Mika nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I care far, far too much about all of you already, and it makes me dangerously happy to be somewhere where I can be myself, but it’s also way too easy for me to be hurt by you, even if you don’t mean to hurt me.” The words spilled out of her in a rush. “I should have stayed to talk this through, but I don’t know if I can come back for good. I don’t know if I can gamble my stupid, fragile heart again.”

His voice was very, very low. “Your heart’s the strongest fucking thing I’ve ever known. It makes me want to be braver, and happier.” His eyes held hers. “Stay. Stay with me.”

“Would you still want me if I wasn’t a witch?”

Jamie’s eyes lit with laughter. “No.”

“Christ, you could say nice things sometimes, you know.”

“No, I couldn’t. I want you, Mika. There are a million things that make you you, like your laugh, and the fact that you care about Primrose in spite of everything, and the colour of your skin, and the fact that when you decided you needed a mask to fit into the world, you chose one that was sunny instead of scowly like mine. Those are a few things. You know what another one is?” He raised an eyebrow. “The fact that you love magic. You need it like you need to breathe. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t a witch. And it’s you I want. All of you.”

The room fell quiet. Circe had gone to nap beside the oven in the kitchen because it was the warmest spot in the house, so even her usual sleep snuffling was absent. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Mika scrubbed at her wet eyes, her heart full and raw and still desperately afraid.

But also desperately wanting.

“We’re going to need new cups of tea,” Jamie said, giving her space again. He straightened up, took their cold tea out to the kitchen, and flicked the kettle back on.

Mika got off the sofa and went to the fireplace to light it. It was one of those electric ones, with fake brickwork. Mika watched the artificial flames flicker and frolic for a moment, then ran her finger over one brick that was a lot redder and chalkier than the others. She’d gotten red crayon on it when she’d been six or seven years old. She had expected to get in trouble for it because Primrose, who had been here at the time, liked things just so. Instead, Primrose had only shrugged and said, “Art is art, poppet. Show it off with pride. In fact, why don’t I help you colour in the rest of that brick?”