You Look Hideous" (Says No One to a Witch Who Just Got Kicked Out), Road Trip of the Damned (and Damp), and Surprise! My Knight in Shining Armor Owns a Literal Castle.
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Author Note: From dramatic exits to even more dramatic entrances! Maggie's life just went from "grounded indefinitely" to "living in a gothic mansion with a mysterious hottie." Looks like running away has its perks... and a whole lot of unanswered questions. Buckle up, because this train has officially derailed into Crazy Town.
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"Maggie, baby, I was gone for a mere forty-eight hours, and in that short span, you've permitted a complete stranger to cross the threshold of my home?"
Mrs. Brown's voice rang through the hallway like a gavel striking wood—measured, theatrical, and unmistakably disapproving. She made her entrance with the kind of grandeur reserved for royalty or storms, her presence immediately sucking the air out of the corridor. Even the light seemed to dim in her shadow.
"Mom, for the last time, Melinda is not a stranger. She's my friend—a person I care deeply about," Maggie replied, her voice tight and defensive. Her arms folded over her chest like armor, her brows drawn together in a fierce, protective frown. The strength behind her words wasn't just teenage rebellion—it was love, fear, loyalty all bound into one.
Mrs. Brown's heels clicked sharply against the polished wood floor as she began pacing. Her long, dark gown trailed behind her like storm clouds chasing wind. "And what, pray tell, will the esteemed members of our coven think of me?" she asked with a high-pitched flourish. "Will they whisper behind their perfectly glossed lips that I've become some low-grade hedge witch, carelessly flinging open my doors to... whoever?"
She paused dramatically at the base of the staircase, lifting her chin with a disdainful sniff. Her appearance was as curated as her personality—designed for intimidation. At a glance, she looked like a woman in her late twenties, but anyone with eyes could see the careful work behind the illusion. The sleek, asymmetrical bob with streaks of black and white, the flawless makeup contouring years into obscurity, the gown designed to conceal her heels while enhancing her height—all part of the image. But beneath it all was a woman nearing her late forties, clinging to power, youth, and control with claws sharpened by fear.
To the coven, she was more than just a dramatic matriarch. She was "The Witch of Morning and Night"—a rare dual wielder of light and dark magic. A prestigious title. A symbol of power. And now, she felt it slipping, all because of a pale, exhausted girl on her staircase.
"I sincerely apologize, Mrs. Brown," Melinda's voice called faintly from above, hoarse and gentle, barely more than a whisper. She clutched the ornate banister tightly, her knuckles white from the strain. Each step down looked like a battle—her legs trembling, her breath shallow. Her magic was drained, her soul still healing from whatever spell had pushed her this far.
Mrs. Brown gasped as though Melinda had slapped her. "Oh my goodness gracious... it spoke!" she exclaimed, stepping back with theatrical horror. Her manicured finger pointed at Melinda like a judge sentencing her to death. Her gasp echoed, dramatic and cruel.
"Mother!" Maggie barked, mortified. Her cheeks burned with a red-hot mix of rage and humiliation. "That was completely uncalled for! She's my friend, and she's been through more in the last twenty-four hours than you've had to deal with in years!"
Mrs. Brown's gaze narrowed, her mouth drawing into a cold, tight line. "And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Margaret?"
"I'm standing up for her," Maggie snapped. Her chest rose and fell quickly. She was trembling, but not backing down.
"Consider yourself grounded," Mrs. Brown said coolly. "Indefinitely."
"You can't do that!" Maggie cried, her voice rising. She took a step forward, her whole body shaking. "That's not fair!"
"Oh, but I just did," Mrs. Brown replied. Her voice was like a blade—sharp, swift, and final. "Now go to your room while I deal with this... unfortunate guest."
"No! Absolutely not!" Maggie shouted, stepping squarely between her mother and Melinda. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. "You are not going to touch her."
The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop.
Mrs. Brown's voice cut through the tension, low and lethal. "Move out of my way this instant, Margaret."
"No, Mother." Maggie's voice quivered, but her feet didn't budge. "I am tired of you controlling every part of my life. I'm moving out."
The laugh that followed was ice on glass—brittle and mocking. "And where, may I ask, do you plan to go? You haven't even finished college, dear. Or do you plan on staying at a friend's? Perhaps with the girl who's barely conscious?"
Maggie swallowed hard. Her lips trembled.
Then she said it.
"I'm going to Dad's."
The hallway went dead quiet. The very air seemed to still.
Mrs. Brown's expression changed immediately. The smug smile vanished. Her face went blank, then cold—frighteningly cold. Her eyes lost their glint, becoming shards of frost.
"What did you just say to me?" she asked, slowly, every word an iron nail hammered into the wall between them.
Maggie's voice came quieter this time, but firmer somehow—like a child speaking to the monster under the bed and refusing to run. "I said I'm going to Dad's."
Melinda shifted behind her, almost collapsing. She clung to the railing like it was the only thing holding her to this world. Her eyes met Maggie's, and though she said nothing, her gratitude was written in every strained breath.
Maggie didn't look away. Not from Melinda. And not from her mother.
Her mother straightened her already rigid posture, shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for battle. Her eyes narrowed into slits, sharp and judgmental, burning into Maggie with an intensity that made her chest tighten. It wasn't just a glare—it was a verdict.
"Very well then, Margaret Brown," she said, her voice laced with icy finality. The way she pronounced Maggie's full name felt like a slap, each syllable dipped in disdain. There was a chilling undercurrent to her tone, something that hinted not just at disapproval, but the promise of lasting consequences. It was the kind of moment that etched itself into memory, not because of loud arguments, but because of how quiet the hatred was.
Maggie stood frozen on the curb outside, the confrontation still playing on a loop in her mind.
⁕
"I still can't quite believe she actually kicked me out onto the street," she muttered under her breath, a fragile attempt at humor wrapped around genuine disbelief.
Rain poured from the heavens in thick, unrelenting sheets, the kind that blurred vision and soaked through everything within minutes. Her favorite white dress clung to her like second skin, translucent now and completely useless against the cold. The fabric wrapped around her legs, chafing and heavy, making each movement a discomfort. She could barely lift her arms without shivering.
Melinda leaned heavily against her, barely conscious. The girl's skin felt like ice. She was trembling—violently. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, and her lips had taken on a bluish hue that made Maggie's chest ache with concern.
"Ugh, I absolutely despise rain," Maggie growled through chattering teeth, though her words carried little conviction. Her fingers were numb, struggling to maintain a grip on Melinda as she waved a hand at the street. Headlights glimmered in the distance. A taxi. Finally.
The cab splashed to a stop in front of them, and Maggie stumbled forward, barely keeping her balance on the slick pavement. Her soaked shoes offered no traction, and she cursed softly as her heel slipped again. Her priority remained Melinda—who was now more dead weight than anything. With awkward fumbling, she eased her friend toward the backseat, grunting with effort and frustration.
Melinda mumbled something faintly, her voice almost drowned by the drumbeat of rain against the taxi's metal roof.
"What did you say, honey?" Maggie leaned in close, wiping water from her face as she strained to hear.
"I… I can't believe your full name is Margaret," Melinda rasped, her voice barely a whisper, followed by a weak, watery laugh. Her eyelids fluttered closed, exhaustion stealing her awareness.
Despite the storm, despite the chaos, Maggie laughed too—a breathy, surprised chuckle that left her lips before she could stop it. The absurdity of the moment cracked through the tension like a ray of sun through clouds.
"Yeah, well… we all have our embarrassing little secrets, don't we?" she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips.
The taxi driver, a large man with thick arms and eyes that looked too tired for conversation, stepped out to grab their bags from the curb. Maggie supported Melinda with one arm and climbed in after her, careful not to press too hard on any of her friend's bruised or injured limbs.
The inside of the cab smelled of old leather, cigarette smoke, and faint peppermint. Her damp dress clung to the worn fabric of the seat, making her shiver anew.
"What's wrong with her, miss?" the driver asked, not cruelly, but with a kind of detached curiosity—like he'd seen far worse in his years on the job.
Maggie gave a dry smile, brushing a soaked strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, you know how it goes. Her date ghosted her tonight, and she drowned her sorrows a little… enthusiastically."
Her tone was casual, airy, deliberately dismissive. She needed to keep things simple. No questions. No complications.
The driver shrugged. He didn't care enough to pry. With a soft thud, the trunk closed, and he got back behind the wheel.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Maggie glanced back once at the silhouette of her mother's house, now a blur through the rain-streaked window. It felt like a past life—something scorched and sealed.
Melinda's head dropped gently onto her shoulder. Her breathing had steadied, shallow but consistent. She was finally asleep.
And for the first time since everything exploded—since the shouting, the judgment, the exile—Maggie allowed herself to exhale. It wasn't peace, not really. But it was something close.
A moment.
A fragile, fleeting pause in the storm.
Maggie had always lived behind polished gates and within softly lit walls, sheltered from life's rough edges. Cars had drivers. Plans were made for her. The world beyond her manicured lawn was more concept than reality. So, standing in the middle of a city she barely knew, with no money, no roadmap, and a friend whose life now depended on her… it was disorienting. Terrifying, even.
The trains were cold and grimy, their seats stiff and worn. Nothing like the smooth comfort she'd grown up with. Yet she didn't complain. Couldn't.
She had made a promise to Melinda. Not just a fleeting vow in the heat of a dramatic moment, but something deeper. It had formed in her chest like stone—a solid, immovable thing born from care, guilt, and growing love.
Their route to Pentos required two different trains, spaced out with long waits, echoing terminals, and a sense of isolation that settled like fog around them. The tickets had been bought with crumpled bills Melinda had managed to slip from a distracted motel cashier's till—a morally gray move, yes, but one Maggie hadn't the strength or heart to argue about.
Now, seated in the rickety carriage of the second train, things felt slightly—just slightly—less dire.
Melinda was breathing better. A faint color had returned to her cheeks, chasing away the sickly pallor that had clung to her skin since they left. She whispered occasionally, fragments of thoughts that drifted in and out between naps. Maggie encouraged her gently, offering sips of bottled water, smoothing damp hair away from her forehead.
But Maggie knew better than to be fully hopeful. Melinda's condition was not just physical—it was magical. Her injuries had drained her reserves completely. And in the world they belonged to, magic was as vital as blood.
There was a term the witches used for this particular state of depletion—the cold state.
It was more than poetic. It described the condition perfectly: a system locked down, frozen, unable to access the power needed to repair itself. Like a broken machine with no fuel.
And even if Maggie wanted to help—if she burned with the desire to share her own strength—it wouldn't work. Their magical affinities were incompatible, their energy signatures clashing like rival songs played on opposite ends of a piano. The consequences of forcing a magical fusion were unpredictable and potentially explosive.
So all she could do was wait.
Wait, and pray that Melinda's body would find its rhythm again, that the spark of power within her would reignite naturally. It was a cruel, slow process. And it made Maggie feel painfully, helplessly useless.
Still, she sat there, one arm curled protectively around the sleeping girl, staring out the rain-speckled window of a train rattling toward an uncertain destination.
She didn't know what waited for them in Pentos.
But she knew she wasn't going to let Melinda face it alone.
"Melinda?" Maggie called out softly, her voice fragile, almost tentative, as if afraid it might shatter the quiet tension that had built between them during the long ride. Her hand hovered briefly before resting lightly on her friend's shoulder, applying just enough pressure to nudge her without jarring her.
"Hmm?" Melinda stirred, her body shifting with the unsteady rhythm of the train. Her voice, a whisper barely more than a breath, blended into the ambient clatter of wheels on rails. Her eyelids fluttered with visible effort, the motion sluggish, like someone wading through the weight of thick sleep.
"Do you think you can walk?" Maggie asked quietly, eyes scanning Melinda's pale, drawn face. There was something deeply unsettling about the way her friend looked—like she was holding herself together by a thread. Maggie tried to keep her voice calm, but the tremor of worry betrayed her.
"I... I think I can manage," Melinda murmured. But her voice trembled, the words cracking slightly like glass under stress. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her body betraying the truth her words were trying to conceal. Maggie could see it clearly—Melinda was weak, too weak, but she was trying to stay brave. Always trying to make things easier for others.
"Good. We'll be arriving at our stop soon, okay?" Maggie said gently, offering the words like a lifeline, though she wasn't sure if it brought comfort or pressure. Still, she had to believe it helped. That hope was all they had left to cling to.
Melinda didn't answer. Her breathing shifted again, softening into a slow, almost rhythmic cadence. Her eyelids drooped closed once more. Exhaustion pulled her under like a tide, the kind that offered no room for protest. Maggie sighed and reached for the thin, scratchy blanket the train had provided, adjusting it carefully over her friend. It wasn't much, but at least it was something. Her fingers lingered at the edge of the fabric, tucking it in tighter, as if that small action could offer protection from whatever was coming next.
Outside the window, rain slid in thick, unending streaks down the foggy glass. The scenery blurred into a palette of gray-green fields and soaked forests, passing too quickly to hold shape, too slow to forget. Maggie stared at it, unseeing, her reflection merging with the storm. Her mind refused rest, looping through the same thoughts like an old film reel—what if Melinda couldn't make it through the night? What if she was worse than she'd let on? What if help didn't come in time?
"Approaching Pentos City stop in approximately five minutes," the conductor's voice crackled through the old intercom system, startling her. The announcement shattered her thoughts like a stone thrown into still water.
Maggie inhaled slowly, filling her lungs with damp, recycled air. Her hands tightened into fists before she forced them to relax. They were almost there. Almost. Whatever waited for them at Pentos City, they would face it together.
"Melinda?" she said again, this time louder, urgency creeping into her voice. She gently shook her friend's shoulder again, firmer now. But Melinda didn't stir. Her limbs were limp, her head lolling to the side. Panic flickered like lightning behind Maggie's eyes.
"Come on," Maggie muttered, forcing herself to move. She slid Melinda's arm over her own shoulder, bearing the brunt of her weight, which felt much heavier than it should. Her friend's stillness was unnerving. It was like holding someone caught in the space between sleep and something darker.
With a grunt, Maggie crouched to grab their luggage—an overstuffed duffel bag that now seemed ridiculously heavy. As she stood, wobbling under the weight of both the bag and her unconscious friend, she was immediately struck by how utterly unprepared she felt.
The train carriage was packed. Travelers of all kinds lined the aisles—families, businessmen, wanderers. Some stood, others sat, all consumed by their own lives. As Maggie began to move, inch by painful inch down the narrow path, it felt as though she were dragging a hundred bricks. Every step burned. Her muscles screamed silently, and the shifting weight of Melinda kept throwing her off balance.
Then her foot caught on something—someone's carelessly dropped bag. Her body lurched forward, gravity pulling her into chaos. They both fell. Maggie hit the grimy floor hard, the wind knocked out of her. Melinda landed beside her in an unresponsive heap. Around them, the train screeched as it slowed to a sudden, jerking stop, sending other passengers stumbling and cursing.
"Shit," Maggie hissed, coughing as she pushed herself upright. Her hands shook. Her knees ached. But none of that mattered. "Melinda, please... wake up," she whispered, her voice raw with fear. She leaned over, brushing damp strands of hair from her friend's clammy face. Nothing. No reaction. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
The train doors hissed open. Passengers surged forward, eager to escape the claustrophobic confines. They stepped over the girls without a second glance, their footsteps loud and impersonal. Maggie tried to raise her voice.
"Please—please hold the door!" she cried out, but her voice was swallowed by the noise.
She tried again, louder this time, desperate. "Hold the door, please! She needs help!"
No one stopped. They kept moving, like a tide that had no interest in what it swept away. She was invisible to them—just another inconvenience in their day.
Then, a voice sliced through the chaos. It wasn't loud in volume, but something about it demanded attention.
"Hold the door!"
Instantly, the crowd stilled. A ripple of tension passed through the remaining passengers. The train's system beeped and halted mid-closing. Maggie turned her head sharply, stunned.
He stood just a few feet away—a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding without being aggressive. He looked like someone who had grown used to doing hard things without complaint. His white t-shirt was damp at the collar, clinging slightly to his chest, his light-washed jeans streaked with faint mud stains. Scuffed work boots completed the look. Practical, grounded, real.
A knitted red head warmer clung to his head, a few locks of warm brown hair curling from beneath it. His face was sharply cut, jawline defined, but his expression held an odd mix of empathy and restrained frustration—like he couldn't understand why no one else had stepped in.
"Let me help you," he said.
He didn't wait for her to respond. With a single, fluid movement, he bent and gently lifted Melinda into his arms, cradling her like something precious but fragile. Maggie blinked in surprise, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.
He moved forward with practiced ease, somehow carving a path through the still-thick crowd. Maggie hurried after him, dragging the bag behind her. Strangely, people moved now, parting for him like he was some force they couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Or maybe they were finally paying attention.
For the first time in a long while, Maggie felt something she hadn't allowed herself in days—hope.
At the train's exit, he jumped down smoothly onto the platform. His landing was quiet, balanced — every movement controlled and purposeful, like someone used to navigating chaotic environments with calm precision. Without hesitation, he shifted Melinda's unconscious form in
his arms and gently leaned her against the nearest railing. His hand lingered protectively at her back, making sure she didn't slump or fall, the gesture both thoughtful and intimate in its quiet concern.
Then he turned back toward the train, his eyes immediately locking with Maggie's. He extended a hand to her — palm open, steady, inviting.
Maggie hesitated, just for a second, before taking his hand. The moment their skin touched, something electric passed through her — not in the literal magical sense, but something deeper, more human. As he helped her down, his hands found her waist, steadying her descent. The pressure was firm but careful, warm through the thin fabric of her blouse. She could feel the strength in his grip, the unspoken promise of safety in the way he held her. Her heart betrayed her, thudding louder than the dull roar of the train and the chatter of voices around them.
For a split second, everything else faded — the crowd, the noise, the cold edge of the platform under her boots. All she could register was the quiet, unfamiliar flutter that stirred in her chest.
What is this peculiar feeling? she thought, dazed. She didn't have the words to name it, not yet. The warmth of his hands lingered on her waist even after he let go, like a phantom touch imprinted on her skin.
If her overprotective mother had witnessed that brief, charged moment, she'd have likely thrown a fit worthy of a royal scandal. There would have been indignant shrieks, threats of fire spells, maybe even an impromptu hex hurled at the poor boy's head. That thought made Maggie smirk involuntarily, a small rebellious curl to her lips as she imagined the scene — the chaos, the drama, the sheer absurdity of it all.
The young man didn't seem to notice the emotional swirl brewing inside her. Or if he did, he pretended not to. His attention had shifted back to Melinda, his eyes narrowing slightly in concern as he noted her shallow breathing and the pallor of her face.
Then, slowly, he turned back to Maggie. His expression shifted, as though he were quietly asking a question he wasn't ready to voice aloud.
"Are you not planning to head back onto the train?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with confusion. The train doors still stood open, as if waiting for a final call.
He snorted, amused. "And abandon you two... witches... to your fate here?" His tone was light, teasing even, but his eyes betrayed something deeper — something more serious, more protective. "Absolutely not. Not in this lifetime."
The word echoed in her ears like a gunshot.
Witches?
Maggie's breath hitched, her blood running cold. She took a small step back as the implications sank in. The pieces that had been swirling just out of reach clicked sharply into place.
Her heart pounded, the rhythm erratic. A sharp buzzing began to rise at the back of her skull — the familiar hum of her latent magic stirring, responding, rising with tension and alarm. But it was faint, weaker than it should be. She had used too much of it already, siphoning her limited reserves to keep Melinda warm during the long, bitter train ride. She had been so focused on survival — on care — that she hadn't realized just how close to empty she'd run.
And somehow, amidst all that, she'd completely missed the obvious.
This boy wasn't just kind or lucky.
He was one of them.
Before she could speak, he turned toward the train and knocked twice on the metal exterior. His knuckles tapped softly against the cold surface, and as if summoned by his touch, the doors closed with a hiss of compressed air. The train gave a low groan as its engines stirred back to life, and then, with a mechanical growl, it pulled away, leaving them alone.
The sudden quiet felt eerie in contrast to the noise moments before. The platform was still bustling, but the space around the three of them seemed to grow heavy, isolated by tension and uncertainty.
Maggie instinctively stepped between him and Melinda, her body forming a protective barrier. Her exhaustion pressed on her like a lead weight, and her magic reserves were nearly gone, but
she couldn't allow that to matter now. Not when everything felt so unclear — and potentially dangerous.
"Who exactly are you?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended, but firm.
He smiled, like her suspicion was something he found mildly entertaining.
"You can call me Tod. It's short for Tobby," he offered with a wink.
Maggie frowned. "There's no 'D' in Tobby…"
He didn't respond to the comment, just kept smiling. That same playful smile, frustratingly unreadable.
She shook her head, deciding the name wasn't the most pressing concern. "Fine. Whatever. What are you?"
He tilted his head thoughtfully, then gestured around them. "I think maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere warmer. Your friend looks like she'd agree if she were awake. I'm not your enemy, Maggie. I promise."
Maggie didn't relax. She couldn't. There was too much uncertainty pressing down on her, but... he wasn't wrong. Melinda needed help. She needed help. And even if Tod turned out to be dangerous, she was in no condition to walk away from the only lifeline currently available.
"Fine," she muttered, grudgingly. "But I'm watching you. Every move."
"Of course," he said breezily, as if her warning was part of a pleasant conversation. He reached up and pulled off his red knitted head warmer, then, to her surprise, gently placed it on her head. The wool was warm, soft — and unexpectedly comforting against her cold, damp scalp.
"You look like you could use this more than I do."
Before she could respond, he turned, knelt beside Melinda, and lifted her easily into his arms. His movements were fluid, practiced. He cradled her gently, like she was something fragile and precious — not just an obligation to carry, but someone whose comfort mattered to him.
Maggie stood frozen for a second, the weight of everything pressing down harder than ever. Questions chased one another through her mind: Who is he really? Why is he helping us? What does he want?
She didn't have the answers. But she also didn't have any options left.
Tod walked ahead a few feet, then paused and glanced over his shoulder, his smirk returning with full force.
"Are you coming, or do I need to send a formal invitation engraved on platinum?"
Despite everything — the confusion, the fatigue, the fear — a reluctant, breathless laugh escaped Maggie's lips. Just for a moment, she allowed herself to smile back.
Then she followed him.
Snapping herself out of her daze, Maggie instinctively reached up to adjust the slightly oversized head warmer tugged low over her ears. The fabric scratched a little at her forehead, but she didn't mind—it grounded her. A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her lips in response to Tod's teasing tone. It was absurdly warm for someone she barely knew, and yet it softened her wariness just enough. With a quiet breath and renewed determination, she jogged forward to catch up with him, her earlier apprehension beginning to unravel into a cautious, flickering curiosity that she wasn't yet ready to name.
She would never have imagined this. Never in her wildest assumptions about Tod—or any stranger, really—had she pictured something like this. If someone had told her earlier that day that he lived in a mansion, she would have laughed. To call it an "apartment" would be a farce. What loomed before her was not just a house—it was a vast estate, a monolith of stone and glass that seemed to glisten under the bruised sky like something out of a dream.
They had only just stepped out of the taxi when her mouth parted in stunned disbelief. It wasn't the size alone, though the scale was hard to miss—it was the feel of the place. The elegant symmetry, the silent authority of wealth, the stillness in the air that somehow demanded reverence.
Getting her to come here had not been easy. Not even close.
Tod's casual jeans and worn hoodie had painted a very different picture when they met—something simple, grounded, maybe even a little rough around the edges. She'd pegged him as a student, someone pulling long hours at a coffee shop or library, budgeting every coin between textbooks and noodles. Her assumption now felt embarrassingly naive.
As they stopped in front of the massive, wrought-iron gates, her eyes widened further. He didn't even glance at the phone vibrating insistently in his pocket—a sleek, high-end model she'd somehow overlooked earlier. With an almost imperceptible wave of his hand, the gates creaked open, responding to his command like trained sentinels. No key. No code. Just quiet, effortless authority.
The mansion spread before her like a set piece from a fantasy film. Two curved driveways split like arms reaching toward a detached garage that could easily fit a dozen luxury vehicles. The building itself looked like a refurbished castle—stone walls washed golden by the setting sun, balconies laced with iron filigree, high towers capped with black slate. Pentos was known for its extravagance, sure, but this—this was beyond opulence. This was generational wealth. Legacy. Power.
As they walked toward the entrance, Maggie noticed movement. A small group of uniformed servants appeared at once, emerging as if on cue. Not rushed or flustered—just calm, efficient, and perfectly trained. One woman stepped forward to take Melinda from Tod's arms, her touch gentle but assured. Her eyes flicked to Maggie with a kind of maternal concern, then back to the unconscious girl.
Tod turned to Maggie, his tone light as ever, though something darker coiled beneath his humor. "She's in good hands now," he said, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "I promise I won't eat her. Or you. Although, I'm not entirely sure I can say the same about the housekeepers. They're fiercely protective of their cleaning supplies."
Maggie blinked, her brow furrowing. "That's… an oddly specific reassurance."
His laugh was low, a resonant hum that vibrated in his chest rather than echoed in the space. It was warm, sure, but it sent a strange shiver up her spine—not entirely from comfort. Extending his hand, he offered her help as she reached the stairs. There was a brief moment of hesitation. Trust didn't come easy. But she took it. His palm was warm—human. The grip was firm, but not forceful.
They ascended together.
The doors before them, carved in deep, swirling patterns across ancient wood, opened without a sound. The air inside was warm, still, and thick with a strange serenity. The silence wasn't empty—it was padded, somehow, soaked into the thick black rugs beneath their feet and cradled in the subtle glow of golden light fixtures. The wallpaper was soft brown, textured like velvet, hugging the walls in waves of understated elegance.
Two staircases, one on either side of the room, swept up in perfect arcs. Their balustrades were carved with dizzying detail, polished until they gleamed. A row of silent servants stood at attention near the edges of the foyer. Their eyes lowered. Their expressions unreadable. They looked less like staff and more like statues dressed in silk and duty.
"You're… you're not a prince or something, are you?" Maggie blurted, her voice brittle with disbelief. It wasn't even meant to be funny—but the absurdity of her surroundings demanded an answer.
Tod's smile deepened. He gave a noncommittal tilt of his head, his sea-green eyes dancing with amusement. But he said nothing. Instead, he gently guided her toward the left staircase.
The hallway they entered was long, the air thick with the scent of clean linen and lavender polish. Soft carpet swallowed their steps, and closed doors lined either side like secrets waiting behind ornate wood and brass handles. Each one whispered wealth. Generations of it.
At the end of the hall stood a final door—larger, heavier, somehow more deliberate in its presence. Maggie hesitated again, glancing up at Tod. "What about Melinda?" she asked softly, the concern threading back into her voice.
Tod nodded reassuringly. "She's being looked after by professionals," he said. "People I trust completely. She's safe. I made sure of it."
There was a quiet certainty in his words that was difficult to ignore. But it didn't stop the next question from falling from her lips, barely more than a whisper.
"Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"
Her voice trembled slightly. She stepped back, instinct pulling her toward distance—toward safety. Her back brushed against the cold door, a subtle barrier between her and what felt like a growing storm.
Tod took a step closer.
It was subtle, but it was enough. One arm lifted, hand braced against the frame beside her head. Not threatening—not exactly—but he was close now. Too close. The hall suddenly felt narrower. His presence filled the space, his height casting shadows over her features. She could hear his breath now, and her heart hammered so loud she was certain he could hear it too.
His nearness was overwhelming.
Unsettling.
And something else.
Maggie instinctively turned her face away, her breath hitching in her throat. Every nerve in her body seemed to jolt awake, her senses sharpening in response to Tod's nearness. The hallway, for all its luxury and quiet, suddenly felt too small. Too still. She could feel the faint warmth of his breath brushing her cheek, and the subtle sound of his breathing, slow and controlled, only intensified the pressure pressing against her chest.
With a calm, deliberate motion, Tod reached out and tilted her chin, his touch gentle yet inescapably firm. His fingers, surprisingly warm, guided her gaze back to his. She resisted at first, if only out of instinct, but eventually her eyes met his.
His sea-green eyes were steady, arresting. Not just beautiful, but intense—like the kind of gaze that made you feel stripped bare, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with physical exposure. Maggie felt herself drawn in against her better judgment, her apprehension dimming under the force of that look.
"I find you very beautiful, Maggie," Tod murmured, his voice low and rich, like velvet laced with danger. The words landed softly but carried weight, reverberating in the silence between them. A slow smile curved his lips, charming but also a little too smooth, a little too calculated.
Her thoughts scrambled for footing, clawing for logic, for escape. The day had already upended everything she thought she understood about the world, and now here he was—this enigmatic stranger with the eyes of a siren and a mansion like something out of a fever dream—whispering compliments that left her head spinning.
She cursed herself inwardly for noticing how startlingly green his eyes were, or how genuine that smile seemed. It wasn't the compliment itself that rattled her—it was the sincerity in his voice, the ease with which he delivered it. It made her question her instincts, and that alone was terrifying.
Her fingers reached behind her, brushing against the cool wood of the door. She searched until they wrapped around the cold metal handle, anchoring her back to reality. With a sudden burst of resolve, she twisted the handle and shoved the door inward, a swift move that startled even her.
Tod stumbled, just slightly, clearly caught off guard by her abrupt maneuver. But he recovered quickly, his seductive smirk morphing into something more playful—something admiring. Maggie stepped into the room, retreating with quick, nimble steps.
She turned back toward him, her hand already on the edge of the door, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "See you later, prince charming," she said, her tone light with teasing sarcasm, masking the tension still thrumming beneath her skin.
And with that, she shut the heavy door in his face.
Tod remained there for a few quiet seconds, staring at the closed door with an amused, bemused smile still tugging at his lips. The hallway, once charged with silent electricity, fell back into stillness. He let out a low, quiet chuckle that lingered in the air, then turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
Maggie, meanwhile, leaned back against the door with a soft thud, her chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. Her heart was racing—too fast, too loud. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself, but the image of Tod's face lingered in her mind like a ghost she couldn't shake.
She peeled herself away from the door and scanned the room. The warmth and softness of the space did little to soothe the tension still coiled inside her.
What she needed—what she truly needed—was a long, scalding-hot shower. Something to wash away the grime, the clinging cold of the rain, and the strange electricity that seemed to dance along her skin from where Tod had touched her. She glanced down at her clothes—her once-pristine white dress, now ruined. It clung to her skin, soaked through, heavy with mud and memory.
The fabric, delicate and sentimental, was torn in several places. It had been a gift from her father—a designer with gifted hands and a patient heart. He'd crafted it for her sixteenth birthday. She remembered the way he'd smiled when she first wore it. The memory came unbidden and sharp, and it made her chest ache with longing.
A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. Maybe magic could fix it. Maybe not. Either way, there was no saving it tonight.
She reached behind her, tugging at the zipper until it slid down. The dress slipped from her shoulders and dropped to the floor in a defeated heap. She stood there in simple white cotton underwear, the plainness of it stark against the richness of the room, and for a brief moment, she felt exposed—both literally and emotionally.
The unfamiliar air chilled her skin. She moved to the window and shut it, sliding the lock into place, ensuring her privacy. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing some warmth back into her limbs.
A shower. Food. Then she would find her father. That was the plan.
The morning's chaos, the rain, the strangers, the mansion—it had all left her spinning. She hadn't eaten since the bizarre breakfast with the pixies. Her body was running on nerves and adrenaline. Her brain on fumes.
She clung to the only certainty left in her mind: she would find her dad. He had to be out there, somewhere. He had to know something about all this. He had to help. He would help.
And maybe—just maybe—she could still salvage something familiar from the wreckage of this strange, impossible day.
******
Note:The Association of Runaway Witches would like to advise all members that while accepting help from handsome strangers is tempting, it's crucial to perform a thorough background check. Mansions may look glamorous, but they often come with complicated backstories (and possibly a few grumpy housekeepers). Proceed with caution, and always have a backup escape spell ready.