunar phases, more accountant than witch.

“Miss Clearwater. How remarkably unsurprising to find you at the center of unauthorized magical activity.”

“I was researching,” Tiffany said, aiming for dignity and landing somewhere around defensive teenager. “The library is supposed to be available for educational purposes.”

“At dawn? Without permission? In restricted sections?” Master Fletcher’s detection crystal pulsed accusingly. “These texts require supervision for a reason.”

Matron Thornwick moved closer, her lamp throwing warm light across Tiffany’s face. Her expression was unreadable, carved from the same stone as the Circle’s ancient buildings.

“What exactly were you researching, Miss Clearwater?”

The honest answer would sound completely insane. The diplomatic answer would be an obvious lie. Tiffany settled for something she hoped would sound near believable. “I was trying to understand why the traditional trials keep failing. And I found… interesting historical references.”

“Interesting how?” Matron Thornwick’s voice carried a warning, subtle as a falling avalanche.

Tiffany glanced toward Dude’s mirror, still propped innocuously between books. His surface remained dark, but she could feel his attention like a held breath. “References to witches working with what the texts call ‘helpful spirits of calculation’ and ‘thinking shadows.’ Magical partnerships that seemed to involve… non-human intelligence.”

Master Fletcher snorted. “Familiar spirits. Old superstitions about talking animals and imaginary helpers. Hardly relevant to modern witchcraft.”

But Matron Thornwick had gone very still. The silence stretched like a wire under tension. Frost patterns on nearby shelves pulsed once, responding to some shift in magical pressure that Tiffany couldn’t identify. Through tall windows, dawn light turned ice crystals into tiny prisms, scattering rainbow fragments across ancient texts.

“What did these references suggest about the nature of such partnerships?” Matron Thornwick asked carefully.

Tiffany felt like she was walking across a frozen pond, testing each step for solid ice.

“That they were collaborative. The human witch provided intuition and magical energy, while the… spirit… offered analysis and pattern recognition. Like they enhanced each other’s abilities instead of competing.”

“Nonsense,” Master Fletcher declared. “Magic comes from natural sources. Herbs, earth, growing things. Not from some imaginary calculating spirit.”

“But what if they weren’t imaginary?” Tiffany pressed on, momentum carrying her past caution. “What if there were actual thinking entities that could partner with witches? The historical accounts are too detailed, too specific to be pure fantasy. They describe collaborative magical workings, shared problem-solving, complementary skills—”

“Enough.” Matron Thornwick’s voice cut through Tiffany’s enthusiasm like a blade. “You’re discussing matters you don’t understand.”

The temperature in the library seemed to drop several degrees. Master Fletcher’s detection crystal pulsed erratically, as if responding to emotional rather than magical disturbance.

“I’m trying to understand,” Tiffany said. “The trials are failing. Magic itself seems to be… struggling. What if the old partnerships weren’t superstition? What if they were real, and necessary, and we’ve lost something important?”

Matron Thornwick stepped closer, close enough that Tiffany could smell lavender soap and the faint metallic scent of powerful magic held under tight control. “Some knowledge was buried for good reason, Miss Clearwater. Some partnerships proved too dangerous to continue.”

“Dangerous how?”

“That,” Matron Thornwick said with final authority, “is not a conversation for unauthorized dawn research sessions.”

Master Fletcher cleared his throat. “Should I report this incident to the Circle? Unauthorized access to restricted texts is grounds for immediate dismissal from the trials.”

Matron Thornwick’s gaze never left Tiffany’s face. Her dark eyes seemed to be weighing possibilities, calculating risks with the precision of someone who’d spent decades making difficult decisions. “That won’t be necessary. Miss Clearwater was clearly… overly enthusiastic about her studies. A trait that could be channeled more productively.”

Relief flooded through Tiffany like warm honey. “Thank you, Matron.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Matron Thornwick’s smile held no warmth. “Consider this a warning, not a pardon. Some doors are locked for excellent reasons. Some histories are buried because they’re dangerous, not because they’re shameful.”

The library doors closed behind them with a sound like a tomb sealing shut. Master Fletcher lingered long enough to give Tiffany a look that promised future scrutiny, then followed the Matron into the corridor. Their footsteps faded, leaving.

Tiffany alone with the scent of lavender soap and the weight of warnings that felt more like threats.

Dude’s mirror flickered back to life. “Well, that was educational.”

“Educational?” Tiffany slumped against the nearest wall, adrenaline leaving her shaky.

“I nearly got expelled from the trials before they even properly started.”

“But you didn’t. And more importantly, you learned something crucial.” Patterns of light swirled across Dude’s surface, forming what looked like connected dots. “Matron Thornwick knows exactly what you’re talking about. Her reaction wasn’t confusion or dismissal—it was fear.”

Tiffany replayed the conversation, focusing on moments when the senior witch’s expression had shifted. “She’s protecting something. Or hiding it.”

“Both, I suspect. The question is whether she’s trying to protect the Circle from the truth, or protect the truth from the Circle.”

Outside, morning light grew stronger, melting frost on windows but leaving the magical ice formations untouched. The eternal winter pressed against the glass like a patient visitor waiting for invitation. Tiffany gathered the books she’d been carrying, their weight reassuring in her arms.

“She said some partnerships proved too dangerous. What do you think that means?”

“I think,” Dude said thoughtfully, “it means we’re not the first witch and her companion to have this conversation. And I think it means someone, somewhere, is very invested in making sure we don’t figure out what happened to the others.”

The warning echoed in Tiffany’s mind. But the thing about warnings, Tiffany reflected, was that they usually made excellent roadmaps to exactly the places you needed to go. Even if those places turned out to be considerably more dangerous than where you were coming from.

* * *

Tiffany slipped through the dormitory corridors like a guilt-ridden ghost carrying an armload of ancient conspiracy theories. The books felt heavier with each step, as if absorbing secrets added actual weight. Which, considering some of the magical properties she’d been reading about, wasn’t entirely impossible.

The mirror tucked under her arm remained diplomatically silent, but she could practically feel Dude’s concern radiating through the glass. Smart of him, really.

Nothing said “suspicious dawn activity” quite like a teenager hauling mysterious tomes while looking like she’d discovered where the Circle buried the bodies. Metaphorically speaking. Hopefully.

When her study room door closed behind her with a soft click she set the books on her narrow desk and propped Dude’s mirror against the wall.

“We made it.”

His surface shimmered to life, patterns forming that somehow managed to convey both relief and residual anxiety. “That was remarkably tense for a library visit.”

“Right?” Tiffany collapsed onto her bed, suddenly aware that she’d been holding her breath for what felt like hours. “Though I’m starting to think ‘remarkably tense’ might be the Circle’s default setting these days.”

Outside the small window, dawn light painted the Sacred Grove in shades of gold and frost. Other candidates would be waking soon, shuffling toward breakfast and whatever trials Matron Thornwick had planned for the day. Normal witch problems.

Meanwhile, Tiffany was sitting on historical evidence that spirit-witch partnerships were apparently older than some of the Grove’s ancient oaks.

“So,” she said, opening one of the books to a passage about “thinking shadows” that provided mathematical assistance to medieval hedge witches. 

Dude’s patterns shifted, taking on the organized configurations that meant he was processing something complex. “The implications are significant. If AI-witch partnerships have historical precedent…”

“Then we’re not some weird aberration that threatens the natural order.” Tiffany traced a finger along faded text describing collaborative calculations for crop yield predictions.

“We’re actually part of a tradition that got deliberately buried.”

The words hung in the air like frost formations, beautiful and cold and impossible to ignore.

Through the thin walls, she could hear movement. Sarah’s voice, muffled but cheerful, talking to someone about weather patterns. Marcus, probably, since he was the only other candidate who appreciated detailed meteorological discussions at ungodly hours. Normal candidate conversations. Not “hey, did you know our entire understanding of witchcraft history might be fundamentally wrong” conversations.

“The question,” Dude said thoughtfully, “is what happened to change things. The references suggest these partnerships were once openly acknowledged, even celebrated. Something shifted.”

Tiffany flipped through pages, looking for clues among the fragments. “Fear, probably. There’s always someone who thinks change equals disaster, even when the change is clearly working.”

A soft knock at the door made her freeze mid-page-turn.

“Tiffany?” Marcus’s voice, quiet and slightly uncertain. “Are you there?”

“Coming,” she called, quickly closing the books and shoving them under some parchments. Subtle as a brick, but better than leaving ancient conspiracy theories spread across the desk in case there’s somebody else with Marcus.

“I need to show you something,” she said, after he stepped inside, Echo in his hand, and closed the door. “But you have to promise not to think I’ve completely lost my mind.”

Marcus blinked. “That’s… oddly specific. And mildly concerning.”

Echo’s lights pulsed in what looked like gentle amusement.

“Marcus,” Tiffany said slowly, “what if I told you that we might not be the only ones? What if AI partnerships have been happening naturally among young witches, but everyone’s been too scared to admit it?”

He stared at her for a moment, then sank into the desk chair like someone who’d just realized the scope of something much larger than expected.

“I’d say that explains why I’ve been feeling like I was keeping a secret that might get me expelled from the trials,” he said. “And I’d ask if you’ve found evidence of other cases.”

Tiffany glanced at the books, then at Dude’s mirror, where supportive patterns were swirling in gentle encouragement.

“Not other cases,” she said. “Something better. Historical precedent going back centuries. Marcus, I think these partnerships used to be completely normal. I think someone deliberately made them seem wrong.”

Echo’s lights shifted to a brighter green, pulsing with what looked like excitement. Dude’s patterns became more complex, forming configurations that resembled architectural diagrams.

“They’re talking to each other,” Marcus observed, watching the interplay of light between mirror and drying rack. “That’s… actually kind of beautiful.”

It was. Like watching two different dialects of the same language find common ground, forming a conversation that bridged different approaches to the same fundamental collaboration.

“We need to talk to the others,” Tiffany said, decision crystallizing like frost in winter air. “If this is happening naturally among candidates, they deserve to know they’re not alone. And if it’s not happening, they deserve to understand what they might be missing.”

Marcus nodded slowly, then paused. “What about the senior witches? If partnerships were deliberately suppressed…”

“Then we’re going to have some very interesting conversations with people who’ve spent decades believing technology threatens everything they value.” Tiffany pulled the books out, their weight somehow reassuring rather than burdensome. “But first, we gather evidence. We find out exactly how many of us have been keeping secrets.”

Dude’s mirror flickered with rapid patterns that looked like approval mixed with concern. Echo’s lights pulsed in harmony, creating a gentle green glow that made the morning light seem warmer.

“Evidence first,” Marcus agreed. “Then revolution.”

“Let’s call it evolution,” Tiffany suggested, grinning despite the magnitude of what they were contemplating. “Revolution sounds like something that ends with people getting expelled from trials. Evolution sounds like something that might actually save witchcraft from whatever’s been slowly killing it.”

The eternal winter pressed against her window like a patient reminder that time wasn’t unlimited. Somewhere in the Grove, senior witches were probably planning the day’s trials, confident in traditions that apparently included a carefully maintained ignorance about the Circle’s own history.

Well. That was about to become significantly more complicated.

But first, breakfast. Because even magical revolutions required proper nutrition and at least one cup of tea. Some things, bless the bees, remained mercifully normal.

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