𝕊𝕎𝔼𝔼𝕋 ℂℝ𝔼𝔸𝕋𝕌ℝ𝔼 - ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴋᴀᴇʟꜱᴏɴꜱ

¹ 𝐣𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤

ALEX WOKE UP TO THE sun stabbing through her too-thin curtains like it had a personal vendetta.

She groaned, rolling onto her stomach to bury her face in the pillow. Damn it. The blanket.

This was the third time this week she'd forgotten to tack something over the window, and once again, the morning light was here to rub salt in the wound. She knew she should just hang up the blackout curtains already—she had bought them months ago—but they still sat untouched on her to-do list, buried somewhere between help Caroline with her Go-Gren Initiative and fix the grandfather clock with Ethan. A list that never got shorter, only longer. And the curtains? They weren't moving past the "good idea" stage anytime soon.

She sighed and flipped onto her back, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eyes. A dull ache settled between them, the kind of pressure that weighed everything down. Residual magic hangover, Ethan called it. The after-effects of siphoning too much, too fast. She had tried not to take much last night—just enough to practice—but even a little was enough to leave her feeling wrung out.

Five more minutes. That was the plan. Five minutes to shake off the exhaustion, to let the headache fade, to pretend she had the luxury of rest. But five turned into ten, then fifteen, until finally, with a groan, she forced herself upright.

The cool wood floor met her bare feet as she sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, fingers absently tracing the thin veins of blue at her wrist. Her gaze drifted to the plants by the window. Right. Time to water them.

It was the only part of her morning routine that ever stuck. The small jungle of green had taken over the windowsill and shelves, creeping into every available space. The pothos spilled over the edge in long, tangled vines. The succulents sat in their ceramic pots, tiny but unbothered. The herbs—rosemary, lavender, sage, juniper—stood firm, their scent thick in the still air.

They weren't just decorations or plants. They were tools.

Her mother had always kept an herb garden, had taught Alex the importance of each one, the way magic clung to them, whispering in the roots and stems if you knew how to listen. Some helped with spells. Some offered protection. Some, like juniper, were good for keeping unwanted spirits out. Alex had learned that the hard way when she was ten and accidentally pronounced "non" as "nan" in a soul-conjuring spell, letting something in that shouldn't have been there.

She pushed the temporary away and reached for the old, plastic watering can—once blue, now faded and chipped, its painted flowers barely clinging to the surface. The handle was worn smooth from years of use.

The pothos got a careful drink first, along with a half-hearted attempt at untangling the vines. The succulents needed only a few drops—too much, and they'd turn to mush. The cactus by her books got what it deserved: the absolute bare minimum. Last time, it had stabbed her. She wasn't about to let it win again.

Her herbs were last. Setting the watering can aside, Alex pressed both palms against the soil. The dirt was cool beneath her fingers, soft and alive. She exhaled, slow and steady, letting her magic stir beneath her skin, searching for connection. A hum answered her. Faint, but present.

The soil pulsed beneath her hands, slow and rhythmic. The rosemary and sage responded first, soaking in the attention like old friends. The lavender took a little longer, reluctant as always. Juniper resisted entirely, stubborn as hell. Alex glared half-heartedly at it. Fine. Be difficult.