I told her how I’d taken to going on long midday walks to savor the fall weather; wandering in and out of the familiar tourist traps on Yarrow Street, getting lunch at Golden’s or the new sandwich place with the incredible falafel wraps. Dipping into the funky coffee shop Talia had taken me to, exploring the new galleries, jewelry stores, and boutiques that had sprung up in my absence. I’d even picnicked by myself next to Lady’s Lake, in sunshine so pure it felt medicinal, and taken a book and a hot chocolate to the town cemetery like I’d once loved to do, whiling away an entire afternoon.

Slowly falling back under Thistle Grove’s spell without even putting up a fight.

Nana listened to me with an open stillness, the same way she had when I was twelve and broke an artifact at Tomes that I shouldn’t have been touching in the first place. Back then she’d snuck into the shop with me and fixed it with a simple restoration charm, and kept my secret ever since; my dad had never been any the wiser about the whole thing.

This time around, I didn’t think a spell was likely to do the trick.

Tears welled again, and I angrily dug the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Ugh, damn it, and then this! I haven’t cried this much in my whole life, and now it’s constant low-grade waterworks. Just absolutely horrible.”

“Sometimes it all needs to come out.” She patted my leg again, gave it a little squeeze. “Just think of it as venting built-up steam. It’s good for the pipes.”

I gave a wet little laugh, then took a shuddering breath. When I spoke again, I was fractionally calmer, at least enough to articulate my thoughts.

“It’s just that, I thought I never wanted to come back here,” I said, gears of pain turning in my chest like some rusting clockwork mechanism. “I thought I was done with Thistle Grove magic, with the way this place pigeonholes you into being only who you were born by blood. And it feels good to achieve things in Chicago, things that are interesting and impressive and substantial. I’m making a real life for myself, out there. I’m becoming someone.”

“Oh, honey, you were always someone,” Nana said with ultimate pragmatism, reaching out to finger a lock of my hair. “That what this is about, too? Don’t get me wrong, I was never one for the hassle of too much hair myself. And it suits you. But I do wonder if you really like it quite this short.”

Anyone else would’ve gotten reamed out for asking me a question of that ilk—but don’t you ever miss your pretty long hair—but I knew what she was driving at. I bit my lip, feeling almost shamefully caught out. “What do you mean?”

She gave me a forthright look, like, cut the crap, kid. “When you were little, you screamed blue murder when poor Cecily went after you for so much as a trim. And even when you were older, you looked like a frigging Tangled cosplay half the time. More hair than girl.”