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Chapter Text

1 My Funny Valentine

4 pm, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy leaned on the kitchen entryway, watching her husband hum “My Funny Valentine,” oblivious to all but the music emanating from his earbugs, specially patented by Macy some months before.

Harry. Her Harry.

“My funny valentine…sweet comic valentine…” Aproned, he swept an arm across the countertop before him, deftly balancing the jar of cumin in his hand as he massaged spices into the rack of lamb for hers truly. Macy bit back a laugh as he continued singing, his lyrics growing louder, more booming by the minute, until she stepped forward, continuing the song.

He halted in his tracks, realizing for the first time he wasn’t alone in the kitchen. Who—? Then he smiled. Macy. His love.

“You’re my favorite work of art…” she sang, letting the melody linger in the air as their lips found each other’s in a heady kiss. She smoothed a stray tendril of chestnut hair that stuck out just so, as he cupped her cheek ever-so-gently. “Mmmm…” she murmured aloud. “I could get used to this…”

“As could I—” he all but growled, sucking on a certain sensitive part of Macy’s neck that cause her toes to curl ever-so-slightly—

“Ahem—”

The pair sprang apart and straightened their clothing as Mel stood in the entryway. “I’m headed out for the night—”

“Oooh, who with?” Maggie’s voice emanated from the hallway behind her.

“Nobody!” Mel seemed rather quick to respond as Maggie reached an arm—two women, surrounded by pink hearts and crimson roses, sitting in a Jazz Club filled with rose quartz, gauzy tapestries, and—

Signage. Tessera Nightclub. Manchester. “England?” Maggie exclaimed incredulously, as Mel blushed a deep crimson. “What’s in England?” Maggie reached an arm out as Mel jumped away.

“Boundaries, Maggie!”

“Oh, fine,” the youngest responded in a huff as Mel quickly exited the manor a moment later. Turning to the kitchen, she asked, “you two?”

“Um…just something, y’know,” Macy tilted her head. “Low-key…”

Maggie couldn’t help but smirk. “Low-key, as in that time you two nearly brought the house down, and loosened every portrait frame and attic shelf?”

Harry stammered. “T-that was different—” Their honeymoon night unceremoniously interrupted by a band of roving ghouls, that sultry incident was a rain check of sorts, which he and Macy remembered. Vividly. He swore her scream could be heard for miles…oh my…

“Right. So, I’ll be at Jordan’s. Just so you know. In case. Have fun you two!” Maggie gave a cheerful shoulder shrug, waving at the pair a bit too merrily before departing.

6 pm, Dining Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Candlelight, soft orchestral jazz, and fancy tablecloth linen were on display; Harry had pulled out all the stops. “Wow,” Macy breathed. “It’s beautiful…” She turned around and noticed him waiting. “Is there something I…forgot?”

He chuckled. “Not in the slightest. I just planned on pulling your chair and seating you, as they do in fine dining establishments.”

“Oh—oh…” Macy knew she’d chosen well. “And thanks for making the rack of lamb—”

They gave each other knowing glances, recalling how the previous year involved her insisting she bake the roast, which resulted in her burning it to a crisp. Then, once things had gotten hot and heavy, Maggie and Jordan returning and surprising them both in the living room. “Poor Jordan,” Macy remarked, before reaching for her wineglass.

“Indeed,” Harry answered with a slight cringe. “As Maggie would put it—”

“Not enough alcohol in the world!” They completed the sentence in unison, bursting into laughter. Luckily, Jordan had enough sense to whisk Maggie away, and things had proceeded from there…

7 pm, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington

An hour later and after much-needed dancing and the beginnings of star-gazing, Macy finally gathered up the courage to broach a certain subject. Kids.

It wasn’t a question of whether to have kids. They both wanted them. It was more a question of when.

Once Macy’s science career took off.

Once her sisters had gotten settled in their jobs.

Once imminent danger was gone.

Once she and Harry were married.

But, as she was in her early-to-mid thirties, she understood there was such thing as a biological clock. “Harry,” she began.

“Macy, love, what is it?” He detected a shadow, a type of…was it sorrow? Fear? Whatever it was, he wanted to cure it—fix it—heal it—

“Have you ever thought about us…having kids?”

He smiled. “Plenty of times.” Too many times, if he were entirely honest. He imagined cooking in the kitchen with an infant strapped to his chest, while he sang songs of his 1930s upbringing. Perhaps helping a little curly-haired girl conduct introductory science experiments with water and oil, or perhaps baking soda, under the watchful eye of her mother.

“What about…when to have them?” Macy ventured hesitantly, staring down at her hands.

Harry’s smile broadened. “Are you trying to tell me…?”

“That I’m ready?” She blinked hard a few times, trying to avoid tearing up. “I think so,” she whispered. “I mean,” she clarified, a bit louder this time, “we’re married, we’re in a decent financial situation, we own Vera Manor outright—I’m also scared that if I overthink this—”

“That you would change your mind?” She nodded, picking at a cuticle before Harry’s own hand reached forward, caressing her own. “What are you afraid of, having children?”

“Harry, what am I not afraid of?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I’m not quite sure I understand—”

“What if…what if our future babies inherit my demon blood? What if I don’t know how to be a mom, since Marisol was never around? What if our children exhibit magic and we have to bind their powers? What if—”

“Macy—breathe.” She fell silent as he continued. “First, your demon blood was via transfusion. If I suspect correctly, that was a one-off and highly unlikely to be transmissible to future offspring. Second, Marisol has always been with you, even if you didn’t know it—and a part of her rests with your sisters as well—”

“My sisters?”

He nodded. “I’m sure Mel and Maggie have a wealth of knowledge, having spent decades with her, and I’m sure they would be more than willing to help you. If I remember correctly, Maggie mentioned something about being an aunt someday at our wedding—”

“I think ‘give me nieces and nephews’ were her exact words. Granted, she was tipsy during that toast, but—”

Harry smiled benignly. “Exactly my point. And finally, children and magic—Macy, love, our children haven’t even been conceived yet. I suggest we take one thing at a time.”

Feeling his hand stroke her own, Macy exhaled, releasing a wave of tension that had been bottled up within. “Sounds reasonable. For the demon blood thing, given my success with the earbugs, I could develop and run a few tests, just in case. For peace of mind? Run some experiments? Maybe? Before said kids are conceived?”

“As you wish. Though, might I add, from previous experience, having children involves a roll of the dice. Trust the universe, I suppose.”

“Makes sense,” Macy acknowledged, before an idea suddenly struck her. “If I spend the next few months studying mystical phlebotomy, how about…” She mentally counted the months, realizing it would be mid-summer then. “June or July?”

“For…?” Harry was confused.

She leaned over, kissing his cheek, then his lips. “Trying for kids, silly—”

His mouth was a shocked “O.” “Are you certain?”

Macy nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been. How does two or three sound?”

Harry’s mouth crinkled upward at each end. “I most certainly fancy the same. We might be able to finagle a short weekend trip, perhaps…” he trailed off, allowing his imagination to get the better of him—

A hotel room, far from Vera Manor—breakfast in bed—an expansive view of the environs—

And—

Macy.

“It’s just—” he added hastily, “given our line of work, we can’t go too far. No European castles, I mean. But we could do a quick trip to Bainbridge Island? A view of the water, for utmost relaxation?”

She acquiesced, pulling him closer into a hug. “Harry, that sounds perfect.”

Noon, Next Day, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Tiptoeing into Vera Manor, Maggie smelled delectable French onion soup, with what seemed to be vegan cheese. Her favorite. Standing in the kitchen entryway, she watched the pair laugh and hug each other close as Macy stirred the soup.

You two will make awesome parents one day, she thought to herself with a smile, before disappearing upstairs, where Jordan was waiting.

Chapter Text

Two Weeks Later, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Two weeks and a frustrating number of phlebotomy samples later, Macy had retired to bed, completely and utterly exhausted, the heritability of her transfused blood still undetermined. Perusing a couple of websites while sitting upright, titles of which ranged from “Does Having Children Decline Marital Happiness,” to “Children Opened My Worldview,” and “Ten Pros and Ten Cons of Babies,” she gave a start a moment later, as Harry orbed beside her, gently kissing her curls.

“You could debate till the cows come home, love, or you could—” he murmured.

She giggled. “I know, toss the dice. Trust the universe. Right?” as he nodded, planting soft kisses along her neck as she practically sighed in ecstasy, turning off the light and resuming what had begun on the shores of those Desolation Islands of yore…

Next Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Harry busy at a virtual Women’s Studies Webinar, Macy busied herself for bed, skimming internet articles yet again, until one caught her eye. “I Was a Fence-Sitter” (or something like that). Apparently, the recommendation was to imagine—somehow teleport—oneself into a world in which one has a child. Are you happy in that world? Is your spouse? Is your child? The article’s author argued that such a weighty choice involved dry information…as well as emotional intuition.

And suddenly, an idea struck her.

An alternate reality. She and her sisters were witches, with powerful tools at their disposal, right? Putting down her phone, she debated; should she ask Mel for a time warp to the future? No, she decided immediately. Too risky. And what if she wanted to stay in that reality for more than fifteen minutes? She’d be stuck there forever, and her line would likely cease to exist.

The simulation crystal?

Granted, Maggie had snuck away with it years before in a misguided but well-meaning attempt to recover from her breakup with Parker. It had been returned to its rightful owner—Harry—soon after. Much disinfecting later, it sat hidden within his sock drawer. Using her powers, Macy opened the drawer, careful to avoid diverting her eyes, lest the crystal shatter onto the floor.

Could she?

Should she?

There was no black amber contamination; the crystal shone and sparkled, cool and ready in her outstretched palm. Macy knew Harry would be awhile; Mel and Maggie were out on the town having their own fun. This was, she supposed, as good a time as any.

“A time,” she whispered aloud, her lips kissing the crystal’s surface, “with kids. With Harry.”

Next Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Whoosh—

She sat up sleepily in bed. Was it morning already? Hearing Harry’s familiar Whitelighter sound, she turned—but his side was empty. Where was he? And why do my hips hurt?

Spotting a bit of movement to her left, she found a pair of large, grey-hued eyes staring at her, curls too. A tiny girl, hiding near the corner of her bed.

“Uh, do I know you?” Macy squinted, trying to put a name to the (very) adorable face. She looked like someone she should know. A relative? A…? Those eyes, they kind of seemed like Harry’s? That smile, akin to his? Her hue, similar to her own?

The girl scrambled up and joined her in the covers, hugging her and giggling. “Mommy, you’re being silly.”

Macy gave a start. “Holy shi—” She stopped mid-word, lest the girl beside her learn new, colorful vocabulary. “—ning. Shining.” Whew, that was close. “So…I’m your…mommy?”

The girl nodded gleefully.

Okay. Okay then. Macy took a couple of deep breaths before resuming speaking. “I’m…mommy…and you’re…?”

“Maya Madalena, and Harry’s my daddy, and I’m three and a half years old—" She fidgeted, happy to see Macy in a way that took the latter’s breath away. The little things.

“Daddy told me to tell you breakfast’s ready downstairs!”

Not much had changed, Macy noticed, as she put her slippers on, traipsing downstairs, Maya leading her by the hand.

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Hearing a familiar voice humming “Beyond the Sea,” Macy walked into the sunlit kitchen, noticing the aroma of sizzling turkey bacon and freshly-made pancakes.

“Love,” Harry called out in surprise, bending over, kissing her cheek. “I thought we talked about this—”

“About…?”

He rubbed her belly, which she noticed, all of a sudden, was quite prominent. “H-how did that—” she stammered. Pregnant?

Harry smirked. “I think you know as well as I exactly how that happened.” To her look of utter incredulity, he elaborated. “The islands? Then a rendezvous at a Portuguese ballroom?”

“Uh—right—” Harry really was good at planning date nights, even post-kids, it seemed.

“You really ought to take things easy—”

“I’m fine—”

“Twins and all—”

Wait—what? She met his eyes and understood he was serious. “T-twins?” she all but squeaked, then reminded herself to stay calm, if not for her sake, then for the babies.

“Henry and Matilda—” he drew a plate of pancakes and bacon toward her as the trio began to enjoy their breakfast.

She mulled the scenario over. Maya. Henry. Matilda. That, and her aching hips and swollen feet. “I guess that’s why everything feels—”

“Sore?” He gave a sympathetic look, fully appreciative of the fact it was her bearing his children.

She nodded. “Something like that. More…” she searched for the word. “Unusual. Uncomfortable.”

Harry reached over. “Perhaps a massage, later this afternoon?”

Grinning, she speared a piece of pancake, and chewed. “I’d like that very much.” Then a disquieting thought struck her. “What about—” she pointed to Maya, who was happily munching on her own pancakes, which Macy noticed were vaguely Mickey Mouse-shaped.

“It’s her naptime, so we should be fine, love.”

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Ugh, yes,” Macy groaned, positioned on her side as Harry’s hands made their way along the crests of her work-worn shoulders. Who knew he had such skills? Her heart practically skipped a beat. This is the man I married—

When suddenly, from above, they heard a whoosh, a crash, and sobs—

They started in horror. “Maya—” Macy grabbed ahold of Harry’s arm as they orbed into the attic.

Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy stared; there were bits of slime everywhere, a bright flamingo pink. And Maya—covered in the substance, from head-to-toe.

“Oh my lord…” Harry muttered under his breath as he came toward the girl. “Maya, my sweet, what happened?”

“I…I…” the child blinked several times and sniffed. “I wanted to do science like mommy…”

“Maya,” he remonstrated gently. “What have we said about asking mommy for permission?”

“I-I know…” she looked so crestfallen; Macy walked over as best she could, encircling the girl in a hug, never once caring her own clothes were absorbing the pink goo. “I wanted to surprise her. With—”

“Slime?” Macy spoke up, recognizing its ingredients, herself having concocted the mixture using an internet recipe decades ago, with similar results. Just then, she and Harry looked at each other, and what started out as a polite cough became a giggle, then a full-on gale of near-hysterical laughter. “Oh my God…” she muttered aloud, as she walked Maya to the bathroom some feet away to get her cleaned up, before turning around. “Harry, do you need…?”

He waved her away. “Go. It’s fine. I’ll clean this up in a jiffy.”

Two Hours Later, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maya having been cleaned up and given her (now supervised) nap time, an idea popped into Macy’s head. A science project. A twilight memory. Having been orbed to the attic by Harry, she called for Maya, who popped round shortly after. “Mommy, whatcha doing?”

“A science project—that both of us can do.”

“Harry, can you get the box?” He nodded, producing a cardboard shoebox, which she carefully opened near her microscope. A pair of gleaming, highly-fashionable silver sandals—touching their straps, she was thrust back to one memory in particular, from one cold and fearsome night—

“Dance with me—” he paused, his eyes glowing, wavering with unshed yet ever-present tears; he gazed upon her, as if he saw the very nature of her innermost soul. “Please.” Without a single moment of hesitation, her visage leaned atop his shoulder as she breathed his scent of Old Spice and beautiful, bygone eras, her ebony hair ribbon fluttering in the raucous breeze amid the roaring Arctic waves. Smiling, she blinked once or twice, hardly daring to believe she was here of all places, on a solo adventure with him, even if it was the eleventh hour, the make-or-break—the dawn before the darkness—the sacrifice—of her…

“Are we gonna wear them?” A tiny voice interrupted Macy’s thoughts.

“No, sweetie.” She reached forward, scraping silica and volcanic ash from the sandals onto a miniature glass plate, placing it on the microscope frame before them, continuously adjusting the lens frame until a veritable symphony of colors emerged. “Ok, now you try—” as Maya stepped forward, staring into the microscope at the generated image beneath.

Swaying, she murmured his name, soundlessly so. Harry. Harry. Harry—as he, in turn, stroked her curls, an angel’s pillow before the inevitable, enraging, utterly incomprehensible sacrifice of the one he cherished so dear. ‘The universe, it can’t be this cruel. It—it simply can’t.’ A morbid mantra, given the detriment they’d all suffered—the magical world included. But now, their world had molded and narrowed—until it was just two people. Himself and Macy. Their silhouettes flickered about the shore, painting a pretty if not moribund, altogether ephemeral, cerulean image, shining beneath the glow of fluorescent moonbeams…

“It’s a rainbow!” Maya squealed, clapping her hands, as Macy and Harry smiled.

“That’s right! It’s volcanic ash, on microscope. Kerguelen cabbage. Brassicaceae. Can you draw a picture? For science?” Macy caused a few pieces of paper and crayons she’d seen on a nearby table to flutter and weave their way toward them.

“Yup!” And with that, the girl proceeded to draw, documenting with unusual level of detail, crisscrossed magenta and mandarin orange hues, sapphire blue centers, and fiery amber coloring besides.

“Maya, love, what have we learned today?” Harry asked, once Maya finished her art, handing it to Macy.

“Science is cool!”

“What else?”

She mulled the question over. “Well…” she remarked, still fidgeting, “I should ask permission before doing science.” Harry and Macy glanced at each other. Good enough.

“And wards—lots of child-proof protection wards—” Macy muttered under her breath as Harry nodded in agreement.

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

She yawned; how long had she been asleep?

“The whole night,” a deliciously British voice intoned to her right, as she turned to kiss him. “I see the simulation crystal’s getting some use?”

Macy hesitated, then noticed a piece of paper beneath her pillow, inhaling sharply. Maya’s drawing—but—that was a simulation! “I—uh—wanted to test my child-rearing—this picture—the sandals—”

“It’s alright, Macy,” he responded with a twinkle in his eye, before responding in a lower voice. “I was there too—”

Oh.

Oh man.

“Maya’s cute—adventurous, almost—”

“Too adventurous,” Harry added softly, rubbing her hand in small, pronounced circles, as they laughed in unison.

“You made a great dad, Harry—”

“And you a splendid mum—"

“Thanks, Harry. I guess. Also. I noticed…I—my stomach was—feet swollen—my hips—oh jeez—carrying twins—and—I was—" Her eyes met his, almost pleadingly so. Would you love me if I looked different?

“Just as exquisitely beautiful as you are right now.” Always. Always, love.

“Do you really mean that, Harry?”

“With all my heart.” A wink, then he orbed downstairs to prepare her favorite pancakes, and her morning cup of coffee.

Rising, she noticed a sticky note on his nightstand.

Take Macy to Paris.

She bit her lip, a wide grin dancing across her visage. He hadn’t forgotten, after all.

Chapter Text

“Can't we stay a little while longer, Harry?” Her voice broke, noting Harry’s familiarly alert expression. “Please?”

“Your sisters,” he answered. “Duty calls.”

And she knew better than to argue.

Early Afternoon, Command Center, Seattle, Washington

The day had begun like any other. Maggie went off to her psychology classes, Mel prepared for, and taught her pre-tenure course, and Macy tinkered in the dank, dimly-lit darkness of SafeSpace’s Command Center. Harry, of course, spent every waking moment within proximity of Macy, when he wasn’t hunting down the next possible cure for this magical affliction—this—

”Accursed allergy—” he grumbled to himself, for the eleventh time that day. His daring adventure through three tropical rainforests and a deluge of quicksand led to the discovery of a semi-wilted moonflower, which was meant to solve their problems.

He could sense her perfume—closing his eyes, he dreamt, imagining, within his mind’s eye—

Her luscious curls, wound about his fingers as she emitted a heartfelt moan, piercing through his subconscious as he lavished attentions on her wanting lips, crimson and full, their arms entangled within the other’s as he picked her up, setting her back against the adjoining bookcase as she straddled his form, the two kissing furiously to make up for lost time—

Sometime later, Harry glanced at his arms, and at Macy’s some feet away. Red, raw markings scattered themselves about their skin, hive-like and utterly unpleasant. Using her powers, she floated a tube of aloe lotion toward him, which he applied to his own skin. “Thanks, love,” he murmured, albeit despondently.

Alas. Another failed experiment.

Mid-Afternoon, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Out of the corner of her eye, Mel spotted a piece of paper. Maya. Henry. Matilda. Pushing her glasses higher, she frowned. Were these…Tulipe witches? A warlock? Victims? Magical beings saved? She shook her head. That was impossible, given their allergy. No way could they possibly…and they were in Macy’s handwriting…

“Mel?” It was Macy.

“Oh…hey…this yours?” She held out the paper, as Macy let it float gracefully through the air into her own grasp.

“Yeah, thanks—”

“Are those…” Mel hesitated. “Witches? Warlocks?”

Macy bit her lip. “I guess you could…sort of say that.”

Clearly, she’s not telling me something. Ok, I’ll bite. “Maya, as in…Maya Guzman?”

Macy laughed. “Hadn’t thought of that, but sure, that makes sense. More, Maya as in ‘Maya Angelou.’”

“Are they…victims?”

“No!” Macy checked herself, realizing her vehemence. “I mean…I hope they aren’t.” Retreating to the furthest corner of the kitchen, she began brewing herself a cup of decaf.

The more Mel thought about it, the more things began to click. Maya. Matilda. Both M-letter girl names. Henry. An H-letter name for a boy. Macy. Harry.

Huh.

To cope with physical separation, Macy had taken to knitting a gender-neutral yellow blanket. Popping gummy vitamins. For her hair, Mel recalled her sister mentioning days ago. And now…decaf?

“Mace—are you...?” Mel let the unspoken word linger in the air as she stared at her older sister. Pregnant?

Macy laughed ruefully. “No. That’s logistically impossible. I can't be within six feet of him. But…” She paused, staring down at the teacup in her hand. “I want to be,” she all but whispered. Being newly married and unable to enjoy anything remotely resembling connubial bliss was already taking a toll on their relationship, whether acknowledged or not.

“Within six feet or pregnant with Harry's baby?” Mel sympathized with Macy’s plight, but couldn’t help but smile just the tiniest bit. Being an aunt would be amazing.

“Both. Once this...this allergy is gone. Once we find a cure. A vaccine. Something. I want to prepare for if we do. But…what if that never happens?” Macy looked pleadingly at Mel. “And what if we can never hug, or touch or—or—”

“Harry!” Mel exclaimed suddenly, as a familiar figure paused near the kitchen threshold. She made a quick exit through the solarium, careful to avoid being zapped.

“What was that about?” Harry queried the lovely goddess before him. His Macy.

“Just—um, nothing—”

“Macy.” His gravelly voice sent tremors through her body, filled to the brim with utter want. “What aren’t you telling me, love?”

She swallowed hard, floating a piece of paper toward him, as they deftly rotated positions across the kitchen island, so he could fix himself a cup of Earl Grey tea. “Mel found my—our—list of names. Must’ve left it here by accident. Can’t imagine how that happened.”

“Oh, Macy,” he murmured. “Can’t you?”

And a memory of the evening before resurfaced—an emerald green eyelet wraparound dress, rose lipstick, her tawny curls reshaped into flowing tresses as she prepared fluffy mashed potatoes into artfully-sculpted mounds with shaved carrot garnish, sautéed asparagus stalks, and sliced steak au jus (their ‘filet mignon,’ she imagined). An arugula salad, too, which she assembled with candied pecans.

How did it go again?

Apéritif. Hors d’oeuvres. Entrée. Salade.

She’d laid out plain white tablecloth, laser-cut crystal goblets she’d found hidden deep beneath a kitchen cupboard, along with gold-colored cutlery that looked as if King Midas himself had touched it, so shimmering it was. Two fabric napkins, expertly folded per a quick YouTube tutorial, a bouquet of roses from Pike Place Flowers, and a bronze Eiffel Tower replica filled the circular table.

Two—or three candelabras too. Glimmering tealight. The works.

Anything for you, Harry.

Welcome to Paris.

She opened her eyes, finding herself standing in the kitchen once more, separated by an invisible menace that had caused physical and emotional havoc within their beautiful little world. Their Paris. “I left it near the sink, didn’t I?”

Late Afternoon, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

After making up an excuse to return to Vera Manor, Harry orbed directly into Macy’s bedroom, making a beeline for her hope chest decorating the foot of her bed. Rummaging through faded quilts and fabrics, his hand made contact with a bound notebook.

Macy’s diary.

As the aforementioned woman was back in the Command Center, running test upon test, he understood he had a bit of time before she grew suspicious. She would, he hoped, forgive this intrusion.

Just this once.

Late Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Having not seen Harry since dinner—a beautiful roast with green beans Almondine and a crisp, curved Yorkshire pudding—she began to grow worried. Had she acted impetuously the night before? Was the idea of Paris better as a meaningful metaphor in Harry’s mind, than a ‘cute’ reproduction? Had she overstepped? Taken things—

She paused, hearing a buzz. Her phone.

Meet me in the attic in five minutes. Bring your imagination. ;)

Her eyes were instantly aglow.

Oh.

Oh my.

Late Evening, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Having texted him that she was on her way upstairs, she cautiously ascended, her fingers tapping the railing, wondering what exactly her Whitelighter had in store for her this evening. Pushing the door open with a subtle creak, she found him on the opposite end of the room, mere inches away from the octagonal window, staring at the moonlight.

“Macy.” He stepped forward as she instinctively took one step back. “We may need to get close for this—”

Her brow furrowed. “How close? Define close—” Please, Harry, I love you so much—but please—no explosions. My arms—my skin—she bit her lip, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

It burns.

Please.

Noticing her concerned expression, he paused. “Macy, love, do you trust me?” Remember our vows? His raised eyebrow indicated the implicit meaning within.

“Y-yes, Harry. I trust you.” Always and forever. Right?

She watched as he brandished a familiar object before them—the simulation crystal, its clear quartz positively sparkling of its own accord. “So, uh, how does this work?”

“Exactly as it’s always worked, love. We touch the orb and end up…elsewhere.”

“Won’t—won’t it hurt, though?”

He shook his head. “If we execute this swiftly and seamlessly, we’ll be on an alternate plane before the allergy has a hairbreadth of a second to kick in.”

Macy inhaled slowly, mentally steeling herself for the inevitable explosion—the raw—the impenetrable scorch. “It—my skin!” Blinking back tears, she realized Harry was now six feet away. “Can we…? In this universe…?”

“I don’t see why not—”

“O-ok. Ok then.” She stepped forward; he did too. Slowly, almost frustratingly so. Five feet. Four feet. Three. Two. Mentally preparing herself for a hint of crackle and finding none, she continued onward; he did the same, until they were mere inches apart.

“You’re doing great, Macy.” His words of encouragement gave her life; they reached for the other’s hand. A finger. Then two. Four.

A swirl of fog enveloped their bodies, as warmth flooded her from within. She tightened her grip as Harry swung her low into a sultry kiss; giggling aloud, her soul was light and carefree once more, if only in this brave, bubbled universe of theirs.

Speaking of which…Macy drew herself upright. “Where are we?” She recognized a towering arch, a café that matched a photo she’d saved on Pinterest, its baguettes and berry tartelettes fresh from the oven. Sculpted gardens in the foreground—the Jardin du Luxembourg—the Luxembourg Gardens, she guessed. The Palais des Tuileries—the Tuileries Palace—not far behind. And was that…”the Eiffel Tower?” She turned to Harry. “Are we…?”

He nodded. “Macy, welcome to Paris.”

“How did you…? But—wh—when—” she stammered, before throwing herself within his arms, kissing him as if each breath would be their last. With Macy’s form against a nearby pillared statue of Marie de Medici, the royal’s Elizabethan collar and coiffed hair immortalized in marbled form, Harry’s tongue wound its way within her warm, wanting mouth, his hands lifting her thighs, as she straddled him, deliciously so.

“Fuck—” she groaned, as sunlit Parisian scenery turned to sensual lamplit darkness.

Sometime later—whether it was minutes or hours, Macy did not know—they readjusted their clothes, making for the Seine, as Harry had always planned. Gliding past the cobblestone corridors, she finally asked what had been at the back of her mind. “How did you know?”

“Your diary—I hope you don’t mind, love—it was just this once—”

“Oh Harry,” she breathed in his scent, of aged parchment and evergreens. “Thank you!”

The rest of the evening was a blur, their hands clasped together as they watched the ephemeral, cerulean glow of the Seine River, illuminated every so often in pools of flowing amber where light reflected upon its cool, rippled surface. Afterwards, they found themselves in the little café down the way, sharing a glistening berry tartelette.

This was, as it seemed, paradise—

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes widened. Of course, Macy realized, as her heart sank. Whitelighter duties.

“Can't we stay a little while longer, Harry?” Her voice broke, noting Harry’s familiarly alert expression. “Please?”

“Your sisters,” he answered. “Duty calls.”

And she knew better than to argue.

Noting his beloved’s sorrowful expression, he was quick to offer reassurances. “I promise there will be more,” he murmured, stroking her curls, inhaling her cinnamon scent as their fingers danced together for the last time that night. “More Seine…more lamplight…more Paris…” His eyes sparkled, nearly brimming over with unshed tears, as he wiped Macy’s cheek.

Planting a kiss upon her forehead, her cheek, and finally her lips, he spoke again, this time moving to six feet’s worth of distance apart. “Next week, same time, same place, love?”

“Absolutely.”

Chapter Text

Another week came and went; this time, Macy found herself in an elegant Parisian restaurant booth made of plush royal blue velvet, with a couple of blood-orange-hued pillows tastefully scattered about. The windows were adorned with what looked to be Japanese kirigami, paper intricately cut to resemble daisies, chamomile, and feverfew. Before them was a yellow concoction in a tall-stemmed glass, and a crimson liquid besides.

Special beverages.

When in Rome, as the adage went.

Or in this case, France.

Oiseau Jaune (Yellow Bird) and a Pêche Pétillante (Peach Fizz), respectively. Above them was a single amber-gold fabric lantern, illuminating the table on which their hands lay, thoroughly intertwined in the other’s.

Bliss.

Macy sat back, arms outstretched, and sighed happily. Her week had been, in a word, exhausting. First Tyrannosaurus Hex, then the Seamstress, a moniker for the figure seen tearing away at the very fabric of the universe as she watched in equal parts horror and disbelief. Squeezing Harry’s hand once, then twice more, she massaged her temple—

“Love, are you unwell?”

She smiled; even at his most fatigued, Harry always put others’ needs before his own—though this could easily be both boon and burden, depending on the circumstance. “I’m fine, Harry. I’m surprised you’re not snoring—”

Mouth pursed in a familiarly prissy, altogether kissable fashion, he replied. “Whitelighters don’t sleep—” he stifled a yawn, “—much.” Peering at his wristwatch, his gaze met her own as she felt a sudden shiver of dread. She was pretty sure what that meant; their alternate “other” time, coming to a decided close, prematurely, ephemerally so—

“Already?” Her voice shook as she made to stroke his hand in infinity symbols, one after the other, as if, by osmosis, encouraging him to—just—stay. If not for an hour, then for mere minutes, seconds more…

Chuckling, he shook his head. “I promised you a date night—a soirée—did I not?”

Frowning, Macy’s fingers disentangled themselves from his, as she continued to study his visage. “I thought…” she began slowly, “that this was our date.”

“No, love.” He stood, hand outstretched. “There’s a couple more places we shall visit tonight. If you’re up to it?”

Though her muscles ached with bone-deep exhaustion, she took his hand, biting back a smile. “Lead the way, Harry Greenwood.”

Scenery swirled about them as they landed outside what appeared to be—

She gasped—

The Nôtre Dame de Paris? The cathedral itself?

Macy had read earlier that the structure had been closed for repairs due to a fire, and not yet set to fully reopen for another some years; she missed her chance back then to visit, but now? Harry strode forward, opening the front grated door with surprising ease. “After you, love.”

Throwing him a coquettish smile, she strode through as he followed, swiftly taking her hand again. Directing her to a hidden circular staircase, they proceeded up—upwards—and further on—her legs ached with the effort, but Harry was positively skipping as if he had a surprise, and far be it for her to disappoint.

Luckily, the seating was soft and surprisingly comfortable, if not just the tiniest bit musty from sheer age. For all it appeared, they were…she bent forward, surveying her elevated surroundings. Backstage? Inside a…cathedral?

Given that this was to be a date night, she was somewhat puzzled, to say the least. “Harry, what—”

His finger met her lips; resisting the urge to nibble on it—this once—she followed his glance to an altogether ethereal glow of hundreds…no, thousands…of candles, all surrounding—

Squinting, Macy realized there were four figures on this candlelit stage. Two violinists, a cellist, and…maybe another cellist. Or bassist. “A concert?” she spoke aloud, as he nodded.

“A candlelight musical performance in the nave,” he clarified. “A new chamber music project by a nonprofit collective—”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s brilliant! And beautiful,” she murmured as the music commenced shortly thereafter. A beautiful Adagio, an Allegro movement, and what swiftly followed, an Andante movement so lentement and soothing she found herself nodding off on his shoulder.

“I-I’m sorry, Harry,” Macy remarked with some regret, several minutes later. “I wish I were more awake—it’s been a—I just need half an hour—”

He rubbed circles upon soothing circles on her smooth melanin palm. “Crazy week, love.” Planting a kiss atop her forehead, he murmured in her ear, “rest up, my sweet—take all the time you need—this universe is ours and ours alone—” lulling her into a soft, restful slumber.

Thirty minutes later, she blinked, rubbed her eyes, finding herself perched upon his shoulder, his own eyes glistening, gazing at her as though she hung the moon and the stars, goddess though she was.

“Did you achieve your beauty rest, love?”

“I think so, Harry.” They stood and stretched, after which they descended the stairs, went out-of-doors, to the open-air of their little wonderland, constellations lighting up the indigo sky above.

“Mace, to make up for last week’s date that ended rather…abruptly, I have one final location—nothing too far,” he hastily added. “Would you like to go home, or see this final place?”

“The latter.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, as scenery swept around; they found themselves along what Macy recognized as the Seine, its moonlit river glowing in all its serenity and wonder. But…she stared. The landscape further out was more…more mountainous. With more…trees.

And then she spotted it.

A grey-wood pier, with rows on either side of shimmering white candlelight, leading to a quaint cottage, its overhead tree branches filled with thousands of sparkling tea lights of every which size and shape.

“Harry!” she gasped. “How did you—”

“You were looking for a sanctuary from reality where we were unable to ‘love fully,’ so to speak. Macy,” he continued, never once breaking his gaze, “I love you as fully as I know how. And I want more moments—holding hands, being—‘all sorts of weird’—those thrillingly breathtaking parts—with you.”

Her lips poised against his, she whispered, “what we have—it’s pretty magical.”

“Oh Macy,” displaying his quintessentially British smile. “That it is.”

And they proceeded into the cottage together.

Chapter Text

One Week Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

A raised eyebrow and a sip of her vegan half-caf latte later, Maggie suppressed a yawn, noticing Harry in high spirits, humming a jolly British 1940s era tune under his breath as he retrieved baked breakfast sandwiches, piping hot, fresh from the oven.

“Thanks Harry,” she remarked as he plopped one onto a ceramic plate, Macy stepping in through the threshold, using her powers to glide the dish toward her. “And uh, thanks, Mace…”

Taking a bite, the youngest Charmed One savored the faux chickpea-based cheese, warm, gooey, and melted, dancing upon her delicate taste buds—the tofurky bacon, sizzled and crisped to perfection. Oh my God.

Long gone were the days of soggy cereal and halfhearted toast. She just had…a feeling.

“Who are you, and what did you do with our Whitelighter?” she finally managed to say, after wolfing down a third of her tantalizing sandwich.

Harry and Macy froze. “Pardon?”

“I’m kidding!” Maggie laughed, seeing their startled faces. “Seriously though, Har, you’ve really outdone yourself—” as Harry and Macy made a hasty exit; Mel was soon approaching.

“Morning Mel—” her older sister shuffled in, rubbing her eyes.

“Hey.”

“Did…” Maggie leaned closer, though still feet away. “Did they…”

“Did they what?” Mel was clearly hangry, and in no mood to chat, as she cut one of the remaining breakfast sandwiches in half.

“Um, did they seem…” Maggie paused, searching for the word, “…suspiciously…happy…to you? This morning?”

Mel yawned. “Honestly, Mags, I think they’re just accepting the situation for what it is. They’re actually adjusting better than I expected.”

Maggie remained skeptical. “So you’re saying, they’re in a good mood…just because?”

Her older sister nodded, taking another bite. “Just because.”

Same Morning, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Do you think they suspect anything?” Macy asked, between bites of her own breakfast sandwich.

Dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin, Harry frowned. “I doubt it. Knowing your sisters, wouldn’t they have said something?”

She paused. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or not. Anyways—” she turned to the myriad test tubes, the makeshift magnetic stirrer, microscope, and hot plate. “We’ve got more work to do—or I do—the blood tests—"

“More we, love. This concerns us, after all—”

Macy smiled. Even in moments of worry, stress, and panic, somehow Harry knew how to assuage.

Fifteen minutes later, she recited an enchantment which she had read about, from the Book of Elders, interspersed with her own words:

Quo probare sanguine,

My spirit it doth clean,

Quo probare sanguine,

Design this test,

Put my fears to rest.

Instantly, a couple of tiny vials filled with droplets of her blood. Gasping from the prickling sensation, she swayed, Harry making to seize her arm to hold her steady, before realizing the magical allergy made such an act accursedly impossible.

“Mace—” his voice felt as though coated with sandpaper, as he pushed an overstuffed armchair her way, her form sinking into it the next instant. “Macy, love, you don’t have to do this—”

“Harry, there’s no prenatal clinic that tests for—for tainted blood—” She blinked rapidly, tears threatening to spill over, as she took a deep breath, then another, to keep herself from fading out. This enchantment was stronger than she’d expected—or intended.

“Your blood is…different, Macy. Different is not tainted—”

“It is, though. I’ve heard—seen­—things, Harry. What I could pass down—I could create a…a monster. What if—” she held one of the test tubes up, studying it for traces of darkness—indigo, or onyx swirls. “What if we have a part-demon, who blinds her babysitter on purpose? Who derives sheer joy from inflicting curses on her mother?”

“Macy.” A statement, not a question. “What is this really about?”

She hesitated, before responding in a low voice. “The she-devil.”

Oh. Right. He should have guessed. Abigael.

“Love, our children would be nothing like her—”

“You don’t know that—” She recalled that false implanted memory of so long ago, courtesy of a certain Mykonos-based Elder. Abigael, a wife. And Macy, an uninvited houseguest—

He reached forward—as much as their limitations allowed—staring into her eyes all the while, a certain frisson of crackling energy emanating from their fingertips. “But I do. Based on what Melonie’s told me, such behavior was a direct result of being unloved throughout her life, nearly killed by her own father at an impressionable age, with icy maternal relations to boot. Her own personality was conniving and motivated by revenge. Your situation, as I’ve told you time and time again, is mere transfusion out of sheer familial love. It’s a minute risk—”

She disentangled her fingers from the sparks generated. “But a risk nonetheless.” Flipping through her printouts of holistic sanguinem remedies and state-of-the-art plasma separation techniques, she began to draw up a prototype. “Whatever happens, I want to know I did everything I could. As a parent, you can understand that, right, Harry? Can’t you?”

“Yes—” he swallowed hard. “Of—of course.”

Noon, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy’s stomach rumbled. “How’s it already noon?” she wondered aloud, checking her phone. So far, she had formulated several possible sketched designs, each accounting for the various genetic polymerase patterns, adenine variances included. In such short a time, a surprising amount of progress had been made.

“Ugh, I’m starving—" And where had Harry gone?

“I think—” she heard a murmur behind her. Harry. “I think it’s time to take a break, put the test tubes down, and clear our heads. What do you say, love?”

She made as if to protest, then turned around, hearing the familiar clink of silverware against a certain crystal vase, filled with three roses, along with a hearty croque-monsieur sandwich and a side of long-wedged dill pickles. “Oh Harry,” she sighed happily. “I could hug and kiss you right now—”

“Perhaps we’ll get that chance soon enough…” his voice trailed off. “Tonight, same place, same time?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Simulation Crystal, Paris, France

Hours upon hours later, she awoke, her slim fingers running across expensive Yves Delorme cotton sheets, her head gently situated against the fluffiest Parisian Dumas pillow to top all pillows. With touching possible only in this reality, Harry somehow always made it magical, down to the most infinitesimal of details. Hearing a jazz tune in the other room of the cottage, she rose, her silk turquoise negligee showcasing every sumptuous curve.

She uttered a short gasp—her inner thighs—her legs—ached in a dull sort of way, as though she’d run a marathon—or—had another marathon of an entirely different kind, as she bit back a cheeky smile.

Those hands of his. On her hips—

They would surely get her in trouble one day—

If they hadn’t already.

Steadying her breath, she rounded the corner—

There he was, Harry Greenwood, Whitelighter extraordinaire.

His stiff, buttoned-up collar had been replaced by a grey short-sleeved shirt showcasing his musculature; his plain cotton boxers now onyx-hued and utterly sensual. If someone told her he was a model, pre-Whitelighter days—she would have believed them.

A tune—slow bossa—she struggled to place the melody, as his hands danced across the piano. Was it F Major? And how many chord progressions? And just how was that particular harmony possible?

Mid-way through her ruminations, he turned around, as the piano mysteriously began another tune of its own accord. His boxer shorts became formal slacks, his top a suit jacket. In turn, she closed her eyes, imagined—and opened them—

Finding herself wearing, instead, a long, sequined deep turquoise cocktail gown.

“Dr. Vaughn, may I have this dance?”

She grinned, taking his proffered hand. “Of course, Mr. Greenwood. I’d be delighted.”

Chapter Text

Friday Late Afternoon, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Where was it again?

Mel searched throughout—under cabinets, the living room sofa cushions, that oddly-shaped chest in the hidden wall of the first floor back closet—where was that damn crystal?

Same Late Afternoon, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“It’s a cytosine anomaly.”

Macy’s voice quivered, studying the blood sample before her—her own blood in fact—as Harry drew closer, but not too close—

“Love, what exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” she paused, meeting his gaze, her eyes filled with unshed tears, “that I’ve found my demonic genome.”

“Are—” Harry swallowed hard. “Are you quite certain of that?” His mind raced, considering all the possibilities, each stranger than the next. An errant potion? No. A run-in with…no. “What about your sisters? What if they have the…the anomaly?”

“It’s more…” Macy placed a droplet onto a petri dish, studying the specimen under the microscope, “chimera, actually. My hypothesis is that when I was reawakened, this gene sequence was somehow…chopped…and…mixed. Beautiful, if not diabolical—”

Harry smiled, albeit poignantly, at his wife’s ability to find elegance in that which was at its heart, the most magico-scientific perplexity he had ever seen.

“But, to be absolutely sure, I need to run more tests.”

He froze. “Mace, no—”

“It’s the only way!” She wordlessly pleaded as he shook his head, emphatically so.

No. Absolutely not. “You’ve put your life at risk by performing a magical analysis on your own blood—this has gone too far. At best, you’d have some answers. At worst—” His voice dropped low. “This could destroy the Power of Three. Besides,” he held up a slip of paper, “I’ve managed to get a referral.”

Macy stared. “A referral? Harry, this goes far beyond modern medicine, this calls for someone magical, someone—”

“Named Morgana?” A thin voice was heard, its aged bespectacled owner passing through the attic’s entrance to face the pair, her hair curly and auburn.

“Who…?” Are you? Macy looked at Harry then at the older woman.

“Morgana, magical, medicinal holistic healer. At your service,” Morgana stated crisply. “Please,” she gestured toward the faded couch. “Do sit—" as all three took a seat, Macy somehow forgetting it was she who owned Vera Manor, not Morgana.

“Would you fancy a cup of tea?” It was Harry who spoke, ever-cognizant of social norms and niceties, as Morgana nodded.

“Peppermint, no sugar, no lemon. Thanks, dear,” she responded as Harry quietly orbed to the kitchen, before turning to Macy. “I hear a certain demonic gene’s given you a bit of trouble?”

“You—you could say that. I guess…” Macy stared at the octagonal window for a moment, composing her thoughts, before facing the woman. “I know someone with it. And—I worry. So much. This someone is vindictive, power-hungry, manipulative, and oftentimes—cold.”

“My opinion, my sweet,” Morgana began, “is that everyone expected the worst of that someone. A self-fulfilling prophecy—ah, thank you dear—” she said in response to Harry, who’d orbed back with strong cups of tea for all present.

Her Harry. Kind, sweet, generous, thoughtful, mused Macy.

“Really?” Macy’s voice shook slightly. “I thought nature was part and parcel—”

“You thought wrong.”

“But—” the younger woman grasped at straws. “You don’t know her—you can’t possibly—”

“Oh, but Macy, I do. You see,” Morgana spoke with a certain dignified air, “I’m part chimera too.”

Macy gaped. “Y-y-you?” It took every ounce of strength to suppress her telekinesis, her instinctual fight-or-flight response—the sheer visceral response she experienced at hearing the phrase.

“Well…” Morgana chuckled. “They call it the ‘mischief molecule.’ Less stigmatizing, see.”

“How…how are you…” Macy searched for the words. Socially sound? Seemingly kind? “…normal?”

“I was, as they say, ‘a product of my own environment.’ Mischievous as ever, but nothing more dangerous than gluing books together for an April Fool’s Day prank. I was carefully guarded, my origins kept secret, both for my own safety, and for the safety of others. It was also in such low dosage, which also acts in your favor too, dear—”

Frowning, Macy pondered aloud. “How?”

“The fact you have no active blood—it was mere jumper cables to jump start your system. You didn’t have a long-winding history of the blood in your veins. But even if you had, environment is everything.”

“By environment, you mean…?” Harry asked, between sips of his tea.

“Is the child loved? Is the child appreciated for who they are rather than who someone thinks they ought to be? Can the child freely express their emotions, be themselves, and be happy?”

Macy nodded, tension starting to lift from her shoulders, a certain air of weightlessness—of relief—replacing it in its stead.

“Now, if you’ll allow me—” Morgana placed a hand directly parallel to Macy’s forehead, though a sensible foot away. A small glow emitted forth from her gnarled hand, enveloping the latter woman’s visage in brightness, dissipating seconds later. “Just as I suspected—” Her emerald eyes fixed on the younger pair. “Good news or bad news first?”

“Bad news,” Macy answered quickly, just as Harry blurted out the opposite. He quietly deferred to his wife. Bad news first, then.

“Very well. Bad news: your future progeny have a one-in-three-chance of inheriting the chimera gene.”

One…in three? Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…..

“And—and the good news?” Harry murmured, noticing Macy’s sharp inhalation, not to mention her pallor.

“The good news…is said progeny will lead a perfectly full and healthy life, and have certain unique…manifestations.”

“M-manifestations?” Macy’s jaw clenched involuntarily as she fought the urge to cry…or scream. “What manifestations?”

“Since you asked, they would more likely than not have auburn flame-colored hair, like mine,” Morgana pointed to her own curls. “Plus they would exhibit fire abilities, though there are dampeners for those, and they usually manifest in one’s teens. Nothing quite like a rebellious rager,” she remarked offhandedly, a twinkle in her eye.

“That—that’s not too scary,” Macy admitted after a beat, slowly digesting the information presented to her. “And these dampeners, how do we get them? Are they expensive? And how early do we have to fire-proof—”

Morgana laughed. “Honestly, dampeners take only a simple recitation. The fireproofing can be done when building a nursery, flame-resistant windows and fabrics. Nothing overly complicated. Again, the powers will come in one’s teens. But when well-managed and well-raised, such children—the universe is theirs.” She checked the time, appearing immediately startled. “Goodness, is that the time? I must be going—”

After bidding farewell to the auburn woman, Macy and Harry remained in the attic. “Harry,” Macy finally spoke, “would positive results change anything? Knowing our future kid or kids could have the chimera gene?”

“No,” he immediately answered. There was no question in his mind. No doubt at all. “I would love them all the same.”

“I…” she sighed, staring at the ground. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“Why on earth would you think that, love?”

“Because—” Abigael. Overlord. Power hunger. Ruthlessness.

He shook his head. “Our children would be an embodiment of the best qualities of their mother—”

She smiled, her eyes brimming with joy, hopeful, anticipatory, scared, happy, all at once, “—and their father.”

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

She met him at La Marquise, en terrasse, her dress flowing, silky, and chic, his smoke-hued dress shirt displaying his prominent musculature. Enjoying their shared fruit tart, they stretched out upon the teal checkerboard café benches, surveying the flow of pedestrians about them.

“Love, how about we try something a bit different this time?”

Macy, detecting in his look a certain amount of hunger…ferocity…she nodded. “Lead the way—”

Early Evening, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Argh!!!!!!!” Mel grumbled in frustration, still unable to find exactly what she was looking for. Those Alcatraz monsters weren’t going to vanquish themselves…

Living room: nothing.

Kitchen: nothing.

Front area: nothing.

She paused, debating the merits of finding the spherical object versus incurring her oldest sister’s wrath at having rooted through her bedroom, before racing up the stairs. Between Harry’s kaleidoscope orb incident days earlier and Chupa-Alma the week before that, she and her sisters didn’t have a moment to lose.

Act now, apologize later—

French Riviera, Simulation Crystal

They landed, effortlessly, seamlessly so, upon a cobblestone brick path, surrounded by cacti taller than them, a wide swath of serene, glassy ocean directly ahead. “Harry,” Macy spoke in wonderment, “where are we?”

He grinned. “Welcome to the French Riviera.”

Holding hands, they went down the length of the path, exclaiming at the warm, tropical scenery, the colorful flora and fauna, and sweet-smelling plumeria blossoms and honeysuckle clusters in the distance. Finding themselves on the shore, they spotted identical miniature tents—discreet locations for changing into one’s bathing suits.

But with their abilities, they could easily—and instantaneously—shift into their own outfits. And so they did—Harry wearing the most sensual black shorts imaginable, herself wearing an olive green bikini, equal parts stylish and comfortable.

What if—?

Her eyes met his, as they contemplated the possible myriad uses of such a miniature endroit….

Early Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“YES!” Mel did a victory dance, thrilled at having found the once-lost crystal. I found it, I found it, found it—found it—found it—

Before finding herself swept away in a veritable swirl of magic…

French Riviera, Simulation Crystal

She landed at the foot of a long brick path, the ocean waves lapping to and fro in the brimming scorch of mid-afternoon sunlight. Huh. Weird. The last time she’d used the object, she’d found herself at Vera Manor, facing a certain glasses-wearing raven-haired ex-girlfriend, carrying a kitten…or was it a lynx cub?

“French Riviera,” a sign read in several languages, including English.

Did monsters lurk in the tropics?

Brow furrowed, she continued on, noticing a row of tiny identical pale tents, meant for changing into one’s swimsuit. And one in particular, which was swaying despite lack of discernible breeze…

Mel hurried on, intrigued. Was this like Death in Paradise? A Scooby-Doo Adventure? Debating whether she was a Velma or a Daphne—likely Velma, she continued, several hundred feet, then fifty, then ten, then five feet away, the shaking growing more prominent the nearer she came.

“UGH—YES—HARRY—OHHHHHHH---UGHHHHHH—”

Flinging the tent curtain open, she flinched in horror.

“Omigawd—GET YOUR OWN DAMN CRYSTAL!” Mel shrieked, staring at the two, both of whom were hurriedly donning their bathing suits, blushing furiously.

Harry chased after, having quickly re-clothed. “This is my crystal!”

“Just—EW! Harry! Macy! SERIOUSLY? We’re supposed to be conquering Monster Alcatraz!” She glared at the pair before stomping off…then stomping back. “How do I leave this place anyways—"

Evening, Front Entrance, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie entered, then heard a flurry of raised voices—or was that—one raised voice?

Definitely Mel’s. Weird.

A moment later, she nearly collided with her older sister while ascending the stair—

“Don’t even—”

Maggie held her hands up, letting an irritable Mel pass. “Wasn’t going to—" thinking just how odd it was that it was Mel of all people, butting heads with Macy, given their no-nonsense, practical personalities. “What…” Mel’s form disappeared around the corner—“…happened?”

Evening, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“How long do you think she’ll stay mad at us?” Macy wondered aloud in the dark, seated, back against the wall directly opposite Harry.

“Not long, I hope. Melonie’s not one to hold a grudge…for eternity,” came the reply. Then came more silence. Their tropical paradise, interrupted, their world—just as bleak as ever.

“Harry,” Macy uttered, her voice breaking. “What would you do if we were at the beach? Again?”

“Well, love,” he answered, thinking through his response, “I would take you to the tent, rain kiss upon kiss onto your skin…and become one with your soul, slowly—sensually—so. And then—”

“Then?” She blinked back tears. Damn allergy. “Then what?”

“I would hold a stray tress—a curl of your mahogany hair betwixt my fingers, lean in, and whisper—”

“What would you say?”

He smiled, despite the lack of touch this realm had wrought. “I would tell you, as I tell you now, that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Oh, Harry,” Macy murmured as she rose, moving gradually as to acclimate her body to his own, until they were mere feet apart, her hand reaching out, creating sparks with his. “The world—it has so much darkness. But with you, I only see the light.”

“I love you Macy, always and forever.”

“I love you too, Harry.”

Chapter Text

Sunday Morning, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

It all began with the breakfast pancakes.

Fluffy, coconut-scented with a sprinkling of cinnamon, with glossy agave syrup on the side, tossed on the sputtering skillet to utter perfection, an aria from Puccini’s “La Bohème” playing in the background as Macy listened from the doorway, blinking away tears, having slept fitfully the night before.

Is this how one apologizes to one’s sister? To one’s charge?

It was a start, she knew, with ample culinary assistance from Harry from those several impenetrable feet away.

Not just the pancakes—Macy spotted a few ceramic cups of what had to be Harry’s “limited edition” oat milk cappuccino. Limited edition due to the sheer amount of time involved in creating the beverage. Examining each oat hull for prime freshness—monitoring the water quality once refrigerated—and all that.

Who are you, and what have you done with my Harry?

This wasn’t the amorous, modern Harry of late, the one whose brimming optimism carried the trio forth into new capers and adventures galore. No—this was…Harry 1.0. Windsor knots. Bowties. Restrained. Straitlaced. Sparse with his words, lest they lean untoward, becoming actions uncontrolled, wild, unbridled, and free.

“Breakfast’s on the table”—Macy turned, hearing a voice behind her. Soundless orbing.

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry. Besides—” she nodded toward the coconut cinnamon pancakes. “Those are more Mel’s thing.” They heard a familiar stampede of footsteps from the upper staircase. Mel and Maggie. Ducking into a side hallway, her curls now enveloped in impenetrable darkness, she whispered. “I-I’d better go—”

Harry’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. No more Paris. True, the orb was meant to train, to transform oneself into another unexplored environment—but it had been their one escape—their sanctuary.

“Wow, Har!” Moments later, Maggie took a sip of the beverage. Warm, soothing, and definitely, without a doubt—vegan.

Mel nodded, cutting up forkfuls of coconut pancake before biting into a single morsel—

Instantly, she felt herself transported to her earliest childhood memory, creating ‘coquito sin liquor’—alcohol-free coquito—with none other than Marisol, their mother. “Remember the cinnamon!” her mother’s voice rang out, laughing as Mel’s fingers placed the spiced herb atop the creamy mixture. “Mommy, my hands are sticky—” as a cry emanated from the high chair several feet away. “Who’s my Little Bug?” Her father scooped up the crying infant, jostling her on his shoulder, tears instantly abated—

She inhaled sharply, staring at the piece of pancake—the silver fork—the oat milk. What was that? “Harry…” Mel turned to the Whitelighter, currently leaning against the opposite kitchen countertop. “How…how did you know?”

He shrugged. “Just a hunch. To make amends.” Harry coughed indelicately, the horrifying image of Mel discovering himself and Macy in that French beach cabana in flagrante delicto seared into his memory. “I’m really, truly sorry—”

Mel rolled her eyes. This again? “Harry, whatever—"

“Not whatever. I have a duty to you three ladies, and clearly I have failed. As such, it is my obligation to make amends—” and with that, he vanished to the attic.

“Mel, what happened?” Maggie spoke up. “The tension’s so thick I could take a jackhammer—”

Her older sister flinched. “What is with heterosexuals and their phallic metaphors?” she exclaimed, chopping her pancakes into tinier bits, crumbs practically flying.

Maggie studied her for a moment, reaching over to place a hand on Mel’s shoulder—

A beach. Pristine, perfect, unblemished—tents, each identical—one swaying in the breeze—curiosity, drawing closer—groans—

The youngest Charmed One gave a start, her eyes flying open. “Omigawd,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on Mel’s. “You saw…?” Macy? And Harry?

“Ugh, don’t remind me—and it’s been so awkward. But why the crystal? Why couldn’t they have just…toughed it out? Like the rest of us?” And jeez, those pancakes were really delish. How did Harry find that recipe anyhow?

“Maybe they didn’t see any other options?” Maggie posited. “Maybe…they reached their limit?”

Mel groused. “Even so, the simulation crystal’s not supposed to be used for that—”

Maggie winced, just the tiniest bit. “What about that time when I saw Parker in it? Bare-chested?”

“That was different—you were undergoing severe emotional trauma from a breakup post-failed demonic wedding—Macy’s just stressed from work—and not being close up with Harry 24/7—”

“Mel,” Maggie spoke up, “what makes Macy’s emotional trauma any less real than mine? Not to mention her—or their—choice of coping mechanism?”

It was times like these Mel begrudged her younger sister’s psychology prowess. Or maybe ‘begrudged’ was too strong…Maggie bore the uncanny ability to see beneath the surface, dredging up old wounds, hidden injuries, emotional scars—then talking through them, ultimately bandaging them in whatever whimsical, beautiful, bountiful way she could.

Mel’s shoulders drooped. “It doesn’t,” she all but whispered. “But what about mine?” She stared at the plate before her, pushing it away. “There’s no guidebook on how to love a witch your family wants dead. And by family, I mean—”

“Macy.” A statement, not a question. Maggie’s eyes softened at Mel’s bittersweet words. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I…” Mel heaved a sigh. “I want to, but what if it doesn’t work out? What if Macy throws it back in my face over and over again?”

“Mel. Do you really think Macy would be that mean?”

“N-no, but—”

“I thought you didn’t care about what others thought—Marisol raised you to be strong—”

“I know—"

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is…” Mel trailed off, staring into the distance, before meeting her sister’s eyes. “I’m scared.” Of love. Impermanence. Permanence. Making mistakes. “I push people away, until they leave. And now, I’m…not, and I’m trying hard not to, but…”

“You know, sis, it’s ok to fall in love. That means growing our family. Our people. You get that, right?”

“I think so—”

“I’ve found Jordan. And despite the allergy, we find ways to talk. Macy and Harry, their connection is…transcendental. And they’ve found a way to work around that. The crystal. Now, it’s your turn. Love takes bravery, but sis, it is so worth it.”

Later that evening, Mel pleaded off dinner, stating she had a place to be. “Tessera Nightclub, Manchester.” England. Everyone’s eyes fell upon her as she made a hasty retreat, the front door banging shut behind her.

And when Macy and Harry went upstairs and into their shared bedroom, they found a familiar crystal atop their bed with a short note. Here’s your escape. I’ve got mine. Macy smiled as Harry positively blushed. “Oh, Melonie, thank you,” he muttered, tossing away his tie, stifling though it was.

Scenery swirled, midnight’s moon, luminous, turning, walls whirling, the room spinning—

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

They opened their eyes, finding themselves surrounded by clusters upon clusters of pale pink cherry blossoms, their petals setting forth onto the sky in a veritable springtime snowdrift. Meeting each other’s gazes, Macy noticed Harry’s frou-frou formality shift into casual-chic khaki slacks and a white button-down, herself wearing a deep magenta sundress. He twirled her, sweeping her low as they laughed, before planting a kiss squarely upon her lips.

“Bienvenue à Paris, my love,” he whispered. Welcome to Paris.

Chapter Text

Jordan's Gym, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

You’re watching your back/Like you can’t relax…

THWACK!

Avril Lavigne’s song “Complicated” blasted forth from her phone, as one gloved hand, then another, made hard contact with the rubberized punching bag, its uppermost chains clinking noisily. A female Rocky, Macy envisioned herself, albeit in SafeSpace confines, her curls knotted into two tightly-wound French braids.

Tears coursed down her cheeks. She wiped them, exhaling shakily, adrenaline coursing through her veins from her recent (and most unpleasant) encounter with the Shea Group. A certain woman, determined to rip her soul to shreds, with no ifs, ands, or buts, about it. The way she’d reached—calling for security—reporting her—as if she, Dr. Macy Vaughn, were no better than a thief—a common criminal—how DARE she!

You try to be cool/You look like a fool to me…

“One—two—jab—jab—punch—” she muttered under her breath, weight evenly distributed, ready to fight—thank God for Jordan’s gym, if she’d tried any of these moves in a fit of rage—on Lori—she’d be in jail—or six feet under—

Ignoring her phone, she continued her motions as a certain gym owner made his appearance, standing in the glassy threshold, separating her bubble—her sanctified, personal bubble—from the real-world happenings—pro bono legal clinic and vegan taquitos included.

“Don’t you think you should get that?” Jordan motioned toward Macy’s phone as she paused mid-jab.

She shook her head. “He knows I’m fine—”

“Are you?” Jordan studied her. “You look…fifty shades of fury…” He took one step forward then paused, noticing Macy’s death glare. He put his hands up in mock-surrender. “Ok, ok, I get it—you wanna be left alone—"

I see the way you’re acting like you’re somebody else/Gets me frustrated…

She continued—punching—side-kicking—anything—anything to make her forget—

Realizing the woman would sooner sprain a muscle than ask for help, Jordan reached into his own pocket, texting Harry.

Get over here Har. You don’t, you’re the Aprilest fool I know. -J-man.

And—sent. Hopefully he would arrive. Sooner, rather than later. Ideally, not covered in Chupa-Alma goo. Man that stuff was heinous.

The next second, Macy was hit by a sudden sharp pain at her side. A stitch. A cramp. Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. “Shiiiiiiiiiiii…” she groaned, clutching her rib cage. For once, her physicality gave way to all that had happened in this corporeal realm, career disasters included. Her insides, mirroring her outsides. She had once heard that microaggressions over time led to increased blood pressure and shortened longevity. Not to mention, beyond horrific maternal mortality rates from women not being heard by medical practitioners. “Will this be the death of me?” she muttered under her breath.

“No, it won’t,” a decidedly British voice replied as she spun around, or tried to, at least, before falling forward onto the inch-thick mat before her. Harry teared up, his heart gripped in fear—for though he was in the same room, their accursed allergy prevented him from catching her within his own sturdy arms.

“Imma…uh, go get some, uh, water…” Jordan backed away, sensing the two needed some time alone. “Icepack’s in the cooler—” with that, it was just Harry and Macy in the gym.

And you fall, and you crawl, and you break…and you turn it into…

With a wave of her hand, she used her telekinesis to open the cooler, bringing forth the icepack, gasping as it made contact with her skin. Mere moments later, the knotted tension beneath her ribs released itself as Macy sighed in relief.

“I wish I had been the one to heal you.”

“There will be other times.”

He smiled, albeit sadly. “That, I certainly hope—"

They gazed at each other for several more seconds before she remembered just exactly what she had been doing. Fighting. Punching. Sparring—

“I need to—” Fight. Spar. Conquer—

“Rest, love.” He parked himself on the nearby bench, motioning her over, hoping the damage was superficial in nature. It seemed to be. “So tell me, how are you approaching—you know—” The Shea Group situation? “Surely the punching bag can take only so much?” He noticed a couple of dents on its surface, not to mention a couple of tears that certainly hadn’t been there before, which matched Macy’s set of sharp, manicured nails—

“I’ll pay for Jordan to replace it if I have to,” she answered curtly, then felt a wave of remorse. He was only trying to help, she reminded herself. In the only way he could now. She exhaled slowly, head against the back wall. “Sorry, Harry—”

“No need to apologize. Just…please.” Help me understand? He tilted his head in askance, and she knew instantly what he was thinking, her thoughts beginning to pour forth the next second.

“I-I’m fighting—fighting the powers that be. I get that I have to. But, Harry, I’ve done that all my life. Boarding school, it meant being the top student and still having to contest being plunked in remedial math. Being told, in college, I was a diversity pick. Scrutinized with suspicion anytime I entered a fancy department store. Being tailed. Followed. Judged. Distrusted. Even in Hilltowne, being told I was a hire that didn't belong—”

Harry made a face. “What utter imbecile said that?”

And Macy couldn’t help but feel a glow of inner warmth at his righteous indignation. “Harry…it…that’s not the point. I guess, what I’m saying is…I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting the powers that be. I’ve been battling them, all by myself, from day one—and the battle’s never over—” Maybe it’ll never be.

Harry reflected on her words. “Perhaps not, love. But I’m here, and I will forever be by your side as you fight the rampant misogynoir. For better or for worse—”

“In sickness and in health?” Macy continued, recalling their marriage vows from earlier.

“And all that that entails,” he answered, reaching his hand toward hers, as sparks flew aplenty.

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

Several hours later, they found themselves back on the beautiful cobblestone streets of Paris, their Paris, holding hands as though they would never let go—neither in this lifetime, nor the next. Oddly, while passing the Maria café, its marquee in calligraphic gold lettering, she noticed instead of patrons—she stopped—

Teddy bears. Giant teddy bears.

Two fluffy teddy bears per circular table, each appeared to be in rapt conversation with their partner, though there was one, a server, she guessed, blown parallel to the sidewalk due to an unexpected breeze. “What the—?” Macy muttered as Harry blinked, taking in the surrealist scene.

“Sometimes, dreams and frustration make themselves known in peculiar ways in simulation crystals,” he offered by way of explanation as she nodded, turning away to proceed to their next destination—

Montmartre.

Closing her eyes, Macy imagined a moss green vintage car with candy-striped cloth chairs packed on its tin roof, a pink Air B&B up ahead, cozily ensconced beneath taller, sun-bleached buildings at least several decades (or more) old. She pictured a stop sign, a circular red mark with a single slash through, typical of European street signs, French beach towns in particular. And ivy, mounds upon mounds, inveigling themselves across the endroits just left of the pink building—based upon a magazine image she and Harry had seen on Instagram earlier that day.

“Wow—” Harry breathed as Macy’s eyes flew open. There, before them, was exactly what she had envisioned—what they had envisioned. “I adore magic,” he murmured under his breath, before leaning forward, sweeping a lock from her visage. “And I adore you, Macy.”

She bit her lip, smiling nonetheless. “I love you too, Harry.”

After they had acclimated to their surroundings, car and cobblestone streets included, Harry made another inquiry. “What’s first on our agenda?”

“Considering how this week went—how about a jog along the beach? Let out tension—might be cathartic?” She envisioned the most lascivious sports outerwear she could imagine, high-cropped shorts and a tight-fitted crop-top. And indeed, it was so, as Harry’s gaze migrated southward, his breathing growing increasingly labored.

“That it certainly will be…”

Chapter Text

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

What was that?

Harry jolted awake from where he slept, staring, his eyes readjusting in the darkness, looking for his love who was supposed to be sleeping, albeit several silent feet away. His love. His Macy.

A cry—a sob—

“I’m coming, love,” he murmured under his breath, preparing to orb upstairs to the attic, but upon second thought, raced out, swiftly closing the bedroom door behind him, off to ascend the rickety staircase.

At all hours of the day (and night), Macy had spent time carefully extracting scrapings of stone from the pillared plinth that held various indecipherable codexes, each more mysterious than the other. This, she had turned into a sort of…serum…if one could call it that, purified through a borrowed centrifuge until only the barest remnants of mRNA remained.

“Do you know what this is?” Macy postulated in the previous afternoon’s summery glow, rays of sunshine enveloping her visage as if in halo. He shook his head, eager to discover what she had in store. For every day with her was a thrilling mystery of the most beautiful, sultry sort. “A vaccine, Harry. A vaccine!” Her grin widened as she waved the tiny vial before him. “Something like—” she stopped, Harry’s mouth having dropped, realizing the implications.

“A cure?”

She nodded. Something like that.

Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

He knocked, then pushed the door open upon hearing the barest of moans, running as close as he could to Macy’s side—or feet away, given what he knew or knew not of the vaccine’s innate qualities. “Love,” he panted, his hand positively itching to brush away those curls, those sumptuous, lovely curls. “Macy, what is it?” Tell me. His eyes grew large, his concern deepening by the second as she swayed onto a nearby faded couch.

“It hurts…” she whispered. Or whimpered. Perhaps both. Spotting the used vial, its contents partially empty,  he shook his head. No. No. NO.

“Mace, please tell me you didn’t!” He wanted to shake her—jolt her out of this—this hellish maelstrom.

“It was…for science…” she continued. “For us…” Taking several shallow breaths, she closed her eyes, willing the spinning in her head, this vertigo, to stop. Finding momentary respite in her symptoms, her breathing steadied, Harry looking on frantically.

Who shall I call?

He ran through his list of options, which were woefully slim at best. Magic and medicine didn’t typically interact, and when they did, it could be a recipe for disaster. Who knew about their realm, and could administer first aid?

Harry paused. Of course.

Jordan.

A frantic call and less than half an hour later, Harry exhaled in relief as Jordan’s familiar footsteps came bounding up the attic stairs. “Oh thank heavens—”

“Where is she?” Jordan asked as Harry pointed to the huddled figure. Approaching, he removed various items from his first aid kit. Thermometer, blood pressure cuff, gauze, antiseptic. The works—

“Jordan?” Macy made to sit up but fell over, overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue.

“Hey, I’m here, no worries. Breath, ‘k?” His voice soothed her soul as she remained where she lay. As Harry watched from a suitable distance, Jordan took her blood pressure and checked her temperature. No fever. And she was conscious. He checked for any signs of bleeding, noticing a single pinprick atop her upper left shoulder, surrounded by—he paused—“Mace, is that…”

“Glitter? Pixie dust—” she clarified. “Vaccine formulary for easier dosage—”

“Wait—hold up—Mace, you’re telling me you’re experimenting on yourself?”

“To break the magical allergy—” she tried to explain, as Jordan met Harry’s eyes. Dude, how could you? as Harry fidgeted uncomfortably, remonstrating himself as to his utter seeming uselessness as a Whitelighter.

“Jordan,” she croaked, “it’s not his fault. I saw a recipe—”

Rather than break loose the profanity train, Jordan held his tongue. “Where?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Breaking Bad, Martha Stewart edition?”

She shook her head, envisioning such a ludicrous pairing. “The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Virology research. I saw a job application last week and was called in for a virtual interview today, and I got information—”

Harry strode closer. “But love, you already have a job.” SafeSpace Seattle? He tilted his head just so, and Macy understood his meaning.

“I know,” she sighed, avoiding his unrelenting gaze. “I guess…I just wanted to hedge my bets. Kill two birds with one stone—”

Harry comprehended as much, but fear had grown ahold of him. “Macy, love, you could’ve been seriously injured! Permanently so! Or worse!” He massaged his template as he began pacing about. “Do you value your life so little? Our life together? How could you—"

Macy opened her mouth to speak, but Jordan, sensing tension, intervened. “Macy gets it, Harry. And she didn’t mean to cause worry—right?” She smiled, glad that at least one other in the room was onto her plan, as hairbrained as it was. “So, you figured if the Shea Group shut SafeSpace down, you had a backup plan, and a means to magical allergy vaccination?”

“Exactly.”

“But SafeSpace isn’t going anywhere!” Harry protested, as Jordan threw him a look, nodding over at Macy, her curls askew. Dude. Chill.

“Actually…” Jordan paused. “I think Macy’s on to something,” as Harry’s eyebrows raised exponentially higher. “Let me keep an eye on her for another several minutes to check she’s in the clear. Then I’ll take off. Cool?”

Harry responded with a curt lift of his chin. Once those minutes were up, Jordan took his leave, not before speaking with Harry.

“I think she’s fine,” he remarked to the Whitelighter as they stood in the attic threshold, Macy having fallen asleep moments before. “Whatever she gave herself, it didn’t mess up her vital signs, and she doesn’t have a fever. No signs of infection.” Harry sighed in relief, before Jordan drew closer. “D’you think…d’you think it’ll really work?”

“Oh Jordan…” his eyes traveled to his serene, slumbering wife. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

A Couple Mornings Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Was it morning? Harry glanced at the kitchen clock. 11 am. Might as well be noon—

He paused, hearing footsteps from above. The attic. Rather than orb and risk perpetuating the accursed allergy, he waited with bated breath. Macy had spent the past days and nights alternating between the attic and her bedroom in a foggy haze, and lest he disturb her delicate and peculiar sleep patterns, he was tempted to live and let live, fixing her what she was able to eat. A cup of tea. A scone here and there. A nibbled sandwich—

Curls—lovely corkscrew curls—gaily bouncing about her melanin visage—were what he first noticed as she shuffled into the kitchen the next second, as she found a seat at the kitchen island.

“How—how do you feel, love?” Harry asked, studying her cheekbones—her exterior—for any semblance of otherworldly change.

She smiled, exhaustion seeping through her very pores. “Tired. But…better.”

“That’s good. You worried me so…”

“I’m so sorry Harry, I didn’t mean to—”

“But I know you were doing it for magic—”

“Yeah. Harry, for us.”

A thought occurred to him as he laid a plate of home fries and scrambled eggs before her, ketchup and hot sauce included. Carbohydrates and folate. Solid sustenance. “Do you think…it worked?”

“Only one way to find out—” she met his gaze steadily, imbuing all meaning she could within those well-chosen words, as she began her breakfast.

A half hour later, once her repast was consumed, the dishes put away, she reached a forefinger toward Harry’s general direction as he stepped closer, tenuously so. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Mace?” he found himself asking, a trace of uncertainty emanating in his voice as she nodded resolutely.

“It’s now or never—”

Closer, closer still—her forefinger shook as it at once met his own, a modern-day Michelangelo “Creation of Adam”—a differentiated interpretation, but an interpretation nonetheless—

Eyes firmly shut, she braced herself, physically and mentally, for the circuited shortfall she had experienced time and time again, each burn more agonizing than the next—but—

Nothing.

Tentatively so, she reached her pinky outward—a pinky promise—looping around Harry’s own. Could she? She gasped in the next second. No electrostatic shock.

No pain.

Opening her eyes, she noticed her finger—fingers—now firmly intertwined with his.

“By jove,” Harry murmured in admiration, as they each blinked away tears. “I think you’ve done it!”

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

Rather than test the magical vaccine’s additional capabilities (for fear of exhausting it and them both), Harry proposed a picnic celebration in the heart of the city. Her phone played The Cranberries “Dreams” as they dashed to the location on tandem bicycle, borrowed via Parisian ride share.

Du vin et du pain. Bread and wine, expertly laid out on a red checkered picnic blanket, silverware at the ready from a wicker basket. Du fromage et des fruits, aussi. Cheese and grapes, oh my.

After countless giggles and Eiffel Tower selfies of sheer giddiness and delight, they found themselves traipsing toward Metropolitain, the underground transit system, fluffy pink cherry blossoms blooming overhead. “Where to, my good sir?” she asked Harry, having changed into a chic navy dress, himself donned in matching color-coordinated slacks and silk shirt.

“Well…for such a celebratory occasion, perhaps Tessera Nightclub?” He vaguely remembered having given Mel, his other charge, his spare simulation crystal for having been so accommodating of his and Macy’s needs lately. But it was daytime, and surely Melonie was teaching? Surely she wouldn’t be there at this hour—he imagined plumes of elegant floor to ceiling indigo tapestries, glittering strands handing from the eaves, from which polished rose quartz crystals hung and glittered in the sconce lamplight.

Yes, Tessera Nightclub would be perfect.

Tessera Nightclub, Manchester, England, Simulation Crystal

As scenery swirled around the pair, Macy wondered why Tessera Nightclub rang a bell. It sounds so familiar, like I’ve been there, in a different life, in a different world. But…how? She gave a start, spotting the antiquated marquee. Glittering lights gave way to tapestries as they entered, one draped over the other; they spotted rounded tables, a bar further out, and a stage of velvety curtain, an announcer emceeing the next act, a jazz ensemble from New Orleans. Something about zydeco in the next act, too.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiii…” Mel muttered from behind the bar, herself showing a certain female Brit how to create a new drink, the Indigo Cloud, with a rose quartz stirrer as décor. The latter had swept her brunette strands away from her visage, watching in rapt fascination as the raven-haired woman before her stirred two ounces of vodka, a half ounce of black raspberry liqueur, cranberry juice, and crushed mint leaves to create an enticing beverage—

 “Duck,” Mel hissed as she speedily pushed the Brit to the ground, the latter groaning in the raven-haired woman’s haste.

“What the blazes—” the brunette muttered, massaging her temple, glaring up at her paramour.

“Who is that?” A familiar, undeniably male British voice inquired.

Mel nearly jumped out of her skin. Harry. Of course. Harry had a way of approaching that was far too quiet, Macy trailing after. “Nobody...” Mel averted his questioning gaze. “Didn’t know you two’d be here…” she motioned toward Macy who threw her a quizzical expression.

“Yes, well…we’re in a celebratory mood. The vaccine looks promising,” he spoke happily. “Doesn’t it, love?” he asked of Macy, who drummed her nails along the marble countertop.

“Yeah…” Macy studied Mel. “How’re you here, anyhow? Not that I mind but—”  

“Oh. Heh. Harry gave me a spare simulation crystal—”

Macy arched an eyebrow at Harry, who sheepishly shrugged.  

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching?”

Mel bit her lip. “Yeah, so, we got a half day dismissal for National High Five Day—" she studied the pair before her, “so I took off to practice some bartending. Mixed drinks. Y’know.”

Something—an ill-natured idea? A discomfiting suspicion?—nibbled at Macy’s subconscious. “Ok. So, uh,” she angled her head as Mel stepped in front of—a person on the bartending floor? “Who’s the girl?”

Apparently, there was no beating around the bush. “New girl. Training her”—Mel attempted casualness, simultaneously straightening her posture, only to fall forward—

Thump. “Ow!” cried the voice from below.

Macy raised an eyebrow. What—or who—was her sister hiding?

Sensing Mel’s trepidation, Harry engaged Macy in conversation, gently steering her away from the counter. “Listen love, let’s go to the patio—“

And off they went.

Mere moments later, the lady Mel had unceremoniously kept beneath the bar rose, brushing the sides of her blouse to ward off any trace of dust, while throwing a sultry, simmering pout at her raven-haired companion. “She’ll find out eventually, Potion Princess. All the wards in the world—”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Meanwhile, Macy and Harry found themselves at the edge of a fanciful European fountain, a nearby tree glittering in full glorious view of passerby. “Make a wish?” Harry held out a two pence coin, enveloping it within Macy’s smooth, warm hand.

The silvery currency landed inside the shimmering water with a plink as she made her wish.

Chapter Text

Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy hadn’t expected it to happen this soon.

That wish of hers. From that European fount. From their shared simulation crystal.

For a time, it came true. And to think, it had all begun with lines crossed, a year ago, thereabouts—

A dark fantasy. A phantasm. A shadowy bedroom, herself sporting a slinky serpentine nightgown, his voice calling out from whence he stood beneath the threshold. Harry. But not a Harry she had been acquainted with in her waking moments. His breath as she made to cover up—with that threadbare shawl of hers—

“You sound d-different, Harry—” Her breath—her voice—trembled as he drew closer, none the worse for the wear.

“Oh Macy,” he uttered as she felt herself tremble, “I am different—"

 His roving hands explored her form as she ached to join—her lips with his—

“No—” and she pouted. Simpered, even, unlike her sensible self. “Not until—” He paused for effect. “Not until—you tell me where you are—”

Macy exhaled sharply, massaging her neck, unceremoniously hurtled back to the present. Which included her…and him…atop the solarium floor. Was it really mere moments before—that—that happened?

She had awoken, trembling, fearing those agonizing burns of flaming spark, but he’d drawn closer all the same, her back flush against the wall, her eyes shut, awaiting—anticipating—pain.

An arm—

“How?” she found herself exclaiming incredulously, tears flowing freely now before drinking the very vision of him in, his form penetrating that once-frustrating personal bubble neither warranted nor desired. That damned allergy.

“Just go with it—” he murmured low, as she—and he laughed. And soon, fear surrendered to joy.

It was supposed to be a quick kiss. A single peck. But—she surveyed her arms, tiny marks indicative of ardent lovebites—a veritable constellation—it had been anything but.

An invisible line—that allergy—had melted away—for however long, they did not know. Their eyes meeting, they read each other’s thoughts instantaneously after realizing they could touch without repercussion. Their hands, and by extension, the rest of each other. Now.

Lines intersecting.

Lines, perpendicular.

Lines upon lines, and that—

Familiar—

Gliding—

Sensation.

Until they were fully immersed in the other, in every sense of the word. Loudly, ardently so. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted more lines. Lines, comprising the solarium glass windows—those lines, bisecting, artfully cut from a different era, from a ‘once upon a time,’ their panes beginning to thrum with a sensual, lowly rhythm of their own, themselves not caring where one ended and the other began—

BUZZ!

Macy groaned, pulling herself to her feet as Harry followed suit. Maggie. Drawing the phone closer, she read the text.

Perfecti. Command Ctr. Now. 

Her wish—their wish—had been cut short, this time by an abrupt summons. But she was a Charmed One, after all, and she had signed up for this all that time ago. Her sisters were counting on her. So was Josefina. Glancing around, she noticed psychology papers askew, along with myriad plant pots tipped over, their soil spilling unreservedly onto cold tile, day fast-fading to impenetrable dusk. Closing her eyes, she visualized order, each line of paper in its exact place, every pot turned right side up, their ceramic surfaces perpendicular as gravity intended.

And it was so, as her telekinesis went to work in the seconds that ensued, Harry holding her hand, never once wanting to part from her touch. And she, his.

“That was…fantastic,” Harry murmured, thoroughly awed, and Macy knew it wasn’t just her cleaning skills that drew the comment.

SafeSpace, Command Center, Seattle, Washington

Half an hour later, they still held hands beneath the fixed gaze (or glare) of the Perfecti, until jolted apart, searingly so.

Lines drawn, yet again.

Macy blinked hard, determined to not let self-pity and despair take hold, as they returned back to Vera Manor. “We’ll have that moment, won’t we?” she spoke aloud, her voice shaking.

He turned to her, registering her palpable sentiments. Hope juxtaposed with fear. Love mixed with worry. Joy, tempered with loss—hopefully, temporary. No—definitely temporary.

“Always.” Harry smiled, blowing her a kiss. He had to be brave for the both of them, especially today. And going forward. “Tonight?” he inquired in the next breath as she quickly nodded.

Yes, a thousand times yes. They had their simulation crystal, but all she wanted was him in the here and now, magical escapism be damned.

One day, the line would dissolve. To be no more.

One day.

But not today.

Chapter Text

“Is this your first pregnancy?”

She nodded, brushing away mahogany curls, as she set to work completing the form, neatly attached to a singular clipboard. The hallway, she noticed, was eerily empty. The lone medical practitioners passing by wore heavy duty masks and other such gear.

Studying the paperwork, she smiled as she wrote her name. Dr. Macy Vaughn. Female. Age 31—

She paused, hearing a sudden clatter as she suppressed the barest hint of a smile—

The door flew open on the opposite end of the hall as Harry raced forth, pausing, hands on knees, catching his breath before meeting her glance. “Sorry love—I arrived as soon as I could—” his fingers reaching out to create sparks with her gentle, outstretched own. “Those blasted stairs—”

“Honestly, Harry—” she laughed aloud. “I’m fine, you didn’t have to—”

“But oh, Macy, I wanted to.” He chose a seat feet away, her purse lifted by her sight, plunked in between to avoid eavesdroppers sitting in between—inadvertent interlopers.

Macy skimmed the rest of the page. Health insurance. Occupation. Residential address. Family history.

Done—done—and—more or less—done.

Then came the fatherly section.

“Harry, I’m not sure what to write—”

“I’m not quite certain I know what you mean—”

Macy passed him the clipboard, careful to maintain suitable distance. “Father’s age. I mean—” How could she put this delicately? And would it even make a difference, with regards to her prenatal care? “Harry, are you 37…or your actual age…101?”

She thought she detected a trace of his subtle British smile—his upturned lips—his sparkling eyes—but to her horror, his form rapidly transformed, from the Harry she knew, to a fast-fading, near-demise centenarian, his hair turning the purest white, before his physicality began fading completely—

“I must take my leave…”

And in that moment, he was gone—forever—

Simulation Crystal, Paris, France

Macy awoke, heart pounding, stomach churning into her throat as she fled for the bathroom, flushing the toilet a few minutes later.

“Macy! Mace—” Harry was jolted by his wife’s sudden movements. “Are you alright, love?” He waited for a response but there was only silence. Another flush, followed by his wife—his Macy—slowly trudging back to bed in their sumptuous tealight-decorated cottage within their cozy, beautiful simulation crystal.

“I—I’m alright—” she stammered, avoiding his glance as he moved closer—for in this little world of theirs, they could—“Harry, forget about it, I—”

He lifted her chin, until her eyes met his own. Brown, beautiful, and utterly glorious. “No—clearly you are unwell—”

She shook her head. “I just…” she paused, her mouth suddenly dry. “I had a bad dream. A nightmare—” as Harry enfolded her into his arms.

Harry frowned. “What sort of nightmare?” Perhaps she had that recurrent nightmare of accidentally receiving her Nobel Prize in the nude? Or that one where she encountered a certain hybrid witch whose red dress triggered unquenchable fear and fury?

As if she could read her Whitelighter’s mind, she shook her head. “Not those,” she replied softly. “I—” she paused, hesitant to reveal the source of her worry. If she gave it a name—

If she let this—this nightmare—be spoken—

Would it become a self-fulfilling prophecy?

She inhaled. And exhaled. “It was a nightmare—about you. And me,” she added as if in afterthought.

He flinched, unable to bear the thought of his beloved injured or however tormented, be it in any realm of reality, dreamscape or otherwise. “What were we doing?”

“We were…” Macy swallowed hard, her hands still clammy as she clutched the silken bedsheets. “In a clinic hallway.”

Harry frowned. “And…?”

“We were…I mean…you were…” Macy realized she was beginning to ramble. “Um…I was asking your age. Thirty-seven or your…your biological age. For paperwork.”

“I assume I was forthcoming?”

“Y-yeah. You could say that. But—” her voice caught on a sob, as one tear, then another fell, past her cheeks, splashing onto the bedspread. “Then you disappeared. Forever.” She shuddered as he took both of her hands, trying at once to remove her mental anguish, knowing all the while it was physiologically impossible even as a Whitelighter. “I wanted you to stay,” she whispered, “but—but—”

“Macy, love—look—no, look at me—” he gently but firmly turned toward her visage. “I will never stop fighting for us.” Reaching over to stroke her cheek, he kissed first her sloping forehead, then each cheek before tenderly wiping each subsequent tear away.

“Are you sure?” Doubt creeped in, though her tears began to subside. What if—

The allergy.

Their marriage.

Their future—

“Do you trust me, in that I have pledged my utter devotion and love toward you?”

“Yes, Harry—"

“In sickness and in health?”

Macy nodded, recalling their vows of yore. “But—I’m worried—” The state of the world. Everything.

“And yet,” he mused, stroking her curls, “we must not exercise such caution, as to forget to live,” echoing Macy’s words uttered what felt like eons ago, when the accursed allergy had first emerged.

“I know,” she murmured, noticing her husband reaching for a tray—upon which small bowls of crystallized ginger chews and fresh-baked oyster crackers suddenly appeared.

“I love you with all my heart, Macy,” he smiled, lifting a ginger piece to her lips.

“Oh Harry,” meaning imbued in the very phrase, “I love you too.”

A couple more hours passed, her heart growing more steadfast and sure, the unnerving experience put to rest, at least for now. “Can we get some fresh air, Harry?” she spoke aloud. “Someplace in France, with flowers?”

He smiled, equal parts delighted and relieved to see liveliness bloom upon her cheeks. “I know just the place—"

Simulation Crystal, Le Plateau de Valensole, Provence, France

They landed softly within a bright field of—

“Tournesole,” Macy read aloud from a sign. French for sunflowers.

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “Sunflowers. They represent love and ardent admiration. Happiness, too.”

She smiled. “Wise choice.”

Each blossom appeared a soleil in miniature, their petals forming elegant rays, light reflecting throughout the floral field from the symphony of color beckoning across the horizon—a brilliant, bold sunrise of peach and goldenrod hues, clouds sprinkled throughout, deepening into cobalt blue.

As they held hands, exploring one row then another, Macy was reminded of a quote from Albert Camus. “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy…” she began, her other hand brushing against shimmering blooms, bright, fresh, and full.

Harry completed the quote. “…For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger—something better, pushing right back.”

Indeed.

Chapter Text

Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Light, delicious sunlight, spilled through Macy’s window, dancing upon her love—her Harry—not upstairs in the lonely attic, but here. Here. Next to her, his hand intertwined with her own as he planted sweet kisses upwards of her shoulder, herself giggling in a certain lighthearted delight the likes of which had been rarely known.

“Pack your bags, love,” Harry spoke a moment later, as Macy’s hands wove a scarf—her scarf, filled with magenta plumerias—around his neck. As if to say, you’re mine. Forever.

“Why?” Her eyes glittered, equal parts entranced and utterly intrigued. What more could they possibly want—no, wish for—now that they had everything they could possibly desire?

“I have…a surprise,” murmured Harry cryptically, gathering himself into a seated position, donning his clothes as Macy whimpered—must you leave this bed? A mock-forlorn expression flickered, a pout, however brief.

“Du calme, patience, love—” he breathed a kiss upon her forehead. “Breakfast awaits. And that I shall sumptuously prepare.” 

Afternoon, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle Washington

“M-Macy—” he stuttered, absorbing the sheer seductive, sultry splendor of his amour—those sparkling rhinestones glowing in stark contrast to the heady underground environs, her hair sleek and shining, her visage aglow like none other, her melanin hue on full display, her shapely—he sucked his breath in sharply.

He knew he was a goner the moment he laid eyes on her.

A surprise. Hints. Their dance upon the frigid waters, not so long ago, he had disclosed his deepest desire of taking her to Paris. And when they danced what easily could have been, but mercifully was not, their last dance, he had briefly closed his eyes, imagining they were dancing along the Seine under lovely Parisian lamplight. A fantasy. One of many. A thought bubble—

But with this allergy removal, and her—she herself was, in a sense, the surprise, Harry silently mused to himself, his eyes lingering upon her beauteous form. For she always managed to delight and intrigue, with that intellect of hers, day after day, of which he never grew tired. He could spend till the end of days and never once long to depart her lovingly celestial presence—this—this queen—

“Har—Harry!” She waved, jolting Harry from his momentary reverie.

“Wh—huh?” He closed his mouth, suddenly conscious he had been staring just a mite too long. But he knew she did not mind, noticing a subtle smile cross those lips of hers. The taste of which he was fervently becoming reacquainted with.

“The surprise. Speaking of which—” she stepped forward toward the Command Center keypad, Harry inches away, breathing in the scent of her intoxicating tresses. Apple blossoms, this time. “Let’s see if my guess was right—” as she turned the accompanying screen to Paris, France.

Macy looked at him in askance as he nodded. That’s my Macy. Bags packed, they were off. No pressure. Just—pleasure. The sights and sounds of vrai Paris. Anything else, he would not presume, but would actively, wantonly welcome. He was first and foremost, a gentleman after all. The restaurant reservations had been made—he imagined a champagne toast.

A Few Hours Later, Hôtel, Paris, France

“Qu’est-ce que c’est, alors?” Luc muttered to himself, eyes fixed at his notebook—his pen—the keyboard—all of which were rattling. What is it?

Several minutes passed by; the thrums were growing by the minute. He stared. There was a sort of…rhythm to the madness, eh?  

“Quoi de neuf?” What’s up? His colleague Adrien attempted a light tap upon his shoulder but the latter shushed him, pointing at the three suspect items.

“Un tremblement de terre?” Adrien joked, though this clearly fell flat, Luc’s brow furrowing, utterly perplexed.

“J’espère que non…” I hope not…Luc trailed off uncertainly before grabbing his phone. In case of emergencies.

“Où vas-tu?” Where are you going? His coworker called out behind him.

“En haut.” Upstairs. Thus came Luc’s swift reply as he picked up his pace, dialing the elevator button, the doors opening, then quickly shutting once he’d entered. Guest safety was of utmost importance, bien sûr!

The thrumming, which had gone upon entering the elevator, had returned with renewed vigor moments later as he hit the top level of suites. The American Suites, he oft termed them, due to its proximity to quintessentially touristique Parisian views, Eiffel Tower included. He ran through various possible scenarios, each more unlikely than the next, as the ground continued to tremble beneath him—violently so—

CRASH!

He stood stock-still, a solitary figure in the chandelier-lit hallway.

And was that a lamp?

Luc shook his head, determined to figure out what on earth was the matter. Not earthquakes. Nor trains, the underground would not be alive for another hour—the Paris Métropolitain—

CRASH!

A sound of—of boxes? Luggage, thrown to the opposite wall with passionate, unremitting force? He turned a corner, heading to the furthest suite along the bend. He had to warn the populace, it was his duty as concierge, after all—the velocity at which the objects hit was simply put, unnerving—

Some seconds passed as he broke into a run—his feet making contact with the well-worn carpet for however brief—his fist about to rap upon the sturdy chestnut door—

“HARRY—HARRY!!!!!!"

Groans, then—

A flash of blindingly white light.

Withdrawing his hand, Luc stared at where the sudden glow had appeared—the crevice between door and floor. Had he imagined it, or…? But he had come here as a matter of safety. He knocked once, then twice, in rapid succession. “Tout va bien?” Luc called out, as he heard—gasps? Had he interrupted something?

Or arrived upon its aftermath?

He waited, tapping his foot out of habit as a muffled voice provided response. A female voice by the sound of it.

“Oui, oui monsieur—” Yes sir—

“Tout…” a second, more baritone voice made itself known this time, “Tout va bien. Tout va bien—” All is well.

“Oui, Madame, et Monsieur,” and just like that, Luc departed, the weight of the world having been lifted in that moment.

All was well.

Chapter Text

Late Evening, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“DAMMIT!”

Another swipe of her wrist, and books went flying. After having sorted Maggie (and her temporary two—no, three—occupants) out, she’d retired upstairs to the attic to resume her up till now, fruitless quest for a reprieve—

Magical vaccine, part two.

With—she sniffed—sneezed—an extra pinch of pixie dust, courtesy of Chloe, who’d managed to airlift several bundles to the attic window earlier that day. Which might partly account for the conjuring mishap. But, she mused to herself, all’s well that ends well…right?

The teen and her strict father had reconciled. She had had that prom dance, bouffant hair, neon dress and all, even if it was through highly unorthodox means, though Antonio was none the worse for the wear, simply stating repeatedly that ‘Freud would have a field day!’

Right…Freud.

Disentangling her eyes from the smoking, overflowing test tube, she sighed. It was getting late.

She spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning her work station. Once she’d put the fallen books back in their rightful places, she headed back down to her own bedroom. Their bedroom, really, now that they were married. Funny how time flew. Was it really a year since…and—

Macy inhaled sharply, recalling how her spine had been flush against the wall. Deliciously so—her hands knitted, drawing Harry closer. Then sighed, recalling the physical limitations the allergy’s resurgence had brought. How close they were, she though back then, and yet—not nearly close enough!

Little had she known that this magical allergy would occur, creating a fissure between them…if they let it. However, Harry’s simulation crystal had continued to sustain and amplify the positive aspects of their married life, and for that she considered herself immensely fortunate.

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Their voices met each other in the darkness as they carefully wound their way about the chamber’s perimeters, before each sat atop fluffy carpet, reviewing the events of earlier that day. Several minutes passed as Harry recounted Carter’s funeral, and the young boy Georgie, to whom there was far more than met the eye.

“A direct descendant? Wow—” Macy breathed as Harry nodded, enveloped in shadows save for the lone sliver of crescent moonlight filtering through the cracked-open window, a hint of summer fast approaching.

“Then I discovered my soul softeners—” He heard a snicker. A chortle? Harry’s mouth puckered in the prissy face Macy knew well. “What?”

“Soul…softeners…” she bit her lip to avoid bursting into laughter. “Sounds like…stool…softeners…”

“Right, well let me get on to the interesting bits, love—”

“Soul softeners sound plenty interesting to me—”

“As I was saying,” Harry continued, “it’s one dose and a shot. But Georgie went and ate the lot—”

Macy gasped. “Oh my God. Was he…?” Ok? Human? Not human?

“He’s fine now, but as memory serves, he did resemble that odd doll with orangish hair, his brain not his own, evil in a rather chilling way—”

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiii—you’re telling me he turned into Chucky? How—how did you—and Mel—it must’ve been chaos!”

“Well, actually, if I remember correctly, I’d uttered ‘oh dear,’—”

“Harry, have you never used an expletive before?” Macy paused, seeking to clarify. “And not in the bedroom when we’re alone together—”

He blushed just the faintest bit, at both mentions. “It was a funeral. I wouldn’t have been polite company had I gone that route—”

“Duly noted,” Macy answered.

“And you?” He felt his way toward her voice, still careful to keep his hand outstretched toward hers to create sparks, rather than an inward implosion. “Maggie mentioned something about being inhabited by two souls…and finally the intended…Marisol?”

She swallowed hard. “Y-Yeah, well, that captures it in a nutshell. Basically, this girl wasn’t allowed to go to prom. Snuck out anyways to meet her love. Her dad drove her home before she could have a first dance. They argued in the car—and then—a drunk driver—” There was no need to say more, what had happened to the pair.

“And then they ended up in Maggie?”

“Y-Yeah. A girl named Daisy and her overprotective father.”

“But you got them out.” A statement, not a question. “How?” He was curious to know the answer, having heard the perils of what could politely be termed ‘ghostly occupation.’

“Well…first she gave herself a manicure with Maggie’s nail polish and stole Mel’s chip stash. Then she fixed herself the perfect club sandwich. I wanted answers.”

“Did she give them?”

She laughed despite herself. “Not at first.”

“Then…?”

Macy recalled her own use of telekinesis, seizing the delectable club sandwich from the girl’s clutches as the latter howled in fury, sending an emanated wave of pure, unmitigated rage-energy echoing throughout the immediate environs. How she’d stood near the kitchen sink, calling upon Daisy’s father for assistance. A part of Macy couldn’t help but recall little Maya from far earlier, imagined in that simulation crystal. Was this what parenting in the magical realm was like? Typical teenage angst of yelling and fighting and tears, plus telekinesis, energy manipulation, and pyrokinesis? Good Lord.

Luckily, Daisy’s father had provided words, somewhat assuaging in the moment as Macy found herself sweeping up pottery shards with her mind, and into the bin. And moments upon moments later, gently confronting a tearful Daisy, sobbing into Maggie’s brand new pillow.

If this had happened years earlier pre-Hilltowne, Macy’s Newtonian, scientific rationality would have deemed this an impossibility. A hallucination. And her cerebral self would have focused on the spectral aspect, less so on the motivations of the poor girl herself. Fixated, if her brain had allowed herself to believe in ghosts, on whether ghosts could even cry.

But that was then, and now was…a different matter entirely. She, Dr. Macy Vaughn, had been tied to a chair beside her own sisters, and told they were witches. She had witnessed the red tide of despair for which Galvin had sacrificed his own life. She had seen the unexplainable, the undefinable. Witnessed hordes of bees chase after an amulet. Watched darkness chase the very corridors of these walls, seen evil before their happening.

And she had learned quite a lot in those subsequent years, the power and motivations of the human spirit included. No task too big, no problem too small for the Charmed Ones (within reason). This she took into consideration, watching as Daisy wiped her tears. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Macy recalled herself saying.

Daisy began to speak, this time in earnest. “P-prom night,” she all but whispered. And then came forth words describing her tragic fate—the stolen dance that never was, her father’s fateful drive.

“All I wanted was one dance.”

Macy’s heart nearly broke in two.

Daisy’s father spoke then. “If I could…I would let you have that dance.” With that, his apparition vanished, leaving Daisy and Macy, who had chanced upon an interesting set of circumstances one floor below.

“Listen, Daisy, you might still get that dance…”

Harry smiled as Macy recounted Daisy’s prom dance—the walk down the staircase, the boutonniere she’d hastily fashioned from Harry’s bouquet of flowers (“flour and flowers, love”), and how for several breathtakingly perfect moments, young Daisy had finally had the prom dance of her dreams before departing, this time for good.

“You would make a wonderful mum, Mace—” Harry reached out as he inched closer, noticing the sparkler-like crackling that separated his hand from hers.

“You’d make a wonderful dad, Harry.”

They sat in silence for a couple more minutes before he spoke again. “Regarding this…prom…have you ever been?”

Macy sucked her breath in sharply. “It’s kind of a sore subject.”

She could positively feel his eyebrows arch high atop his forehead. “Oh, and why is that?”

“The first year, my dad wouldn’t let me go. He was like Daisy’s dad. And the year after, when I begged and pleaded and he finally let me go, my date refused to dance with me, and got caught playing video games instead. Which solidified in my dad’s mind that most dances were frivolous and nothing but trouble.”

“He was wrong—”

“Believe me, Harry, I know. He meant well, but sometimes he could be a bit much.”

“Mace…” Harry paused. “Since you didn’t have the prom you wanted all those years ago, how about we have a do-over? In the crystal? In Paris—our Paris?”

Half an Hour Later, Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

He checked his watch, finding himself situated at Galerie Vivienne, next to a Librarie Ancienne—he guessed a bookstore with all sorts of tomes, big and small. Macy had promised she would choose a suitable dress and meet him here soon after, but a few minutes had turned into ten, then fifteen, then…

An envelope flew into his hands. Curious, he opened it, reading the message therein.

Meet me at Jardin Marseillaise. The Garden.

Closing his eyes, he muttered the words. “Jardin Marseillaise. Jardin Marseillaise. Jardin—” he paused, opening his eyes to full-blossomed periwinkle-hued rhododendrons marking a sand-colored path, ivy interlaced on high walls on either side, a chandelier or two spotted in the distance, along with a pearl-colored gate, in front of which Macy—

He inhaled sharply—his Macy—was standing, exquisite as ever in a plum-lilac ballgown and sleek modern jewelry. “Oh, Mace, you look divine!” Hurrying forward, he practically seized her hands, swinging her low as she laughed all the while.

Here, they had each other. Here, they had multitudes of forever.

An acoustic duet version of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” began and the pair disentangled from their jovial greeting.

Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you

Caught up in circles/Confusion is nothing new…

Macy offered her right hand in his left, his right encircling her supple waist. Her mahogany curls glittered, catching the chandelier’s light as the lyrics continued. She blinked hard to keep away the tears that threatened to pour forth onto her visage, grasping Harry’s hand tighter, imparting meaning, sheer poignancy, of all they had been through, and all that was yet to come.

He twirled her once—

If you’re lost you can look and you will find me

Time after time

And again—her visage landing inches away from his, her lips beckoning toward his own—

If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting

Time after time

As they kissed, lips meeting questioningly, then with a certain slow, sultry confidence the likes of which had not been known in their previous sojourns. Rushed, frenetic, hurried they had been, eager to touch every inch of the other before the allergy regained its stronghold—but here, here, they had time.

She lay her head atop his shoulder as the dance slowed, determined to have this moment last in whatever way she could. How would Harry cope with mortality and the loss of his healing abilities? Would he? Could he?

But that was a discussion for another day, she mused as they began to kiss once more, the chandelier light dimming into ambient darkness. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Chapter Text

She flinched, staggering about, recognizing the tell-tale signs of a Tomb of Chaos monster. Venom seeping through, an eerie neon green, reminding her of that one radioactive substance she’d read about during her postgraduate studies—

“AAAArgh!” Macy screamed aloud as she attempted to disinfect the throbbing, open wound with hydrogen peroxide. “Motherfu—” she gasped. “God, that hurt a lot more than it should’ve—” she stumbled several more feet, her knees knocking against the dining room table which she clung onto for dear life—

And suddenly, it wasn’t a gaping venomous wound, but a swollen belly. “What the—” she paused, before groaning aloud. Cramps. But—she wasn’t—Macy paused. Or was she? No sooner had this thought occurred to her, she fell onto the table before her, doubled over in agony. Another stabbing sensation caused her to cry out—

“HARRY!!!” she tried once. Then again. “Harry, where are you?!” Grimacing, her hands sideswept the mess of pamphlets atop the table. Taking a shallow breath, she plucked one, examining it closely.

“Oh God. Oh no…” Macy moaned aloud, tears streaming down her cheeks. A vigil for Harry. A memorial.

He would not answer.

He was never going to answer.

He was never coming home.

A visceral cry from within echoed throughout the four walls. At first, she made to turn around, thinking it was a vulnerable being calling upon the Charmed Ones.

Then she realized—it was she who had been screaming…

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

“MACE—Macy, love—” Harry’s voice both startled and comforted her at once, as tears continued to pour down her cheeks, amid the Egyptian threadcount bedsheets—in their own home away from home, within this cozy simulation crystal of theirs.

“I-I’m sorry—”

“No, shhh…don’t apologize…” he mouthed a warm kiss to her forehead as she wiped away those rivulets upon rivulets.

“I’m getting the sheets wet—” she pointed downward to the dotted trails. Her emotions. What was the saying again? Feeling a lot of feelings?

“We can always get more,” came his reply. Of course. Macy couldn’t help but smile, and noticing this, Harry’s shoulders slackened, relieved though he was. “You had a nightmare. Again.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing—”

“Macy. Clearly it’s not—”

Macy sighed, equal parts enamored and irritated by Harry’s ability to see within her soul. Clearly, she failed at maintaining a poker face. “I…” she fiddled with a stray hangnail until Harry’s hands covered her own, raising them to his lips for yet another kiss. “I had a glimpse…of…”

“Of…of what?”

“A—” she nearly choked on a sob. “A world without you in it.”

Harry’s mouth formed a rounded “O.” How had he not noticed her inner turmoil? He shook his head. Perhaps it was the unremitting preoccupation with the deluge of scorpions the week prior. And the Hatfield-McCoy feud besides. “Macy, love, I want a full life with you—”

“L-likewise—”

“But that comes part and parcel with no longer being immortal.”

“I know. Just…still…what if something happens? And I have to raise our kids alone? I—I don’t know how I’d—I’d cope,” she shuddered, wiping her eyes again.

“We want children, right?”

Macy nodded.

“And you want to spend as long as you possibly, humanly can, in a natural lifecycle, right?”

Again she nodded. “Going to the funeral of your own son, thrice your outward age seems…” she trailed off.

“Weird. And it is,” he added. “Lord knows I’d give it all to have those years again—to find him—” he blinked rapidly. “To love him—I’ve made so many mistakes—and how foolish I’d been—”

It was Macy’s turn to offer comfort. “That’s in the past. And you saved his life, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes, well, I did what I could—”

“You were a hero, Harry. James wasn’t perfect—”

“I wish I were—what if I make a terrible father this go-around? And I know I want the scraped knees, but how can I bear to see future progeny in pain? My Whitelighter abilities—”

“But here’s the thing Harry. Being mortal, you’re no longer a Whitelighter. You’re, simply put, human.” She kissed his shoulder as she nuzzled him, nose-to-nose. Eskimo kisses. “I think we have similar problems. Just somehow, inverse. I can’t stand the thought of losing you, and you want those years back—a full life—but have to grapple with the utter humanity of it all. The fallibility—"

“So we just need to…let go and let live? Is that it, love?”

Macy laughed. “Precisely. You’re not perfect. Neither am I. I over-analyze things to pieces. I worry so much. Too much. You pull me from the ledge though.”

His mouth crinkled into a curious expression. “I do? How?”

“By talking to me. Telling me in your words and actions that we’re in this together. For the long haul.”

“Indeed—"

“All we can do in this wild and precious life—the one life we have, is make the best of it, and tell our story to the universe. Think you can live with that?”

Rather than answer, he stroked her mahogany curls, pulling her into a passionate kiss. Others soon followed. Out of the corner of her eye, through the window, Macy could see the silhouette of a sparkling Eiffel Tower in the distance, plus, far closer, a European car that had a giant teddy bear in its front seat, wearing a cherry red bowtie.

Teddy bears. Again. What could this all mean?

Rather than expostulate on the mysteries of the human psyche (that was Maggie’s realm after all), she shrugged, devoting her attentions once more to her beloved.

Several Mornings Later, Kitchen and Front Hallway, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Wow, Mace!” Maggie swept in, leopard-print sweater and all. “Your hair looks amazing!”

“It—It does?” Macy stifled a yawn, several books scattered in front of her. “I didn’t do anything different.”

“Huh. Still,” Maggie added, “it looks like it could be in a magazine!”

After retrieving her vegan café latte and bidding goodbye to her eldest sister, Maggie headed to school, just as Mel entered for her morning scrambled eggs.

“Whoa, Mace,” whispered Mel. “What are those?” She stared at one title, “Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting.” “Any news you wanna share?”

The oldest Charmed One blushed. “N-no,” she stammered aloud. “Wanted to be prepared for all contingencies. There’s a lot of good tips in here. Like—” she flipped to a tabbed page. “La Pause.”

Mel made a face. “La—what?”

“La Pause. See, the mother should wait five full minutes before attending to a baby. That way, the baby learns patience, and the mother and father stays emotionally and physically healthy. So their marriage stays strong. And they stay strong. Which means living longer—”

“Mace…” Mel tilted her head. “Are you really that worried about Harry becoming mortal?”

“N—I mean—er—ok, maybe—” Macy wrung her hands. “But this is my coping mechanism, y’know? Facts and figures? Supplemented with research, internationally vetted?”

Mel rolled her eyes. “You do you. But when Maggie was born, we didn’t have any of these books—” as a certain frisson, a certain tragic chill enveloped the kitchen’s atmosphere, as Macy began tearing up.

“Right…because you had Marisol.” Grabbing the book, Macy ran upstairs, random books tumbling from that book nook Marisol had in that stairwell corner. That she never discovered until decades after her own sisters had. The chandelier shook as well, with a certain silent, sorrowful fury, as several crystals disentangled themselves entirely, which would have shattered upon meeting the polished oak floor—

If it weren’t for Macy’s own instincts, halting the pear-shaped stones in place, mere inches from utter havoc, before fleeing for her room once more.

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

She heard a knock fifteen minutes later. Wiping her eyes, she mentally turned the lock. “It’s open,” she muttered. Who was it?

Mel.

“Look, about the chandelier—I’m sorry—” Macy began, but Mel gently cut her off.

“No Macy. Those are just things. I’m sorry for putting my foot in my mouth,” Mel spoke softly, approaching the bed, still staying a few sensible feet away. “I should have known better. Those wounds run deep.”

“Yeah,” Macy blinked rapidly, willing herself to keep her voice steady, staring out the window before turning to Mel. “It wasn’t Marisol’s fault—she saved me—but sometimes, I feel rage. Sheer rage. I know this sounds irrational given the necromancer stuff, but I feel cheated of the life I could’ve had with you and Maggie. I love what we have now, but I hate that I’ve constantly had to play catch-up, while you’ve both had decades with each other. There wasn’t any other choice, and Marisol was brave in what she did. But—” she uttered a shuddered sigh. “It wasn’t fair.”

Mel spent the next minutes collecting her thoughts. “You’re right,” she stated simply. “It wasn’t fair to you. Hell, to any of us. She’s kept so many secrets I sometimes stay awake at night waiting for another fifty to fall out of the sky—well, y’know what I mean—"

“Yeah.”

“You do recall me saying Mags and I were awful as teens right? Because we totally were. We’re not the same people we were then—bickering, screaming, the works.”

“I guess, but sometimes…I don’t feel like a sister. I feel…like I’m staring from the outside in.”

Rather than ruminate on that statement, Mel went on. “Back then, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. You’re getting the best versions of us now. And Marisol had this saying. Las mujeres sabias crecen desde diferentes direcciones pero sus raices siguen siendo las mismas.”

“Meaning?”

“Something about family coming into our lives at the best possible time, at the best possible moment. The barebones translation being that wise women grow from different directions, but their roots remain the same.”

“I like that,” Macy remarked. “It’s almost as if she knew we’d someday be together, under one roof. Three sisters.”

“Yeah.” Mel smiled a bit, as if recalling Marisol’s own voice doling out sage advice, once upon a time. Then she drew inches closer. “Uh, Mace? Your hair—”

“What about my hair?” Macy drew back almost instinctively, to avoid what she understood to be a magical allergy shock.

“It’s gorgeous—really…” Mel searched for the word. “Lush. Like, chock full of vitamins. Glowing.” Realizing what she’d said aloud, she stared hard at her older sister. “Mace…not to be weird, but…are you pregnant?”

“What—no—there’s no way—” Macy paused, recalling the past couple of…sojourns…taken with Harry as of late. That time in the solarium. Another time, along the walls of the hotel room in Paris. “Actually, not no…more of…a maybe?”

Mel’s eyes grew large. “You mean you haven’t tested?!”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up. You understand my medical history, right? I’m afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“To…hope. To plan. To…imagine. A life. What if it’s like Marisol and me all over again?”

“But Mace,” Mel wished with all her might she could comfort her sister by way of a reassuring touch—anything—“what if it’s not? Wouldn’t Harry be excited? Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes…on all accounts,” came a British intone from the door’s threshold.

“Harry—” Macy whispered as he came forward, Mel taking this as her cue to leave for Seattle State.

Chapter Text

"Don't keep me in the dark, love." 

"I won't."

2 am, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy shook her head, thinking of the last bits of conversation she’d had with Harry after Mel left, measuring out four tablespoons of sifted flour into a silvery baking bowl, her bleary-eyed reflection staring back at her. In went…she glanced at her phone a moment longer…one and a half cups of nut milk—eggs—

Cracking three in rapid succession using her powers neatly atop the bowl, her fingers tore open a fresh box of brown sugar, adding a third of a cup to the aromatic mixture. As for the final pre-baking touch…but wait—she paused. “Where’d the peanut butter go?” she spoke aloud, though she was the only one awake at this particular hour. Suddenly, she detected a hint of movement in the bowl’s reflection; whirling around—

Nothing.

Somewhat unnerved, she wiped her hands on a wet paper towel and reached for the closest item she could find…Maggie’s magenta stiletto, of all things. Holding the spiky, fashionable object, heel pointed outward, she moved quietly, softly, silently so. Ninja-like, if one could possibly imagine.

“Homenium Revelio.” Intruder, reveal thyself—

But again, nothing. Macy massaged her temple; insomnia combined with exhaustion, as contradictory as the two seemed, came hand-in-hand for her today. She could’ve sworn she saw something though. Something fly by, perhaps. But the quick spell she’d chanted indicated there was no improper presence within Vera Manor’s confines at this time.

She sniffed the air, deciding to trace the movement’s trajectory. Was it…here? She followed outside the line of the reflective bowl’s design, using her math skills to determine the hypotenuse of a right triangle at a locality just so—

Macy stared. A cabinet, carved of walnut wood, had an odd honey-colored smear along one hinge. “What the…” she frowned. Where’d that come from? Maybe it was honey, from that one time she’d helped Persephone escape from the Underworld? But that was impossible! Besides, that had been nearly two years ago; it wouldn’t have looked nearly so fresh. And she was pretty sure she and her sisters had ridden Vera Manor of all matter of entomology, scorpions included.

She gave an involuntary shiver. Was a scorpion more a crustacean than not? Again with the sleep deprivation…”Get it together, Vaughn,” she muttered to herself as she returned to the bowl and corresponding miniature pie tins. Clearly her telekinesis was playing tricks on her.

Whatever. A press-in cookie crust later, and all mini tins were filled with the stuff. Now for the mix…her eyes carefully guided the bowl to each concavity, a serving spoon scooping out even mounds. There—done and done.

“And into the oven we go,” she spoke aloud, as the miniature pie pans traveled the length of the kitchen table to the open, preheated oven. Its door closed the next second, she rechecked the recipe. The glaze.

Macy reached for the slab of fancy Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate Harry had given her just a week before, its aroma fruity, sultry, and sweet. Closing her eyes, she savored its elegant hints of berry, its heady hit of cacao, before reaching for a sharpened kitchen knife, proceeding to slice into fine bits. Then came the six pieces of unsalted dairy-free plant butter, a grocery find courtesy of Maggie herself. Into the microwave those went—and after the ping indicating doneness, she added a tablespoon of light corn syrup to top it off.

Stirring, she saw a hint of movement yet again through the reflective baking bowl. “The hell…?” she muttered, spinning around.

There was a smear of peanut butter on the very same cabinet hinge she’d wiped off just moments before.

“Seriously??” The oldest Charmed One crossed her arms, exasperated. “I’m trying to bake my husband Harry and—let’s not kid ourselves—me—a really yummy chocolate tart. It’s been a long-ass day and my patience is zilch. So…please? Be nice?” Macy spoke the words aloud, frustrated, and altogether sapped of whatever energy she’d entered the kitchen with nearly an hour before.

Rolling her eyes, she turned to check her phone. Five minutes till done baking. Feeling somewhat foolish, she realized she’d talked as if someone else was in the kitchen with her. Silently waiting, watching, observing her movements.  But that was crazy. Right?

Several more minutes passed, her eyes heavy, her lids drawing shut—

A whoosh later—

She jolted awake from her perch atop the kitchen table, still replete with baking supplies and remnants of her earlier culinary activity. “Harry—” Oh God, how long had she been asleep?

“Thanks for the chocolate tart, love,” he spoke from where he stood in the threshold, lifting the piping-hot nourriture upwards as if…in salute, or a toast, before drawing it to his lips for a first bite.

“But I didn’t—” she turned to the turned-off oven, whose door was wide open, tarts gone. What the—she followed the scent of chocolate tarts to behind her, the table beneath the cabinet, its hinge now mysteriously peanut butter-free. How did that…? “How—” she began again, “I mean—how is it?”

“Simply divine!” His eyes fell upon her own, soulfully so. “The chocolate glaze is sublime. I would kiss you if I could, love—”

Her eyes softened. “I know, Harry. Believe me, I know.”

Turning, she made to clean up, though there wasn’t much, really. She always adhered to her father’s sage advice. Clean as you go. One bowl and ladle, into the sink. A quick wipedown of the counter, and everything was clean.

“Is this habit forming?” He wiped a stray crumb from his lip. “This…midnight baking of yours.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. But then I got tired. And there was this weird peanut butter—” Macy paused. “Never mind, it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Let’s go upstairs?”

Noticing her perturbed expression, Harry made as if to speak, then thought better of it, keeping his postulations to himself. Of course his Macy hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up and wanted to wait a couple more weeks until having a scientifically verifiable answer, but sometimes, magic…destiny…had a way of asserting itself.

Only time would tell.

Chapter Text

Glancing upward, she absorbed the very image of quintessential Regency era architecture. Or was it…Macy noticed various embellishments lending itself more toward San Francisco Neo-Classical. Or was it Beaux Arts? Gothic Revival? Shaking her head, she forged onward, brushing away a stray tendril of pale purple wisteria vine. About to knock, the door opened on its own as she entered the stately, becoming interior.

Almost immediately upon entering the parlor, she noticed a modern frisson of energy, in the form of several extremely boisterous children of various age groups, all of whom were dressed in garb of the day. Breeches and daywear for the boys, coattails for the gents, and pale-patterned empire-waisted frocks for the young ladies. One at the piano, three talking about scandalous items of the day. Two milling about the pianist and another pair playing a simple game of tag.

"Marissa, Marina's in the garden—" she heard a masculine, oddly familiar voice behind her.

"But my name's not—" Macy turned, her mouth dropping open.

"Oh forgive my presumption. Lady Thompson, my apologies. Right this way." He made a polite, altogether deferential bow, nodding forthwith.

She stared. It was her Whitelighter, as dashing as could be, chestnut sideburns, tight-fitted jacket and all. That familiar crinkled half-smile, those twinkling, merry eyes. "Harry?!" she all but shrieked.

A raise of his eyebrow, a quirk of that mouth of his. "Viscount Edmund—"

"Harry, it's ok, it's me. Macy. Remember? Me, Macy, you, Harry?"

The gentleman shook his head. "I'm afraid that name escapes my memory," leaning close to assuage the distressed female, but not so close as to create outward appearances of undue impropriety. 

Macy broke away, tears fast falling. "I must take my leave," she whispered, fleeing down one hall, then the next, ignoring the viscount's pleas to return, forsooth, to sort out this heady misunderstanding.

But a swirl of fog later, she found herself spinning mid-air, landing, chest heaving, feet first in Vera Manor's solarium. "It's. Not. FAIR!!!!" she screamed, the glass walls shattering with the force of her tortured emanation. "It-it's not..." whimpering, she slid to the floor, oblivious to all but her innermost angst. 

Wasn’t once enough? Pulling him out of that cryochamber post-gala, his limp, ageless body cradled softly within her own? And that memory-wiping microchip, that had almost obliterated any and all notion of what could have possibly been? Had she not suffered enough? Hot tears coursed down her cheeks as she tried, but failed, to wipe each and every one of them away. Not again.

Not—

Again.

Her own children. Her precious, sweet, spritely, spirited Maya of the simulation crystal, many moons ago. Her Harry. Gone. And in their place, in his place, an ephemeral soul soon felled by a bee of all creatures. A bee! She'd seen the entire first season of Bridgerton. Rewatched the spoon scene too many times to count (but that was far beside the point). Read enough tomes, scoured online to know, with an eerie feeling of utter dread, that this man, in whichever dimension he lived, was not long for this world...

Next Afternoon, Maggie’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Was that before or after the giant teddy bear dreams?” Maggie glanced down at her notebook, which mostly contained odd doodles of simulation crystals and boxing gloves, then back at Macy, seated across the desk.

Macy sighed. “After. It literally never ends—”

Maggie ruminated on all that Macy had told her over the past half hour. Her fears surrounding Harry’s mortality. Ever-looming questions of their future, marital and/or otherwise. “Do you want this?” she asked her oldest sister.

“No...yes...I don't know!” Macy blurted out, wringing her hands all the while. “I mean,” she continued, “I want the best parts of Harry. But I can't lose him. Again.”

“Again? As in—” Maggie thought back to the past couple of years, equal parts chaotic and tumultuous. “You mean when…?”

“Harry ended up in the cryochamber—”

“That was a one-off—” noted the youngest Charmed One, clicking her pen out of habit, until Macy glared. “Oh—sorry—” Maggie put her pen down.

“And his amnesia—”

“Which was because of a microchip—”

“At—at the same time—I also remember Maya.” Macy’s eyes softened at the recollection of the little girl, eager to learn of everything scientific and magical. “I want all of those experiences. With her. And Harry.” She swallowed hard, suppressing the sobs that threatened to resurface. This particular dream had seemed so damn vivid. “I don’t want the awful. The horrible. The scary magical bits.”

“But life doesn’t work like that. Because we’re—”

“Charmed Ones. I get it, I do. But why do we have to suffer? Why can’t I just…y’know, live happily ever after in a nice house with my sisters, my hot husband, and cute future kids?”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You mean, your formerly dead self with your hot dead hubs and kids that exist through purely mystical means?”

Right. “Well…I mean…” Macy paused, fiddling with her wedding ring atop her left finger, shining just as brightly as the day she and her husband had wed.

“If it weren’t for magic…” Maggie let the statement linger, her eyes meeting her sister’s own.

“I wouldn’t be. Or Harry.” Macy ruminated, collecting her thoughts as she looked around Maggie’s room, focusing on the ballerina jewelry box that Mel had given Maggie for a birthday present, under the guise of Ray. “I can’t cherry pick the good parts, can I?” A moment of realization. “The menacing magic from the good, the terrible from the beautiful, the mundane from the extraordinary—"

“You tell me, Dr. Vaughn,” Maggie closed her notebook. “I read awhile ago that you can’t control everything, but you can control your reaction.”

Macy thought back to the oversized teddy bears. “In my dreams, though?”

“Confronting your worst fears. Facing them directly. And eventually, conquering them.”

“But how the heck do I conquer a giant teddy bear in Paris?” Macy puzzled over the utterly absurd thought, envisioning herself taking a toy sword to the oversized creature. In what reality?! “And Harry in Bridgerton, with eight kids and amnesia—”

Maggie bit back a smile. “Macy, see the forest for the trees.”

“Meaning…?”

“It’s not just a giant teddy bear. Like how it’s not just Viscount Edmund. The root of it all is—” Maggie paused, waiting for Macy to make the connection.

“Harry.” Macy exhaled slowly. “The giant teddy bear—looming thoughts of kids. Motherhood. Parenthood.”

“Edmund?”

Macy reflected for a few moments before answering. “M-mortality. Mortality and fatherhood.”

“Ok. Mortality and parenthood. So, Mace, what’re you gonna do about that?”

“Uh….” For once, Macy couldn’t think of an answer.

“And worrying’s not a long-term solution,” Maggie added.

“I mean, we talk,” Macy was quick to say, but her sister shook her head.

“Besides that—anything?”

“Try not to think about it?”

Maggie frowned. “That’s not sustainable. Take it as inevitable—you will die. Harry will too—”

“No. NO! I mean—no…I can’t, I just. No.” Macy rose from her chair, making as if to leave, but Maggie stopped her, muttering a few words as a rope sidled forth mid-air, tying her wrist to her seat as the eldest Charmed One pulled and squirmed.

“Seriously, Mags? Brujeria on your own sis?”

“Mace, look—just—just hear me out, ok? Please?” Maggie inhaled. Exhaled. “Think about Harry for a moment.”

“I always do—”

“Ok, but—two hundred years in the future. Who’s there? What’s there?”

“Ummm….” the oldest Charmed One thought aloud. Vera Manor? Likely in need of repair. Derelict or abandoned at worst. Maggie, Mel, and herself? Long since gone. A single familial crypt or headstones, bearing their names. Their birth and death dates. Children borne. Mother, sister, friend—

And Harry? She visualized a lone figure, eternally youthful, visiting the graves of the lost—his former charges. Weeping openly. Sleeping at the foot of Macy’s—

Macy paused, tears prickling at her eyelids. “Oh my God.” With that, the rope unraveled. Several minutes passed as she ran through her list of options. Of acceptance of Harry’s mortality choice. And what could possibly happen if and when he passed. “A will? So our kids would be cared for, worst case scenario?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a decent start,” Maggie replied softly. “And you have two sisters who’d make amazing godmothers.”

“I know, Mags. I know.”

“And as for CPR—” Macy stopped, remembering at once Jordan was in Colorado. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s ok.” Maggie blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling then back at her sister.

“I think…maybe…just maybe, Jordan’ll come back. I’m sure he will."

"But—” Maggie hesitated. “Is it too late?” I’ve waited so long—too long—if I’d only professed my feelings—

As if reading her sister’s thoughts, Macy smiled gently, thinking of her own saga. “No, Mags. It’s never too late.”

Chapter Text

I’m unstoppable—

The lyrics to Sia’s “Unstoppable” rang through her ears as the punctuated thrumming of weaponry, mystical, magical, emanated all around her. She felt a certain degree of satisfaction, brushing her mahogany curls off her shoulder as flames flickered within her outstretched hand.

I’m invincible—

This duel would end swiftly, she knew, and then back to Vera Manor she would return—to Harry, hearth, and home. Maybe he would have that roast rack of lamb with the mint sauce. And perhaps wear that stylish pair of glasses she secretly had a thing for.

I’m so powerful—

“OW!” she flinched, an arrow or some other flying object scraping her shoulder. ‘Tis but a flesh wound, she told herself, quoting Monty Python as she sought to forge onward, channeling the inner strength of Wonder Woman, having seen the film mere days before, but as she threw another fireball then one more after that, she sensed a changing tide of darkness—and defeat—as one fireball ricocheted in the miasmic wilderness far beyond, hitting her squarely in the chest—

Early Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“FUCK!” Macy jolted awake, her chest painfully throbbing. Was this a residual side effect of the necromancer’s curse? Something about fiery—and swollen—chest pain? She flinched as she dragged a tenuous finger over her front. Of course, Harry was long gone. It’d been days since he’d told her of his upcoming meeting with Celeste. And so he had made his departure. However temporary, though it felt like forever…

Pulling herself into an upright position, she reached for her phone, which of course held the ten-plus open Reddit tabs on the worst possible scenarios for gestating a tiny human. My baby should have been born with a brain, read one. My child decimated my house, read another. How 1^st trimester destroyed my will to live—and so on. Last night’s internet search into the darkest of possibilities. Allowing herself a modicum of happiness tended to have odd consequences—she thought back to all of her exes, none of whom survived. What if I let myself be joyful—and it’s all gone in a flash? What if there’s no—this? Us? Harry?

Given all she had allowed herself to see the previous evening, internet searching through one rabbit hole then another…dozen, she had begin to believe that her—their—starting a family was in fact a highly delusional idea. Ludicrous. Crazy, given the state of the world today. Shaking her head, she winced, then donned a stylish navy dress, perfect for a board meeting later that morning to discuss the pro bono legal clinic at SafeSpace. Hearing a chime, it was Swan, a text about notes at the ready. Of course, she would read Swan’s briefings beforehand—they had never steered them wrong.

Fifteen Minutes Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy paused in front of the coffee machine, holding one bag of beans, comparing it to the other three, none of which seemed particularly appealing, oddly for her. Yawning, she reached for a mustard-colored ceramic cup—the same as that very photo of herself and Harry all those many months ago, which brought a nostalgic smile to her face. Placing a teabag within her cup, she heated a pot of boiling water, pouring the substance, letting simmer for another couple of minutes before setting the teabag aside.

She turned around, contemplating the empty, sunlit kitchen, envisioning multiple possible realities. What if I baked muffins for my daughter’s fundraiser? What if Harry made blueberry pancakes with smiley faces for our kids—

Inhaling sharply, she shook her head—no. No. The harsh other outcomes, those imagined horrors, soon emerged—an empty kitchen table save her and a lonely child. Or her, alone, planning a funeral. She knew the statistics—she’d read up on them all this past week—trying to convince herself that this time, just this once, maybe things could be different. That maybe, just maybe, she could allow herself the faintest glimmer of bliss. But here she was. Talking yourself out of everything, how’s that for a Friday, Dr. Vaughn? Macy mused to herself sardonically, continuing to take slow sips of her tea.

Perhaps her doubts meant she should—they should postpone things. Had Harry acted too fast, seeking Celeste’s guidance? And why Celeste of all witches? She had never been all that supportive. Even from the start. Then again, postponing meant waiting, all this annoying…waiting. But for what? Godot?

Her phone chimed. Another text. Groaning, Macy reached for a piece of dry toast, her stomach churning at the thought of more SafeSpace board meetings. Secretly, she wanted to be woken up by newborn cries, not work and all that entailed, though she would never admit that out loud. Feeling another piercing sensation atop her chest, she briefly contemplated reaching for a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. The meeting’s only half an hour. You’ll live through this. You always do.

Was it possible she was experiencing latent magical manifestations of stress? Blinking, she finished the last of her toast just as Mel marched in for her daily scrambled eggs. “You ok, Mace?” her eyes fell on the oldest Charmed One. “You look…”

“Worried.” Macy finished Mel’s sentence. Harry’s been at Celeste’s for too long. Something’s not right—

Understanding Macy’s familiar concerned expression, Mel sought to assuage. “Mace, I’m sure he’s fine—"

“Fine,” Macy repeated slowly. “Fine, as in—” she paused, thinking back to every other time Mel claimed Harry would be fine. That mission with Jordan that had led to a stint in a sub-zero cryochamber and amnesia. That time he’d been unceremoniously thrown from Vera Manor attic’s elegant crystalline window, its shards pouring forth akin to a winter’s snowfall as he himself lay dazed in the flower bushes below. Knotting the bread bag, she used her sight to place it next to the cutting board, but instead it landed atop the refrigerator, causing Mel’s eyes to narrow. What the—

Macy swallowed hard, stomach acid roiling within. “Fine…I’m sure…he’s…fine,” she muttered not-so-convincingly before hurrying off to SafeSpace.

Simulation Crystal, Tessera Nightclub, Manchester, England

After nearly falling asleep at her SafeSpace meeting—exhaustion—Macy chided herself, she found herself at Tessera Nightclub, her cheek pressed to the marble countertop. Too awake to sit in bed all day and too tired to consult at a desk, she had decided to bring some reading material here of all places. Someplace safe from smells, of which she chalked up to stress and anxiety of Harry’s mortality, not to mention Jordan’s sudden departure to Colorado.

“Mocktail?”

“Something to wake the dead,” Macy muttered as the server nodded just outside her line of sight, proceeding to blend a fruit-filled fusion drink of some sort. “Thanks,” the oldest Charmed One spoke again as the nonalcoholic beverage landed before her. She took a tentative sip, then another. “Wow,” she breathed, feeling herself almost immediately rejuvenated.

“Ginger, lime, seltzer, and a hint of lemon—”

Macy stopped in her tracks, lifting her head. She knew that British lilt anywhere, positively dripping with conceit. “YOU.”

“What, you expected Angry Spice?” came the sly retort, and for once, Macy didn’t have the strength to argue.

“Poisoning me?”

“Your sister wouldn’t think so highly if I did,” the British woman responded with a drawl. “And no, this was a centuries-old recipe I used to brew for dear old mum when she was pregnant with my little sister.”

“Why’re you here?” Macy asked, trying to regain her bearings.

“Why is anyone here? That’s quite the metaphysical question du jour, non? But we all had an agreement, you see, with that simulation crystal. A time-share, if you recall correctly—Mel and I do afternoons, and you and Harry have your fun at night—” She studied Macy carefully. “Though you could have warned me in advance if you planned your seltzer sojourn in the earlier hours?”

"I'm fine," retorted Macy, who pulled out her papers and set to work. One contract clause there, another here. Two building code areas to review…soon enough, one hour turned into another. Turning around, she spotted a lovely chaise couch that hadn’t been there before, sighing as she sank into its amethyst silken velvet depths.

A few hours later, a certain British-accented gentleman showed up, expressive eyes and all. “Have you seen my wife?”

The woman behind the counter pointed to the chaise sofa. “Passed out cold. Exhaustion—” as Harry hurried to Macy’s side, noticing her work scattered about. A stab of guilt hit him; he had been gone for so long. But no matter…carefully placing each paper in the portfolio, he gently swung his wife across his shoulder and into his arms as he bade a terse but polite goodbye to the female Brit across the counter.

Front Entrance, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy awoke to a familiar Old Spice scent, vaguely registering deliciously muscular arms carrying her across the Vera Manor threshold. Strong, sturdy—“Harry!” she gasped, realizing it was he who carried her. “It—it worked?” she whispered as he nodded.

“An experimental phase—” however permanent or temporary, were Harry’s implied words.

Rather than speak, she chased his utterance with a sprinkling of kisses—his forehead, his cheeks—his lips—as he orbed themselves upstairs to enjoy the evening together, happily so.

Chapter Text

A Few Mornings Later, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Slender fingers intertwined with his own, he smiled, his eyes still closed, as rays of gentle sunlight shone bit by bit through their bedroom window. He moved his other hand, shifting just so, fondling those luscious mahogany curls of which he was so fond, its owner even more so—

BEEP! BEEP!

“Alas, seductive interruptus…” he grumbled under his breath as Macy bit back a laugh; she stroked his chest, listening closely for the predictable and nevertheless elegant beat of his sturdy, unwavering, altogether mortal—heart.

“There will be time…” murmured she, as her arm swept across the bedside table for her phone, the source of the sound. Her calm, however, melted into one of confusion—and incredulity, besides—

"I'm late." A statement, not a question.

Harry rose to a seated position, his back flush against the oaken headboard. Macy Vaughn was never late. “For a board meeting?” he postulated, brows furrowed, mouth prissily pursed.

If it had been any other day, she would have tossed the phone aside. Kissed him, madly, unrelentingly so, their forms melding and intertwining against the silken smooth summer blend sheets, without the barest semblance of a care in the world.

She shook her head. Gave him a pointed look as the screen flashed before his eyes, a circular calendar app denoting days of fertility and early cycle trends besides. It took another moment for him to realize precisely what he was looking at; thankfully, his Women’s Studies position had not been for naught.

“Wha—oh.” Ohhhhhhh. He inhaled sharply. "Late as in—?"

"It's stress," Macy answered uncertainly, her chest blossoming rather fuller than the week before, he astutely noticed the very moment she answered. How had I not seen this change before? He pondered the possibilities, wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was a little passenger within, one who would make themselves more known in the many months and years to follow.

His mind raced with the possibilities. Perhaps I could wear my baby in one of those cloth wraps as I do my morning cooking. Harry visualized the scenario, replete with the scent of peonies in a glass vase on the kitchen table, the delicious waft of sausages sizzling in an open pan, eggs carefully curdling and scrambling, his hand deftly adjusting the stovetop dials, as he continued to stir and mind his little one. Maybe he’d even wear a chef’s apron. No, not maybe—definitely. Of course he would. And so too, might his baby. Like father, like son—or daughter. Harry’s eyes positively softened at the thought, so lost he was in that lovely reverie—

“H-Harry?”

Instantly, he was catapulted back to the present. “Yes, love?” He turned toward her, tucking a curl behind her ear, not before kissing it. For heaven’s sake, she was trembling like a leaf…

"I-I've been thinking, Harry. What if we're moving too fast? Kids, mortality—"

"What are you saying? You don't want either?" The words tumbled out faster than his mind could possibly flow. Please, no, Macy, let it not be so! Please. I’ll man SafeSpace for all the years of my life—take you to Paris—first class—bring you breakfast—love you in the only way I know how—ephemeral flesh, bones, all—however temporary, however transient—

"No--nonono...I just—I mean—" she fixed her gaze upon him as he swept a second curl aside. "Maybe we should...slow down? Press the pause button?” Her hands fidgeted amongst themselves as she stared at them before glancing back at Harry, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “At least until the mortality thing's sorted out?"

Worry—and fear—was plainly etched throughout her exhausted visage. She had had to deal with so much turmoil and pain and loss, not just of her father and mother, but of the past loves she had ever known, even if those had been antiquated history. In his esteemed opinion anyways.

This little consolation, this…waiting…he could at the very least afford her. "If this is truly what you wish, Macy—" he enunciated each word, to avoid any possible misunderstanding that could ever result. Whatever will make you at ease. Provide you happiness.

She nodded resolutely. "It is."

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Less than half an hour later, the pair found themselves downstairs, Macy’s stomach loudly rumbling. "Wow, I could really go for a—" she silently imagined something sweet, not to mention…something sour. “Berry…pickle…something—"

No sooner had she thought it, a berry tart materialized in front of her from its original place in the refrigerator. Plus a neat slicing of pickles from a Ziplock bag that had been in the crisper drawer previously. Garnish. A banana too, which plucked itself midair from the fruit bowl several feet away.

What in the…Harry met Macy's eyes. “Pardon my speech, but did that tart just...bloody…materialize?” He blinked. “And the pickle? "Are you absolutely certain—" he paused. "You're not...with child?" he ended in a whisper, absorbing the scene with equal parts awe and utter shock. The wonky telekinesis, her sudden voluptuousness. Her odd appetite. Everything began to make sense.

 "I mean, there's no way...when did we last...?" Macy’s voice rang out uncertainly.

Realizing he was gaping, his mouth suddenly dry--should he feel intrigued or offended at her forgetting his ardent admiration of her beauteous form? He found his voice once more. "Those nights thence? The simulation crystal?"

"That-that's not possible..." she whispered. "Couples only have a 30% chance per month on average...I thought..."

"What about Paris?"

"That was only one time..." A particularly memorable, brightly-lit, otherworldly, mind-blowing experience—her toes curled ever-so-slightly at the thought, the memory still etched into her brain with startlingly visceral clarity.

"It-it's probably me worrying about your mortality—"

His eyes narrowed, surveying her closely. "You passed out at Tessera Nightclub the other day. Mace, you must find respite—I’ll do the grocery shopping for us both—"

"I'm fine!" she protested. Today, the one day in which she was SafeSpace meeting-free, she'd made it her mission to be of use—

"No! No, you're clearly not. Stay here and rest—I absolutely insist—" he orbed away despite her protestations.

Alleyway to Interior, Grocery Store, Seattle, Washington

Peering at his grocery list, Harry realized it was days like these he missed Jordan. His friendly ways. His first aid kit prowess. His intuitive nature. If there was, of course, anything to intuit. Making his way through the outer corridor to the main entrance then within, he checked the list again. Pickles. Fresh blackberries. How odd…Macy had never made such a specific request for berries before, though they certainly contained antioxidants and were quite hydrating. And pickles? Never, in all the time that he had known her.

No chocolate either. He sped through the enumerated items, none of which remotely contained any semblance of cacao or caffeinated content.

What if…

What if Macy…his Macy…were…?

On a whim, he decided to pick up a pregnancy test. 

Perhaps, soon, there would be answers.

Chapter Text

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

After her breakfast (pickle and berry tart was definitely one eclectic combination!) she found herself upstairs in her bedroom, facing the mirror. Changing her clothes from pajamas to the blue paisley patterned summer dress that went with a certain strapless bra, she paused after donning the brassiere—

An electric jolt painfully shot through her upper chest.

“What the—” Macy winced, clutching at the sensitive, altogether sore spot, glancing again at the mirror. She gasped as her chest suddenly felt prickled by invisible shards of glass—turning—twisting—crinkling—creasing—tightening—

She stared around wildly, wondering as to this invisible force’s cause.

A rogue experimentation from weeks before?

Macy shook her head, brow furrowed. Impossible. Every experiment, even the rogue ones, never had aftereffects lasting this long into the month. There was simply no way. What about—she stared at the ceiling, contemplating—

That time she drank Mel’s time lapse potion, ridding herself of wizened wrinkles and silvery curled streaks?

Macy made a mental note to inquire as to the potion’s ingredients and long-term side effects, returning her gaze once more to the long, sleek mirror. If logic followed, her younger sister would be exhibiting identical symptoms. But she hadn’t heard from Maggie as to that, and she knew her sister to be particularly vocal about anything affecting the human body.

What then?

A prematurely aged chest? A female cardiovascular episode?

Perhaps if she were in her sixties, neglecting her health. But she, Macy Vaughn, was supposed to be in the so-called prime of her life, having just jogged rings around Harry days before, while Harry pleaded for respite, complaining abjectly about a stitch—a cramp—in his side—gasping for breath, leaning against the closest stop sign.

Far be it for her to dream. Of happier tomorrows. A beautiful future—

Sure, she had Harry. Her husband. But history and early childhood had told her, taught her, time and time again, that true happiness was fleeting. At times, though she would not admit it to anyone, least of all her spouse, she felt as though she were a magnet for darkness. Bad luck. Unfortunate happenstance. A pox upon a—

She sighed. Inhaled. Exhaled slowly. There’s no use getting freaked out about a stitch in your—chest—she told herself, massaging the area—now areas—ruefully. A bag of frozen peas from the freezer later. Maybe a visit to the doctor after that.

But…what if?

Macy thought back to the dream she’d had a night or two ago.

A little boy, sleeping in a fabric Harkla sensory swing, beautiful sweeping hazel hair that would one day turn a deep chestnut like his father. Whose eyes blinked open with a cheeky remark, for he was all about being silly. Smart. Saucy. Just like his mother. Just like—

Macy.

She felt a sudden mild set of cramps in her lower abdomen. Curious, she peered sidelong at her reflection, her eyes widening as she noticed a distinct pooch—as if it were—a pregnant belly—in miniature—

Macy let out a deep breath, attempting to calm herself. It—it’s just bloat. Definitely bloat.

Right?

But the glass shard-like feeling atop her chest was impossible to ignore, along with said chest feeling too constricted against the strapless piece. Wrenchingly so. Having prepared for every minor mishap, clothing, science, or otherwise, she walked some feet more to her bureau, rummaged around, and found a bra extender which she promptly snapped into place.

Ahhhhhh. Much better.

Her body, for whatever reason, was changing. Had been changing—quickly—in a matter of days, or weeks. How had she not noticed before, such happenings?

SafeSpace had kept her busy. Sure, vanquishings too. Those trips to Paris. The allergy. All those—

 She forced whatever modicum of possible joy away. I-I’m not ready. Am I? And Harry? She put on her paisley dress, thanking the heavens the front was a billowy empire-waisted style. Less awkward questions from strangers, mortal and magical alike.

Ok, Harry was probably ready, Macy admitted to herself, having seen him gaze off into space in silent reverie, smiling to himself in a way he had with Carter’s young son back in Manchester (according to Mel). And the way he carried their potions ingredients in that duffel tote bag? It reminded her of commercials featuring stylish men with diaper bags and chubby-cheeked babies. Made her want his babies even more—though she’d only admit that to herself, in the privacy of the bedroom.

Make that—she turned this way and that—definitely ready.

She shook her head in the next moment, mahogany curls glittering in the filtered curtained sunlight. Vaughn, you’re ridiculous. Get your head outta the clouds. Have a reality check—

Whatever.

On a whim, she turned on her phone, shuffling to a random song. Ed Sheeran’s “Afterglow.”

If ever she felt stressed or anxious, she need only turn to dance. And song. And so she did, humming the lyrics.

You should see the way the light dances off your head…

We were love drunk, waiting on a miracle

She swayed, eyes closed, moving to the beat of the music, not hearing a silent whoosh as a familiar figure landed, opening their bedroom door.

Tryna find ourselves in the winter snow

So alone in love like the world had disappeared…

A creak upon the oaken floor, and she glanced up, startled. How long had he been there?

“S-sorry, Harry, I was just—” she stammered as he uttered a soft chuckle.

“No need to explain, love,” murmured he. “I love when you dance. And sing. Comme un ange…”

Oh. Macy bit her lip. Like an angel.

“Did you get the groceries?” she asked in the next second; he nodded, one hand behind his back.

“They’re already put away downstairs. I did pick up one last thing--?”

She tilted her head, intrigued. An extra pound of flour? Herbs for the next potion? An extra duffel bag for ingredients to transport to SafeSpace?

Much to her surprise, he revealed the item in his hand. A small box—

She inhaled sharply. A pregnancy test.

Chapter Text

Macy's Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Harry…” Macy murmured low, her eyes searching his. “Is that? That’s not a—” she paused. If she said it out loud, allowed her dreams to take hold, it was just that much faster they could be vulnerable, be taken away, be snatched away into the darkness that had once upon a time, brought her back into the world of the living through shadowy means.

If she kept silent, maintained a modicum of denial—perhaps she could be afforded respite, however temporary. A glassy world of innocence. Her and him, happily married, magical, but what else was new?

“It is, love,” he offered the box to her. This—this—pregnancy test. “I suggest you take it to assuage your—” he coughed indelicately, “—ourselves—of your present health status—”

At this, she immediately bristled. “Harry, I’m fine—”

“You are looking particularly curvaceous—voluptuous—as of late—” he remarked as Macy’s eyebrows shot up.

“Harry, did you just call me fat?!”

Bollocks, Harry thought to himself. This definitely wasn’t going according to plan. “Love, far from it,” he reassured her. “It’s simply that your collection of symptoms lends itself to a certain delicate condition—”

Delicate, my ass. “I’m not fragile!” she shot back, her journal and water bottle rattling feet away on her nightstand, the mirror too—

“I—I never said you were fragile—or—f-fat—” Harry muttered, as her pajamas ricocheted off the wall’s edge, bouncing loudly into the now-open closet door. And were those gym shorts floating atop the ceiling?

Bloody hell.

He counted silently to five then spoke once more. “Love, you’ve passed out once—”

“I was tired—”

“You’ve wanted frozen peas on your…brassiere—”

“PMS—”

“Those dreams of yours—”

“Too much cookie dough ice cream—”

“Your tum—” before she could get a word in edgewise, he stepped forward, enveloping Macy’s softly protruding bump in front of the mirror. That was impossible to deny.

Blinking rapidly, she felt tears prickle her lids. “What’s wrong, Mace? I thought you…we…wanted this?” Harry inquired gently as Macy nodded quickly.

“I-I know. I do. It’s just—” she turned to face him, his visage mere inches from hers. That cologne of his smelt of dense forest, as though she were surrounded by full-fledged evergreens, cinnamon spice forest, eucalyptus, and far more—“What if I really am pregnant?” Macy paused. “I’m scared—”

“Of what, love?” came his answer, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek as she sighed. A singular touch. All she ever needed.

“Of—of everything. Obstetric stuff. Birthing—the statistics are abysmal. Then magic. Balancing that with keeping our child safe. The newborn parts I’ve already got a schedule down from Instagram’s baby psychologist—”

“Right, love—” Harry bit back a smile.

Macy paused. “What?”

“Mace, we have all the time in the world for worries. I recall something you told me your father once said. ‘Don’t go borrowing problems.’ Right?”

She nodded. “True. But the magic part—”

“Will get sorted. In good time. Besides, what better parents to raise a magical child than one of the most powerful witches of the era and a Whitelighter? With kind aunts, also extraordinarily powerful?”

“But the statistics—”

“Considering the whole of the country, and abysmal though it is, I’ve heard SafeSpace offers excellent health insurance coverage for upper management. And has multicultural diversity within its ranks of superb, highly-attentive physicians.” Much as he disliked that Shea fellow, he had provided more than adequately for his employees’ needs…

“Yes…” Macy thought aloud. “Really flexible too, covers holistic remedies and alternative treatment…personalized medicine…full maternity care…”

“On that assumption, you do have a higher likelihood of a quality obstetrician and optimal birth outcome—”

“Maybe, but…” Another thought occurred to her. “I’m an only child—or raised as one. I—” she stopped, a tear falling as Harry kissed the spot on her cheek where it had fallen, “I never had a mother those years. I—I d-don’t know h-how to be a mom—”

More tears, as Harry’s heart silently broke for her. She sat atop their bed, head in hands as he sat at her side, rubbing her shoulder, making soothing soft noises until those tears, too, eventually abated several long minutes later. Throughout, he fixed his eyes on the curlicued navy-gold wallpaper, focusing on each and every swirl and twirl, thinking of their shared dance those years before, beneath the glowing tealights of Vera Manor Garden, ivy woven about the high wooden trellis overhead.

If he closed his eyes, he could still imagine that evening.

Each orbed glass surrounding a flickering flame of promise, illuminating the heady darkness, one connected to the other, akin to a luminous comingled union of gentle, lovely spirits…

Their making of light, their transpiring, their very existence, despite every and all odds. She, reborn of a necromancer, he, come to life as a Whitelighter…

Her curls. Those curls. That spiced and altogether lovely scent she always, even now, wore, though her aroma as of late had grown with mysterious, unnamed depth, of which he intended to explore…

The way her eyes reflected sensuality, readiness, beauty—and later, fiery passion the likes of which he had never known prior as her back lain pressed firmly against the wall as she maintained her position atop a chair, as they gave and received pleasure, breathtakingly, beautifully so…

I want you, Harry Greenwood. Her words, as his eyes widened.

And in response, her laugh that warmed the cockles of his heart, as she raised an eyebrow. Repeated those words. Again. I want you. Harry Greenwood.

Oh, love. I want you too. I hunger for you. Most ardently. My Macy.

My love.

Wiping the vestiges of tears off her visage, she gave Harry a shaky smile. “Must be hormones?”

He kissed her forehead, tucking a stray curl beneath an ear. “Only one way to find out, love.”

“I know we’re in a decent enough position to be parents, Harry,” Macy spoke aloud. “You’ve got your savings, I’ve got a job. But what about your mortality path?”

“Like I said before love, don’t borrow problems. Soul softeners aside, it’s been a remarkably rapid process—”

Macy thought back at a previous conversation with Celeste, in which they both paused, interrupted by juvenile Harry running back and forth, arms outstretched in the air without a care in the world. Macy had frowned back then, but it was considering what fatherhood would do to such a Harry. And a smaller part wondering if this could be what her—their—future children could be like. One day. “The side effects? Are they…” she searched for the word. “Prolonged?”

Harry shook his head. “Strong? Yes. Long-lasting? Highly doubtful.”

Okay. Macy inhaled. Exhaled.

“You have one more topic on your mind, love?” Harry read her visage so well.

“Do we have what it takes?”

Rather than reply, Harry walked to her nightstand drawer, retrieving the drawing from Maya, their simulation crystal imaginings of a child, if they ever had one. Macy enveloped the paper’s edges within her fingers, one hand reaching out to trace the letters of the little girl’s name. Maya. Maya Madalena.

“She believes you do. And so do I,” Harry murmured.

With that, she put her hand out. Harry glanced at it, confused. “The test, Harry, the test—”

Oh…Ohhhhhhh. Right. “Here we are, then,” he handed the box to her as she made her way to her bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Turning the fluorescent lights on, a garish pearly hue, she stared at the cellophane package. My future, determined by a single stick?

Ripping off the wrapper, she examined the lettering. Test no more than six days before your period. The statistics were an odd bunch. Day 6: 70% chance of detecting pregnancy. Day 5: 81%. Days 3-4: 94%. Days 1-2: 98% accuracy of pregnancy detection.

Part of her scientific brain wondered about the biochemical markers that delineated day six from day five. Days three and four from day one. And what if someone were in that obscure 2% outlier on day one? They could go all their pregnancy not knowing they housed a baby!

This seemed, on its face, a potentially inexact science. Pulling out one stick, also plastic-wrapped, she briefly contemplated mailing a letter to the company on the benefits of biodegradable materials. And why was the plastic wrap so difficult to tear open?

If you looked at it one way, it almost resembled an individually packaged elongated tea cookie. Biscuits. Tea cookies. Earl Grey.

What if Harry taught their children how to have a high tea? Stuffed animals, a tiny table, seats all around, enough even for her sisters and their significant others should they appear. He would boil the water atop the kitchen stove using a kettle (‘microwaved water is blasphemy’) she imagined him teaching those wide-eyed ones, hair curly as her own, chestnut akin to his. Once the water boiled, he would set it aside to cool slightly for little ones, then bring the item forth atop a tea cozy on the table, carefully topping a spoonful of herb within a silver sifter. Or he’d allow them. Those small children would watch, transfixed, as the color change would be immediate, a clear transparent hue deepening to umber—

She heard a knock, instantly jolted from her reverie. “Mace, are you alright?” Harry.

Sucking in breath through her teeth, she gave her reply. “I’m fine!” she called out, imagining his shoulders sagging in relief. “Just getting this plastic—ugh—thing—open!” The test flew out of her hands, inches away from the floor—

Macy caught it, drawing it toward her awaiting hand.

Therein begins the test.

A deep intake of breath, as it began.

Here goes nothing.

Flushing the toilet, she exited their bathroom.

“Are you?”

Macy nearly jumped out of her skin. “Jesus, Harry—” He’d been watching from less than a foot away.

“I’m only asking—”

“Takes three minutes, starting—” she clicked her phone’s stopwatch. “Now.”

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

Four…

The stopwatch chimed.

“Now what?” Harry asked. Shall you? Or I?

Both he and Macy stared at the closed bathroom door as if it held a grenade.

“Um…” Macy began. “I…did the…uh…first half. Gave a sample. Your turn—” she blushed.

“Me?” Harry exclaimed. The interpretation of such results likely involved a scientific mind. Macy’s own, no?

“Yes, you—”

“But what if I can’t read it right?”

Oh for all the—“Ok, that’s juvenile Harry—”

“I’m really quite serious, if you must know—"

Macy held the opened paper box in front of him. “Plus sign, positive, one line, no. Got it?”

Nodding wordlessly, he grabbed the proffered paper item from her grasp, making his way to the bathroom. Plus sign positive, one line no. Plus sign positive, one line—

OH.

He took another glance at the stick, dangling precariously atop the countertop’s ledge.

Definitely, without a doubt—

“Harry?” Macy.

The plus sign was such a lovely sapphire hue.

Genius, really. Where had this technology been in the 1940s? Impressive, modernity.

Then it hit him.

No longer were he and his wife alone. Well, alone was a relative term, with Mel and Maggie occupying the house. Laughter, reading, frolicking. Picnics aplenty. Lullabies in Macy’s melodious voice, teaching their child, imparting the gift of song…

The blossoming of springtime, and along with it, Macy’s burgeoning belly, the kicks and tumbles within indicative of new life. Their new life. Those terrific tomorrows. And tomorrow, it seemed, began—

Today.

“Harry? You ok in there?” It was Macy. Again.

He cradled the stick within his hands, checking to see that the sapphire plus sign was there. He breathed in relief. Strong, definitive. Still there. Was it possible to impart a future child’s personality on the tenacity of pregnancy tests results alone?

Carrying the object behind his back to an awaiting Macy, he sat. “Are you ready?” He gave her a studied look.

“Y-yes. Yes, Harry. I…I guess I am.”

And all was revealed before her eyes as he displayed the stick for her view. A plus sign. Unmistakably so. “Oh Harry…” she whispered. “We’re going to be—”

“Parents,” he answered, now himself shedding a tear. Before she could stop him, he bent low, ear to her belly, then murmured. “Hullo, Little Bean. Mummy and Daddy can’t wait to meet you.”

Then he rose, kissing Macy soundly on the lips.

Once upon a time, there was a witch, and her Whitelighter…

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal  

Listening to the faint remnants of Ed Sheeran’s “Afterglow” fading into the distance, Harry intertwined his fingers with Macy’s as they watched the raising of the flag in preparation for weeks hence, Bastille Day.

I will hold on tighter ‘til the afterglow

And we’ll burn so bright ‘til the darkness softly clears…

“Our world, it’s changing, isn’t it?” Macy posited, nuzzling into the crook of Harry’s neck as he nodded, gazing into the distance.

“Aye, love, that it is.”

The weather outside’s changing…

This is a new dimension

This is a level where we’re losing track of time…

Chapter Text

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Curls aflutter, Macy perused Youtube, yawning, searching for a song to start the day. Scrolling down, she smiled. Found it. And—play.

All dreams start out small,

Sometimes you don’t know they’re there at all…

Shel’s “I Was Born a Dreamer” lyrics spilled forth from Macy’s phone as she hummed along, the flowing, ethereal lyrics warming her from within, sunlight drenched upon the linen sheets she shared with her husband. Her Harry.

Still humming, Harry sleeping all the while, she quietly slipped out of bed, tiptoeing to her hope chest at the foot of the mattress, reaching tenuously within for her journal and pencil.

But I lay awake wishing on the stars,

All the while knowing in my heart…

Back into the covers she went. Brow furrowed, she began drawing. Imagined Harry’s subtle smile that belied his British origin. Her own curls, upon a tiny visage. Dimples? Maybe—no, make that—probably. She added a gentle slope to those imagined cheeks, placing an index finger atop a linear edge for a wistful, wonderful chiaroscuro effect.

“Who’s that?” Harry.

She turned toward him. “Um…nobody—” making as if to hide the drawing from his curious glance, but he was quicker, seizing the journal despite her gentle protestations.

“Harry—” Oh my God. He’s gonna think I’m insane—

“Hardly. Quite charming, really—” his perturbed expression relaxed into a smile reserved for puppies, kittens, and Carter’s youngest-born.

Uh. Macy blushed. Had she said that last part out loud? Apparently.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Harry examined the portraiture sketch a second time as Macy nodded, somewhat hesitantly.

“I guess you could say…our future kid? If it’s a girl…”

His arm curled gently around her bump in the next second as he brushed away mahogany curls to kiss her forehead, then finally, her sumptuous lips. “How are you feeling? About—” he gestured, trying to put words to the utterly indescribable magic within her, “—this? All of this?”

A glance to her lap, hands fidgeting as they always did as she gathered her thoughts. “Happy. Happy, Harry. Nervous too. Excited. Kind—kind of scared too—” she stopped, meeting his eyes. “What about you?”

“Absolutely over the moon, love. Someday soon, there will be more of you to love.”

Macy smiled at those words, as the song continued.

I was born a dreamer

A wide-eyed believer in things unseen…

“Have you thought of how we’ll tell your sisters, love?” he continued, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Now that you mention it…” Macy bit her lip. It was fourth of July weekend, and it had been her turn to plan the appetizers.

Fourth of July, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington

Macy carefully regarded the few dishes she’d put together. Or arranged. With the help of a certain Whitelighter whose culinary prowess was known to all.

Stir-fry with baby corn and a light Szechuan dipping sauce. She sniffed the dish, observing the miniature vegetables in prominent display.

Micro-green baby lettuce salad with organic vinaigrette. This she was unable to try, alas, due to what she’d read online earlier. Wash all greens, avoid the raw. But Harry assured her that the dish was crisp, palate-cleansing, and would meet Maggie’s vegan-ish standards.

Tom Thumb baby peas and miniature pearl onions. Green, al dente, succulent, with a ginger glaze to top all ginger glazes.

Here’s to us.

She glanced at the three dishes again, situated as they were beneath the glowing tea lights of the overhead trellis, interwoven with tendrils of glistening emerald ivy.

Baby corn. Baby lettuce. Baby peas. Baby onions.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Why was she so nervous, anyhow?

Ok, Vaughn, she told herself. Let’s do this.

Twenty Minutes Later, Fourth of July, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington

“Wow, these micro-greens are delish!” exclaimed Maggie, reaching across Mel’s arm to take another forkful, much to the latter’s annoyance.

“Maggie!”

“What?” The youngest Charmed One gave Mel a once-over. “Seriously, they are! And stop being so hangry!”

“Well if I could just get an appetizer I wouldn’t be so—”

“Ahem.” Macy cleared her throat as both sisters glanced upward in her direction, Harry seated at her side, his hand squeezing hers beneath the cover of the picnic table. “Uh…so…um…” she paused. “Sorry, I mean—notice anything about the appetizers?”

Mel and Maggie studied the three bowls. Baby corn. Mini greens. Pearlized onions—

“They’re, uh, organic?” Mel spoke up as she chewed on a piece of baby corn. “Hurry up, I’m starving—”

“Uh, yeah, but—”

Maggie narrowed her eyes at her older sister, who looked uncharacteristically nervous about her chosen dishes. And why were they holding hands? She knew that pose. That surreptitious stance. And side-eyeing—

She sniffed the air. And were those Harry’s cinnamon spice buns baking in the oven? Wasn’t that a breakfast thing? Breakfast buns? Baking in the—

Oven.

Unless—Maggie’s eyes widened. “Oh my gawd. Oh my gawd. Oh—”

“Mags? You ok there?” Mel glanced at her, completely confused.

“You’re pregnant!” Maggie exclaimed.

“What, what—no—wait—” Mel’s mouth went agape as she narrowed her eyes at her youngest sister, following her gaze to Macy and Harry. “Really?” ended the middle born Charmed One as Macy and Harry nodded.

Maggie let out an ear-splitting shriek straight into Mel’s ear as the latter winced. “Ahhhhhhhhhhcongratsomigawwwwwdddddd!!!!!!!” Maggie exclaimed, a single and altogether exuberant utterance as she raced forward, flinging her arms around Macy, Mel walking over to envelope Harry in a hug. Then exchanging—Maggie hugging Harry, Mel doing the same as for Macy.

Mel studied Macy closely. “How do you feel?” She noticed excitement, but a certain cloud of…fear?

“Um…” Macy spoke aloud. “Happy. Definitely happy. A little scared—”

“Why?” Maggie asked.

“I guess…I had Dexter. But I wasn’t raised by Marisol. I…I don’t know what it’s like to have a mom.”

“But you have us,” Mel replied, determinedly so. “Me and Mags. And I know you’ll be a fantastic mom.”

“R-really?” Macy was beginning to tear up. Pregnancy hormones. “Y-you mean it?”

“Definitely,” Maggie chimed in. “And you’ll make an awesome dad, Harry. You’ve always been one to us.”

“Why Margarita,” Harry spoke low. “That simply means the world to us both,” he continued, squeezing Macy’s hand, this time thrice.

I.

Love.

You.

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

And there they were once more, in cheerful, cosmopolitan, exquisite Paris, hand-in-hand, though their current sojourn looked a bit different.

Who can tell the measure of our dreams,

We may change the world if only we believe…

Sounded a bit different too, Macy noticed, Shel’s lyrics filtering through as they crossed the cobblestone street to face a local shop, decked out in lovely pale pink, exquisite blossoms decorating its storefront display, draping across the uppermost ledge windows. Azaleas, gardenias, cherry blossoms, and more. 'Saint Aymes' the sign read.

With the unknown road underneath my feet,

I leap behind my fears and find my destiny.

Two blossomed archways of pink roses and white magnolias sat directly in front of said storefront, along two cream-colored wrought iron benches, each adorned with a tiny pink table and two accompanying additional chairs each. And was that a delectable combination of frozen yogurt and salty pretzels she smelled?

“After you, love,” murmured Harry, as they proceeded into the quaint Parisian café, closing the door behind them.

Chapter Text

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie glanced up from her psychology homework, having burned the midnight oil, noticing her oldest sister stumbling in through the threshold, wincing at every step. Macy? What the—The youngest Charmed One angled her head, taking in her sister’s protracted movement, a certain emanation of…pain? Pleasure?

She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. “You ok, Mace?” she ventured cautiously as the latter began making a cup of tea. Peppermint, steeped for two minutes precisely.

Macy bit back a Cheshire grin as the water began to crawl to a boil. Her thighs felt as though she had run for miles, her glutes twinging at every turn. “I am now,” she practically smirked with a somewhat cryptic lift of an eyebrow as she continued to await the heated beverage.

Huh. Maggie made to speak, but closed her mouth the next second, unsure of exactly what to say—there was something unnervingly familiar about her sister’s pose. Those sure, sloping shoulders, her hair done just so to disguise the tangles they might have been as part of a tawdry night—

No way. She’s already preggers. They’re not—

Are they?

A discomfiting image in her head, Maggie’s brow furrowed, her eyes never once leaving Macy’s form as the tea kettle began to whistle. A cup was found from the cupboard, a mustard yellow ceramic one. A teabag, steeped, then deftly placed aside for later reuse. Macy lifted the cup to her lips, again disguising her expression, the hot liquid pouring forth, trickling down her throat.

Definitely needed after last night. God she’d been so vocal…

Macy thought back to that particular Leah Levi song “Magic,” belting from her phone, tossed several feet away, a certain privacy candle burnt to the very tip of its waxen, altogether waning end. 

I’m magic, I’m magic

I’m magical…

Leaving her homework for the time being, Maggie crept up to Macy and placed a tenuous hand upon her arm—

A singular touch upon her flowing curls later, Macy seized Harry’s hand, sucking lasciviously upon his finger, his eyes growing large.

“Is...it...safe?”

“Yes.” She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at his trepidation. Ugh. Day after day, blending into the other, sworn abstinence turned to sultry agony until she herself could take no more. For safety, had been the rationale, but nowhere in her recent medical searches had such a rationale been deemed remotely sufficient. Barring complications, of course. Knock on wood. Speaking of…she bit her lip and threw him another mischievous look.

“Are you absolutely sure?” He swallowed hard, making the well-intentioned deferential attempts at fortitude, all-too-aware of her burgeoning bump, the product of their earlier encounter a mere couple of months before.

“Yes, Harry,” she assented—yet again—with an upturned quirk of her sumptuous lips. Straddling him, she knelt close, whispering in his ear, stroking his chestnut locks, “I want you Harry Greenwood. Right here...” a finger of his swept her gown's strap, shoulder now bared—

“...Right now.”

With a lift of her forefinger, music, the song “Magic,” booming and bright—the lyrics shining through, their bodies growing increasingly intertwined—

When you see me I’m wild

I’m wild, wild and wonderful

“...As you wish...” came his answer, as he hugged her ever closer, breathing in the lovely scent of her flowing mahogany curls amid her heady gasps. More, Harry. More—please…yes…

You know I bring the heat…

I’ll take you to heaven and get down again…

Macy’s eyes reached for the nearest fabric—a deep fuchsia scarf to tie his wrists to the headboard—unsure of its origin, let alone ownership—

Maggie flinched, returning back to reality. “Omigawd you two!” she all but shrieked.

Ceramic mug shaking, Macy snapped back to earth, appearing just as scandalized. “Mags, boundaries!”

“That's MY scarf!” the youngest Charmed One’s mouth dropped open, a second, extremely unnerving thought settling in.

“Look, Mags, I didn’t—I swear—” Macy stumbled on her words. “I swear—must’ve gotten mixed up in the laundry—I really didn’t—”

“Ew, just—” Maggie shuddered, backing away, nearly tripping over the kitchen table as she gathered her books to take her leave. “Ew! Not normal. Not enough hand sanitizer in the world,” she muttered, exiting the kitchen.

“Perfectly normal...being we are quite nubile and wed,” Harry muttered, standing in the entryway before orbing away, nearly careening into preoccupied Mel.

Toting a couple of yoga mats, Mel paused in her footsteps, frowning at the dissipated scene she’d barely missed. “What's with her? And you? And Harry?”

Macy blushed. “Ummmm…”

Mel knew that look. A surreptitious Cheshire grin, an awkward holding of that particular ceramic tea mug. An attempt at faux casualness that didn’t hide a thing. A walk of shame if anything. “Mace, tell me you didn’t!”

“Uhhh….” Freud would have a field day—

“Oh my gawd, you horndogs!” 

Macy coughed indelicately. “Can we…just…not?” She seized one of the two yoga mats. “So…” she changed the subject abruptly. “Prenatal yoga?”

Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Reading from her phone, Mel continued the meditation, seated atop a yoga mat, next to Macy who was doing the same.

“You are pregnant and you are powerful. You are bold,” she enunciated the words, “and you are beautiful. Go forward in your—”

Mel paused, having heard an odd noise. She craned an ear. What was that?

It sounded like—rustling? She shook her head. No. Just imagining things—

“Go forward in your boldness, in your beauty and contentedness—”

CREAK!

There it was again. The heck?

Knowing Macy’s time was limited due to yet another SafeSpace corporate meeting, Mel continued, trying as hard as she might to ignore the random clattering of Vera Manor. Pipes, she thought to herself. Yeah. Probably pipes—

Riiiiiiiiip—

The noise—Mel perceived—sounded closer this time. But where was it—

She turned. “Macy?” she whispered.

Her oldest sister’s glance was intensely fixated, not upon yogic mantras, but upon a single paper bag floating toward the solarium--just another inch—Macy could practically taste the flaky pastry in her mouth—ugh, yes! And that chocolate, sublime and sweet! Beckoning like a—

“MACE!”

The paper bag dropped as Macy heaved a frustrated sigh. “I was hungry,” she pouted to an unsympathetic Mel.

“No pastries. Not during meditation. Think of the baby,” was her admonishment. “Besides,” added she, “I filled it with clementine oranges—”

“You what?!” Macy looked positively murderous as a few miniature citrus fruit spilled out onto the floor, rolling toward their mats. Mel could’ve sworn her sister’s eyes flashed black.

“Just five more minutes, ok Mace?” Mel spoke soothingly the next second, attempting to refocus the meditation.

The oldest Charmed One glared daggers. Fine, her eyes seemed to say, as they returned to their natural brown hue, Mel heaving a silent sigh of relief. “Trust your body…and know that the collective power of women worldwide will be with you. Namaste.” She angled her clasped, upturned hands toward Macy, who followed her direction.

“Namaste,” muttered Macy, hastily rolling up the mat with her powers the half-second after, before beating a hasty retreat to SafeSpace.

Mel pulled out her own phone and composed a message.

Harry, it’s Mel. Mace needs chocolate croissants and escape STAT.

And—sent.

Roger that. -H

Paris, France, Simulation Crystal

He led his love across myriad cobblestone sidewalks and various summered street corners until they came to a certain scene, a delicious, scrumptious spread.

Here—it was here—along the Seine harbor, overlooking the Eiffel Tower. This was the spot of a sumptuous picnic, a Petite Vitesse tugboat docked a meter away for added nautical ambiance.

“Open your eyes love—” Harry murmured in Macy’s ear. And so she did, with a sharp intake of breath, absorbing the loveliness before her.

A wicker basket of silverware, porcelain plates, and a bouquet of cherry pink peonies. To its left, a couple of French language books on Simone de Beauvoir and a pair of wine flutes containing seltzer mocktails. To the right, a platter of sliced apricots and cherries for vitamins, and of course, a platter of—

“Chocolate croissants!” Macy squealed aloud.

Harry smiled. “And pommes frites, love,” uncovering a boxed meal of crispy shoestring fries, Dijon, paprika, and ketchup dipping sauces to match. Macy took a bite and closed her eyes, savoring the flavor.

Salty, savory, delicious.

“Thanks, Har,” she murmured, lightly mussing his hair.

Next Morning, Outside Maggie’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie stepped outside sleepily, her foot making contact with—

She frowned. A package?

Glancing to her left and right, she saw no one. Ok, weird. And—an envelope? She tore it open, revealing a single index card-sized piece of elegant G. Lalo French parchment. And two words:

I’m Sorry.

Maggie stared. For—what?

Opening the package, she discovered two smaller wrapped items. The first, a freshly dry-cleaned fuchsia scarf, receipt in place.

Oh.

That.

And the second parcel? She opened it, revealing a glass jar full of vegan French sweets of all sorts—dairy-free Calisson nougat, rainbow sour belts, dark chocolate gummy bears, Le Panier orange sweets, Anis de Flavigny drops, and almond butter caramels.

“Wow, Mace,” she whispered. Then heard footsteps from behind her.

“I’m really sorry—”

“It’s ok.”

“I feel really bad—”

“Seriously, no need to feel guilty.” Maggie hesitated, then spoke. “Ever wonder what I did when I borrowed your earrings?”

Macy’s mouth dropped. “Maggie!”

Then, they laughed. And went down to breakfast together.

Chapter Text

Front Entryway, Vera Manor, Seattle Washington

CRASH!

Maggie flinched from where she sat in the adjoining room, her psychotherapy book having toppled to the ground, her place lost—yet again—

Diving beneath the coffee table to retrieve her tome, she heard a volley of voices, fast escalating as she rose—“ow!”—wincing as she’d banged her head atop the table’s base. Rubbing her forehead, she glanced toward the front entryway, the door itself having clattered to the wall mere moments before in cacophonous fury.

In stomped Macy, shaking her head, eyes ablaze, before fleeing up the elegant Victorian staircase, Harry huffing and puffing in pursuit seconds later.

“How was your…day?” Maggie hesitantly inquired as Harry threw her a look.

Don’t ask, his eyes flashed as if in warning.

Maggie gulped. That bad?

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Macy, please—” he shut the door behind him, a twinge of regret at his present lack of orbing ability, which sporadically appeared, nevertheless, in spurts and droves. But alas, not today of all days. A temporary side effect of his mortality quest, Celeste had claimed.

“Don't ‘oh Macy’ me!” Macy turned to face him, then began pacing, her slender, lovely fingers twisting themselves into a fidgeting knot—what if this portended ominously for the next thirty-odd weeks? What if she couldn’t find another—

“Macy, be reasonable!”

“I am being reasonable—”

She stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, Harry nearly crashing into her lithe, altogether inert, beauteous form. “I hate them all!” And whether she sighed or held a trace of a lingering sob, he could not tell, but his heart ached on her very behalf, for all that had transpired earlier that day.

Several obstetrical practices. Each highly regarded in their own right. Claiming diversity and devotion to the care of women. In theory. In reality…Macy rubbed her temple, willing her headache to go away, knowing she was unable to take most medications due to her current health condition.

What bothered her the most was that…they were all the same. Not literally, but figuratively so. Commentariats all, upon her looks and her ethnicity. Unwarranted and undeserved.

Exotic features. Exotic. Like a creature, snarling in a foreign land. The first practitioner had commented upon her ‘exotic’ eyes and features, wondering where she had gleaned such attributes. “From…uh…Michigan?” Macy was too taken aback (and too sleep-deprived) for a biting retort. And she’d felt pressured to maintain a semblance of uneasy peace, knowing that of all of the obstetricians on her list, one would be spending an inordinate amount of time with her in her most vulnerable state of being. She had insisted on having Harry in the waiting room, in case magical beings sought to attack—in the rare instance they might. Just in case. In all of the waiting rooms.

And hair. Her curly hair. The next obstetrician, several blocks away, had an unnatural fixation with her hair. Seriously?! She’d wanted to scream, her form tilted upon the patient table, her feet held aloft by ice-cold stirrups. No—just—no!  Her curly tresses, run through by fingers of a goddamn stranger? It was a miracle the place wasn’t torched. In the end, it had been Harry’s well-timed knock at the door that rescued her from further scalp invasion, his mouth dropping open at her darkened gaze, paper files and blood pressure cuffs rattling about the examining room.

A couple more, each as nondescript as the next. Nothing egregious per se, but nothing wonderful either. The final location, however, was rather unpleasant—

Wherever it is you're from.

She’d stared at the septuagenarian, his cravat immaculately pressed, which gave the notion he’d never properly helped birthed a baby in his life. His face, unlined, unwrinkled. No kids, which might have said something about his scheduling availability, but something—something—seemed…she tried to put her finger on it—judgmental—about him. How he’d asked about her…’traditions,’ with a skeptical look in his eyes. Mistrustful. As if she, Macy Vaughn had anything to hide! “I was born in Michigan,” she had replied with a single arch of her well-trimmed eyebrow. “And I had birthday parties…Christmas…Halloween…like everyone else…” her voice trailing off.

He’d waved her off though. “This your fifth pregnancy? Can you afford it?”

The fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu—her mouth dropped open, her cheeks flushed in rage. Noticing the nearby cabinet’s contents beginning to rattle of their own accord, scissor clamps, compact tubes, metallic forceps and all, she took a deep breath and counted to five. After which, she made a polite exit, declining his services, without once mentioning she was a doctorate of genetics from one of the world’s top universities—an Ivy League institution at that—and one of the most powerful witches of the 21^st century. His loss.

“I'm not a space alien for crissakes,” she'd hissed at Harry who’d been unceremoniously yanked from his waiting area seat, his cooking magazine abandoned.

“Love…?” he muttered, trailing after her as she stormed off through the double-paned glass doors, then down the next block without once waiting for him. What happened?

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

As she recounted the various indignities—the sheer humiliation of it all—Harry’s eyes widened in horror. “Love, I had no idea—why didn’t you allow me in—”

“Because…I wanted to see if they would treat me. Take me as I am. See me as a whole person, a patient deserving of care. As Macy. And—and—they didn’t—” Nearly nine weeks along, and just over the two month mark, she felt behind already in her health care pursuits…more necessities at this particular juncture.

“Maybe I'm just not cut out for...this.” She flopped onto her…their…bed, assuming a cross-legged position as she summoned a pillow toward her face, screaming into it the next.

“This?” Harry sought to clarify. And what is…this, exactly?

“Obstetricianssss—” came the muffled response, as Harry’s shoulders sagged. Out of relief? Perhaps, in that the issue was not their baby or pregnancy really. The issue lay with the institution of obstetric medicine. And he felt for a folded slip of paper, buried within his pants pocket, pulling it out and placing it within his wife’s fingers. Himself understanding…that he could never fully understand his Macy’s struggles against the institutions that be. The frustrations, the tumult, the sheer never-ending pain that could make a soul such as hers weary, and potentially endanger her physical well-being—hers and the baby they shared.

She put the pillow down. “What's this?”

He found his voice, clearing his throat indelicately. “Morgana, love.”

“Who’s—?”

“Magical community obstetrician. Remember? Famous. Well-regarded. Most importantly, generous of spirit. Open-minded. Fluent in several languages too, rumor has it.” He sat next to her, reaching over to caress her cheek, the pale of her tears fast dissipating in the warmth of his embrace. “Please, love? Do it for me?”

He gave her a singular look, meant to convey much meaning. This will be different. Morgana will be different. I promise. His fingers intertwined with her own, squeezing hers tight as if to convey security and the utmost of heady devotion.

She glanced over at the mirror, that oblong structure, and the woebegone figure within, whose eyes nevertheless held a certain simmering ferocity, heretofore undeterred. The man next to said figure, gentle and thoughtful beyond measure, self-sacrificing and generous to a fault.

And how could she possibly say no? With a shaky voice, Macy nodded. “Fine—” she swallowed hard, speaking louder this time. “Fine Harry. But this is the last one I swear. Or else I'm pulling this kid out myself—”

Harry winced at the visceral image in his head of his wife, screaming at one end, and at the other—he blanched. “Oh dear lord…” he muttered, the Latinate word caedare coming to mind, along with a certain Caesar for which came the origin of the term ‘Caesarian section.’

“Just kidding Harry, sheesh—”

His cheeks found color once more. “D-Duly noted."

Two Mornings Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Crevices. A smear of pale brown. Macy grimaced, willing herself to try Maggie’s proffered gluten free dairy free toasted cracker, a thin slather of all-natural peanut butter spread upon it. Ugh.

Recent days had her imbibing ginger ale and sucking on ginger chews. Snacking on salty items, unmoored by exhaustion seeping through her pores as if hit by a Mack truck too. Certain days, she would wake up as if rejuvenated with the force of a thousand suns. Other days, such as today, were far more the opposite.

“Eat up, love.” Harry strode into the kitchen, making as if to kiss Macy upon the lips, but noticing her visage turn paler, her nose scrunched in a way that meant possibly the loo, he paused, instead reaching for a piece of bread to toast, and butter besides. Maybe even coffee. He knew the drill, especially now, as he meandered his way to just left of the coffeemaker, switching the fan on lest any malodorous essence escape.

“No.” She reached for her right wrist, upon which sat, akin to a watch, a silver aromatherapy bracelet. Sniffing, she ventured to take a lungful of air. Cloves, sweet cloves, she thought to herself, mourning the loss of coffee though it smelled particularly noxious today. 

“Just a bite?”

Her eyes traveled to the medicine cabinet for her prenatal vitamins plus chopped up vitamin B6, a mineral rumored to ease morning sickness. Chewing her gummy vitamin and grimacing as she swallowed the B6 with a swig of ginger ale, she felt both settle peaceably in her stomach. “Maybe—ok.”

Macy took a tentative bite, the peanut butter swirling about her tongue, as she swallowed a second later, its texture coating her wayward insides. Stay in, she all but willed. And somehow, today, it did.

Command Center, SafeSpace Seattle, Seattle, Washington

Their first appointment with Morgana. Macy recalled, after breakfast, waiting at the foot of the Vera Manor staircase. Hand-in-hand, heading in the previous direction of the other obstetricians, but instead of turning in, continuing to SafeSpace.

Macy frowned. “I thought we were going to...?” Morgana? Today?

“We are, love.”

“But where? I thought she was local—” But she paused mid-sentence, realizing Harry hadn’t told her exactly where Morgana was situated. She can’t be that far…right?

Entering the belly of the Command Center, Harry made a beeline for the maps keyboard as he honed further away from the Western Hemisphere.

Huh. Not Washington State. Cali? No. Um….Texas? Nope.

She watched as the map widened and shifted. Boston? Harvard Medical Center? Mayo Clinic? But the map continued to morph. Maine? Nuh-uh. Oh, London? No. Too far.

“Harry?” she called out in a small voice, Harry thoroughly concentrating on the task before him.

“Where is it…where is it?” he muttered to himself as Macy grew increasingly nervous; the cursor hovered directly above the Mediterranean. “Bollocks—” The visual shifted again, this time to somewhere in a vast area of water, between the Labrador Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean.

The heck...She tilted her head, squinting. Were those…islands?

“Found it!” he proclaimed triumphantly, clicking and retrieving the marble before facing her once more.

"Harry, you sure about this?” Macy asked, concern etched upon her visage.

He nodded. Trust me, his eyes seemed to say. “Portal. After you love....” he beckoned as a familiar whirling glow issued forth in the phantom expanse of creviced darkness that was the Command Center.

Madalena Village, Azores Islands

They exited the whirling glow, landing feet first upon sandy street. Immediately, Macy noticed a change in pallor, the entrancing fragrance of pearly plumeria and sweetened honeysuckle soothing her senses, a stop sign up ahead inveigled in bright magenta hibiscus blossoms, tall majestic palm trees swaying overhead.

Spotting a sign, her legs nearly gave way, Harry capturing her hold not a moment too soon.

Bem vindo a Madalena, Açores.

In English, below the Portuguese sign, it read: “Welcome to Madalena Village. Azores Islands.”

“A-azores?” Macy whispered. “Morgana’s clinic’s in…the Azores?”

Lowering themselves both into a nearby bench, he nodded. “Well. Well. Yes, love. As—as a matter of speaking—”

Oh my God. Her initial thought had been of rumors, possibly unfounded, on the internet. Unlicensed clinics. Lack of clean facilities—the further away one traveled from East Coast America, the more such unsettling thoughts spread. Like wildfire. “Is this—safe?”

“It’s just one visit, she encourages couples to attend, and she’s an excellent herbalist and renowned in the magical realm. Holistic melding with traditional medicine, so I’ve heard—”

Noticing she was more solid on her feet, they stood once more, Harry himself leading the way down the street, past colorful bungalows and straw fences, colorful banners for the latest saint’s day festival, and into the Bairro Antigo set of aging but nevertheless ornate stuccoed houses, elegant as they once were in their heyday.

The Historic District.

Consulat ório Obstetra, Bairro Antigo, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

They stepped into the medical office corridor, Macy silently observing the silvery-grey painted, peeling walls of clay, a bouquet of fern to the leftmost wall, decorative straw fishery baskets affixed to the rightmost.

Could the walls pose asbestos or lead hazards?

She tried as hard as she might to avoid judging the place before meeting the physician herself, but all signs indicated that this was, quite possibly, the most ‘hole-in-the-wall’ clinic she had ever visited to date.

Where are the sterile walls? The cold linoleum floors? The generic boring commissioned art that looked like every other clinic in the tri-state area?

It was all missing. They continued down the corridor to a single sloped door. Dark and mysterious, with no semblance of light around.

“Everything is fine,” she muttered to herself, mentally steeling herself as she pushed the door open, a certain gif coming to mind of a cartoon hat-wearing creature sipping coffee in a kitchen engulfed in flames. Everything is—

The door opened, revealing—

Macy gasped. A gorgeous interior, resplendent and tiled in various checkered shades of sky blue, cobalt, and turquoise, vaguely reminiscent of a Turkish bathhouse she’d seen in glossy magazine photos of yore beckoned before her very eyes, potted palms adding ambiance. “Wow.”

Harry tugged at her sleeve, gently leading her toward the futon recliner, a simple-yet-elegant piece, decorated with statement pillows of tangerine and navy hues, plus a Baroque desk, its insides lined in crimson velvet, mere feet away.

Before she had any time to think—to absorb the finery, the sheer architectural elegance, a pair of tall sea green-gold-gilded doors opened, a beautifully aged crimson curly-haired witch positively gliding through, conjuring a chair to sit across from themselves.

Lowering her pince-nez, she eyed them both. “I,” she spoke, “am Morgana. And so...we meet again."

After the usual pleasantries, the appointment seemed to rush by, pieces of high-tech equipment making themselves of use through a hybrid of Morgana’s telekinesis and sheer scientific ingenuity. In all of Macy’s years working at Hilltowne then at SafeSpace, she hadn’t recalled seeing anything nearly as well-developed as these particular instruments. Plus, a warmer for the ultrasound wand that had done wonders, as Macy’s abdomen was particularly sensitive to severe temperature differences as of late.

“You’re about nine weeks along, and everything’s going swimmingly, my darling,” Morgana glanced at the screen, turning it off the next second and issuing the couple a set of photos. “But how do you feel?”

“M-me?” Macy stammered. In all of her previous obstetric interviews, she hadn’t received that question. At all.

Morgana laughed, a delightful peal. “Yes, you—”

“Well—” Macy glanced at Harry, who squeezed her hand. She gazed up at Morgana’s emerald eyes. “Excited. But terrified. Not about it all—just—medical…inequality,” she ended, hoping Morgana would get the jist. “Where I’m from, people aren’t very kind to someone who looks like me. Or if they are, sometimes they make assumptions. Treat women like me different. Medically, that’s—"

Indeed she had. “Absolutely atrocious!” exclaimed Morgana.

“Which is why,” interjected Harry, “we are before you here today. Plus, your reputation in the magical world precedes you—”

“After years of hard work—”

“Post-retirement—” Harry continued.

Macy frowned. “Why’d you return to practice? The island’s—” she had a lump in her throat. Beautiful. Wonderful. Welcoming. Sunny. Bright. You could do anything in the world with your magic, your salary—

As if reading Macy’s thoughts, Morgana smiled. “For you, my dear.”

“Me?” Why…me? Macy thought back to those underhanded remarks, those unfounded assumptions back home. Those medical practitioners who had done anything but care. About her, as a whole person, medical, emotional needs and all.

“You are a Charmed One, after all, and it would be the pinnacle of my career to attend to your needs. Simply put, it would be the greatest honor, to treat you and your little one.”

More conversation, and a gentle reminder to take folic acid and calcium followed. Then too, a prescribed concoction for boosting iron levels, and dessert ideas for magnesium. Chocolate banana smoothies.

Suddenly, Macy felt a pop within her abdomen, a bright white glow appearing directly above, before disappearing entirely; she stared, touching her belly. “What…what was that?”

Morgana beamed. “Oh! It seems we have ourselves a little Whitelighter!”

Again, Harry squeezed Macy’s hand, thrice. I love you. And a fourth. Both.

“Seems our appointment has come to a close,” Morgana briskly stated several moments later. “But would you care for a cup of cucumber ginger iced tea? Takes the edge off, if you know what I mean—” with a knowing glance at Macy. An herbalist’s morning sickness remedy.

“That would be great.” A round of glasses were passed. Macy took a sip. Amazingly delicious. She downed the glass, and Morgana poured her a second.

“I…is it...is it weird that…” Macy paused, realizing she was beginning to ramble, starting over again the next second. “Morgana, what I mean to say is…you’re...and this...is nothing like I expected.”

“I do hope that’s a good thing?” Morgana pushed her pince-nez up, fixing her eyes on the pair.

“Oh yes, it certainly is,” murmured Harry, Macy nodding in agreement.

Chapter Text

Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Cacao powder. Ghirardelli. A frozen banana. All blended into a prenatally-friendly milkshake. Hair of the Dog. Thankfully minus the actual hair.

Macy sighed, thinking of breakfast earlier that day as she continued to sift through the chaos of Vera Manor’s attic. Boxes upon boxes, quilts hung this way and that, and far more shelves than met the eye. Hidden compartments too.

Her cheek had rested atop the countertop, her body coursing with hormones and everything else, her pulse quicker than before, her pallor akin to death warmed over.

Drink up, love.

She recalled Harry’s gentle expression as he grew more concerned, absorbing her hunched-over figure. This surely could not do.

Please, love. Mace. Macy, please.

His eyes met hers, and for him, she peeled her visage from the table and took the tiniest of sips.

Wow. Potassium, a hint of chocolate, and was that—she paused—cinnamon?

Better? She remembered nodding. He stood, watching her drink until the glass was half-drained, then handed her a lemonade as she’d muttered something about going upstairs to search for combat weapons Marisol was rumored to have hidden away.

Then she traipsed up to the attic, stair by stair, sniffing her aromatherapy bracelet. Cloves, spicy and sweet. For whatever odd reason, the herbal scent brought her much comfort, and reminded her of those fairy tales her father Dexter used to tell, of the Vaughn family matriarch and patriarch, Terezinha and Denis, respectively, who escaped to the Azores and made a life for themselves. She, Terezinha, of ambiguous ethnicity, adopted into a wealthy family—and Denis, stolen from his own through tragic circumstances. Terezinha’s wicked older brother had attempted to place her in a forced arranged marriage with an ill-reputed traveling evangelical, Mr. Morton Chase, once her adopted father passed.

But somehow, the pair found their happily ever after. In the tropics. And kept property there for generations to come, should they need a home.

She shook her head, curls aflutter. Dexter knew how to spin a tale, that much she knew for certain. He’d mentioned something when she was in preschool, of how he met her mother in Australia in the 1980s, during a holistic remedies conference.

Where did the fable end, and the truth begin?

Maggie and Mel were busy warding off yet another insidious villain hell-bent on destroying the world, and Harry had retreated to the Command Center for another one of Celeste’s mortality doses. Or checkups. It was impossible to tell with this unprecedented treatment. I mean—who willingly gives up eternal youth for love?

She bit her lip, tossing aside a handful of parchment in the blink of an eye. A boxed set of Heaven’s Vice DVDs too. Her stomach churned, not overwhelmingly so, but enough to create a certain amount of unrest. Another sip of the lemonade—

Honestly, it was a lot to live up to.

It reminded her, almost, of her life as an only child raised by Dexter before her sisters came along decades later. That unyielding discipline, the urge to succeed, the pressure to be perfect—

For—

Him.

But this was different, Macy knew. Harry and she had chosen, ardently so, to be together despite the powers that be that sought to tear them apart. She, a stillborn brought to life, and he, a Whitelighter. Even death could not part them. And to her, that provided a semblance of comfort.

More minutes passed. Five, ten…twenty. More dressers, more fabrics, more linens. Then, she uncovered various patterned quilts—where had those materialized from?—tossing those fabrics aside, revealing countless carved wood cabinets, each identical to the next. There had to be over twenty.

Seriously?

Impatient, hormones overtaking her, Macy gave a shout. “REVELIO!”

A couple of combat tools instantly sprang forward, which, as though recognizing her lineage, halted before her as she plucked them from the air. Simple daggers, Macy postulated, turning them around, noticing their base dotted with what appeared to be the most crimson of rubies. Unsheathing one, she noticed its blade reflecting beams of light coursing through the nearby glass window.

Beautiful. Elegant. And…she re-sheathed the weapon—dangerous.

But why, oh why, were there only two?

Oh Marisol…Macy’s lip quivered as she squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to cry despite the wave of hormones. Always the hormones.

Did you forget about me?

Because I’m your daughter too.

“What about m-me?” she whispered, wiping away a tear.

Then something hovered within her line of sight. Curious, Macy stepped forward, drawing the object to her fingertips.

A cassette tape?

She turned it over in her hands. It was oddly heavy for its compact size, she noticed. Glancing skyward, her mouth opened, then closed, unsure of what to say. For me?

Well, it was summoned along with the jeweled daggers. So it had to mean something…right? Her practicality surfaced, tears abated as she pointed to the tape. “Revelio,” she murmured. Generally, this utterance would uncover secrets and make ideas known, so perhaps it would make sense to test this hypothesis on the object before her.

I hope I don’t break it, she thought not a second later, as the cassette’s inner cogs began to move within its holdfast. With her eyes, she adjusted the volume, hearing a song…a recognizable tune…

Someday we’ll find it

The Rainbow Connection

The lovers, the dreamers and me…

Macy gasped, recognizing her father’s baritone voice. “D-daddy?” she whispered, her hands shaking so badly they almost dropped the object altogether. She made her way to the faded couch and sat, her mind whirling with so many unspoken thoughts, subconscious, buried, resurfaced, and otherwise.

The song continued, and a woman’s voice joined in. Who was that? The lady’s voice was soft at times, but strong and steady as a lioness. And incredibly familiar too…

Who said that every wish

Would be heard and answered

When wished on the morning star…

Her breath hitched. Oh my God. It was Marisol. Macy began tearing up, blinking rapidly as the lyrics continued, a cappella. Then, Dexter and Marisol’s voices joined in sublime, sweet harmony:

All of us under its spell

We know that it’s probably magic…

The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Then static, as the cassette finished playing. Macy stared down at the device. She knew the Rainbow Connection song by heart, as her father had sung it for her time and time again when she was very little. A lullaby, a soothing song.

What if—her brain began to imagine—what if there’s a hidden message in all of this?

Like what? Macy pondered, her fingers gently touching the item’s surface, then it came to her—

Rainbows.

Children born after a stillbirth were considered rainbow babies. Given the unusual circumstances of her own birth, Macy was her own rainbow baby. And Maggie too, as full sisters borne of Dexter and Marisol.

And—wishes—Macy had always wished for a sibling, or siblings. Marisol had always wished for her three daughters to be united.

The spell—the necromancer’s spell—it suddenly made sense—Marisol and Dexter had turned a song into their own story, a story of their girls.

What about Mel? Well…that could have been the magic bit too, which pertained to the three Charmed Ones equally. The more Macy thought about the lyrics, the more it made sense. Maggie was always the dreamer of the family, with her empath abilities. Mel could use magic by way of potions, and Macy could have easily fallen under the lover category, seeing as she was with Harry and pregnant with their future child (though she herself knew she was more than that—she was, after all, Dr. Macy Vaughn, geneticist extraordinaire). But still.

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Somehow, heart beating rapidly, Macy managed to make her way from the attic to the kitchen, dropping the heavy but compact object on the counter, carrying her lemonade all the while—

SPLASH!

She gasped, watching, horrified, as spilt lemonade made its way to the cassette’s surface—

Ohcrapohcrapohcrap—

Using her telekinesis, Macy swiftly tore off a paper towel to wipe up, but the damage was already done, the liquid having seeped across the object. Oh nooooooo…she internally wailed, but paused—

And stared, as handwriting, flowing and free, emerged along the object’s perimeter, a hidden message made known by citrus. Something cousin Josefina had mentioned sometime before.

To Marcella Vaughn and her family, one day. Forever and always, my Macy.

She stared, then, as if on instinct, turned the case over in her hands, rattling and shaking, until--click. Out popped a heavy brass key, with the following inscription:

Azores. Epicenter Pico 23.

Macy squinted, holding the key to the kitchen window’s light. Wait—Azores, as in—Denis and Terezinha’s Azores?

So that family folklore was true?

And a certain memory resurfaced, once upon a time....

A stucco-roofed property, palm trees aflutter in the verdant tropical breeze. A stop sign, inveigled in magenta hibiscus. Hillsides aplenty, the sweet, prickling scent of cloves and cinnamon wafting from a garden further away.

“It’s lucky Matias kept it up for us,” a female voice proclaimed, bouncing a giggling baby girl atop her hip, the little one’s curls mahogany, glittering in the morning’s light, miniature toy sand pail in hand.

“Macy, sunscreen!” came a baritone voice, equal parts devoted and disciplinarian.

The little one squirmed. “Ay, I know baby, I know…” the woman murmured along her baby’s forehead, words meant to soothe a spritely soul. Ocean waves crested in the distance, the sweet scent of plumerias throughout.

And guava juice on the tip of her tongue.

Hearing a familiar figure in the kitchen’s entryway, Macy sprang back to the present. “H-Harry?” she stammered as he approached.

“Love, what is it?” He noticed her odd expression. Sadness, confusion, a latent long-ago joy. “Mace, what is it?”

“I-I think I've been to the Azores before...”

His brow furrowed. We were just there…his expression seemed to say—

She swallowed hard. “With Dexter. And Marisol. When I was a baby.”

Chapter Text

Arm-in-arm with Harry—her Harry—Macy’s curls floated breezily about her shoulders as she clutched him tighter, recognizing around her the veneered environs of polished academia, brick buildings, marble pillars and all. It was, she understood, Hilltowne, Michigan—quintessentially, undeniably so. Oak trees lined their path, plumped with ripened acorns as squirrels skittered about; whether to seek a mate or give chase she did not know.

Another turn at an intersection and they were making their way back to Vera Manor, talking delightedly of meals past, Welsh rarebit included, when a sudden chill overtook her. Glancing behind, she noticed several hundred feet away—

Someone. Approaching. A menacing leer. She recognized the type of male—entitled, riled with a bone to pick. She tugged at Harry’s shoulder. “He’s looking at us—” The creep from the bar.

‘You look nothing like him,’ the man—this lurker—tilted his head soundlessly, referencing Harry as she realized with a jolt, she could hear thoughts now. ‘Too young. Too different. Could have me instead. Drop the deadweig—'

Macy yanked Harry behind a tall boxwood bush. “Mace, what on earth is going on—” She pointed.

We have company. Not the good kind.

“Oh. Well. Best be on our good behav...” He adjusted his cravat and glanced upward. “Mace?”

She was no longer beside him. Bollocks. That could only mean…revenge. Inhaling sharply, he noticed her shadow departing as if to seek immediate combat with—he gave a shiver—that particular male.

“Mace!” Harry ran to block her path; all the while, her fists were balled, each aflame, Macy herself not caring who saw as her brown eyes achieved an onyx hue. “Mace,” he hissed, reaching for her wrist, a pointed mutual glance in the same direction toward the man who continued to trail them.

Do not do this, Mace. In the name of all that is good and—please—just—please. STOP. His eyes pleaded, soundlessly so.

With an exasperated sigh, her flames instantly vanished, Harry’s shoulders slumping in relief. Though she was more than capable of harboring the Source, he oft wondered whether she would overstep her bounds. Take things just a mite too far. Use a grenade instead of a fly-swatter. That sort of thing.

“Just a tiny tongue hex? Please?” The shadows vanished from her eyes to be replaced by a hint of mischief. And pleading, besides.

“Not for personal—oh, bloody hell. Fine.” Lord help us all…

With a squeal, her fingers intertwined most intricately, a wicked twinkle in her fast-darkening eyes. Moments later, a muffled yell indicated success as the pair disappeared to Vera Manor.

Even then, he knew he loved her.

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

She awoke yawning, arms outstretched, bearing a most satisfied grin.

“Another one of your Source dreams?”

Macy bit back a smile as Harry leaned over for a languorous kiss. “Maybe.” That oddly gratifying sense of having achieved retributive justice, even by questionably somnambulist means, was not to be understated.

In the next second, her smile fell.

“Mace, love, what is it?” though he had a general idea, given recent events. “Marisol's secret?” He rubbed her palm with his fingers, slow, soothing, and sure. “It might be a good thing, this property?” Harry ventured cautiously.

“It’s just…” Macy exhaled slowly, staring out the window, sunlight streaming in, before meeting his gaze. “I’m just not a fan of secrets.”

“Right.”

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

She glanced at her phone. 11:11 am. 11 weeks. Without thinking, she made a wish, just as she used to in college, whenever she would see the time as “11:11.” For old times’ sake.

I wish…for happiness.

Opening her eyes, she looked at the Epicenter Pico No. 23 key currently laying on the kitchen counter. Right where Maggie had sipped her vegan vanilla no-foam coconut milk latte two hours prior. Nothing to see here, folks, Macy imagined herself saying to an invisible audience. Just a day in the life…

Of course, over breakfast, Macy had handed over the two ruby daggers, one each to her sisters (thanks Mace!) all the while knowing she was harboring a secret. Marisol always kept secrets—she really was the queen of secrets. First, her sisters, and now…a secret of a different sort. Property.

She reached for the key, its weight resting heavily within the palm of her upturned hand—

“Mace, let me—” Harry stepped into the kitchen, making a beeline toward her, curls swept but for a kiss.

“No,” she shook her head. “It has to be me.”

Several seconds passed as he studied her visage. “Very well,” he answered, noticing her determination. “As you wish.” Again, he kissed her as she let out a shaky sigh. You are sure? Their eyes met.

“I’ll be safe,” Macy murmured. “Now go—” she spoke louder. “Go forth and conquer!”

“Indeed, I shall,” he smiled. “I’ll check on your sisters.”

And away he went, him and Mel and Maggie off to lay waste to the Whispering Evil, or at least stop its spread. Perhaps the ruby daggers would be enough of a surprise? Hopefully. In the meantime, she would make her way to the Command Center, seek out the key’s address, and sort everything out. Or at least try.

Late Afternoon, Outside Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores

...And here she was, on a tropical island, standing in front of a closed door, key in hand. Her life revolved around doors. Thresholds, really. Between one world and the next. Between the world of the living and the dead, when she had been tiny. And now, it seemed no different.

Macy recalled that fateful night all those years ago. I-I think I’m your sister—

Fist balled, she ventured a hesitant knock. Will you accept me?

No answer.

Then another—

She stopped mid-knock. Duh, Vaughn, you’ve got the key! Probably means you own the place—

Macy blushed, even though no one was around to see. Right. Noted. Ok. She smoothed her outfit, palms shaking as she spotted a keyhole, twisting the heavy key through with a click.

Here goes nothing.

Late Afternoon, Inside Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores

With a turn of the knob, the door opened; stepping in, she shut it quietly behind her, noticing to her immediate left a miniature carved table with parchment atop, plus directly above, an overhead mirror. Taking another couple of steps forward, she glanced to her left—a shadowed hallway. Following this path, she found what appeared to be a tiny guest bathroom. Huh. Maybe useful if Mel and Mags come over…

Retracing her steps to the front entryway, directly ahead was a sunlit white-walled expanse of a chamber, its floor tiled likely due to the year-round warm climate. On her left was a modern kitchen island with built-in stovetops, and directly behind, a refrigerator that looked large enough to hold all of the snacks. To the right, a sleek, modern bean-shaped crimson couch and wood-carved coffee table. Entertainment area.

And up ahead, floor-to-ceiling windows. Or were they—she tilted her head. No…they looked like—doors? Well, one of them anyways, which led out to a balcony with a sunken-in hot tub (as yet unfilled). Her lips turned upward as she brainstormed possible uses of said pool of water. Marco Polo, perhaps? With a blindfold? And other…sultry activities?

The possibilities were endless.

The view was spectacular too, she noticed, cupping her gaze toward the ocean miles upon miles away. This property was not built directly along a sandbar, but rather, further afoot, for ambiance’s sake, to avoid the partiers and other revel-rousers. 

Shutting the screened door behind her, she discovered another room. Opening its door quietly, she noticed within it a sumptuous king-sized bed, a window facing it with pale linen curtains, and investigating further, a full bathroom, though its shower head was a bit wanting. But that could be fixed.

All in all, the place seemed structurally sound, and most importantly—safe.

Doubling back to the entryway, her eyes fell upon the piece of parchment, though it was blank. She sighed, somewhat exasperated. More lemonade.

Late Afternoon, Epicenter Pico Neighborhood to Marketplace, Madalena Village, Azores

Of course, she absentmindedly mused to herself, the lemonade aspect was a first-world problem. Citrus was plentiful, especially in this locale (she’d done plenty of research beforehand of flora and fauna). Besides, it wasn’t every day one inherited a bit of land—

Macy sighed, locking the door behind her. Maybe she was too presumptuous. Maybe it wasn’t an inheritance at all. Maybe she had to pay rent. Or she’d have it for a day—or a year—then BOOM. Gone.

Like Marisol.

It was better than getting her hopes up. Still…she glanced above, noticing palm fronds rippling in the warm breeze…nothing ventured, nothing gained. The neighborhood appeared cheerful, a bit ancient in some respects, but charming nonetheless, with little colored banners adorning various gates akin to festive garlands.

It would probably be faster to find a marketplace than to marble back and forth—plus she wanted to avoid triggering whatever vertigo lingered from the week before. Going down the property’s front path, she paused, noticing a stop sign several feet away, on the next leftmost block, completely inveigled in magenta hibiscus blossoms.

The same path as before, but this time—

Different.

A miniature ten-seater school bus pulled up to the sign as children leapt out, laughing and giggling, straight into their parents’ arms. Parents who were, Macy noticed, beautiful bronze and pearlescent hues alike. Some far older, some younger, and others in between.

Couples like herself and Harry. There was no gawping or gawking here. It was a place to simply…be.

She rubbed her belly instinctively.

You'll be happy here too, my little ocean bean.

Chapter Text

Same Afternoon, Neighborhood to Marketplace, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Crossing the sand-strewn street once the bus had driven off, children and families dispersed, she found a sign embedded in the grass, written in Portuguese. Mercado. And in English, below it, Marketplace. One sign led to another mere feet away, then another, and several more, as if alphabetarian breadcrumbs.

Several minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, as she wound her way through the path, crossing one street then making a turn on the next block over, coming across the very location, though not nearly as bustling given the later time of day.

Cupping her glance, she examined the various stalls before her. Dried herbs and concoctions to the left. Fruit and other comestibles to the furthest right. Local ingredients—something about melagueta peppers—toward the center innermost region. Spotting a mini mountain of bright cheery lemons in a well-worn wicker basket a certain distance away, she strode forward, making her payment in exchange for a bundle. Thank goodness this place took credit cards, she couldn’t help but think to herself. On a whim, she examined additional vendors’ wares, purchasing powdered cane sugar on a whim.

Lemons, check. Sugar, check. She turned to exit and paused—

Was that Morgana near the garlic wreaths?

Swallowing hard, Macy dared not approach due to the acrid odor but could have sworn—crimson hair, a swiveled glance—and who was that beside her, with bronzed hue and electric grey eyes? The oldest Charmed One hadn't seen him before, but he looked familiar, as odd as it seemed.

Kitchen, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Back at the property, Macy carefully placed the blank parchment atop the kitchen table. Digging within a cabinet, she uncovered a mortar and pestle, along with a knife and cutting board. Proceeding to slice and juice the lemons into the mortar, she paused every few moments to sprinkle in pinches of cane sugar, mixing the concoction. After a time, she disposed of the rinds in a paper bag, then added water to the lemon sugar blend, stirring continuously.

Checking the drawers, she found a tiny spoon, its curvature no longer than an inch at most. This would have to do. Spooning some of the citrus juice, she sprinkled it lightly over the parchment, holding her breath, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake and irreparably damaged—

What, Vaughn? Her conscience spoke up. An old piece of paper? Don’t kid yourself. It’s a misunderstanding. Nobody in their right mind would ever leave you property in the tropics—

As words began to appear in a familiar, lilting cursive.

She peered closer. “Magnifico,” she whispered, as the lettering instantly magnified and sharpened for readability.

Dear Marcella-my-Macy,

 Since you are of age and soon to start your own family, it is time you learned the truth of your father’s family. Back in the 1670s, the family matriarch and patriarch—Terezinha and Denis—met and fell in love on this island. Terezinha’s father passed and her wicked stepbrother tried to force an arranged marriage with an ill-reputed traveling evangelical, Mr. Morton Chase. She fled with Denis and eventually returned here, marrying, buying property, prospering.

Part conjecture, part backed by historic evidence, the story continues. In the 1920s, Dexter’s great-aunts Della, Dora, and Darcy lived here. Darcy had received premonitions of her demise and so fled to Manchester in 1941 at the height of WW2, finding a role at Tessera Nightclub, where Celeste was a frequent patron. Darcy met and fell in love with Jimmy Westwell. After Darcy perished from a wartime injury, Jimmy rescued her baby boy Matias from the Sarcana orphanage. After returning from the Azores alone and bereft, his memory was wiped by Celeste, who stole his body from the local morgue, transforming him into the Whitelighter I know you love today. Harry Greenwood—

In shock, Macy dropped the letter onto the kitchen table. A lineage traced back to the 1670s? Her great-great aunt knew Jimmy? And—and Celeste? Vaguely, through her fogginess, she vaguely registered that the last name “Chase” belonged to someone by the name of Jordan but shook her head. Had to be a coincidence. “Chase” was a pretty common name back then. Right?

Inhale.

Exhale.

Sins of the father—are—are not—the sins of the son.

Breathe.

Hands shaking, she took the parchment in her hands once more, sprinkling more lemon juice for good measure. And continued reading.

--Harry Greenwood. In short, this property—this condo—is your inheritance, my love. Privilege of the first-born of Dexter’s line. For you to grow your family. A safe haven. And along with it comes family. Matias, the baby, is, as you’re reading this, eighty. For those were the terms of the magic back then. That Harry’s line should have no contact with him until Matias turned eighty. An intergenerational magic snafu now thankfully broken. And those three sisters, Dora, Della, and Darcy? Healers, but rumor had it they were the Charmed Ones of the Azores.

I’m sorry you’ve grown up lonely. Your father’s always kept me updated. Boarding school was not an easy decision. For either of us. I hope that one day, you and your sisters will understand it was for your own safety. That this—all of this—was done out of love, not deception.

Forever and always,

Marisol

Macy placed the letter atop the table, massaging her temple in the next second, her mind whirling with the enormity of what she had just read. Matias, a long-lost relative. Jimmy and Darcy, star-crossed lovers. Celeste’s interference. And now—

And now—

Her breath caught—

Herself and Harry.

Willing herself to breathe, she stumbled to the crimson couch, where she leaned into its cushions—

And screamed—

Until she could scream no more. Lifting her visage with the smallest of shudders, she went to the kitchen sink to splash cool water on her now tear-stained face.

Moving as if in a trance, she found a glass and poured herself a cup of water; leaning, back to the countertop, she sipped, glancing outside at the oceanic horizon, wave upon wave roaring and cresting in the distance.

A secret cousin. Star-crossed lovers. Celeste. Coastal Charmed Ones.

Secret cousin. Lovers. Celeste. Charmed.

Secrets—

Secrets—

Secrets.

Having emptied the glass, she moved to place it within the stainless-steel sink, her hand curved about the cup, drawing contact with the basin’s metal, as she emitted a sharp gasp—

A humid day in the marketplace, vegetables and fruits for sale, amid the weekend hustle and bustle. Oblivious, a tiny girl with mahogany curls drools a bit; brow furrowed, she draws lines in the sand. One for daddy, one for mommy—before finding herself hoisted into an adult’s arms—mommy or daddy? A kiss upon her cheek and she squeals. It’s Daddy. She reaches out to trace the smile upon his lips as if to immortalize it forever, etched within memory.

Soon enough, a picnic meal lays before them. Savory zucchini fritters, crispy fried blossoms, two tiny bowls of dip. Unbeknownst to this little girl, olive oil and spiced chili sauce. Before anyone can stop her, she dips a finger in the sauce, heat prickling about the tongue, face crumpling as she begins to wail in earnest. She finds a shift in the ground below. One lap left for another as she’s handed to a young woman—

“Oh Macy...” sighs a lithe, dark-haired figure, now bouncing the child about her knee. Tears swiftly abate as something cold, pink, and refreshing hits the tongue.

"Watermelon juice," an older woman spoke.

"You're a godsend--" boomed a familiar, paternal voice.

And crimson. Crimson--hair.

Eyes flying open, Macy’s fists clenched the kitchen countertop before loosening them of her own accord. Memories, unfurling. So Morgana had known her parents. Why hadn't she said anything? Before she could contemplate further, her phone buzzed. Maggie.

Command Center ASAP!

Sighing, she did a hasty once-over of the condo, ensuring everything was clean, took the trash out, locked the door behind her, then marbled away, silently vowing to return, hopefully sooner than later.

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

After hunting for a prehistoric mushroom, a journey that had been far more exhausting than previously anticipated, she made her way to her bedroom, thinking herself alone, making a mental note to never again call a mission ‘easy peasy’ lest she jinx anything ever again—

She opened the door and to her surprise, Harry was already there, reading from a printed page that had to have come from an app. Even in modernity, certain habits stuck. Macy shook her head, smiling to herself. Him and his Pin-Interest. The way he called vlogs ‘vee-logs.’

It was always those little things…

“Your baby is the size of a...” Harry paused, glancing upward at Macy’s instep. “Oh—how’d it go?”

“Oh…it went…well,” Macy replied, turning away.

He knew that expression, that averting of a glance. “Mace,” he spoke slowly, placing the printout within his pocket, “what happened?”

“More secrets—” sobbing, she collapsed into his embrace.

Stroking her curls, he gently led her to their bed, whispering sweet nothings as she nodded and gasping, willed herself stoic, silently cursing the hormone gods-that-be for the sudden unremitting ability to dissolve into senseless amounts of waterworks.

After a time, Harry spoke. “Better?” he ventured hesitantly as she nodded.

“I think I was due for a cry,” she murmured, reaching out to cup his visage, his own eyes closing to absorb the silent intimacy of it all. Macy, my love. He hated to see her cry so.

A secret cousin. Star-crossed lovers. Celeste. Coastal Charmed Ones.

Where to begin?

She showed him the letter, which in and of itself she deemed sufficient. Matias. Darcy and Jimmy. Celeste. Three sisters—

His brow furrowed the deeper within he read, his visage turning a certain shade of puce once Celeste’s name was seen. “Mace,” he folded her hand within his own. “Macy, love, I had no idea—”

“Neither did I,” she answered. Neither did any of us. “Another one of Marisol’s secrets—”

“Indeed.”

“What now, Harry? I just—I—there’s so much to unpack.”

Studying his wife, as if reading her mind, Harry formed within his own a certain agenda of sorts. “For Matias, we should reach out—but given his age—perhaps a letter?”

A letter. Macy let out an exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been keeping in for so long. “Yeah. A letter. Ok. Sure.” The star-crossed lovers bit was ancient history. But—she lifted an eyebrow. “Celeste?”

“She’s learned from her mistakes—”

Macy gave him a studied expression, her eyes questioning. Are you sure?

I need to be, he gazed back. Celeste, after all, was his only route toward mortality—toward a future that was anything but star-crossed.

“As for the Charmed Ones of the Azores…” she paused, letting the thought linger for a moment.

“I will dig through the archives,” Harry volunteered. “Goodness knows I should’ve done that decades ago.”

Simulation Crystal, Paris, France

At Harry’s suggestion, they had taken a quick stop-over to one of his favorite cafes, surrounded on all sides by blossoming goldenrod. Afterward, he had bade her sit beneath a pearl-tasseled parasol of the most exquisite shape, as they sipped their tea surrounded by similarly-hued pansies, magnolia, and gardenia blossoms, their scent intermingling in the warm summer’s breeze.

Seconds passed. “You seem very…” Macy searched for the word, “…calm about this. As if...predictable, even.”

“With the Vera-Vaughn family,” Harry spoke slowly, “I have learned to expect the extraordinary.”

Chapter Text

Simulation Crystal, Paris, France

Beneath the blooming pearlescent parasol, Macy began composing a heartfelt letter to this long-lost relative. Matias. Whoever he was. She paused occasionally to shake her hand to avoid twinges of carpal tunnel, wondering just what this man was like. Was he kind? And what did he know of the magical world?

Given that he was situated in the Azores, and a next door neighbor to boot, Macy was willing to bet, plenty.

Harry leaned over, nuzzling his visage into the crook of Macy's shoulder, murmuring his approval as he skimmed her penmanship, her methodical words, her visions of hope for the future, a broken world made whole.

Macy signed her name at the bottom, then nudged him. You sign too, she indicated with her expressive brown eyes.

But, love...I'm not related...I...am I not an outsider? His eyebrows lifted, perplexed.

"You're family," Macy proclaimed firmly. And so that was that. Harry too signed the missive, which was sealed for Macy to deliver to Matias' doorstep later that evening, past the fragrant plumeria-adorned stop sign, the palm fronds casting swaying shadows upon the glimmering midnight moon.

Illumination. Glimmering, shimmering folds of bright—

Macy blinked, staring down at herself, as other-worldly imagery came into focus—gorgeous, lush, altogether chic flapper garb, beaded fringes dancing in the cozy glow of ephemeral light—then in front of her—she gasped. Her own reflection, transformed into one of a jazz singer from the 1940s. She reached out to touch the makeup mirror’s edges, adorned with tiny glittering bulbs.

“Harry?” she called out tremulously, willing herself to maintain a modicum of calm, noticing her feet in sleek-stockinged kitten heels. She shifted from her seat, swaying uncertainly, gathering her bearings in this odd, antiquarian reality—

A reach for a cabinet, her eyes shut as her center of gravity steadied. Breathe. Just—

Breathe.

Several seconds passed. She opened her eyes yet again, running her fingers down her costume, sensual and artistic. She felt an object on her head—her hand moved upward. A flapper’s hat, of the sleekest fabric.

Where was she?

Certainly not Vera Manor.

Her surroundings, she noticed just then, were windowless for the most part, but nevertheless resplendent, each wall covered in deep purple tapestry, the ceiling all around speckled with a myriad of rose quartz crystals, each hanging upon what appeared to be strands of finely-woven thread. Below those semi-precious stones, she counted twenty…no, thirty…fifty or so pale waxen candles, flickering their heady heat.

Then, a memory from long ago resurfaced, as she reconsidered her choice of proper noun. If this was where she suspected she was, a tragic wartime montage of epic mystical proportions, then this could only mean she was Darcy. So then, by extension, it was not Harry who should deign to answer, but…

“J-Jimmy?” she all but whispered, as she heard a soft rustle behind her. A tall handsome man standing in the doorway’s threshold.

Harry-but-not-Harry.

He immediately stepped forward, enveloping her senses with a curiously intriguing amalgamation of cedar, rosewood, and pine, as she inhaled his intoxicating scent.

“Ready for our last dance?”

Macy froze. Her ears pricked, hearing a distant boom that grew louder by the moment. She stared at his outstretched hand before taking it, her other arm sloping about his shoulder.

As if on cue, the victrola began to play, and she gave a start, having recognized the tune immediately.

My funny Valentine.

“Juliet, to my Romeo,” Jimmy murmured in her ear, sweeping away a stray mahogany curl. “How very love-struck are we…written, destined to be so…such sweet, sweet sorrow—”

She shook her head, blinking rapidly—

Next Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“NO!” Macy bolted upright in bed, staring into pre-sunset darkness before feeling her way to Harry’s altogether calm, altogether breathing form, himself now shuffling with the knowledge something was deeply amiss.

“Love?” he half-yawned, his fingers reaching forth to clasp her own as he made his way into a seated position. “Love, what is it?”

She shook her head, refusing to speak. Perhaps if she refrained, she would avoid willing this worst-case scenario into existence. “I…nothing—”

“Mace…” Harry tilted his head. You’re not fooling me. “Tell me. Please.”

“It—it’s silly.” She began fiddling with the bedcovers until Harry’s hands covered hers once more. “I…just…just a nightmare.”

“Love, I am not going anywhere—”

“I know that. But Harry—” her large eyes beseeched his own. “I’m worried—”

Kitchen to Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie stirred her vegan latte, smiling as she drew a whiff of the caffeinated concoction. Liquid energy, she mused to herself before hearing a ping, which echoed on Mel’s own phone feet away, while Mel was making her own breakfast, whole grain toast topped with warmed bananas and agave.

“What is it, Mags?” Mel noticed with trepidation Maggie’s increasingly alarmed expression, racing forth to collect the latte lest the cup shatter all over the floor. Taking a deep breath, Maggie faced her older sister while holding up her own phone, which contained a text message from Harry.

We’ve got a situation. Macy’s bedroom.

“Oh shiiiii—” Mel’s eyes grew wide. Without a second thought, the pair darted out of the kitchen, racing the length of the stairs, the hallway too, until they arrived outside Macy’s bedroom.

Meeting Mel’s eyes with the faintest of nods, Maggie knocked on the door. “Uh…Harry?” she spoke hesitantly. “Ummm…got your text—are you—is Macy—ok?”

Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Oh thank heavens, was Harry’s initial thought as his eyes met the wood door, realizing at last that Mel and Maggie had come to the rescue. He then made a movement toward his wife. “Love, we should really be headed downstairs—I must really be off—” To Celeste’s. “For…” he gulped, “…treatment…”

Macy herself was pacing, her footfalls practically wearing the floor down. “I know that—”

“Then why can’t we get out?”

She halted in her tracks. “I don’t know, okay?” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “Sorry—sorry Harry. I know you’re trying to figure this out. I’ve never dealt with this type of magic before—”

If they weren’t in this predicament to begin with, Harry was sure he would laugh about it afterwards. But certainly not now. “And you’re absolutely sure it’s magic-based?”

Without a doubt. With an arched eyebrow, Macy strode to the door, but was bounced back by an invisible rubber-like barrier. Seriously?!! An outraged expression lined her visage.

The nerve.

Point taken. Harry cringed. “Love are you alright?”

She nodded. “Just bruised pride’s all.” Realizing her sisters were outside, she began speaking again. “Mel? Mags?”

A pair of voices answered on the opposite side of the door. “Yeah Mace?” as both younger sisters attempted to jiggle the door handle, which refused to budge.

“Can you guys look up charms on doors? Invisible barriers? We’re stuck…” Then a thought occurred to the oldest Charmed One. “And maybe something about fetal magic?”

Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Mel and Maggie retrieved the reconstructed Book of Shadows, its emerald hue gleaming in the sconce light as they flipped through various potions, spells, charms, and more, each more complex than the next.

“Dimension…nope…door...doorway…in absentia…doorway in fetu—” Maggie muttered as she skimmed the rapidly flipping pages, until she placed a finger upon one at last. “Found it!”

“Whew! So what’ve we got?” Mel replied, peering over her younger sister’s shoulder.

“A simple-enough recitation,” Maggie tore off a piece of scrap paper from the table, hastily writing down a few words. “A doorway in fetu—”

Attic to Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Doorway in fetu?” Mel made a face. “What’s that?”

“Something to cast off the doorway barrier,” Maggie responded curtly as they made their way back to the hallway, to just outside Macy’s bedroom door. “Mace, got a pen?” she called out.

Inside, Macy scrambled for her journal and a ballpoint pen. “Yup!”

“Ok, write this down,” Mel chimed in. “Open this door, worry no more, little one here, have no fear. Abre esta puerta, no te preocupes mas, pequeño aqui, no tener miedo.”

“Got it—” came the reply, as pen scribbled on padded paper. “Done!”

“On the count of three—” Maggie spoke, her and Mel’s hands rising upon the oaken frame—

“Macy, stand back—” Harry pulled Macy toward the bed, away from the door.

“Open this door, worry no more, little one here, have no fear. Abre esta puerta, no te preocupes mas, pequeño aqui, no tener miedo.” And so it went, a first time, a second, a third, a fourth, and finally, a fifth—

“POTENTIA TRIUM!”

CRASH!

The door flung open. Realizing they were finally free, Macy and Harry ran over to hug Mel and Maggie.

“Macy, you ok?” Maggie asked.

“Y-yeah, why?”

“Any stress at all?” Mel quipped as Macy gave a quizzical look. “Liiiiike….anything at all? Big or small? But maybe existential?”

“Er—yeah, definitely existential?” Maggie’s words followed.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Macy asked. A question for a question.

“So…uh, Mace,” Maggie bit her lip. “The charm to unlock your door—we figured out what was locking it in the first place.”

“A sticking spell? A rogue enchanted nail” Macy inquired as Maggie and Mel shook their heads. Nope and nope.

“Vengeful pixies?” Harry asked. Maggie shook her head. No.

“What then?”

“Your…um….your…” Maggie ended in a whisper. “Baby.”

Harry’s mouth puckered. “I beg your pardon? Our baby? In fetu?”

Maggie gave a nervous laugh, accompanied by a half-shrug as she began to ramble. “Yeah. There’s something Macy’s worried about on an existential life-death level that transferred over to the fetus, and the fetus is showing magical traits, and I guess, wanted to…uh…protect you? Keep you from leaving this room? In this house?”

Oh. Macy’s mouth formed a rounded shape. A moment of realization.

“Oh my…” Harry’s eyes grew in wonderment as they met his wife’s. They finally understood.

The mortality journey.

The baby knows.

“I guess that means my job is to stay calm and not worry?” Macy ventured after a few moments’ pause as Mel and Maggie nodded.

“Calm mommy, calm baby, and a few well-placed empowerment mantras,” Mel stated as Macy gave her a pointed look. “What? I find prenatal yoga very relaxing—”

Maggie put out a hand. Stop. Everyone froze. “Guys, what’s that smell?”

Something acrid, something—

“Oh, crap, burned the toast!” Mel shrieked, proceeding to race out the door to the hallway, down the stairs, and back into the kitchen, where she began opening all the windows, solarium included, coughing as her eyes began tearing up. “Sorry guys!” she hollered.

Consulatório Obstetra, Bairro Antigo, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy stepped in, alone this time, to a familiar, gorgeous interior, resplendent and tiled in various checkered shades of sky blue, cobalt, and turquoise, reminiscent of an elegant Turkish bathhouse. She did not have an appointment. But for this situation, she figured, it did not matter, as she spotted out of the corner of her eye, a bundle of crimson curls—

“You knew.”

Those same crimson curls, and its owner, made to disappear through the double doors, having been found out, abjectly so—

"Wait!" Macy exclaimed, her voice echoing past the cobalt and sapphire-hued tiles, fountain trickling all the while, using her telekinesis to close the doors shut. "Please—sit—"

Morgana paused mid-step, then followed Macy's directive despite this being her own clinic, not the Charmed One's. For some seconds, neither of them spoke, listening instead to the sounds of chirping birds outside, and the rustle of palm fronds across the glass of a nearby window.

"Morgana, what was Marisol—my mom—what was she like?" Macy spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. Please. Tell me. I want—no—I need—to know.

Peering below her pince-nez, Morgana studied the beautiful figure. This Marcella. This Macy. All grown up. "You mean you never brought her back for a chat? Would've expected that pre-pregnancy, m'dear," she stated matter-of-factly. Doing so in Macy's current condition could be dangerous, involving an irreversible soul-switch. Even the most non-magic of folk gleaned as much though in different contexts, with superstitions regarding expectant women not attending funerals. 

"It's...complicated," Macy heaved a sigh. Maggie was inhabited by two errant father-daughter souls, then finally their mother, but Macy hadn't recalled sticking around for that. Or had she? The details were fuzzy, especially after Antonio was knocked unconscious. The amount of chemical memory-wipes completed was one for the record.

"Well, dear…she…your mother…she had a heart of fire. Like you. Quite passionate in every magical endeavor."

"Really?" Macy's voice caught in her throat. "What else do you remember?"

Morgana reached out, clasping both hands over Macy's own. "She was the most brilliant witch of her time, feisty and fierce. And oh, my dear--she loved you very, very much."

Noticing Macy’s eyes begin to tear up, Morgana waved a box of tissues toward her using her own telekinesis.

“No…I—I’m good, Morgana,” Macy rapidly regained composure. “Thanks though.” Then she took a sharper view. “And how did you get telekinesis?” She paused. “Oh jeez, don’t tell me you’re a long-long-long lost Vaughn descendant too—I mean no offense—but I’ve had it up to here with secrets—”

Morgana merely adjusted her bifocals and chuckled. “No, dear. Just a family friend through the ages, adopted into the fold. An ardent supporter of the Charmed Ones. Oh, and this old thing?” referencing her own telekinesis. “It’s strictly for medical objects, however tangentially or intangentially related.”

Huh. Macy tilted her head, inquisitive. “Interesting…” Who knew selective telekinesis was a thing?

“Made choosing my career path much easier,” chuckled the crimson-haired woman, “that’s for sure.”

Macy thought back to her own journey toward genetics research. An aimless collegiate path, an ill-fated karaoke night gone horribly awry, then—stasis. Emotional stasis and solidity. A new sense of purpose, kismet, switching majors, reams of catching up to graduate on time, then finally, a university lab job courtesy of her mother, who had known and loved her from afar. “Right. Easier.”

Chapter Text

Same Day, Consulatório Obstetra, Bairro Antigo, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After a steady stream of conversation within the elegant gynecology clinic, the fountain bubbling merrily in the distance, both Morgana and Macy paused to collect their thoughts.

Seconds, then minutes passed by, after which the crimson-haired woman spoke. “Fancy a walk?”

Macy slowly nodded. A short one. “Nothing too crazy—” She was, after all, 1^st trimester pregnant and prone to exhaustion and heaven knew what else. “Harry’s expecting me back at the Command Center in half an hour—”

“Understood.” Morgana rose, beckoning toward a separate set of stylized doors that Macy could have sworn had never been there before; crossing the airy chamber, the oldest Charmed One studied the doors’ artwork—six painted panels of rooms in miniature—black-and-white checkered flooring in two—the leftmost showcasing what appeared to be French doors opening onto a garden and the rightmost having the same except with different foliage. The middle two panels depicted a palm tree’s midsection, and finally, the topmost panels displayed on the left, a balcony, and on the right, a bell tower of bright orange stucco.

Sans hesitation, Morgana placed her hand on the panel containing the painted image of French doors. A small glow emitted from where her hand lay. A second later, Macy and Morgana found themselves in a sunny outdoor courtyard hall, a long-necked ribbed public bench coming up on their left.

Wow—impressive, Macy thought to herself. “Was that—touch-activated—”

“Doorway?” The older woman nodded. “An invention of mine decades ago. Medico-architectural magic.”

“You really should patent that—” Macy blurted out a moment later. “I mean…” she backtracked, “only if you really want to—if you haven’t already—"

“I could,” Morgana mused aloud, “but I didn’t.”

Macy frowned as Morgana proceeded to lead them out of the gynecology courtyard to a hidden exit opening out to a grove of sweet-scented trees, one of which appeared to be the prickly Nephelium Iappaceum, otherwise known as the rambutan. “Why not?”

“Too much paperwork, too many questions,” answered Morgana. “The risk of the wrong people capitalizing could have been catastrophic. Not to mention human error.” Noticing the younger woman’s furrowed brow, the crimson-haired lady continued. “Pregnant people accidentally locking themselves in painted scenery would not be a good look for my clinic—”

The oldest Charmed One winced. “Makes sense.”

Side Streets of Epicenter Pico to Private Pool, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

The pair made their way along a sandy path amidst what appeared to be the backstreet corridor of Epicenter Pico. Or a mirror image, anyways. A quick turn to the right and a gate magically opened, revealing carefully coiffed boxwood of the deepest emerald hue. “Follow me—” Morgana nudged her head inward.

And so Macy had, along a winding path that at first grew denser and denser with shrubbery, overgrowths of ivy entangled above between drooping Weeping Willows until, with a swoop of a leaf-like curtain, the women were face-to-face with what appeared to be a small neighborhood pool, the dangling ivy turning into trellised grapevines. Directly before them (and just before said pool) were three bright alabaster-hued reclining chairs, sandwiched beneath a scalloped beach umbrella lined in navy trim. Macy noticed in the distance, past the tall boxwood further on ahead, the tops of fluttering palm trees, as if to remind her of the surrounding island areas.

“Go on, have a seat—” Morgana ushered her toward an awaiting chair. Just as Macy touched it—

And noticed—grey pinstriped cushioning. A glance upward to a towering figure, his laugh loud and booming, created a wellspring of joy within as she eagerly wiggled her arms, each laden with a bright orange water wing.

“Daddy, we swim now?” she piped up as he shook his head.

“First rule of outdoor swimming: sunscreen.”

The little girl groaned. Daddy and all his rules.

“You heard your father.” A woman, her crimson hair knotted in an elegant bun, approached the pair.

The child exhaled. Fine. She grimaced, trying to will the process to hurry on until she could jump in the—

As if hearing the girl’s intent, the crimson-haired woman spoke again. “No diving. Yet.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘who the heck are you?’

“I…” spoke the woman, “am Morgana. Your teacher.”

Macy’s eyes sprang open as she gasped aloud, her eyes finding Morgana’s own. “I…I was here before?” Swallowing hard, she heart her heart beat, loudly, unremittingly so. “And you were my swimming instructor?”

“One and the same.”

“But…” Macy paused, surveying the idyllic scene of utmost calm before her, “what happened?” She searched her brain, but the memory had all but vanished. “And why don’t I remember?”

Morgana regarded the young woman through her pince-nez. “Don’t you?”

Paddle, kick.

Paddle, kick.

Left arm, right arm,

Paddle, paddle kick—

“Very good, sweetie!”

A female voice calling from out yonder. Mommy. Maybe wearing a straw-brimmed hat lined with black ribbon, a visage lined with stylish Jackie-O sunglasses…but was she there, or was it…a phone, practically laced against Dexter’s ear as he gave fervent description of their daughter’s first swimming lessons?

The montage faded to a beach.  Chairs and a straw brimmed fedora atop the sand juxtaposed with a ribboned counterpart, overlooking a distant rocky atoll—

Macy blinked, grasping the rightmost chair handle for balance. “But that couldn't be right, could it?” she spoke incredulously. “My dad never wore a fedora”—a carefree, stylish summer hat.

“But once upon a time, however brief…” Morgana spoke slowly, “…he did.”

A sudden chill crept up Macy’s spine. Marisol and her memory charms.

SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington

Marble in hand, Macy had portaled away fifteen minutes later, not before bidding Morgana farewell until her next scheduled appointment. So many memories yet to unfurl…

Feet landing upon concrete darkness, she wondered at the lengths Marisol went to protect her children, even going so far as to memory wipe a toddler, lest questionable information be leaked in daycare, causing concern. And part of herself wondered, too, at just what lengths she herself would go to protect her and Harry's young.

Past death’s doorstep, bypassing the laws of nature?

Macy willed herself to inhale—and exhale. Hopefully, she would never, ever, have to find out the answer to that question.

“Mace?”

She smiled, genuinely so, as she followed Harry’s voice to the dim light of the corner desk space. Intertwining her arms about his shoulders, she drew herself toward him, kissing him, lusciously, sweetly so.

“Pleasant day, love?” he murmured, tucking a mahogany curl beneath an ear.

“Mmmmm…more like a long one. What’s up?” After the weightiness of toddler memories uncovered, Macy wished to focus elsewhere, if only to allow herself to process everything.

“I found something that might be of familial interest—”

She arched an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

Harry pointed to the large, dusty, ancient tome before him, which Macy immediately recognized. “Isn’t that—”

“Yes, love. The Book of Elders. Look, over here,” he gently guided her hand to a set of intricate calligraphic text.

Charmed Ones of the Azores, 1920-1940*

Darcy Madalena Valensi

Della Marcella Valensi

Dora Yesenia Valensi

Her mouth dropped open as she whirled around to face Harry. “You—you —omigawd—” she couldn’t complete the sentence, but he knew what it was she was going to say.

“Yes, love,” he whispered. “I found them.”

Macy was aware she shouldn’t have doubted Vaughn family folklore, given how her father Dexter was a stickler for the truth, but seeing everything inscribed on aged parchment imbued the knowledge with far deeper meaning.

Everything—everything—had been just as Dad had said.

This whole time—this whole, entire time.

There was that tale, too, that the local populace had renamed a particular Azores area Madalena Village in honor of Aunt Darcy’s healing that saved so many. Perhaps that too, was more truth than legend?

Noticing the asterisk, and recalling the one time during Maggie’s Marisol summoning in which she herself failed to read the fine print, Macy traced the notation to a footnote, which read the following:

*The Charmed Ones’ unified power broke as a direct result of Darcy Madalena Valensi’s departure.

Fleeing to Manchester to avoid a doomday’s prediction. This begged the question, at least to Macy—how much had Darcy sacrificed of herself—and her sisters—in the process?

And how many times had Macy perused this particular book of names such as “Hester” and “Prudence” in the 1600s, never once thinking that her and her sister’s own relations were within as well?

She had, it seemed, quite a lot to learn.

Chapter Text

A Couple Mornings Later, Macy's Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy yawned, arms outstretched to welcome the billowing sunrise, turning and twisting to achieve some semblance of movement, of maternal flexibility in her hip joints. Leaning over to her nightstand, she checked her calendar via her phone.

11 weeks, 3 days.

Groaning, her head hit the pillow once more. Why did human gestation feel like forever? Granted, she'd already checked the total duration: a solid two hundred and eighty cycle days. Nine full months. Forty weeks.

And still, it seemed like forever.

Placing her phone back upon its solid surface, her hand brushed against a piece of parchment. A response from Matias. Received just the day before, she'd emitted a sharp exhale, her arm leaning against the Epicenter No. 23 doorframe for balance. Moments later, she'd torn it open:

Dear Macy and Harry,

Thank you for the birthday greeting, and for reaching out. I have led a simple life, here on the islands. Dora and Della were wonderful parents to me. Your account matches up. I would like to meet you—would today (or tomorrow) work? I know it's sudden, but I work at the outdoor market and my hours can be long. Let me know by knocking on my door.

-M

So, of course...today was the day. But first...Macy glanced over at Harry's slumbering form...she had to tell her sisters.

Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Her slender fingers tapped the yoga mat, restlessly so. Happy mommy, happy baby, Macy silently recited to herself, willing it to be true, even if, given her long and tragic life history, she had doubts as to its utmost veracity. Happy mommy, happy baby...

"What's this?"

Macy's eyes flew open. Mel. Her sister had trod into the kitchen and had seized the parchment from the nearby table. "Wow, Mace, this is some high-quality pulp—"

"Mel, there's something I need to tell you--" Macy called out from where she was seated cross-legged on her yoga mat, silently cursing the fact that secrets never quite stayed secrets in a crowded house of four...no, four-and-a-half, humans, as she rubbed her belly on instinct.

“It’s twins?” Mel asked, still clutching the letter as she began to read.

“What—no!” Definitely a singleton. “Mel—you’re going to need context—” That letter raised far more questions than answers, at least for Macy herself.

Little Bean, borne into…

Macy paused. Chaos? Craziness? Coexistence, magical and human?

Perhaps all of the above.

Mel’s brow furrowed deeper the more she read. “Mace,” the middle Charmed Once spoke slowly, eyes meeting her oldest sister’s. “Who is Matias? What islands? Who’s Dora and Della? And what’s this about—” she squinted at the text. “Meeting…today?”

As if on cue, Maggie entered the kitchen, curls bouncing freely about her leopard-print blouse. “Rise and shine!” She stopped, realizing something was clearly afoot, by the looks of Mel and Macy, and a weirdly old piece of paper, if it could even be called that. “Uh…guys?” She waved her hand rapidly. “Earth to Charmed Ones?”

Slowly, Macy rose and walked toward the kitchen table. “You guys had better sit for this one. It’s one for the books.”

Forty Minutes Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Wait—” Maggie sputtered after Macy finished describing the chronology, the folklore, the myths, and the truth—that Matias was a long-lost cousin, Macy had been left property through Dexter’s lineage, and Dora, Della, and Darcy were reputed to be the Charmed Ones of the Azores. “How come I didn’t get a condo in the Azores? That is SO not fair!” she ended in a mutter, as Mel bit her lip.

“Only Margarita Vera would raise a question like that,” quipped Mel. “But Mace, seriously, that’s a lot to take in.” She glanced at her youngest sister. “And yeah, like Maggie said, not to be…weird…but why you?”

“I keep asking myself the same question,” Macy responded in all seriousness. “But I think it’s ‘firstborn privileges’ or something. Plus Dexter raised me…and we spent time on the island…a long time ago. There’s lots of sentimental meaning…I think…” she trailed off, uncertain.

“You think?” Mel inquired. “You don’t remember?”

Macy opened her mouth as if to speak, paused, then chose her words carefully. “I have bits and pieces of memories as a toddler there, but Marisol wiped a lot of them away—” she noted her sisters’ outraged expressions and pressed on, “—for my protection. I mean, imagine if I went to daycare and ratted on my parents and magic and all and people were called—that’d require a lot of explaining—”

“Too much explaining,” spoke Maggie with an exasperated sigh. “Mom and all her secrets. Not surprised. She should’ve been in espionage with her skillset. But seriously?!”

Macy studied her youngest sister. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Not at you.” Maggie inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “I’m upset at all the secrets. And yeah, jealous I didn’t get a condo too, sort of. But…it kinda all makes sense when you stop and think about it. I mean…Dexter was your father. Ray was mine, more or less. Emphasis on the less. A work in progress. But I digress. Besides—” her eyes met Mel’s. “Mom did promise us ownership of Vera Manor outright, so I mean, we are set in that sense.”

“Which is lucky, if you ask me,” quipped Mel. “It’s near impossible for millennials to own property these days, with student loans and skyrocketing prices—"

“So you guys get Vera Manor and I get something in the Azores,” Macy mused aloud. Then an idea came to her. “Can we do a time share thing? Like, Mel could stay at the condo over Christmas if Harry and I visit Carter’s descendants in Manchester?”

“Ooooh yes!” Mel exclaimed.

“And sisterly bonding with the occasional movie night?” Maggie asked, her doe-eyes wide and innocent. Secretly, she envisioned curling up to a bucket of piping hot popcorn mixed with salty pretzels and peanut M&Ms and chocolate-covered nuts…

“Sure,” Macy grinned. “Definitely.” She coughed indelicately. “I mean, once I fix up the place, I kind of haven’t decorated…the last tenant kept it fixed up I guess…but the master bedroom needs a little…something.”

“Color palette? I’m in—” Maggie exclaimed.

Epicenter Pico No. 22, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

It was finally time to meet Matias. Macy and Harry stood beneath the threshold, Macy smoothing her curls for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes.

“It’ll be fine, love,” he murmured in her ear.

“I…I hope so, Harry. I really, really hope so—”

On the count of three—

One—

Two—

Three—

They knocked.

The door opened. It was Matias.

He had closely-cropped silver hair that showed the hint of a distinctive curl that seemed familiar to Macy, was of a healthy size and build, likely from hoisting up crops and herbs all those years, and his eyes were a startling slate grey that caused Harry to have a double-take. His complexion was a deep tan reminiscent of the Greek Mediterranean populace. He had a warm smile, and he enveloped Macy and Harry in a tight hug. There wasn’t a dry eye.

Once they said their greetings, Matias bade them come in; he strode past his nondescript carpeted living room into the unadorned yellowing linoleum kitchen, bare save for a stained-glass religious relic nailed to the room’s threshold (“from my niece during her Madrid trip,” he said). He reached under the kitchen table and pulled out an old canvas satchel and purple-brocaded sling. “My aunts told me that you, Harry, dropped me off here with both.”

For several long minutes, Harry stared hard at the satchel and sling, as his memories flickered like a View-Master within his eyesight, akin to cinematic format. “I was getting ready to use a marble to transport myself to your aunt’s place; I held your late mother’s body in a dark purple tapestry,” he stated, stroking the aged linen with his fingers slowly. “You were a tiny baby, sound asleep as I ripped a piece of curtain to hold you in a sling against me, to make sure you were safe while we portaled.”

Where had that come from? Macy silently gaped. More memories, resurfacing.

“The canvas bag,” Matias said. “What was that for?” Harry picked up the bag, now wrinkled and creased, running his thumb down the coarse stitching, ruminating for some time, as Macy watched the two interact.

“The canvas bag held mixed powdered milk in a thermos in case you grew hungry.” He turned his gaze toward Matias. “I didn’t know what I was doing back then—all I knew was that I had to keep you safe at all costs.”

Matias nodded. “My aunts told me. And thank you for keeping me safe. I’ve led a good life here. Europe was bomb-riddled back then, so I’d heard.”

About half an hour passed, and the conversation continued. “Speaking of your life here, I’ve heard that you sell your wares at the local market?” Harry asked, inquisitively. In response, Matias gathered his dried spices from a hook-locked kitchen cabinet, showing Macy and Harry how he would de-stem them and lay the delicate fronds on the kitchen table, with pre-cut twine for making individually wrapped bundles he knew would charm the mainland tourists.

“I sell these; tourists love to buy them to show folks back on the mainland,” Matias mentioned. Harry reached over and hugged Macy’s shoulder.

“Matias, I wish I knew to visit you, all these years—even if from a distance—” Harry began.

“You’re both here now, and that’s what matters,” Matias said simply. “I don’t have many years left, but I’d like to get to know you and Macy with the ones I do have.”

“I have two sisters, Mel and Maggie, who would like to meet you too. Would you be open to that?” Macy asked hesitantly.

“Yes, I would,” Matias smiled. “Besides my marketplace pal and childhood neighbor Morgana, it’s been a very quiet few decades here.”

“That can be arranged,” Harry murmured quietly. He orbed back to Vera Manor to pick up Mel and Maggie, and returned several minutes later in the doorway, (it wasn’t polite, after all, to orb directly into another’s home without explicit permission).

Mel and Maggie cautiously stepped forward and made as though to shake Matias’ hand, but he hugged them straightaway, and they reciprocated. They noted that he had hair similar to Macy’s, with eyes that appeared somewhat familiar (where had they seen that particular color before?), and looked as though he were of Southern Mediterranean descent, with his olive-toned skin. Strong genes, Maggie thought to herself. If this is what Darcy’s baby grew up to be, Macy and Harry’s future babies would be robust, she was sure of it.

After Macy, Harry, Mel and Maggie spent time at Matias’ home (“please come and visit me at the market soon!” he had said), they walked next door to Macy’s Epicenter Pico No. 23 condo.

Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Mel, Maggie, Harry, Macy entered the condo, through the doorway, the tiny table and overhead mirror to their side. Guest bathroom and separate room to the left. Up ahead the living room couch and coffee table, and to the side, a modern state-of-the-art kitchen. Outside, a balcony with a view for miles—and a—

“Hot tub?” Maggie exclaimed.

“Sweet,” remarked Mel as she studied the ingrained tile patterns.

“Yes, well, the mini pool’s quite nice,” Harry spoke aloud as Mel and Maggie’s heads veered in his direction, as he had the audacity to blush a deep crimson.

“How would you know—you haven’t been—oh wait—” Maggie paused, reaching for Macy’s shoulder. Of course Macy had to have given her own husband a ‘sneak peek.’ A night time jaunt, a genetics book, one thousand pages, propped upright by the stilled waters, as a certain someone crept up, possibly toeing the line of orbing powers for personal gain—a shudder later, the youngest Charmed One’s eyes flew open. “Oh. My—"

“Ew, you two—" grimaced Mel.

Macy yanked the arm away. “Maggie, boundaries!”

Then everyone inexplicably burst into laughter.

Oh the chaos, and the beauty too…

Macy ushered everyone back inside as she took one last glance at the distant ocean, its waves cresting and crashing against the sienna-hued sand.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived on an island far, far away…

With that thought, she quietly slid the screened door shut, happy to once again be breathing life into this cozy, comfortable dwelling.

Chapter Text

11 weeks, 3 days, and a whole bunch of…

Living Room to Master Bedroom, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“Redecorating.” Macy uttered the last of her thoughts. A statement, not a question. “Wait for me!” A sudden thought occurred to her as her youngest sister, oblivious to all else, traipsed into the master bedroom, making a beeline for the accompanying full bath. “Mags, there’s something I need to tell you—”

Maggie peered up at the showerhead, prominent in its full, unadulterated glory. Shiny and glittering, she stared, noticing its oddly…phallic…appearance. It had to be new. But who on earth would commission this? Or better yet—who on earth could this possibly be commissioned from? It really was a work of modern art—and detachable too, by the looks of it.

She reached out to touch the showerhead, as if hoping to learn more—

“Maggie, NO!”

Immediately, she shuddered, finding herself in a miasmic fog of—fear? No. Anticipation? Perhaps. Condensation trickled down the laser-cut glass walls, its transparency having dissipated to sordid clouds of cumulus and cirrus. Fingers dancing upon the fount, she adjusted its intensity, hearing, as if echoes within her cerebrum, cries of absolute, unrelenting ecstasy—a hand pinned to the wall, another to the adjoining surface, smooth as silk, as tenderest a tempestuous touch could possibly be—

The youngest Charmed One’s eyes flew open as she shrieked, dropping the showerhead as it fell down, down—

And was swiftly plucked inches from its untimely demise by the telekinetic powers of a certain melanin-hued woman who gave her littlest sister a particularly hard stare.

“R-right,” Maggie stammered as she willed herself to breathe once more. “B-boundaries…heh…” before backing away and returning to the master bedroom, determined to change the subject. “So…uh…curtains?”

Macy bit her lip, avoiding Harry’s glance. What was that about, love?

Harry, she beseeched him, don’t ask. Don’t even—

But something in her eyes drew him nearer, as he studied her glittering irises, dilating in his presence, for there was only so much she could hide from her beloved.

Oh. Ohhhh….his concerned glance gave way to sultry mirth. A raise of a brow. She found it, didn’t she?

Macy blushed, turning her attention to the furthest linen curtain as his hand curled about hers. “Uh, yeah, Mags. Uh…curtains. It’s—” she cleared her throat. Damn those seductive fingers—they would, no doubt, find their way up her neck and down below her hips if he had a mind to. More motions where those came from. Make her pregnant, if she weren’t already—

“It’s…?” Mel came up behind Maggie, studying Macy’s odd expression. “Macy, you ok?”

“Y-yeah…” Macy nodded fervently, wishing it were so, trying as hard as she could to ignore—“y’know what, I ought to get a glass of water, fresh air—” She tore her hand from Harry’s own and practically fled toward the door leading to the living room and the open kitchen.

“Love, perhaps I should come with—”

“No!” Macy realized her response sounded unduly harsh. “I mean—no, Harry. I—I’ll be ok.” She paused, absorbing Harry’s disbelieving expression. “I swear—"

Twenty minutes later, she returned to the master bedroom, having obtained both fresh air and a glass of water. The curtains were still in place, but Maggie’s attention was now upon the bed itself. “Mace, where’s the rest of the pillows?” Maggie studied the bedspread, which vaguely matched the neutral-colored wall. Nondescript.

“Uh, what pillows?” Macy replied, puzzled. “One to sleep on, and there’s just me and Harry, so two total?”

Maggie clicked her tongue. “Nuh-uh. You need more—” She pulled out her phone, displaying dazzling photos of oceanic blue pillows, velvet teal, silken turquoise, and a few tasseled cobalt-hued cushions. “How about these?”

Macy frowned. “Isn’t it a bit…much?”

“Not if you want to invest in self-care. And get enough sleep. That little bean—” Maggie pointed to Macy’s abdomen, “needs a well-rested mama.”

“But they’re all kind of pricey,” Macy glanced again at the screen. Fifteen bucks for a single mini pillow?!

“But—” Mel interjected, “they’re worth it. How about it being…” she paused, meeting Maggie’s eyes, “an early half-birthday present of sorts? Make up for all those birthdays we missed years ago?”

“Are you sure?” Macy blinked. “I mean, it’s kind of a lot—”

“We’re sure,” Maggie hurriedly added. “Besides, Mel’s teaching again and the SafeSpace gig’s going well. Happy to help.” A few clicks, and she squealed in excitement. “They’ll be here in a few days!”

“Rush order?” Macy peered over at the phone. “Mags, really, you don’t have to—”

“But we want to.” End of story.

“Mags is very determined—” Mel added.

“Ok,” replied Macy with a laugh. “I surrender.”

Another several minutes passed as the four examined paint swatches, again from Maggie’s phone. Thank God for the internet, Harry couldn’t help but muse. If this had been turn-of-the-century England, he’d have to go through crowded streets, amid the hustle and bustle, to a certain dusty and dank corridor to the one man who sold only a very limited selection of highly toxic lead paint—which was the norm, before paint was brought up to code some decades later. And blue jewel-toned hues? Forget about it in those antiquarian times—

“Robin’s egg blue, opal blue, sapphire blue—too deep,” Macy mused aloud. “I want something that adds a bit of light.”

Maggie’s finger flicked across the screen, adjusting the swatch colors all the while. “How about Palladian? Wythe blue? Woodlawn blue?”

“That’s certainly a lot of blues—” Harry remarked, in awe of the sheer selection. Then he took a closer look at the Woodlawn hue. “Mace,” he pointed, “how about that?”

The oldest Charmed One’s lips pursed, brow furrowed, her eyes flickering from the swatch to the walls around them, as if she were mentally visualizing the color before her, after which her expression relaxed. “Yes, Harry,” she spoke slowly, as if testing wine of the finest variety. “I…I like it.”

Splendid. Harry turned to Maggie. “Can we order it?”

“Just did!”

Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After ensuring the paint and pillows were taken care of, Mel and Maggie departed for Vera Manor, allowing Macy and Harry a bit of respite. On a whim, they decided to explore the idyllic field behind the condo, full of wildflowers and grassy knolls. Bright white foam danced across cerulean caves crashing upon the rocky shore, as a thick pearly cloud surrounded the furthest hill—or was it a dormant volcano?

Macy paused, mid-step. Where had that thought come from? A dormant volcano?

“Penny for your thoughts, love?” A voice to her right. Harry.

She shook her head. “Just…feeling a lot of feels. Relearning a lot of memories.”

“I know the feeling, love,” he murmured, squeezing her hand tightly, as she squeezed back in response.

Another several minutes, and they came across a smoother shoreline area, with what appeared to be a long rectangular stone harbor or diving point of sorts, replete with tan foldable beach chairs scattered every which way, their edges glittering in the sunlight, for the clouds, at that very moment, had decided to give way, finally acknowledging the promise of midsummer musings. Six toward the edge of the water, two behind, counted Macy silently. And a faded maroon inflatable boat.

One for her and her sisters and Harry. Four.

One for Morgana and Matias. Two.

And two for the children that would one day, someday soon, follow.

Blurriness gave way to sight as she noticed, at first, a lush emerald fern bouquet at the center of what appeared to be an outdoor wedding reception tent, gauzy and elegant, the floors made of honeyed, polished wood. She cupped her hand, but realized there was no need, for the sun was not shining directly onto her eyes, the ocean beyond faded beneath an effervescent, ecru sky.

She had, she realized in that very moment, everyone—and everything—she needed, even though nobody was here. She just—somehow—knew.

And that felt confirmed as she noticed two carved-wood foldable high chairs, one on either side of the fern centerpiece, their seat backs a pale ivory, in the shape of whimsical mouse ears. Or bear ears. It did not matter.

All that mattered—was that she was happy. Complete. Her soul—fulfilled.

Master Bedroom, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy sprang up in bed, hands fumbling in the dark until she heard a familiar sound—or snore.

Harry.

“Y’awright love?” He rose to embrace her form, mid-yawn as she nodded.

“Just—just a dream,” she muttered as she gathered her bearings, realizing that they had likely taken a nap after their short walk outside. She was always taking naps now, fatigue being a familiar friend. “Are we still up for date night?”

“Yes, if you are well,” Harry responded, eyes fixed upon Macy’s own. “But only if.”

“Definitely.”

“Very well, love.”

“Shouldn’t I change though?” Macy realized dates generally required fancy outfits. Or at the very least, not leggings and a tee.

“I briefed Maggie before she and Mel left, and she’s left a bit of glamour powder in the entryway. But it’ll be a bit more…tea, less brasserie,” thought Harry aloud.

“England?” posited Macy aloud, to which Harry offered a kiss in response, along with a knowing smile.

Rye, East Sussex, England

Half an hour later, Macy and Harry found themselves in the heart of English countryside, a six-foot brick cobblestone wall separating their path from private gardens in the area, several varieties of songbird trills echoing in the summer air. Continuing their journey afoot, Macy noticed a bright red telephone booth in distinctive lettering, itself opened to reveal—

“BOOKS!” Macy exclaimed loudly. Can I? Her eyes searched his as he nodded. A silent fist-pump later, she practically ran forth, plucking one book from the booth’s shelf, then another, skimming titles upon titles, each tome distinct from the next. Then a certain cover stood out, white with simple crimson, yellow, and blue markings. “’The Gene’ by Mukherjee?” she whispered. The local college library had that on backorder for the past few months, and other places she’d searched had also come up dry, much to her consternation.

“Indeed it is,” murmured Harry, reaching over to stroke her curls as she excitedly thumbed through the beginning pages. “Signed, as a matter of fact—”

“Ohmygawd—"

“Happy date night, love,” he smiled, sweeping her curls, planting a soft kiss upon the nape of her neck. “And the book’s already been bought and paid for, so you can take it as you please—”

She did so, promptly holding the tome under the arm not linked with Harry’s own. “Harry—thank you! I mean wow, what a treat—”

“But there’s more, love, after all, this is date night, not date minute—"

“Huh. Ok, Har. You got me. What’s next? And—” she paused, fully absorbing her airy surroundings. “What part of England is this?”

“Rye, East Sussex, love,” replied Harry.

“Why Rye? I mean,” Macy hurried on, “I’m surprised it’s not Manchester. But I’m totally good with this choice too. Definitely good actually—”

“It’s got clean country air, good for yourself and our little one, excellent sustenance, and…well, Mace, it’s the place I oft used to escape to, whilst on holiday, love. Far from the claustrophobic hustle and bustle of city life, et cetera.” His voice softened. “I wanted to share a bit of myself with you…” he tenderly touched Macy’s belly, “and ours.”

Several more minutes passed as the sidewalk in which they traipsed turned to grassy cobblestone, leading up to a tealight-adorned shop. “The Cobbler,” read Macy aloud, from the bleached signage in the shape of a teapot, the building itself resembling a Shakespearean cottage cobbled onto brownstone, all lined with a single three-foot-tall white picket fence. “Interesting choice,” she remarked as Harry chuckled.

“I figured with your symptoms you could use a spot of peppermint tea, not to mention those scones I’m always rambling on about—”

“With the clotted cream?”

He grinned. “Always the clotted cream.”

Chapter Text

Ensuite Bathroom, Consulate General of the Republic of Korea, West Mercer Street, Seattle, Washington

Finally home from her study abroad postgraduate program, the raven-haired young lady undid her hair, tied high in a bun, climbing into the steaming, piping-hot shower, every ounce of her musculature sighing in relief. No longer traipsing the corridors of faraway districts, frequenting more often women-owned discotheques than the library as she was oft wont to do, she was, in no small part, happy to be home. Despite all the pomp and circumstance that came with being part of a diplomatic family. She rolled her eyes at the thought of velvet-tasseled pillows that awaited her, a mint on a porcelain saucer that she claimed time and time again wasn’t necessary, no matter how much the concierge insisted decorum be carried out. Besides, she thought to herself, reaching for the shampoo, I don’t even like mints—

A hiss, and a rattle, mere inches away from her shoulder caused her to nearly drop the shampoo. What was that?

No. Just—she shook her head. No. It wasn’t—this wasn’t—possible.

It couldn’t have followed her home—

She felt for her hair, noticing how her tresses suddenly seemed heavier in the steaming mist. Thicker. And despite the heat of the air about her, she couldn’t help but recall the tall tale that started it all. A Korean ghoul, a restless spirit with long scraggly hair laid upon an unsuspecting maiden’s own in the shower, so that the lady would be tricked into washing said ghoul’s hair. All the while, whispering within her ear—

“Look at me…look at me…look at me…”

She froze, hardly daring to move an inch. Acknowledge its presence and die? Leaving was not an option—

Moments later, a thump—a concerned female guard stationed outside the room burst in, having heard the fracas. And shrieked, having discovered her charge unconscious upon the shower floor. Swallowing hard, the guard recalled her medical training, swiftly turning off the tap and checking for vital signs—

“Tonya?” It came as a whisper as the guard found it within herself to breathe again. Oh thank God—

“Niko, are you alright?”

“Kichin—” the barely conscious lady uttered, her head falling back once more as Tonya screamed into her earpiece for backup.

Abandoned Warehouse, West Mercer Street, Seattle, Washington

“So remind me again why we’re here?” Mel’s voice echoed throughout the bare chamber as Harry checked his surroundings once more.

“We’re searching for a…a…” he paused. “A kichin—”

Mel frowned. “A kitchen? Harry, we have one of those back home—”

A hiss pierced the long-looming grey of fast-enveloping darkness as they turned a corner, Harry holding out his hand to pause Mel in her path, gesturing toward the source of the noise. Quiet, remember? He raised an eyebrow as Mel rolled her eyes in response. Fine—

Her phone vibrated. Good thing she had the foresight to change her ringtone. More suspense. Easier to stay hidden. Clicking through, she noticed a message from Maggie, who had stayed behind to do anthropological and cultural research.

Kichin=Gwisin. Korean ghost. Found in abandoned buildings, houses. Needs completing task before going to the underworld. Strong stubborn ones can stay and get stronger. Long scraggly hair. Floats. Hold breath or they’ll hear. Use gum. -Mags

Mel prodded Harry, showing him the message, then turning to a separate chat on her phone to continue a silent conversation.

Why the consulate? -Mel

I suppose it was a once-used house? -H

Pre-autumn folklore fest=Korean Halloween? -Mel

So, more spiritual forces afoot? -H

Bingo. Gum? -Mel

Mel put her phone away and gestured to Harry’s pocket as he scrambled to tear open the miniature foil wrappers, handing one to Mel. Popping it into her mouth, she winced. Cinnamon?

He shrugged sheepishly. Macy’s cravings, he mouthed back. In the next second, Mel reached for a vial from within her pocket, herself and Harry each taking a sip, before blending in perfectly with the outermost surroundings. Thus was the magic of chameleon manifens—the potion specially brewed to render oneself like the creature’s counterpart, camouflaging humans to match one’s settings in times of dire straits.

But how were they supposed to catch a long-haired she-ghoul who could hear voices to the nth degree, if they could not fly? Mel reached inside her pocket to pull out a tinier vial, labeled most appropriately, “ghost goo.” Spotting a sprinkler system affixed to the warehouse ceiling, she began to smile slowly as everything came together in her mind.

Some fifteen minutes later, having traced the water system thanks to Jordan looking up the blueprints back at Vera Manor, Mel and Harry managed to smear bits of ghost goo upon every inch of the sprinkler devices, thanks in no small part to various mops and poles and duct tape sealing the items together, however messily so. And matches, nicked from a rusted drawer—

Ready? Mel mouthed to Harry, who met her eyes, nodding with a determined look.

Ready.

“NOW!” Mel struck a match against one end of the pole-mop object, holding it with Harry’s assistance toward one of the sprinklers, causing water mixed with ghost goo to issue forth as the Gwisin made a beeline toward the voices, floating closer, closer, and closer still—

Until, with a singular roar, the ghoul found itself drenched in ghost goo, screaming as it melted away into nothingness. Mel and Harry spent the next minutes ensuring the being was disintegrated before realizing they themselves were—

“Covered in goo!” Mel picked at her sleeve, now slimy with the stuff. “Ugh, and I wanted to go to the folklore festival, and—” her mouth snapped shut. And see if the postgraduate, Niko was alright.

“Go,” Harry spoke with a knowing smile as he pulled a marble out of his own suit jacket pocket.

“What about you?” Mel inquired.

“Doctor’s appointment. Macy—”

“Right—”

He tossed the round object into the air before him then leapt through the resulting swirl of magical smog. Hopefully Macy wouldn’t be too upset?

Consulatório Obstetra, Bairro Antigo, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“Where were you?” Macy glared daggers at her husband as he practically flew through the entryway. “And why are you covered in—”

“Apologies, love,” Harry paused to catch a breath, leaning against the adjoining wall before making as if to sit next to her on the fanciful blue-patterned cushions. “Battling a kichin…Gwisin…creature…thing. Korean…consulate. Pre-autumn folklore fest—"

“And you didn’t think to text?” Macy’s eyes swept over a nearby towel, which flew toward the couch, so Harry could sit atop without covering everything in slime.

Oops. He knew he had forgotten something. “It all—it all happened so fast, my sweet—I promise I won’t—” Harry swallowed hard, recalling fragments, memories of his past self creating empty promises of unfulfilled words. I am not Jimmy. I—he—he and I—we are—not—the same. “I cannot promise magical emergencies won’t happen again. But I can, and do, promise I will text before such happenings arise.”

Her eyes softened as she reached for his own hand. “Ok. Ok, Harry. That’s all I need to know.”

The next minute, Morgana swept through the double doors, dimming the lights. Noticing Harry’s appearance, she muttered a quick Scourgify, which cleaned him up considerably. Once that was done, she summoned what Macy recognized to be a sonogram machine, coupled with a large flat screen, almost like a television. “Ready?” Morgana asked, her emerald eyes sparkling as Macy shakily nodded.

Ready.

The oldest Charmed One gasped as the cool gel met her abdomen, the machine whirring to life. Please, please, please—she begged every deity earthside and beyond—please let there be a heartbeat—

And suddenly—there was. Morgana rotated the sonogram wand about Macy’s belly, the latter’s own eyes prickling with unshed tears. There, on the screen before them, was a live, wiggling, little bean of a human, happily swimming away in the coziness of within.

A pop, and the little bean was toward the right. Another pop, and the little one had materialized in the left near-instantaneously, as Harry’s eyes widened. “Is that…what I believe it is?” he inquired.

Morgana nodded. “Typical traits of a little blossoming Whitelighter.” She switched off the machine and began wiping Macy’s belly clean with tissues. “Congratulations to you both.”

“So, uh, Morgana…” began Macy.

“Yes, dear?”

“When do we know…um, if it’s a girl? Or a boy?”

Morgana chuckled. “That comes up quite a lot. To be frank, eighteen weeks at earliest. Though,” she hesitated, surveying the couple. “I have heard of Sneak Peek, in which one self-submits a saliva sample and finds out the gender many weeks before? Though it can be error-prone at times…”

Macy contemplated, then shook her head. “No. I think I’d wait till the eighteen week mark. I feel like it’s one of life’s greatest surprises. Right, Harry?” She glanced toward her husband who nodded.

“Oh yes, I quite agree.” He squeezed Macy’s hand. And a lovely surprise it will be, indeed.

Chapter Text

Same Day, Niko’s Bedroom, Consulate General of the Republic of Korea, West Mercer Street, Seattle, Washington

Blinking rapidly, Niko spent the next several minutes blotting and reapplying her makeup, Shiseido brand of course, for her tastes ran expensive and exquisite despite her particular line of study (criminal investigation). Her ears sharpened, hearing a motion by the door, currently cracked open from when her guard had taken her leave. Startled, she dropped her compact, wincing as she saw the fanciful powder, worth more than a fortnight’s wages, make a beeline for the ground—

Forcing her attention away for a mere millisecond, she realized the personage in question was none other than the woman who saved the day, a somewhat petite, fiery, dark-haired beauty.

“I got it—”

Mel froze the makeup container in one swift hyperdrive of a motion just out of Niko’s view. The next moment, Niko, having braced herself for the splattered mess—the destroyed cosmetics—exclaimed in surprise, realizing there was no carpeted chaos to be seen. Did the compact just lift itself inches from the floor? She shook her head. Impossible. That hit to the head must’ve made me more concussed then I thought—

“Jesus, you scared me,” Niko laughed shakily.

To that, Mel gave her a soft expression—kindness? Sympathy? Poignancy?—of which Niko could not quite put her finger on. “Are you ok, Niko?” It was as if this woman could see through her soul. As if—they had somehow met before.

Niko nodded. “More or less. The consulate’s in your debt.” She paused, daring, this particular time, for which she knew not why, to step closer. “I am in your debt.” Mel felt herself blush as she sensed a certain frisson of energy. But neither moved away as Niko’s hand intertwined with Mel’s own.

Suddenly, a wineglass shattering down the hall brought them back to reality, their touch breaking apart once more.

Aiming for small talk, Niko glanced toward the bathroom. “I think I’ll be ok for now…though the tub took a beating…hopefully this won’t trigger ablutophobia or anything…”

Mel’s visage grew clouded. “A phobia of showers? I could go in with you—” A laugh escaped from Niko’s lips as the latter blushed. “Oh. Sorry. I mean, I’m not propositioning. Crap. Maggie always says I put my foot in my mouth—my sister—”

Niko laughed. “It’s ok.” Mel made toward the exit as Niko continued. “How about Cornerstone Café? Next Saturday?”

Mel turned around slowly. “Is this a date?”

Niko’s mouth twitched, her eyes mischievously aglow. “Do you want it to be?”

A slow smile etched itself upon Mel’s visage. “Definitely. Absolutely.” She crossed the threshold of Niko’s suite, about to turn down the hall, when Niko called after her.

“And uh, what’s your name?”

“Mel—just—Mel.”

And with that, Mel disappeared down the hallway, toward the elevators, down to the lobby, heading home to Vera Manor, having secured, unbeknownst to herself, a date with one of the wealthiest, sweetest, most intelligent women in the entire city of Seattle.

Late Evening, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington

Jordan carefully rolled away the last of the consulate and adjoining warehouse’s blueprints, having secreted them from the local town hall’s archival division. Nobody would miss them for awhile.

Flatten and roll, tightly bound, and into the cylindrical tubing they’d go—

“Jordan?”

He heaved a sigh, recognizing Maggie’s voice, an utterly delicious sound at first, which had come to represent the most bitter of his memories, magical insecurities alike. She bore two glasses of Chardonnay, and he nodded his thanks before reaching forth for a much-needed sip.

“Why did you come back?”

And then he smiled, a knowing glance, less happiness than of the angst as of late, the preternatural, proverbial elephant in the room. Those unspoken words of Margarita Vera. You abandoned us and then you came back. Are you like Ray? Like every other guy—

He wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. She didn’t have to say those words aloud, but he could infer from her peculiar expression, the moment, hours earlier, he had banged upon Vera Manor’s front door loud enough to wake the dead, pushing past with enough papers to decimate several hundred trees. He, Jordan Chase, was raised to be an upstanding citizen. To help those in need in a myriad of ways, big or small. To give back to the local community.

But to love? And be loved in return?

Therein lay the rub. Due to untimely deaths within his own previously-cursed family, he had yet to see a long-lasting, functional coupledom relationship survive more than a couple of years. And so, it seemed in not so many ways, the curse continued to bear its poisonous fruit…

Maggie coughed. And Jordan realized he still hadn’t answered her question. Angst aside, he knew he had a sort of duty to the Vera-Vaughn family, for having benefitted from their magical knowledge, their kindness. “I…” he took another sip. “I had a dream. Déjà vu. That you needed me.”

The youngest Charmed One’s eyebrows lifted. Needed? As in—

Spotting Maggie’s expression, Jordan backtracked. “Something ‘bout blueprints. And seeing as I had the ‘key to the city’ for resuscitating the mayor’s great-niece, I figured I had to put it to use.”

And there we go again, Maggie thought to herself. Jordan Chase, to the rescue. Superman complex, much? “Right. So. Uh…Are you here on a visit? Or is this…” she paused, glancing over her own wineglass. “Long term?”

“I don't know.” Am I what Maggie needs me to be? He peered down at the dregs of his own cup. Am I enough? For her?

For the remainder of the hour, they spent most of their time in contemplative silence, quietly admiring the twinkling tealights of Vera Manor’s trellised garden.

Past Midnight, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Sweet slumber having been disturbed by torrential downpour the likes of which he had never seen, Harry awoke, his arm reaching for his wife, only to meet cottoned sheet.

“Macy?” He put himself into an upright position, rubbing his eyes, thunder roaring across the sky as rain continued to pelt against the glass window, unremittingly so. “Mace?”

“Over here—”

It was then he spotted her, his Macy, sitting by the window’s ledge, a comely, diaphanous silhouette of curvaceous figure against marble-hued silk, her visage taking on a certain glowing sheen, the barest hint of a bump visible. The very definition of beauty itself.

“Love,” he ventured cautiously as he approached her. “Are you alright?” She turned, giving him an inscrutable expression. Neither abject pain nor pleasure, somewhere in between.

“Had a weird dream I was singing Desafinado amid blinding stage lights. Purple tapestries, too,” she added as if in afterthought. “Then I woke up with my head pounding—”

“Mace, I could have helped!”

“Really?” Her eyes bore into his own, as if to say, just how, exactly?

“My healing touch, for instance—though it’s in fits and starts—”

She shook her head. “I can’t take the risk.”

Harry’s mouth pursed. “The risk?” Pain would absolve rapidly, giving his beloved warm, welcome respite, and if that weren’t wanted, he had no idea as to how to begin to understand this beguiling woman—

“HcG, Harry, HcG.” Still, he looked confused, so she elaborated. “Harry, if you wipe away all the pain in my head, you’d risk wiping away what causes the pain—the hormones that are keeping our little bean alive in the first place.”

His eyes widened in horror. “Love, I had no idea!” Fear enveloped his insides as he realized what damage he could have risked doing had he gone ahead and tried to fulfill his own agenda of wiping away pain, without thought to her own machinations.

“It’s alright Harry,” came her voice, soothing as a balm. “You couldn’t have possibly known.”

“But I do now. And I promise to do right by you. Both,” he added, as he planted a kiss upon her flowing mahogany curls, sweeping her tresses to place another upon the nape of her neck, then finally her lips.

“I know, Harry, I know…” she murmured, as the roar of thunder, electric indigo, thrummed all around.

Chapter Text

Next Saturday, Leonce Chenal Jardin, Paris, France

Minutes upon landing, she surveyed the scenery about her, which held a rather gloomy, almost-abandoned air, the gated long, rectangular koi pond before her a smoky grey, each turreted marble vased pillar slathered with a thin film of mildew, ivy having overcome the towering trees above the pair. The stone head of the murky pond, further down, appeared grimy and in a certain vague sense of disrepair that almost lent itself to Victorian Gothic elegance. Almost.

Walking toward that stone head, Macy grimaced as she nearly tripped over a plain iron chair, one of what appeared to be thirty or forty in total, surrounding the waterway.

“Alright, love?” Harry’s arm instantly reached for her own as she nodded, steadying herself once more.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” she turned to Harry with the barest lift of an eyebrow. Parisian dates were typically in prettier settings, and if romantic, at late night, no?

As if reading her thoughts, Harry smiled, stroking her curls tenderly before they linked arms once more, just as they had many moons ago when they had their first adventure in France. Nearing the pond’s head, Macy noticed aged iron statues, replete with oxidation, having turned a smoky midnight sheen, the surrounding bas-relief etchings of laurel garlands a certain dismal grey.

“Privacy. For Melonie.”

Macy frowned. “She's going to a café, why would she need—” Pausing, a certain thought occurred to her of an early morning…exercise…session, inopportunely interrupted by two well-meaning but nevertheless ill-timed sisters—“oh.”

“Mace, you're quite vocal, more than you know,” Harry couldn’t help but chuckle as they rounded the edge of the pond, faded damask flowers peeking out of interspersed stone pillared vases.

She cringed. “Sorry.”

Shaking his head, he paused mid-step and as did she, he planted a quick kiss to the nape of her neck, her cheekbone, and finally, her lips. “Don't apologize, love, I rather like it,” he half-murmured, half-growled, as a certain tingling of energy enveloped her insides. Oh my…

Same Day, Cornerstone Café, Seattle, Washington

Mel, having followed directions to Cornerstone Café, found herself in what appeared to be a clean-swept wood-floor Swedish cottage-esque interior. The building itself was quite tucked away, and as she made her way past various front terrasse seats, tables, and more, she spotted, through hazy morning light filtering through a distant window, bits and pieces of an outdoor garden. Directly beneath said window was a cluttered table containing a laptop, several glass milk jars of wildflowers, and--"Mel! Hero in the flesh."

Niko.

The raven-haired woman beckoned for her to take a seat. "So...what do you think?"

"It's....eclectic," Mel managed.

Niko grimaced. “That bad?”

“No! I mean, I’ve never seen this place before. It’s…” Mel searched for the phrase. Ikea chic? Swedish? “Got a certain charm of its own. And it’s beautiful,” she added. And she wasn't just talking about the scenery.

Same Day, Montmartre Bistrot, Paris, France

Passing a bistro, Macy and Harry stopped in, as he put it, "for a cuppa." Macy glanced at the fancy display of Valhrona chocolate disks that, once placed into a cup of almond milk, would become hot chocolate. But alas...aversions. She had already begun composing a list of all of the foods she would have, beverages too, once these nine months were complete. Dessert. Tiramisu. Rich cocoa. Ceviche. Oyster shooters with a little bit of horseradish. She’d sing a bit too, while spritzing the shellfish with fresh lemon juice. Some day. One day. Just not—she sighed. Today.

"Apple cider?" she asked. "Pas d'alcool?"

“Oui madame,” came the proprietor’s response. “Belgique, alors. Des gaufres de Bruxelles aussi?” he indicated toward the chalkboard placard neither of the pair had noticed until now. Brussels-style waffles. Macy turned toward Harry, bearing a slightly sheepish expression of gentle pleading, for which it was near to impossible for him to say no.

“Oui,” came Harry’s quick-fire response. “Deux gaufres aussi.”

Since their waffles would take a bit more time, the pair stepped outside onto the front terrasse, noticing fifteen or so lovely, exquisitely-rendered oil paintings tacked up upon the café’s exterior wall. One was a rather austere depiction of the Seine; the one below it a Degas-style depiction of Provence countryside, sunflowers, lavender and all. Crossing the café’s threshold to the adjoining wall, Macy noticed a painting showing the very street upon which they stood, right down to the cobblestone. Another showed a silvery domed basilica that Harry mentioned was located on a hillside some distance away.

A tap on his shoulder, Harry turned as the proprietor made a curt bow, indicating the table behind them, upon which the piping hot waffles and cider were. “Merci,” Harry and Macy spoke as the man returned to the café’s interior. Once situated, cloth napkin and all, Macy studied the waffle before her, before cutting into a forkful, noticing the caramelized crackling surface from what smelled like melted brown sugar. The piece practically melted in her mouth, a combination of crunch on the outside, and warm, fragrant dough on the inside. “Wow!” she breathed, as she took a small sip of apple cider, which tasted of the orchard from where it no doubt came. “Everything tastes amazing!”

“Perhaps it’s due to the fresh air, and your near-completion of the 1^st trimester?” Harry suggested, as he sliced into his own waffle taking a polite bite. Great Scott, what a culinary creation! His eyes widening, he took considerably larger bites until his own waffle was demolished, crumbs and all. “Forget what I said, love, we absolutely must return to this bistro again,” as Macy laughed.

“A toast?” she proffered not a second later, raising her cup of warm cider.

“To us,” he answered.

“Now and forever,” uttered she, as they clinked glasses and drank to beautiful, bountiful tomorrows.

Same Day, Cornerstone Café, Seattle, Washington

"What do you do, Mel?"

"Do?" She should have practiced well in advance—should have taken up Maggie’s offer—anything to avoid tripping over her words, saying something she’d regret, something she could never take back—

"For a living," Niko laughed. "Or is that top secret?" A thought occurred to her regarding a certain Shideido makeup compact that miraculously avoided utter destruction. “You a magician or witch or something?”

She froze. Oh sh—ok, Mel. Breathe. Just—breathe. Ok?

"I…teach. Adjunct professorship." There, Mel. Not so hard, right?

"Oooh, where?"

Mel stared into her cup of coffee, her memories of that protest and call to action emblazoned in her recent memory. Had she really commandeered the Student Union balcony? And borrowed-stole the assistant dean’s loudspeaker? And all those phones, and TikTok. " Seattlecommunitycollege--" she blurted in a hasty mumbled syllable.

"Sorry?"

Mel exhaled and glanced up at her cafe companion. “Seattle Community College.” She took another sip of coffee. “You probably heard about the call to action—” and felt surprise—and unexpected relief—when Niko shook her head. “Really? No?”

“Super busy. No time for apps. Well, except for contacting extended fam. Everyone’s scattered across the globe. My ex…Greta…used to call me an internet dinosaur. So what’d I miss?”

Exhaling noiselessly, Mel merely shrugged and smiled. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Same Day, Outdoor Market, Paris, France

After enjoying their Belgian waffles, the couple perused the open-air art market blocks away, just in front of the Cathédrale Notre Dame grounds, their coats fluttering against the crisp autumn breeze, leaves overhead having changed from emerald to a cornucopia of copper, amber and gold. Pausing in front of a stall, Macy studied the artwork carefully, noting what appeared to be a sad-eyed Basset Hound in one print, a cluster of apples in another. In the print below those, there was within a woman with sienna-hued tone and dark hair in a bun, wearing a burgundy cocktail gown, leaning against an empty bar counter, a tall drink to her left—and were those dark purple tapestries in the furthest corner of the artwork?

Macy shook her head. I’m imagining things. Above the Basset Hound picture was a woman and man in a spacious ballroom, doing some type of sensual dance. The woman, too, also had sienna-toned hue, her hair in a bun as she appeared in a damask-colored gown, the man in a tux. It almost made her want to learn how to dance…whether it was bachata or kizomba or plain ballroom freestyle. She made a mental note to file that particular date idea away for the future, perhaps when the little bean was born and old enough for Maggie and Jordan to babysit while she and Harry would have a fun night away, just the two of them, like old times…

Same Day, Cornerstone Café, Seattle, Washington

A couple of hours had passed without either of them realizing it, and as they stood, Niko turned to her. “Next Saturday? My place?”

Startled, Mel’s hand accidentally knocked a ceramic cup off their table, and with a flash of her arm—

Everything froze.

She couldn’t just let a perfectly good object shatter, right? Especially if she’d have to pay out of her own pocket—Mel reached over, plucking the cup in its mid-air descent toward the floor, righting it upon the table. And—unfreeze—

Niko gave a start. “Wait—” she pointed. “The cup was—and you were—” she squinted. “Are you sure you’re not a magician?”

Heh. “Positive,” Mel managed to say, before breaking away, running out the door, crossing the street, dashing home to Vera Manor, Niko calling after her.

Next Saturday, Mel recalled, she was running recon in a creepy old place due to unusual activity. But how could she possibly explain that to a non-magic mortal? She paused to a walk as Niko caught up with her. Damn witchy reflexes…

“Hey—Mel—what was that all about? You ok?”

Mel turned and plastered on what she herself felt was too optimistic, too artificial a smile to fool anyone. “I’m fine. Totally fine—”

“You’re acting kinda weird—”

“I—I’m new at this—” which was, Mel realized, not entirely untrue. It had been ages since she contemplated a long-term…anything. But fortunately, Niko chose to believe this. Or did. In any event, Mel was off the hook—for now.

Studying Mel, Niko spoke once more. “Y’know…we could go to an autumn market instead? The one near 7^th and Pine?”

That was actually, really convenient. Minutes away from her recon post in that sketchy residence. “Ok. Yeah. Definitely. Autumn market sounds great!”

“Really?” Niko checked again.

Mel nodded. “Really—really.” She reached over to squeeze Niko’s hand. “It’s a date.”

Chapter Text

Solarium and Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

The torrential downpour, a mid-September surprise deluge of rain, clattered against the solarium’s polished glass walls. Drawing herself against the transparent surface, Macy glanced outside to the now-sodden Vera Manor garden with a sigh. Indoors it was, then.

With Mel and Maggie gone hunting the latest evil, Harry and Macy had decided to have a much-needed cozy night in. Dinner had been a repast of homemade lasagna (Harry's secret family recipe). First, he began by placing each ribboned piece of pasta into lightly salted boiling water, stirring every so often, as Macy chopped up rinsed fresh spinach, garlic, and onion, using her sight to pour the concoction into an awaiting open-mouthed frying pan, along with a splash of olive oil. Ten to fifteen or so minutes passed as the kitchen filled with savory, delectable aromas.

Turning her stove burner off, Macy moved toward the kitchen table, then glanced toward the refrigerator, using her powers to open it, retrieving the glass bottle of tomato sauce, itself sailing through the air toward her awaiting grasp. One curt nod of her chin later, and the lid was off, its contents being poured into a glass casserole dish Harry had brought out earlier. One layer of sauce, then pasta—

She paused, as did the glass jar, hovering mid-air as she reached forth to grab it. “Harry?” she spoke aloud, lifting her gaze toward the boiling pasta, but the pot was gone. “Uh, Harry?” A certain sense of foreboding crept up on her, a semblance of past remembrances, of adventures gone awry—

“Behind you, love,” and there he was, the pasta sifted by colander as he proffered the pasta.

“You snuck up on me,” she laughed as she let him through, allowing herself a sigh of relief. “Those whitelighter reflexes, huh?”

He answered her question with a kiss as she let out a giggle. One pasta, two, three pasta, and four—

Macy pointed at the location above the tomato sauce as he made his pasta placements. Then a layer of the sauteed spinach vegetable mix, then a layer of…she thought to herself silently. Cheese? Stupid dairy allergy. Which meant she needed a substitute. Recalling her last failed attempt at artichoke casserole having used vegan cream cheese (too sweet for savory dishes) she had learned her lesson this time around. Suddenly, she had a moment of inspiration—the roast acorn squash!

Thinking of what she knew of culinary substitutions, vegetable or otherwise, it made sense. It had plenty of vitamin A, had the appropriate texture and mouthfeel, and, like tofu, could easily absorb the flavors of all savory spices and flavors it was situated between, if she remembered her lessons from microbiology and food science correctly.

A swift movement of her eyes later, and the refrigerator opened, a plastic container of acorn squash floating in the air toward the table and the awaiting pair. Macy opened the container, reached for a spoon, and scooped and spread the soft gold-hued courgetti upon the layered pasta. And—done!

The layers repeated themselves thusly, tomato sauce, pasta ribbons, spinach and vegetables, and acorn squash, until, finally, the top layer finished off with the final pasta pieces and the one slice of dairy-free cheddar cheese Macy managed to uncover, lurking within the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. Never one to neglect detail, she cut the faux cheese into long, thin slivers, layering them atop the pasta as one would an elegantly-latticed pie. Into the oven it went, the timer set to twenty minutes.

She busied herself about the kitchen, clearing away spare containers and dishes, washing them as she sang to herself, a few songs of her own childhood, for her own—she stroked her abdomen—little bean. Twelve weeks along just about, and she felt incredibly fortunate to have weathered the hellishness of 1^st trimester lack of appetite, and what had felt like an unpleasant lingering stomach bug for ages.

At the same time, where was Harry? She paused, soapy hands holding a sponge, poised above a plastic container within the stainless-steel sink. It didn’t seem like him to miss cleanup duty. Wiping her brow, she finished washing the container, rinsed her hands, and ducked upstairs to change into her dinner outfit, a lovely maroon number, soft as silk, and billowy enough to show, but not over-emphasize, her changing figure. It felt like yesterday, that memory of declaring one another’s love beneath the garden’s tealights, and now, they were starting a family, within the year. How fast time flew!

Returning to the kitchen after hearing a ding from the timer, she grabbed a kitchen glove and opened the oven door, fanning the curlicued steam away. Pulling the lasagna out, Macy placed it atop a burner to cool off, quietly admiring its culinary architecture. A masterpiece, if ever she saw one.

Looking around, she found no sign of Harry. Weird. But then, she paused, hearing the most infinitesimal of clinks, coming from the dining room. Smiling to herself, she reached for the lasagna dish with a kitchen glove, carrying it into the adjoining dining room.

Dining Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

She gasped. The dining room table was completely transformed, with fancy French linen tablecloths and napkins, along with fine silver cutlery—the type only reserved for weddings or funerals.

“I’ll take that—” Harry stepped forward, dressed as dapper as could be in a full tuxedoed suit, down to the polished cufflinks that bore his initials, a past Christmas present from Macy. His wife. Placing the dish upon the table, he swept Macy’s chair, as genteel as could be, presenting her with a beautiful bouquet of deep red roses.

“Thanks, Harry!” Macy exclaimed, nearly dazed with disbelief. “I thought…I thought you’d—” she swallowed the words. Gone? Disappeared? Been sent to Tartarus again? It was not until they had married that she had begun to think, to dream even, that a happily-ever-after was remotely possible with him, given their particularly risky line of work, fighting the forces of evil in the magical arena. “Forgotten?” she managed to whisper.

“I would never forget you, love,” he answered. “My apologies,” he continued, as he seated himself opposite her, passing her side dishes he had somehow magically concocted before she had baked the lasagna, or sometime while she was upstairs dressing, each smelling more delectable than the next. “I wanted to make this a memorable date night, even if rainy. Will you forgive me?” His eyes beseeched hers, as if asking, will you continue to love me, now and forevermore, in this chapter and the next?

“You?” Macy studied his expression as if able to discern his secret-most thoughts, all the while reaching for the lasagna, cutting herself a generous portion. “Always.”

An Hour Later, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

And now, it was Macy's moment to shine. As she reached for a stirring spoon, she felt Harry approach and hug her from behind, cradling her tummy just so, where their "little bean" was growing. Her appetite and energy was slowly but surely returning, emerging from 1st trimester torpor. A healthy heartbeat too, at 168 beats per minute, according to Morgana at the latest prenatal appointment, if memory served her right.

According to old wives' tales, the heart rate indicated a girl, though her own taste buds, leaning toward protein and earthiness, lent itself to a boy. Drawing forward, Harry planted a kiss upon her neck as she sighed. "Love, you alright?" She nodded.

"Yes, Harry. I'm just..." she paused, regarding the rest of the kitchen, the dessert ingredients carefully chosen and bought, sitting upon the counter. "Happy. I feel happy. And lucky."

To follow the delicious dinner earlier, Macy had scoured the internet for a pumpkin bread dessert, made from scratch. She glanced at the oats, pureed pumpkin, baking powder, baking soda, salt, sweetener, eggs, cinnamon and pumpkin spice, and felt a sudden ache of painful childhood memories—those lonely nights as a child, then as a teenager, baking holiday cookies, one batch after another. Sugar cookie, chocolate chip walnut, gingerbread, snickerdoodle. Buying the ingredients with hard-earned allowance, prepping the dough late at night by herself, the house so quiet one could hear a pin drop. Those were the only times her father truly seemed content, when the cookies came out. The only times he would allow himself to smile—really, truly, smile.

And though it heightened her feelings of utter isolation, she would do anything to bring him joy. She swept away a tear, blinking hard. "Mace, what is it? We can stop, postpone--"

"No. I...I'm fine. Just...feeling a lot of feelings...a lot of...childhood memories."

"Unhappy ones?"

Macy chose her words carefully. "Lonely ones. I never thought...I'd have you. And a family. Well—soon."

He smiled. "Our family."

"Yes Harry. Our family."

Combining the dry ingredients, she added those to Harry's wet ingredients, stirring with her sight as Harry looked on admiringly. She glanced at the oats however, staring back at the ingredient list. Flour. Harry seemed to have noticed too. “Love, shall I pop by the grocery store?”

She shook her head, thumbing through her mind’s rolodex of culinary substitutions. Eggs for applesauce, acorn squash for ricotta, olive oil for shortening…flour for…she glanced toward a bottom cabinet, opening it by sight, drawing forth a blender, within which a couple of cups of rolled oats went, Harry looking increasingly puzzled. “Love, are we making…a smoothie?”

“Watch this, Har—” closing the blender’s lid, she pushed the pulse button several times, as the oats dissolved into a fine, powdery mixture. Once finished, she opened the lid, pouring it into the dough. “See? Homemade oat flour!”

“Brilliant!” Harry whispered. In all his years of baking biscuits, scones, and crumpets, he had never seen flour made improvisationally, simply opting for refined wheat flour from stores. He made a mental note to write it down later, perhaps in a cookbook that could be passed down generations.

After greasing a tin, Macy placed the mixed dough within, using her powers to glide the tin to within the preheated oven, setting the timer. "And now...we wait."

"How about a dance?"

"Harry,” she laughed, gesturing toward the solarium windows, “it's raining outside."

"The solarium? For old time's sake?"

"Ok..." she answered, with some hesitation.

"Love, close your eyes for five minutes--"

She spent those seconds upon seconds with her eyes scrunched shut, tapping one foot then the other, shifting her weight every now and then, before she heard him speak. Opening her eyes, she gasped.

Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

The solarium was aglow with a number of tall white candles, each burning brightly, fiercely so, as a song began to play upon a vintage victrola Harry had found in the attic, once upon a time.

I see trees of green... the lyrics began, “What a Wonderful World,” by Louis Armstrong.

Red roses too

They locked gazes, approaching the solarium's center, his left hand intertwining with her right, his right cradling her back just so, as they swayed to the music, the candles emitting an otherworldly glow, light hovering and sparkling above the bouquet of roses, now in a nearby chair.

I see them bloom for me and you

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world

A twirl, a quarter-dip, and her head nestled against his shoulder, her bump briefly brushing against him, a reminder of the present, and all there was to follow. 

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow

They’ll learn much more

Then I’ll ever know

Would they have time for dances once the baby was born? Would there be chances to have a quiet dinner and dessert? Harry briefly had images of a tiny girl of his complexion, with Macy's spritely curls, slingshotting mushy peas into his face. Maybe not, he surmised, but it would be an adventure of the loveliest sort. 

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world

Yes, I think to myself

What a wonderful world.

There the pair swayed, as though within their own charmed, magical little world, an effervescent bubble of the brightest kind, filled with love and positively brimming with unsaid joy.

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

DING! The timer went off as the pair finished their dance. Fragrant, autumn aroma filled the air as Macy and he swept out the solarium and into the kitchen, toward the oven.

"I'll let you do the honor--"

Macy nodded appreciatively as she swept a kitchen glove from the counter onto her hand, then pulled the loaf out, fingers flowing as though to savor the scent. "Looks baked, but--" her eyes opened the cutlery drawer, drawing a stainless-steel fork into Harry's hand. "Check if it's done?" One swift pierce to the bread's center yielded no remnants. Thoroughly done. 

Moments later, they sat at the kitchen table, fine clothes and all, enjoying fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin spiced bread with a side of almond-based whipped cream.

“Divine,” Harry remarked between mouthfuls. “Utterly delicious!”

And so it was.

Chapter Text

Next Morning, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Harry shifted in bed, unable to shake the peculiar feeling he was being watched. Sliding his arm to Macy’s usual spot, he met empty sheet instead, and sprang to a seated position, hastily rubbing his eyes.

“Har, relax—” Macy’s voice called out several feet as his shoulders slackened. Oh thank heavens—before realizing she carried what appeared to be a sizable duffel bag—a travel valise, by the looks of it, plus her purse. She also, he astutely observed, was clad in a gorgeous sundress—he squinted—or was it a paisley bathing top?

Whatever it was, he wanted more. Seizing her hand, he gently pulled her into his lap, the pair dissolving into laughter amid patterned kisses upon the forehead. Lips, too.

“Love,” Harry finally managed to say, gesturing to the items. “What’s all this? Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, Harry,” her eyes sparkled with mirth. “We are.”

His brow furrowed. “Where?”

“Somewhere they—” she pointed at the door, indicating her sisters’ rooms, “can’t find us,” she closed in a whisper.

“Oh, and what land might that be, love?”

Without so much as a word, she used her sight to toss him a sensible pair of khaki men’s shorts and a button-down, sans the cummerbund and sweater vests he had worn so very long ago. “Get dressed and find out,” Macy replied with a grin.

Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Upon Macy’s tossing of a marble, she guided Harry through, himself toting the deceptively heavy duffel bag upon his shoulder. Instantly, domestic bedroom surroundings melted away, and in its place, a tiny stucco cottage with a small carved pond, the water a rich cerulean hue, with ripples made by four tiny swimming goslings.

“Love, are we—” he paused, studying the broad emerald-leaved tropical potted plants, the tall wood border providing ample privacy, and the bamboo offering welcome shade. “In the Azores? You could have just said…”

“I know,” she finished, sure of what he was thinking. Her inheritance of a condo on Epicenter Pico street meant they already saw the Azores more frequently than the average human, plus her obstetrician was located within walking distance on the isle. “But I thought we’d explore the more…fun…parts. The pregnancy-friendly bits, I mean.”

Harry shed the duffel bag and walked about the circumference of the pool. “Whose pool does this belong to? Must we pay a fee? Is there a floatie—”

“Harry.” Macy laughed, using her powers to unzip the duffel bag, tossing him his swim trunks. “Morgana lent us its use for free since it’d be unused anyway, with her pulling all-nighters in the maternity ward—in exchange for checking on her ducklings—found them during a storm—handing them to animal welfare tomorrow—”

“Fascinating,” remarked he. “I have never seen ducks within a human’s pool before,” he added, “though I do recall feeding them at their ponds when I was little, in Manchester.”

Macy briefly imagined Harry as a little brown-haired, wide-eyed boy, dressed in a miniature Lord Fauntleroy sailor suit, going on constitutionals in the park with his nanny, or whoever watched him those days. I’m sure you were a good boy back then, Harry. Before everything with Jimmy.

“And where, pray tell, are the changing rooms?” Macy’s thoughts were interrupted by Harry’s next question. Despite their being married plus having a child on the way, his British sense of decorum, not to mention modesty, occasionally overtook him.

“Right. Over. Here.” Macy indicated where they were currently standing, also pointing at the tall broad timber fence, impenetrable and solid.

“Roger that,” he answered, momentarily reassured, as he removed one shoe, then the other, shaking them onto the grassy lawn before reaching for his collar—

He stared down. Half of the buttons had already been undone. How had he not noticed that? He could have sworn he’d buttoned them before leaving Vera Manor…wait a minute…stealing a glance at his wife, he realized she had removed them of her own accord, as silent and stealthy as a fox.

“Well played, love,” he murmured, closing the distance between themselves as he reached for her sundress, undoing its back-laced ribbon, pulling it over her sloping shoulders, revealing a most voluptuous, incredibly shapely figure, within the most alluring olive green bikini he had ever seen.

Now it was Macy’s turn to be shy, as she shifted her weight, avoiding his heated glance. “Morgana says I’m supposed to gain a pound a week, and I’m about twelve weeks along, and my chest’s bigger…larger than it used to be…and my hips—”

Her voice broke off as Harry proceeded to kiss her, long and sweet, enveloping himself within her willowy arms, nuzzling her neck, reaching forth to absorb the scent of her intoxicating curls that always smelled of the sweetest vanilla and cinnamon spice. “I love you, Macy. Each—and—every—part,” he whispered, kissing her forehead, cheek, neck, and lips in turn, his own hand curving along the gentle swell of her abdomen.

Moments later, they stepped into the shallow pool together, sitting upon a ledge as they watched the fuzzy yellow goslings quack and chirp at each other, with the occasional honk. Their feet touched the others’ own, splashing lightly as to not disturb the little birds, all of whom, Macy noticed, appeared to be rather well-kept, with a separate turfed corner for ‘restroom use,’ much like pets of the mainland.

“What do you think they’re saying?” Macy asked Harry, albeit jokingly.

He mulled the question over, studying the four goslings carefully, their down glittering in the sunlight. “Perhaps that first one over there,” he pointed, “is the designated leader. The second is a bit mischievous and feisty, claiming he’s in charge. Perhaps the third is a rule follower.”

Macy smiled. “And the fourth?”

“Possibly lagging behind as he hasn’t bought into his siblings’ shenanigans.”

“But he’s still following them…” Macy pointed out. “And he could be a she.”

“True, I suppose,” Harry thought aloud. “Perhaps she’s still following them because they’ve been through thick and thin together, and above all else, they’re family, no matter what craziness they’re up to.”

“Beautiful sentiment, Har,” she answered, continuing to regard the final duckling closely. “Or, y’know, she could be cautious, but maybe she knows they find the good stuff—the food, you name it, and she wants in. On the adventures, as crazy-beautiful as they may be. She doesn’t want to be alone.” her eyes shone with a certain pensiveness, and Harry knew the sentiments weren’t just about the ducklings themselves, as he stroked her hand within his own.

“Nor will she ever be,” he murmured. “Not as long as I can help it.”

“I know, Harry, I know. And…” she wasn’t sure how to broach the next subject. “I don’t want this future kid to be all alone too. I want her to have a sibling.”

Harry frowned slightly. “How do you know it’s a ‘her’? Not that I would mind in the slightest,” he added hastily. “A girl would simply be lovely—” And he believed it to be so, knowing how smart and spritely his wife was.

“Guess I just…” she glanced over at the emerald long-leaved plants, swaying silently in the summery tropical wind. She turned back to Harry. “I just…had a feeling.”

They reflected on their thoughts, their limbs fully immersed in the pool, before Harry spoke again.

“Well…yes, love, to answer your question. A life with a sibling would be nice, quite nice. Maybe even two?”

Two? Macy stared at him incredulously. Giving birth three times? She imagined the pain of childbirth, all the horror stories she had heard from others around her age, through searching the internet in the dead of night. Stitches and bladder this-and-that, and worse. But then a thought occurred to her. “Twins could be possible. Given my age.” Even though twins did not run in either side of her family, she couldn’t shake the thought she was destined to be a mother of twins, but to voice that aloud would be, in her own mind, a possible imagining of the absurd.

After all, Vaughn, she thought to herself, there’s a 1 in 250 chance of twins generally. Less than one percent. There’s no way you’d be in that less-than-one-percent. But another part of her, that secret subconscious aspect of her being, had proposed the very idea time and time again, refusing to part with the concept, displayed through her dreams as she slumbered some nights, of a little boy and little girl, a mixture of all she loved best of her husband.

Crazy.

Or was it?

She shook her head, smiling. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Harry. How ‘bout we see how pregnancy one goes and take things from here?”

“Sounds like a splendid idea, love.”

 About a half hour passed before Macy rose, drawing a towel toward herself, plus one for Harry. Wrapping it around as if a skirt, she gestured for him to follow her through the back wooden gate.

“Mace, where are we going?” He glanced at the heavy duffel bag. “Should I bring these too?”

As if remembering the item was there for the first time, Macy nodded. “Make sure you close the door behind you. Leave no trace.”

Traipsing through the wood fence’s gate, they were immediately surrounded by a thicket of bamboo forest on either side, sun glimmering through shade, with cozy plant silhouettes lining the timber walkway beneath their feet. A bridge above water? But with all of the foliage, it was hard to tell, as they drew further and further away from Morgana’s property.

Finally, Macy pulled back a cluster of vines, revealing a gorgeous oasis of white-petaled flowers upon several trees, a tiny wading pool of the brightest aquamarine, directly overlooking the ocean, a deeper navy hue. She gestured toward two pearly cushioned benches with bright blue pillows, Grecian in style. “How about we have a picnic?”

“But Mace, if only I’d known—” he began, then stopped, realizing Macy had begun opening the duffel he had just lain upon one bench, pulling out a large wicker basket of fancy dishware, cutlery, napkins, and more. His eyes widened as she placed delicious homemade pancakes, fresh from the pan, upon the plates, with whipped cream and syrup on offering, along with chopped cinnamon apples and sliced bananas. There definitely seemed to be more dishes too—was that clotted cream and scones?! He craned his neck to examine the bag further, though Macy swatted him away, albeit gently. A perfect brunch, fit for a king!

“You were saying?” Macy asked with a knowing grin.

“Why, love?” he found himself asking some seconds later. This morning was certainly an unusual one.

“Well…our dinner date got moved to inside, and I figured we needed some Vitamin D and time to be…us.” She drew two glass flutes out, placing sparkling apple cider in both, most definitely non-alcoholic, handing one to him. “Cheers?”

He clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers, love.”

After sufficient succor, the dishes were rinsed via a nearby garden hose and left to dry in the sunlight as Macy and Harry proceeded to lather on thick swaths of sunscreen, before stepping carefully into the wading pool. With a tinge of…sadness? Je ne sais quoi? Macy spotted, in the corner of her eye, a stone-carved jacuzzi attached to the pool’s furthest edge. A pregnancy no-no. But, as she stroked her bump, looking out toward the infinite horizon, side-by-side with her beloved, her Harry, she knew there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

And there would be time, she understood, for future jacuzzi afternoons and nights, not now, but definitely one day perhaps late next year, during her postpartum months…as a deliciously seductive thought entered her mind…possibly involving a pair of fuzzy enchanted handcuffs and a black velvet blindfold...

Chapter Text

Next Saturday, L’Automne Outdoor Restaurant, 7^th and Pine, Seattle, Washington

Niko examined the evening surroundings about her—the cozy wicker chairs encircling various outdoor tables, each table decked out in the finest pearly linen, heat lamps dotting the cordoned-off area every which direction to keep clientele warm. Her hands, unsure of where to place themselves—atop the table or within her lap, practically itched for a cigarette—

No, she silently remonstrated herself, reaching in her purse instead for peppermint gum. Chewing, she felt her stomach growl, loudly. Dinner would hopefully be within the hour. And speaking of dinner…Niko turned around to ensure she had a full 360 vantage point from her own wicker seat—

Where the hell was Mel?

Sighing, she turned to a purse pocket, having heard her phone buzz the next second. Ah yes, she rolled her eyes. Dr. Tanaka, head of the West Precinct’s artifact division. Niko recalled the last in-state banquet, in which her mother eagerly introduced her to the man, who had been receiving a commendation that day for stopping illegal trading in Scottish turn-of-the-century bottled glass. “Didn’t know that was a thing,” she’d remarked to her mom with the most subtle of side-eyes. Can’t you just leave me alone and let me find my own path?

To which Dr. Tanaka had laughed, and himself stated, “it is certainly a thing—and you can carve out your niche with whatever passions steer your spirit.” An oddly poetic thing to say, really. But the man, she supposed, had a point.

Insider scoop on artifact theft at Pine and 10^th. Meet me there? -Dr. T

Her mouth dropped open, then closed. Artifact? Theft? For someone as grey-haired and outwardly unassuming as he, he certainly led an interesting life. She turned around one final time, then checked her watch. Ten minutes late. Flagging down a waitress, she hurriedly paid her tab (that one chocolate martini chaser) and departed seconds later.

Several Minutes Later, L’Automne Outdoor Restaurant, 7^th and Pine, Seattle, Washington

Nearly out of breath, Mel leaned an arm against a nearby building. Dammit, why couldn’t the vanquishing go faster? Heaving a sigh, she raced toward the outdoor restaurant the moment the pedestrian light turned green, nearly tripping over several glaring would-be restaurant patrons in the process.

“Watch where you’re goin’ lady!” came a few indignant cries she sought to ignore, for the only voice—the only person she wanted to meet, to talk to, to touch—

She halted in front of the outdoor seating area, her eyes frantically scanning for a certain recognizable face. No dice. Scrambling for her phone, she typed out a text.

Niko, I’m here. Where r u?

And—sent.

No sooner had she done so, did a text arrive in her own inbox.

Left. U were late. Chasing artifacts w/Dr. Tanaka.

Mel frowned. Who was Dr. Tanaka, and why did his name sound so familiar?

Two Hours Later, Apartment, Pine and Crest St, Seattle, Washington

After debating her options, and doubling back to the consulate only to be told of Niko’s full time address (she didn’t live at the consulate all the time?) Mel made her way to the brownstone apartment structure, surprisingly stately, with an English basement (or two) for various tenants. Marching up the front steps, she had practiced the apology she would give, the words she would say, the letter she’d written, full of sweet language for having messed up earlier that day.

Knock, knock.

The door creaked open, but there was no Niko in sight, just a short Caucasian woman with rather cropped dyed hair, a nose ring, and plaid pajamas. “Can I help you?” while opening the door a mere two-and-a-half inches.

“Uh….” Mel tried to glance over the woman’s shoulder. “Um…is this where Niko lives? Her mom gave me her address from the consulate—”

Greta immediately relaxed her stance, pulling the door wider a few inches. “Yeah, most of the time.” She offered a hand. “Name’s Greta.”

“Mel. Nice to meet you.” Mel entered the front entryway. “So, I guess you’re Niko’s…?”

“Fiancée?”

Mel expected to hear “just kidding!” or “pulling your leg!” but when none came, her insides turned to ice. “F-fiancée?” Subconsciously, she began backing away toward the still-open door as Greta began to explain in detail.

“It’s complicated, she came back after ages abroad, but y’know what they say, right?” Greta attempted to catch Mel’s eye, but the latter was having none of it. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder—”

Finally, Mel, unable to bear it any longer, bade a hasty farewell and made for the front stairs. “Mel?” a voice from an adjoining window. Niko. “Mel? I can explain—Mel? Mel!”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Mel fled the next several blocks as it began to rain, and ducked behind a tree in a nearby park filled with pink daisy-like flowers, using her one SafeSpace marble to travel away, two-fold. First, she planned to pick up her overnight bag from Vera Manor, and second of all, well…

Same Day, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

She materialized in the front entryway of Macy and Harry’s condo in the Azores, without so much as a knock at the door. Removing her shoes (Harry was always a stickler for cleanliness), she dumped her overnight back in the corner, unzipped it, then brought her offering to the outdoor balcony where Macy and Maggie had just begun movie night. By the looks of it, Maggie had somehow glamoured the place with advanced illusion enchantments so that it was greatly expanded, with comfy throw blankets, cushions, candles, fresh-blossomed hyacinth, and pale paper lanterns hovering mid-air, somewhat mimicking elements of Vera Manor Garden back home. If she didn't know any better, Mel would have thought herself in Vera Manor Garden, or in a simulation crystal's near-copy version.

“Mel!” squealed Maggie. “Thought you wouldn’t make it!” She shifted to allow Mel to sit. “We just started watching Hocus Pocus, I figured, it’s about three sisters, and—”

“Mel,” Macy murmured. “Everything ok?” She bore a particularly sympathetic expression, and Mel couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Keep it together Mel, she instructed herself.

“Long story. Is there room for one more?” Both sisters nodded. Macy passed over the popcorn as Mel displayed a bag of peanut butter M&Ms.

“For you?” Maggie beamed. “Always.”

Chapter Text

Noon, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Sixteen weeks.

The second trimester.

Macy sighed, clicking away from the What to Expect website on her phone. The baby wasn’t moving yet (or much), she was barely showing due to all her aversions, and there were so, so many things she wanted to do this upcoming Halloween season, that she simply could not.

Her years-ago jaunt into the Haunted Forest, for one. The Haunted Forest, of course, being a setup in a tree-lined area in which strobe lights were set up, along with fake gravestones. Many local volunteers would show up, pretending to be beastly or ghoulish in their near-professional makeup, and bring their older kids to frighten the teens and adults too. It was all over the country, this type of thing, even if it went by different names.

It could startle the baby—

I know, she remonstrated herself. I know, but—

And then, for another, were those other little things. Sushi and fresh sashimi from Seattle’s best Japanese restaurant.

As it were, she was stuck at home, within the four walls of Vera Manor, cooking cut-up seafood to braise and fry in hot pepper sauce and spices. Five more months, she thought to herself, rubbing her belly, hoping for a hint, even a semblance of life.

Nope. Just gas. Oh God.

So much gas—

Macy continued stirring as the sauce and seafood melded together, turning on the overhead fan lest it offend her sisters’ senses. Besides her taste buds gone haywire (an aversion to calamari and anything breaded), not to mention altering Halloween spooky plans this year, she also missed her Sunday weekly brunch, which often consisted of a toasted bagel with a fresh smear of cream cheese, topped liberally with smoked salmon, aka lox, sprinkled with herb seasoning and a pinch of pickled capers. Sure, frying lox in the pan was ok, but it just wasn’t the same.

What can I do this year?

She scoured her brain. It was too early to brainstorm newborn Halloween costumes (and besides, the baby would be six months old the next time the holiday rolled around). Candy? She grimaced. Her sudden aversion to sugar last week had taken her by surprise; this meant substituting her chocolate desserts with plain pound cake and graham crackers. Plus a sour craving that sprang from nowhere, too, which made her want blue raspberry Sour Punch straws, those licorice-shaped candies that turned one’s tongue blue.

She never used to crave sour.

Wincing, she decided to water the sauce down—five times—then add some soup stock to balance out the flavors, plus scallions. First, too bland, then too spicy, then too—

Placing the savory dish into a bowl (more seafood ramen than anything else), she turned off the stove, but kept the fan on. Halloween makeup? Not with this post-pubescent acne! Subconsciously, her right hand went to the top of her forehead. As if a makeshift constellation, there was one small bump, then an inch below, another. And a tinier one before that.

At least her digestive system was more or less straightening out?

As she took a bite, then another, she thought of all those missions she used to do with Harry and her sisters in the past. Now, she was relegated to Vera Manor and her microscope. ‘In case we need scientific intel,’ Mel proffered.

‘It’s only till next Spring,’ Harry mentioned, as Maggie had nodded.

That was yesterday. Soon, she bet that each room would become invisibly cordoned off the more she grew…burgeoning, and more.

‘Harry,’ she could picture herself saying. ‘YOU did this,’ as she imagined herself pointing to just below her mid-section.

And Harry’s biting of his lip to hide the barest hint of a well-deserved smirk. ‘Well, love, it was more of a two-person effort—’ before using her telekinesis to throttle—

Ugh. “Who’ve I become?!” Macy exclaimed, to no one in particular. Damn hormones. And suddenly, she felt herself engulfed in a wave of shame. Harry was trying. Maggie and Mel were both trying. Apparently, it was unprecedented for a current Charmed One to be expecting a baby while in the course of her duties.

In other words, maternity leave, in the magical world, was more or less nonexistent, ironically moreso than her own country of origin. Ghoul banging down the door? Pixie casting a giddy charm? Saber-toothed tiger-wolf released from the netherworld (or worse)?

Time, clearly, stopped for no one. Least of all, a pregnant woman. That meant Harry, Mel, and Maggie doing double…no…triple duty this week. And Macy, all alone at Vera Manor (though surrounded by a highly complex network of safety jinxes, spells, and hexes lest a monster get funny ideas).

Mid-moping, a thought struck her. What did Marisol do at my first Halloween? There’s gotta be a journal somewhere. Or a photo?

Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

After putting away the dishes and cleaning the stove, she threw together a quickbread dessert recipe, popping the resultant item into the oven, then walked upstairs to the attic. Upon reaching her destination, she muttered, “desculpe el secreto Halloween de mi madre,” figuring that if a similar saying were to open a hidden door, its abbreviation could be used to discover that which was hidden, with an addition of “Halloween” and “my mother” as added search terms. This she did, to avoid a panoply of bureaus to come flying toward her from every direction. She had learned her lesson the first time, after all.

Seconds passed, as she listened for flying boxes, cartons, bureaus…anything. And listened closer. Feeling a sort of thrumming at her feet, she bent down as best she could, following the vibrations to a tiny cabinet within that pinewood desk to the attic’s left. She squinted, noticing the cabinet in question shaking, as if something were trying to get out.

“Revelio…lentement,” she murmured. Reveal thyself…slowly. Macy wondered whether adding the French word would do anything to stop the item from flying out and whacking her on the forehead (Harry and her sisters had enough on their hands). Apparently, it worked. A package drifted out, floating in mid-air until it faced Macy directly, who took it into her now-trembling hands.

Tearing the paper wrappings and disposing of them, she realized the item was none other than a baby album. Hers. No—theirs.

Before she could open it, she took one whiff of the air, the album clutched to her chest, and raced downstairs. The baked dessert was done.

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

After leaving the pound cake to cool on an unused burner, Macy turned her attention once more to the album. Strangely enough, it was a literal carbon copy of the one her dad, Dexter, had in his house when she was growing up, where her father had this odd tendency to always crouch to the left of a little Macy. Except, however, her mother was in all of these photos, crouching to Macy’s right.

It reminded her of Disney’s remake of “The Parent Trap,” when Annie and Hallie joined their two photos together, of each parent’s jaunt on the same cruise ship, at the very same day, hour, minute, and second.

This album—identical to her own—was the missing puzzle piece.

Although, if her sisters were there, they’d probably hug her and say she, as their sister, was their missing puzzle piece. Shaking her head, she laughed a bit, flipping to her first Halloween. Somehow, whether it be by Dexter’s organizational genius or Marisol’s prescience, the album in her hands mirrored the format and order of the album she had grown up with at her father’s house, as if they knew she would search for answers someday.

Her finger bookmarked the exact page, her first Halloween costume being a tiny little pumpkin, her dimples full, her grin mimicking that of her mother, whose expression was equal parts joy and poignant sorrow for events she knew would follow. Macy traced the photo, held behind stain-resistant plastic, noticing the tiny green hat, the bright orange outfit with a Jack-O’-Lantern stitching, and emerald-green tights. She recalled her own sense of style—she had always had an affinity toward emerald and olive green tones. Was this why?

As for what Marisol did during that first Halloween…she flipped through to the next page, and the page after that, knowing exactly what she would find. Instead of Dexter leading her on a little red wagon with her own treat bag in hand, it was Marisol this time, with Dexter behind the camera. At a hay bale Halloween festival with brightly colored face paint, it was Marisol’s face next to hers this time around, with a yin symbol in rainbow to match Dexter’s yang own. And Macy, she herself recalled, had had a tiny rainbow atop her own little cheek. Their little rainbow baby, born (or in this case, reborn), after a tragedy.

“Oh Marisol,” Macy whispered, blinking rapidly. “You really were here the whole time.”

Chapter Text

Midnight, Macy’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

A week or two later, and Macy was fast asleep in her bedroom, Harry’s arm draped along her side. For the better part of the last couple of hours. A luminous, pearly moon shone through the linen curtains, trailing a ribboned path of starry, celestial gaze—

As nightstand objects began to clatter of their own accord, her hanger too, jewelry as well, atop the bureau on the opposite end of the bedroom. A faint murmur drew a whisper, which became a vibration, then a thrum of staccato energy emanating every which way, objects picking themselves up of their own accord in an enervating hurricane of sorts, one of the flying objects—Macy’s dark plum lipstick—hitting Harry squarely in the back of his head.

What the--?! Her Whitelighter blinked, massaging his head, as another object hit him on the ear—and another!

Hurriedly scrambling to his feet, he attempted to adjust his eyes to this indoor melee, to determine the source of such clatter and clanging. An errant ghoul? No—Vera Manor had too many protection spells for that nonsense. Chloe? She never visited off-hours. Mel or Maggie’s potions gone wrong? No and no, for such mis-happenings occurred with putrid cloud and sparking smoke, of which—he checked all around—there was none.

Then another thought struck him. Macy. Turning to his beloved, he noticed her eyes squeezed shut, her burgeoning form tossing and turning as if captive on a wayward ship. Perhaps she was having a nightmare…Knowing he had to act quickly, he scrambled back atop the bed, closer to her—

The next instant, Macy felt herself shaken awake, Harry’s lips brushing her cheek, smelling of Old Spice and autumn pine. “Mace. Mace. Love, you're doing it again—”

“Wha...?” Now fully awake, she pulled herself to a seated position, as every single object simultaneously dropped to the ground in one fell swoop. Crap. Macy turned to him. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

He nodded. “But it’s a mere side effect of pregnancy, love, it can’t be helped—”

“But I could’ve—” She stopped, unwilling to voice her deepest fears. Injured you. Us. Caused irreparable property damage. Done too many things—awful things.

“But,” he spoke again, kissing her forehead, “you didn’t. And all’s well that ends well, no?”

Macy nodded, willing herself to believe him, while stroking her fast-growing bump, now at its twenty-first week.

This is normal, she tried to tell herself. Being a witch, married to a Whitelighter. Having a hybrid Whitelighter baby. Power everywhere. Indoor hurricanes. Flying objects. This is normal. Totally—she attempted to steady her breathing—normal.

But deep down, she surely had her misgivings.

Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After returning back to the condo from her latest appointment with Morgana, Macy thought back to the appointment itself, the screen turned away as both wanted the gender secret, the information kept in a sealed envelope until ready. Harry claimed to be running an important errand near a local silversmith, and Macy supposed he might as well go there. Fresh air would do him well, seeing as he’s been so attentive anyways.

She was glad that they would find out said information together, though with the screen turned away, Macy couldn’t help but feel a wave of paranoia. Was the baby ok?

Was the baby alive—

Don't even. She shook her head as she turned the key into the condo’s front door, then entered. Banish that thought. Now. If Morgana saw something, she would tell me. If I thought something were up, I would know…right? Part of her worry, she knew, came from her own origin, decades before.

“I think something’s wrong with—” Those words, uttered by Marisol. And then, everything came to pass. The disquieting thought lingered, how no mortal medical professional had determined the cause of Macy’s near-demise. And with no cause, came no discernible means of prevention. Or was there?

Of course Macy used her kick counts app, once in the morning, once at night. Around noon, if she so wanted. She slept on her left side to promote circulation, though tossed and turned in her sleep. And tried not to worry, smiling in spite, or despite it all, putting on the bravest of faces for her younger sisters, as if to say, I’ve got this. Harry—we—we’ve got this.

She knew Harry was aware of her own origins, but wondered how much of the emotional impact he realized it had on her, especially now. He was sympathetic as ever, but she wondered nonetheless, as she entered the main alcove, the kitchen island directly to her left, upon which there were two metal objects. “Uh, Harry?” She picked one, then the other up, as he rose from the crimson sofa feet away. “What’re these?” Frowning, she turned them around, over and over.

Her first guess was anti-monster weaponry, like those razor-sharp star things that ninjas tossed at their adversaries. But handling one again, head tilted, she realized they seemed to have a more…practical…function.

“Apple and pineapple corers. A surprise,” Harry proffered. He’d acquired those for free, after helping a silversmith take care of a supernatural jinn that had been destroying mason jars full of wares, et cetera.

Macy’s frown only deepened. “That’s what my telekinesis is for.”

“Oh, but Mace, I didn't want to exhaust you...”

“I'm pregnant not weak—” she retorted, setting the items down at last. “And I’m not broken—"

“I never said you were.” Seeing her head for the door, he paused. “Where're you going?!”

“Out,” came the terse reply. “And don't follow me.”

Bollocks. He slumped back on the couch, the back of his head tapping the wall behind him. And he thought he’d done her a favor. What a massive cock-up. And he’d forgotten, in the midst of it all, to ask how the scan had gone.

Several Blocks Away, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Continuing to walk up a boulevard of colorful tropical brightly painted houses, fists slackening as she breathed in the warm air, Macy continued to gather her thoughts. A tangerine home, then bright oceanic aqua, a bright flamingo pink residence, then a few more vivid tangerine.

He bought kitchen tools. Because he thinks I can’t do it all.

You told him to help the silversmith, the one with the evil jinn—

Didn’t think he’d pick those things up.

She kicked at a stray pebble, which bounced into the cobblestone gutter.

I wanted magical combat tools.

I wanted the stick. The nunchucks.

And all I had was my necklace—and the world, the world as my weapon.

Stopping to reflect on her innermost thoughts, she realized it hadn’t been about the kitchen tools at all. Maybe, sure, life changes of a physical sort to a certain extent, but also her changing identity. And that deep-down thought that lingered, that somehow, Marisol had chosen Mel and Maggie, had raised them from birth, had spent more time with them, the less troublesome ones…and loved them more—

You know that’s not true—

Another voice popped into her head. Her conscience. Marisol loved you more than life itself. And yes, Macy knew that, standing on the boulevard’s sidewalk, inhaling the warm tropical air, listening to the birds chirp in the distance, the scent of plumerias nearly overtaking her senses. But raising a hand to her now-bare neck, she missed that one tangible connection to her mother—a sparkling gold yin-yang necklace—that had been split in three, scattered across the globe. It was the only piece of jewelry she had ever received from her, and it was broken, never to be seen whole, ever again.

But Marisol did have a point—the world is your weapon.

She did suppose, passing a café, that she could easily upturn a white parasol umbrella and launch it several meters into the air, javelin-style. Macy had that power, and yet, it seemed, at times like these, that she would trade it all, just for a moment with her mother.

But you can’t have her. How do you move forward?

Why did her conscience have to be so damned…rational? Macy sighed as she turned another corner. Maybe, just maybe, she could see if Etsy had a similar necklace, and order it. But it wasn’t the same, because it hadn’t come from Marisol. She wondered whether there could be a spell to imbue it with Marisol…aura…or whatever. That ineffable ‘je ne sais quoi.’

On a whim, she drew out her phone; after perusing Etsy, she found a replica necklace for less than $20 and ordered it, soon to arrive at Vera Manor. But somehow, doing this didn’t make her feel much better. Sure, she missed Marisol, but—

She turned another corner into a deserted alleyway, the sound of the ocean nearby echoing past her ears—most of all, she missed her freedom. Being a scientist and witch was one thing, balancing that with a helpless (but certainly wanted) newborn, was another thing entirely. Could she do it all?

Well—I could certainly try, she mused, before firing off a quick text, then marbling away.

Ice Rink, Central Business District, Seattle, Washington

As Niko laced up her ice skates, hop-stepping onto the expansive city rink, she thought to herself that what she missed most about Korea wasn’t its vibrant city life, the hill-topped herbs and blossoms, the cuisine, but rather, those lake-sized ice rinks further out in the country, and the anonymity besides. Being tied to a consulate, even if by proxy, constantly left her feeling like she was being watched, every time she went stateside.

But perhaps, this time, she was being watched, for unbeknownst to her, a certain witch by the name of Margarita Vera had had a vision of such wintry delights, and was determined to bring everything to fruition…

Cropped ebony hair, a lilted subtle smile, eyes sparkling with the wind, legs limber, arms arched as if a ballerina, dancing upon glittering panels of ice, cold ice...and lights. So many holiday lights all around...

Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Mel checked her messages and rolled her eyes. 15 unread messages. Niko.

She clicked on one. Can we talk? Please? This isn't what it looks like.

Those communications had shown up, alongside a letter that Mel left unopened. Burned over the kitchen sink. Groaning, pillow over her head, she tossed the phone back on her nightstand as she heard a chorus of voices just outside her bedroom door—

Which opened, as Mel shut her eyes, feigning sleep, yelping the next moment as she felt the warmth of her cotton bedsheets unceremoniously yanked back.

“We're going for a walk.” We, as in…?

Mel opened one eye, then another, coming face-to-face with an impatient Maggie and a very pregnant Macy who had returned early from the Azores.

“But—” Mel opened her mouth, attempting to negotiate. “At least give me another hour of sleep?”

Maggie was having none of it. “It's almost dark and you haven't even had breakfast. This isn't you. And grab your skates.”

“I don’t have any—” Mel stopped as the two figures departed, spotting a pair in the corner of her room, likely dredged up from the attic. And it looked like a perfect fit too. “Ugh, fine.”

Ice Rink, Central Business District, Seattle, Washington

A Calum Scott song began playing as Niko took to the center rink, oblivious to the skaters all around. The lyrics flowed through as trees gently swayed, laden with holiday lights, a Christmas makeshift village in the near distance, emulating those of European towns, beverages, snacks, and all.

There goes my heart beating

‘Cause you are the reason

I’m losing my sleep

Please come back now…

Mel stepped forward from the sidewalk, trailed by her sisters. “How did you know she'd be here?” she found herself saying, watching as Niko executed a perfect figure eight, followed by a double lutz…or whatever they called those figure skating moves. There was so much she never knew about her, but there was that connection they’d had, that even she couldn’t deny.

“Intuition. Maybe a premonition--c'mon, Mel, one skate around, huh? Watch her skate, then talk things over with cocoa and marshmallows?” Maggie practically pleaded. “I’ve seen the way you two are together. You owe it to yourselves—”

Macy pointed to a nearby holiday market stall. “At least hear her out?” The lyrics echoed all around, the seasonal scents of spiced gingerbread and bittersweet chocolate lingering in the foreground.

I’d climb every mountain

And swim every ocean

Just to be with you

And fix what I’ve broken—

Macy blinked, listening to those heartfelt lyrics, biting her now-quivering lip as Mel laced her own skates and slowly made her way into the rink.

“What's wrong?” Maggie asked. “You two have a fight?”

Macy shook her head then upon Maggie's raised eyebrow slowly nodded. "He bought two fruit corers from the local kitchen boutique, and I said I had telekinesis and he said he didn't want me to get tired out, and I accused him of calling me weak. Unsteady. Ungainly. Then...I wondered if deep down, my body changing...it meant he'd see me differently. No longer love me the way he used to, fully. God, these hormones...and then I missed my yin-yang necklace…because it was my only tie to Marisol…Then I bought an imitation off Etsy but, it’s stupid, I know…" as Maggie hugged her.

“No, Mace. It’s not stupid at all. Did you tell Harry all this?”

Macy shook her head. “I should. I will. I just…I think, with everything happening…I got so overwhelmed, you know? Like the world was spinning off its axis, and I was losing control, and then I couldn’t breathe right, and I had to leave the condo—" She paused, glancing again at Maggie. “It’s kind of been a crazy day.”

“Yeah,” Maggie murmured, then reached over for a hug. “And you’re wrong.”

“W-wrong?” Macy blinked, momentarily confused.

“About the necklace,” clarified Maggie. “We’re your ties to Marisol too. Me and Mel, I mean.” The conversation turned to comfortable silence as the pair watched Mel greet Niko with a certain hesitation, then skate off, gliding laps around the rink. “And I can imbue the necklace with a bit of family hygge essence, if you want.”

“Hygge…essence?”

“So every time you touch the symbol,” Maggie went on, “it reminds you of home and all of us, as a family.”

Macy reached over to squeeze Maggie’s hand. “Thanks. I think—I’d like that very much.”

Minutes later, Macy departed for Vera Manor. Maggie continued watching Mel and Niko until her own phone buzzed. Puzzled, she fished it out of her purse.

Near the Xmas market. Want to grab cocoa and talk things over? -Jordan.

Funny—she hadn’t seen him on the way in. How had he known where she’d be? Of course, there were rumors that his adventures with the Charmed Ones had led to some latent Whitelighter powers emerging, but she wasn’t sure what to believe. But this time, since he’d asked—

Sure, she typed. Cocoa sounds good. Be there in 5. -Mags

And—sent.

Taking one last glance at Niko and Mel, both now pausing skating and now seated on a nearby bench, Maggie touched a similar bench nearer to her—

A lingering touch, caressing a soft cheek, lips meeting feminine lips, soft and demure at first, then insistent, proud, and passionate, sweetness giving way to sultry, ebony hair intertwined with ebony hair of another, arms entangled as if it were their last moment on earth—a banister, a come-hither, a lift of an arched brow—walls upon walls—Mel’s bed—and—

Maggie gasped, releasing her hold on the bench, positively blushing. Oh. Oh wow. Ok, yeah, uh, cocoa. Definitely time to get that cocoa—as she backed away, nearly careening into a throng of energetic carolers. Niko and Mel, by the looks of that vision, would be more than friends by the time the night was over.

Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Macy texted Harry an hour later.

I’m sorry about earlier, she typed. I missed Marisol, I’m dealing with a lot of change, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Am home. Seattle. And—sent.

She glanced all around her—the glow of a hundred tall, ivory candles glimmered against the glass, Calum Scott’s song paused on her own phone. It was, she thought, time to show Harry some love.

A whoosh, and there he was, before her, holding both hands, kissing each in turn before his lips met her own. “I’m sorry I made you feel as though you were weak,” he spoke. “You, love, are the most beautiful, powerful witch I have been blessed to lay eyes upon, and I have never once forgotten it, even for a second. Even if I do bungle up its delivery sometimes,” he ended in an apologetic murmur. “I only meant to help—”

“I know,” Macy answered. “I’m sorry for taking things out on you. I’ll try to do better, if you’ll try to do better?”

He smiled. “Deal.” Noticing the song on pause, the candles too, he took one of her hands rounding his back, the other in his other hand. “May I interest you in a solarium dance?”

“Why yes, Harry. Of course—”

They danced for the next minutes, becoming more and more entranced in the other’s gaze, lost to all the universe but the one they themselves were in, until the music came to conclusion.

A twirl, and an envelope fell out of Macy’s pocket. Picking it up, Harry glanced at her. Is this…?

She nodded. “Let’s open it together?”

And so they did, a shower of pink sparkles issuing forth from within. "It's a girl," Macy whispered as a bright white glow emanated too, from her tum.

"Our little Whitelighter," Harry smiled, resting his hand on her abdomen as she agreed. 

"Little wiggle worm," laughed she. "She knows her daddy."

"That...that she does, love," and Macy could've sworn he was blinking away tears.

Neither noticed two amorous women entering Vera Manor between sensuous kisses of their own, sneaking across the hallway and up the storied banister…

Chapter Text

Morning, Mel’s Bed, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Niko’s fingers traced the clean cotton linen, unadorned save for a sham atop it, the color of a wintry sky. As her vision adjusted, she realized she was no longer in the over-protective custody of the consulate, nor in the coldness of Greta’s apartment, but rather, within the bed of her paramour of late.

Raising her head from a pillow, she shifted her glance to the nightstand nearest her, where a paper cup containing the remnants of last night’s cocoa and whipped cream lay. And Mel, sleeping softly to her right. Niko tenderly swept a tendril of the woman’s hair, a smile dancing upon her own lips thinking of just what had transpired the night before…

Flashback, Night Before, Central Business District to Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

"So tell me, why do you live with...her?" Mel practically spat out the last word as they wandered the Christmas Market, then as stalls closed one by one, the glittering lights overhead turning themselves off bit by bit, over to Vera Manor to talk things over—it wasn’t a far distance to walk after all…

Niko’s brow raised in surprise as they traversed the suburban path, barely lit beneath industrial-style street lights. "You didn't read my letter?"

"Burned it," Mel answered sheepishly, ruing at once her at times short temper. “What did I miss?”

The other lady paused, mulling over her words before taking another sip of cocoa, the beverage trickling down, emanating pure warmth from within. “My life at the consulate wasn’t always an easy one—”

“Really?” uttered Mel, imagining the trappings of a fancy lifestyle, galas every day, meeting one famous person after the next. “I thought you guys had it made—”

“Not really.” Niko recalled her last conversation with her mother, a rather frosty one. “You know how you always talk about Marisol, and how great a mom she was?” She hurried on. “I didn’t have a mom like her.”

“Meaning…?”

Niko blinked hard. “Did you ever have Marisol feel entitled to your own earnings she took your own grocery money without permission? Or scream at you so loudly her own phone broke, and she thought it was funny? And the sheer invasion of privacy—if I went out from the consulate, she wouldn’t tell me my shirt looked weird or strange—she’d physically try to tear it off me. Not to mention the corporal punishment as a kid. Sticks, a ten-pound book, a plastic-metal binder, you name it. She used me for target practice. And it never went away. Look—I mean, it’s in my culture, I get that. But was I such a bad kid?”

“Jesus, Niko,” Mel whispered, horrified at what she just heard. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell someone?”

A sorrowful, derisive laugh followed. “You think anyone would’ve believed me? Everyone, and I mean everyone there was on my mom’s side. Sheep blindly following stardom.  She’d move the security cameras so no one could see. I survived it as a kid, did college well enough, went on exchange to escape, and came back since I had no other option. I mean, where could I find an apartment with no deposit and no credit score requirement?”

Suddenly, everything made sense—how Niko mentioned always having security personnel around her. So she couldn’t escape. So she could be the dutiful daughter subject to her mother’s whims. “And the only option was Greta?”

Niko nodded. “Yes.” Another sip, as the pair neared the Vera Manor threshold, making their way up the footpath. “Believe me, if I had any other option—” she paused, collecting herself.

“But you didn’t?”

“Greta and I had been long distance for awhile, engaged for a season, and even though she hoped, and I did too, that things would work themselves out…we honestly grew apart. But she knew what my mom was like, and the nightmare I’d lived through. She gave me a roof over my head when I needed it most. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

They paused at Vera Manor’s entrance as tears began to fall down Niko’s cheeks. As if on impulse, Mel leaned forward, kissing each, one by one, as if tracing a constellation of stars, until their lips met—

And stayed—

And lingered—

Their hot chocolate long forgotten.

“I hope you know,” Mel whispered as they made their way into Vera Manor several long minutes later, “that you always have a home here, with me.”

Behind them, the front door shut, possibly of its own accord, as Mel led Niko up a rather ornate set of Victorian stairs, intricately carved to the nines, stopping every other stair to kiss, and be kissed, their hair each turning tumbled as the seconds wound themselves into heady minutes, and—

“More,” Niko practically gasped as they found themselves at the top, just under a severe-looking portrait of what appeared to be Mel’s great-great-grandmother. “Please—” An aching, a yearning, seemed to overtake her in that moment, her fingers weaving themselves against Mel’s neck, pulling the latter closer, and closer still—

“Are you sure?” came the response as Niko nodded feverishly.

“A-absolutely.”

With that, Mel’s door flew open as the pair tumbled within, then shut and locked almost immediately after.

And all Niko recalled after that was sheer, sheer bliss. A home, where once there was none. A safe haven, to be exact. And most of all, a lover like none other.

Morning, Mel’s Bed, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Hey…” she turned, hearing Mel awaken.

“Hey you…” Niko leaned forward, brushing her lips with Mel’s own. The scent of strawberries…nutmeg too…and something herbal…and mysterious…Niko wondered what Mel did with her spare time that evoked such aspects. Worked in a garden? Stirred compounds in a perfume laboratory?

“Want some cocoa?” Mel had spotted the two cups, as the pair giggled, Niko herself biting her lip.

“As a matter of fact…” Then Niko paused, detecting the delectable aroma of breakfast wafting from downstairs. Something meat-based…sausages? “Wow, that breakfast smells amazing…”

“Let’s get some?” Proffered Mel, and Niko nodded as the pair donned their clothes in full, opening the door—

Hallway, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie placed an earbud in, opening her bedroom door, positively grinning at the memory of last night with Jordan, walking through the fabric district, spotting cute white houses, boughs of holly strung along the little cobblestone path, aglow with holiday lights.

Look, the Northern Lights...she practically blushed as she shuffled her song list. How’s that for a pick-up line? Her own mind was analyzing that evening to pieces, as Jordan had traipsed to the nearby bathroom nearly half an hour ago for a shower.

He really takes long showers…

Shaking her head, she continued down the hallway, bopping her head, moving as though in part victory dance, part…whatever-this-was—“AAArrgh!” Maggie yelped a second later, having tripped over something…or someone’s…foot? She glanced up, realizing it was none other than Niko. “Omigawd!”

“Uh, hi…” Niko managed, before the second floor bathroom door opened, revealing a shirtless Jordan, towel wrapped on the lower half of his body. “OmiGAWD!”

“Vera!” Jordan managed, before Maggie came face-to-face with Mel. “And Vera…”

“Mel!” Maggie glared at her older sister. “You didn’t say anything about—”

“It’s not like I knew Jordan was—”

“How was I supposed to know—”

“You’re the empathic one—"

“AHEM—”

Everyone paused to stare down at the foot of the staircase where Harry was, donned in khaki pants, a cerulean silk shirt, and a crisp white kitchen apron. “Breakfast is served—"

Dining Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Beet red and avoiding each other's eyes, the four made their way down the stairs and into the dining room (too many people for the kitchen island), where Harry laid out a veritable English breakfast feast. "Thanks dude," Jordan quipped, clearly impressed that Harry had happened to make extra meals available. "How'd you..."

"Intuition." Harry leaned closer. "Actually, Mace. She wakes up at the earliest hours for a walk around the block and noticed extra pairs of shoes.” He glanced at Niko and Mel. “And a pair of biodegradable hot chocolate mugs. Then went back to sleep..." Then he thought of the type of sleep they'd had that morning, sensual, sweet, and seductive, his ears growing pink at the very thought.

He loved Macy as fully as he knew how, and with regards to her physicality, he found her in peak, pure blossom. Not ungainly, but gorgeous. Not engorged, but simply put...effervescent. And of course, she was getting caught up in her beauty rest.

"Ah." Jordan leaned back as a delectable sausage egg sandwich was put upon his plate, crisp and crackling. 

"Wow," Niko breathed. "It smells amazing!" She turned to Mel. "You never said your roommate was a personal chef."

"Actually, he's more family..." Mel spoke. "Our brother-in-law. But feels more like brother, honestly. He's rescued us from so many...er...situations."

"Situations?" Niko's eyebrow lifted. "What types of situations?"

"It's...complicated." Mel noticed Macy enter, looking extremely content with herself, positively oozing a certain smug aura, her sienna complexion glowing even moreso than usual. "You're looking...healthy."

"Oh, I am," Macy grinned like a Cheshire cat, striding toward Harry, enveloping him in one very passionate kiss, thinking of their midnight bath, a certain glow of white light, and a hundred or so candles, magically enchanted to float about the room.

“Jeez, get a room, you two,” Mel muttered as everyone else chose this moment to dive into their meals, though nobody else heard. Or so she thought.

“Eat,” Maggie shoved a breakfast sandwich toward Mel. “You’re dangerous when hangry—”

“I am not—” Mel bit into her sandwich. “Oh…wow.” She took a few more bites.

“Better?”

Mel laughed. “Much better.”

Chapter Text

Late Afternoon, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

"I for one cannot find anything more romantic than strolling hand in hand in a post-apocalyptic hellscape," Harry airily remarked, citing a vampiric television spin-off, before turning toward Maggie and Jordan. 

"What're we searching for?" Maggie asked, her sisters present, Niko busy upstairs getting dressed for the evening.

"Potions ingredients," Mel responded. "Desert ones."

Tumbleweed? Sandstone? What else is in the desert, anyways? In the winter? "How is this fair?"

"We're rotating Christmas. Next year will be your year," Macy interjected.

But I want this to be my year. Up in flames went all of Maggie’s cookie baking ideas, her coquito desserts too. By the time she got back from wherever this all was, she would be far too tired to put anything in the oven at all. That, and it felt as though she was forever waiting to grow up, catch up, be taken seriously even.

Of course Harry and Macy had plans. There wasn't much magical mission-wise Macy could do anyways, she could barely see her own toes. Then Maggie felt a burst of shame. Macy had endured enough already in the way of missing out on Marisol and losing Dexter, it was high time she enjoyed life for once. "What about you and Niko?"

"Undercover mission," Mel answered as Maggie sniffed, taking Jordan’s arm and jumping through a marbled portal, though neglecting to mention said mission was at Niko's prior consulate dwelling, a Jingle Ball gala to be exact.

Upstairs, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

After Maggie and Jordan left, Mel went upstairs to brush her teeth, noticing a couple of items that definitely weren't there before. A red toothbrush? A thin cotton tank top?

Mel knocked to give a heads-up and opened her bedroom door. "What's all--wow..." She gaped, for Niko was dressed in a slinky sequined black floor-length gown. 

"Too much?" Niko glanced her way.

"I...I..." Mel swallowed hard. "You look...beautiful."

Niko grinned, strode toward her, and they kissed. Moments later, breaking apart, Niko spoke. "What'd you want to ask?"

"Oh....uh...I just noticed your toothbrush." Mel held up a piece of clothing. "And your tank top?"

"Whoops..." Niko snatched the tank top. "I think I got a little too comfortable..." Mel laughed.

"No, it's ok, I like comfortable. As long as you're good, I'm good."

Sure?"

"Positive."

Sossusvlei Desert, Namibia

"Ow!" Maggie yelped, after her third attempt to pick from a prickly bush. Massaging her finger, she peered again at the list on her smartphone.

Lemon verbena, sage, borage, red Valerian.

It had already been two solid hours, spent winding around oasis after oasis, not quite touching those bits of paradise, but plucking the herbs that sprouted from those borders, lush, many-leaved, and often silvery green. The other half of the time was spent checking the sky for sandstorms, vultures, and testing for quicksand. At one point, she'd sank three feet into the ground and were it not for Jordan and a large stick he'd found, she'd still be stuck there, listening to the distant cry of wolves. Or whatever was here in the arid land. Of Namibia.

Wincing, she straightened her posture, rubbing her back. And nobody told her she was going to be in Namibia. Jordan pointed out the trilingual sign, nearly faded into oblivion, in an attempt to be helpful, but she was far from jovial at that point.

If she didn't know any better, she could've sworn her sisters and Harry were sending her on a wild goose chase. She glanced over at Jordan. Or playing Cupid, making sure the guy stayed a Vera-Vaughn fixture. Jordan’s presence was a matter of Charmed Ones’ safety, and going into a foreign desert certainly qualified for his appearance. Speaking of which…she thought back to the Christmas Market meetup from a week ago, when they had begun talking, and patching things up really quickly. She really was a sucker for holiday lights, winter village charm, and all that.

Three down...one to go....

Minutes passed as sand swirled around them, a storm rumbling in their midst as Jordan unpacked his first aid kit.

"What's wrong?" Jordan asked softly as he reached over to examine her fingers. Maggie shook her head.

"It's stupid."

"It's not stupid if it bothers you this bad," he murmured, uncorking a tiny bottle of antiseptic, placing a few droplets on the surface wound as Maggie winced. “Sorry—"

She breathed in and out as the pain, sharp at first, slowly dissipated. "I thought...I guess...that Christmas would look different this year."

"In what way?"

"Y'know, eating cookies and having wine by the fire. A hot bath. Withyouinit," she mumbled the rest, her cheeks growing pink. Oh crap, did I say that out loud? Maggie chalked it up to exhaustion and something about the desert, numbing her senses and loosening her tongue.

Moments passed as Jordan retrieved gauze, did a double-take, and chose a thick bandage instead, wrapping her fingers carefully. You didn’t hear that, did you? Jordan?

"Mags, we're almost done. Almost. And the night is young?" Jordan wagged his eyebrows with a sly wink. "I'd be more than happy to oblige. Baking, bath, et cetera."

She bit her lip, nodding. Yeah, he definitely heard that last part.

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

"Mmmm, that smells divine," Harry encircled Macy from behind as she stirred the dough. "Do I detect a hint of..." he sniffed, "...cinnamon, brown sugar, and...coquito?"

"Very good," laughed Macy as she drew an oiled pan toward them, beginning to scoop spoonfuls atop. "Decided to try a riff on a Christmas cookie."

"Snickerdoodle coquito cookies? Creative," Harry reached for a fingerful of dough, only to have his hand gently slapped away. What on earth was that for?

"Making them for Maggie, since she and Jordan are taking on the grunt work." Not yours. Theirs.

Alas. But another idea had been brewing within his own mind as of late. A holiday trip, one last hurrah. A babymoon of sorts.

"When the cookies are packed away, do pack an overnight bag love," watching as Macy raised an eyebrow, no doubt intrigued. "Sooner rather than later. And bring a hearty appetite," he added.

Consulate General of the Republic of Korea, West Mercer Street, Seattle, Washington

Outside, the consulate glittered like a Swarovski-studded piece. Mel stared up, clutching her coat which hid from Niko’s view a serpentine green gown, enhanced and lengthened by way of Maggie’s glamours. "Ready?"

Niko nodded. "Let's do this."

It was Niko's idea to return to the belly of the beast, so to speak. It helped that her mother was away on a networking event revolving around golf, golf, and more golf, a couple of time zones away.

They entered; Mel gasped, gazing overhead at the elaborate balconied staircase, the glittering chandeliers, the ornate decor resplendent, like that of a royal palace. "Wow!"

"C'mon, over here--" Mel realized Niko was further ahead, gesturing toward a hidden corridor, and soon followed the woman into a long marble hallway, up some stairs, and into a fancy room that held Nutcracker-style toys and an overhead railroad track. 

"What's all this?" 

"Toys," Niko whispered, remembering a long-ago era of ballet performances, even as strict as it was. "My toys. I always had a busy Christmas, between school and performances, but the diplomats would always give me stuff. I think they felt bad for me, given how my mom was."

"You're a ballerina?"

"Was," admitted Niko. "I was forced to quit right when I almost got toe shoes. My mom wanted me to be a politician. Or something. But I could never measure up, no matter how hard I tried." She blinked hard before turning to Mel. "Do you realize how lucky you are?"

"Starting to," Mel murmured, enveloping Niko in a hug as, further downstairs, a slow song began, "So Close" from Disney's "Enchanted" film. 

You're in my arms

And all the world is calm

The music playing on for only two

So close together…

Smoothing a tendril of Niko's hair, Mel leant her head on Niko's shoulder as they danced in the room, Niko’s arm gently encircling Mel’s back, in soothing motions akin to sweet ocean waves, undulating, pristine, and pure.

We're so close to reaching

That famous happy end

Almost believing

This one's not pretend

Let's go on dreaming

For we know we are

So close, so close

And still so far…

Kitchen and Front Entrance, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington to a Surprise Location

After boxing up the assortment of cookies and treats for Maggie (and Jordan), Macy changed into a wraparound Navy gown—a Diane von Furstenburg creation—and donned a pair of crystal dangling earrings in the shape of falling  snowflakes. Ensuring she had her overnight bag, toiletries, passport in case, she met Harry at the foot of the staircase.

"You look...sublime. Beautiful," Harry clarified, himself wearing a James Bond-esque evening suit jacket ensemble, coordinated perfectly with his patent leather shoes, glossy and shining.

"Not so bad yourself, Har," she grinned, kissing then linking arms with him. "Shall we?"

A turn of the marble later, and their surroundings melted away to frigid silhouettes of trees, a nearby cafe, a hotel, and far off, in the distance--

The Eiffel Tower.

Macy gasped. "Paris?"

"Thought we'd have an overnight here, since you've been cleared," Harry referred to the last doctor's appointment with Morgana, who had encouraged the couple to travel while Macy still could, before the 3rd trimester and swollen ankles and all that. "Is that alright--"

Macy kissed him, passionately so, the rest of his sentence lost to the wintry wind. Not that he minded, noticing in the background that they had landed immediately adjacent to the parfumeries’ latest Christmas light display, an ornate, bright creation in a hot air balloon shape.

All of this, for you.

Sossusvlei Desert, Namibia to Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Another few herbs, and they had finished. "Ready for home?" Maggie nodded. As they clasped hands and marbled back, Maggie couldn't help but feel the desert acted like a raw truth serum of the amorous sort. Or maybe it was those herbs...

Soon enough, the pair were hurtling through time and space, thrown onto Vera Manor's living room. Dusting themselves off, exhausted and spent, Jordan made his way upstairs to shower and clean off, while Maggie went to the kitchen to put the herbs away--

"Omigawd!"

"You ok Mags? Coming upstairs?"

Maggie blinked, staring at a tall unopened bottle of sparkling wine, 2 glossy flutes, and container of holiday cookies--snickerdoodle coquito cookies, rice crispies treats, and mini chocolate chip walnut, in a handwritten note. "Yeah," she grinned, picturing the next hours to come. An enchanted fire, maybe. Almond milk, probably. Cookies and cuddles with Jordan?

Definitely. "Coming!" She sprinted upstairs, eager to get a start on the spirited evening to come.

Late Evening, Paris, France

Escargot with toasted baguette. Sparkling cider instead of wine, steak au jus instead of raw steak tartare, but Macy enjoyed all of it nonetheless. A shared chocolate custard soufflé for dessert, then a stroll in the nearby jardin, followed by relaxing fireside in the five-star hotel's fanciful but cozy lobby lounge, as they examined a nearby antique bookshelf filled with works by Molière, Sartre, and Simone de Beauvoir. As they went upstairs and entered their Maison Lescure hotel room, she noticed what appeared to be a blue spruce Christmas tree at the foot of the bed, decorated in glittering lights and rounded, silvery ornaments.

Next Morning, Maison Lescure, Paris, France

She awoke the next morning to broad daylight, mixed with clouds of every pillowy shade. Glancing out the window immediately framing the bed's left side, she pulled herself into a seated position, admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower and what appeared to be the Luxembourg Gardens, surrounded by crimson poinsettias.

"Breakfast?" A familiar British voice. Harry.

Macy nodded as Harry placed a tray between them.

"Room service," he explained, displaying orange juice, fresh piping-hot croissants, and pain au chocolat. “And two glasses of plum-berry cordial, pas d’alcool. No alcohol.” Together they clinked glasses and sipped.

"Merry Early Christmas, love," he whispered not a second later, as they gave each other Eskimo kisses, tucking into their repast.

A happy holiday, indeed.

Chapter Text

Early Afternoon, Café, Hotel Eres, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Tap—

Tap—

Tap—

Macy instinctively drew a hand onto her burgeoning abdomen. Clearly, this kid had a case of the hiccups.

Tap—

Tap—

Sighing, she straightened her posture and glanced around her tropical café environs. They had left wintry, slushy Seattle the evening before, and now found themselves no longer in Vera Manor’s vintage solarium, its windows wavering and wide, but rather amongst a warm afternoon breeze, ambient light filtering in through the reeded partially-drawn curtains. At each window hung lush fern plants, dutifully watered and cared for by hotelier staff; above, orb-like light sconces with thin gilded gold lining. The flooring was tiled and vaguely Portuguese in nature, the cushion behind her and beneath her reminding her that they were no longer in the US of A.

Just outside, she could see cluster upon cluster of damask, rich pink, and magenta hibiscuses, with far more magenta blooms crowding and growing upwards of the aged building. A glass swimsuit display too, with lithe plasticine models, bearing fashionable fabrics she knew she had no chance of fitting into.

Not now, at any rate—

Another wistful glance, then she turned her attention to her laptop. It had been Harry’s idea all along, to grab some fresh air before the baby came, before the Seattle dampness made themselves full of cabin fever. Part of her was reluctant to leave her sisters to their own devices (what was Mel up to with Niko in the consulate—and how were Jordan and Maggie—Joggie—doing anyhow…)…but then came a ping!

“Harry—HARRY!” Macy hissed, as he slid into the cushioned seating beside her, mouth full of crisps. Really?

“Mphrwha?” He was barely intelligible as he crunched, way too loudly, for her comfort, as the birthing instructor’s face now displayed on the Zoom meeting. Morgana was a woman of many obstetrical talents, but in so much demand she simply wasn’t able to hold weekly birthing classes. Thus, another had been recommended. Cleopatra. Or Cleo. A non-magic human. A mortal.

Was she an ancient Egyptian ruler in a past life? No. Simply an over-zealous woman keen on showing enceinte women ‘the way.’ Whatever that meant. Macy nudged Harry who swallowed, patting crumbs off his mouth with his perfectly-crisp, perfectly-ironed handkerchief. He gestured toward what appeared to be iced tea, plus a mix of tropical fruit and macadamia granola, straight off the menu. And more chips—crisps—in a bowl besides—

“The camer—the camera! Harry, it’s started!”

“Oh? Oh. Right-o—” And on the video camera went, showing their faces to Cleo and the rest of her pupils.

“Glad you could finally join us!” came a chipper reply from the instructor as Macy folded her arms to glare at Harry. What? He mouthed back. We’re on time, aren’t we? He reached for another chip but Macy swatted his hand away. But love—

She raised an eyebrow.

I’m hungry—

“Oh, fine—” But do it off camera, at least?

He nodded, reaching for the bowl of chips, angling his head just so as to be out of camera focus, a certain unmistakable crunch—crunch—crunch heard, Macy repressing the urge to roll her eyes.

A hand went up in the virtual meeting.

“Yes?” Cleo began.

The student, a brunette with close-cropped hair, frowned. “Can someone mute their side? I keep hearing this weird…crunching…noise…”

Harry’s mouth curved itself into a surprised “O”-shape. They can hear us? He pointed to the screen and at themselves as Macy nodded, now beginning to regret not having done a Zoom tutorial or at the very least, a sound check at the start of the session.

Click. With one turn of the mouse, Harry swiveled triumphantly toward Macy. “Done!”

“Harry—” she groaned, massaging her temple. “You just logged us out—”

“Bollocks—”

Macy dove inside her purse for the handwritten details, the meeting login information, the passcode, muttering them as Harry typed. Luckily, they were allowed back in.

“SORRY!” Harry half-shouted. “TECHNICAL—” Macy nudged him, waving her hand down. Lower volume. He swallowed hard. “My apologies,” he spoke, this time softer. “Technical difficulties.” Technology really was a finicky creature, that.

“It’s alright, Mr. Greenwood, we’ve all been there,” came Cleo’s response. Then she turned to her lesson for the day. “Did you all bring your ‘focal points’?”

The homework in advance had been to scour one’s living quarters for something to focus on in the throes of labor. Something tangible, something transportable, something with meaning.  Possibly a toy, which would be easiest, transport-wise.

Macy and Harry nodded, though Macy herself felt…stupid? Silly? She sat her own focal point on the table before them, next to the fruit and the chips. The week before, she had gone in search of said focal point, knowing Dexter had gotten rid of her stuffed animals, all of them, in the intervening years between primary school and boarding school.

“You’re too old for those toys, Mace.”

“But Dad—”

“And they collect dust—”

“I know, but—”

“Do not contradict me.”

And that had been the end of that. She wondered where Dexter put those toys of hers. He probably didn’t put them anywhere, actually. More, donated them and hoped she’d forget. Too much clutter, Macy, too much clutter.

But one had been spared. Stuffy. A certain teddy bear, a rich walnut brown fluffy creature, that had languished beneath her twin bed for decades, until after Dexter’s death when Macy took care of all of his affairs, wills, trusts, estates, all, even though it hadn’t been much, as he’d given all he could in the way of raising her. Maybe this whole getting rid of non-sentient creatures—toys—had been his way of toughening her up, in an unforgiving world? She would never know.

Stuffy had traveled with her, her sisters, and Harry, through that swirling, cataclysmic vortex, from Michigan all the way to Seattle. It was Stuffy who witnessed her tears, that night she saw Harry with that woman—Stuffy, who had been the subject of her Command Center experiments to re-acquire magic…sorry Stuffy! She recalled that one time she’d lost her temper on the unfortunate creature after a few droplets of black amber to her tongue, phone recorder rolling for posterity. But she dusted him off the concrete floor mere moments later, full of remorse.

Yes, it was that same Stuffy who had perched upon her windowsill, bearing (ha, Macy thought) witness to the scene below in Vera Manor’s trellised garden, she and her Whitelighter taking their first dance together beneath the soft glow of tealights, throwing caution to the wind, after a much-needed glass of Chardonnay. Of course, Stuffy, he’d (she always thought the bear a he, for whatever reason) fallen off the windowsill to the carpet below in the midst of those next-morning rough…shenanigans.

“Dr. Vaughn?”

Instantly, Macy snapped to attention. “Uh…yes?”

“Your focal point?”

Macy pulled the teddy bear toward her so it was visible on video. “My teddy bear. Stuffy. I’ve had him as long as I can remember, and he’s been a part of my life journey,” to a chorus of “awwww!”’s and “oh, cute!”

“Very sweet, Dr. Vaughn,” Cleo remarked with a smile before moving onto the next student.

You don’t know the half of it.

Same Day, Outside Side Terrasse, Perry & Hudson, Seattle, Washington

Time differences meant that Macy and Harry were experiencing the mid-afternoon to early evening hours right about now. Somehow, Macy would always be older, always be smarter, always—

Someone she’d be jealous of?

Maggie shook that last thought off as she stirred her vegan latte, housed in a bowl-sized pale green matcha-hued ceramic cup, dusted with what looked to be pumpkin spice. Sure, she thought to herself, Macy clearly had the brains of the family. But that had come at a cost, she knew, recalling when she’d touched her oldest sister’s arm those many months ago.

A rush of air, warmth, like a summer’s breeze. Sunshine, a swinging chair in a front balcony. A beautiful baby, dark curls and all. A woman—Marisol, younger—watching and weeping, as an also youthful Dexter packed up all of baby Macy’s belongings, from her first cloth book about ducklings and trees, to her blankets and Stuffy and more…

So much pain, that. Pain, and poignancy, and bittersweet, burgeoning sorrow. No, she decided to herself, she would never want to switch places with Macy. Never in a million years—

“What’s up, Sarge?”

“Jordan!” So he had managed to wake up after all. “Thought you’d be crashing after all those law exams—”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “I’ve dealt with worse—” Y’know. Chase family curse. Banshees. Scary Swan. Nightmare birthdays. He plunked his own latte down on the café table, along with a cream-filled matcha cake on his end, and a separate Bavarian pastry with powdered sugar on Maggie’s side. “For you.”

“Thanks,” she murmured her appreciation.

“And it’s definitely vegan,” he added, as she cut through the delicate item, sampling a forkful.

“Yum.”

The side terrasse was a bit nippy this time of day, but neither noticed, as pleasantries gave way to deeper conversations. But just as Jordan touched on the topic of post-law school plans, an externship, et cetera, Maggie noticed a familiar maroon blouse barely within her line of vision.

Crap-crap—double crap—

“What is it, Mags?” Jordan instantly detected a change in Maggie’s demeanor.

One word. “Mel—” Ugh. And all she, Margarita Vera, wanted, was a chance to have a nice café outing, get some fresh air, without reminders of magic. Or rather, she clarified to herself, walking reminders of magic.

“And Niko—” Jordan finished, flagging the women down. “Hey, NIKO! MEL!”

Maggie groaned into her latte before plastering a blisteringly fake smile upon her visage. “Heyyyyyy!”

All she wanted was a day to herself—a day without magic. A day on her own.

Chapter Text

One Week Later, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Mmmmmm…” Mel turned over in bed, smiling in her sleep as she smelled a familiar jasmine-rose-apple scent. Niko. Arm draped over her own shoulder, she snuggled deeper into the woman’s slumbering embrace, just as a grasshopper chirp emitted from Niko’s own phone—

The raven-haired woman bolted up in bed, nearly sideswiping Mel. “CRAP!”

“W-wha?” The middle Charmed One managed to muster, still half-asleep. “Niko? What is it?”

Niko combed through her hair with her fingers, emitting an exasperated sigh. “This was supposed to be taken care of weeks ago. Ellen was supposed to book the plane ticket off Skyscanner—I was supposed to go to Ronda and do all of the—” she rose hurriedly, tripping as she attempted to put on her navy jeans and practical black t-shirt, completing the ensemble with a glittering necklace around her nape.

Now more awake, Mel rubbed her eyes and stared. “Who’s Ellen?” She paused, wondering if there was another woman in Niko’s life—

“It’s not like that—”

So that was a no. “Uh, and who’s Ronda?”

“A place. In Europe. Andalusia.” Niko attempted to search for one last article of clothing but gave up. “Look, if you see my coat, can you give it to me in three days?”

“Niko, it’s right there—” Mel fished Niko’s belted coat from off her own side of the bed, partially obscured by the nightstand.

“I’m so screwed—”

“NIKO!”

That finally got her attention. “What?”

“What do you need? Right now?” Mel paused.

“Andalusia. I’m supposed to go there. I was supposed to be there half a day from now, but every flight’s overbooked, and Dr. Tanaka was counting on me to check out a historic clock artifact, and I’m not going to have time, and—” Niko left the last part unspoken. And he’ll never depend on me again and I’ll never be independent and I’ll have to go back to my mom and deal with her forevermore…

“And?” Mel rose, stepping closer to Niko’s form.

“Forget it,” Niko shook her head. “Point is, I’m doomed—” she checked once again she had all her belongings. “Unless you know a ten minute route to Andalusia and back.” Another groan. “Who am I kidding?” she muttered.

“Well…” Mel’s eyes glittered merrily. “I might be able to help you with that—”

One Hour Later, SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington

After a hasty breakfast-that-wasn’t (Mel thought a sip of espresso and a bite of a Lucky Charms cereal milk bar was not breakfast, let alone a snack), the pair found themselves in the Command Center, with Niko blindfolded at the entrance, then carefully being guided by Mel to its industrial interior, down the wrought-iron steps, past the echoes of aged creaking pipes.

“Mel?” Niko spoke finally. “When you said you had a speedy way to get to Andalusia, I didn’t think I was gonna be in cargo hold—”

Mel squeezed the woman’s hand. “Not the cargo hold. Niko, do you trust me?”

A raise of an eyebrow, then a nod. “Against my better judgment…yes.”

“Ok. Wait—right—here—” Mel briefly broke away to aim the real-time map, away from Seattle, and toward Ronda, Andalusia, Spain, coordinates 36, 44, 14 degrees north, 5, 9, 53 degrees west, until she clicked the cursor, a shiny marble rising mid-air, ready to transport them. Clasping the marble in one hand, she took Niko’s in her other; with a single toss of the object, the whirling portal opened up as they leapt to their newfound destination.

Fifteen minutes later, Ronda, Andalusia, Spain

“Oh. My. GAWD.”

Niko kept repeating those three words over and over since having her blindfold removed, both having arrived safely in Ronda, various signages indicating as much. “I mean, how did you—how did we—”

“Uh…” Mel glanced around, though the streets were virtually deserted at this hour. “Frequent flyer miles? Speed plane? Top secret? Yeah…uh…yeah.”

Bienvenido a Ronda, one of many signs read, as they continued into the high-elevation town, Mel willing herself to avoid glancing down past the paved bridge (lit on either side by glowing streetlamps, for it was still quite early in the morning), down what appeared to be thousands of miles south, past thickets of miasmic fog. The entire landscape seemed composed of pale-painted buildings with stucco roofs, a certain uniformity save for a taller spired tower in the distance, with a landscape even further out composed of green, lush mountainous hillsides. Why here? Mel couldn’t help but wonder as they continued down boulevard after boulevard of cobblestone street, until they came to the tall tower they had seen before, its main wall displaying a clock—

Mel gasped. It wasn’t just any clock. There was a miniature stone roof above it, below which were two miniature windows displaying cerulean blue painted skies with glittering gold constellations. Below that, the clock itself in a rich glassy midnight blue, lined also with gold inscriptions. Mel squinted as they drew closer. The inscriptions didn’t correspond to numbers, Roman numerals. Instead, they seemed to depict lunar signs, astrological symbols, and something else at its exterior. Below that clock was another similarly-shaped area of glassy grey-green, inlaid with twelve painted gold spheres, one after the other depicting ocean waves, with smaller gold circles drawn toward the center that showed mythical creatures, or creatures yielding a bow and arrow…whatever they were, they seemed to emit a certain frisson of energy.

She glanced over at Niko, who had by this time begun snapping photos with her own phone. “What’re you supposed to be looking for?”

“Anything unusual,” came Niko’s reply.

But none of this is ‘usual,’ Mel thought to herself. Not her powers, not SafeSpace, not the black marble means of transport. “How unusual are we talking?”

Niko paused, putting her phone in her coat pocket. “Who’s asking?”

“You seem cagey,” Mel remarked aloud, as they continued to observe the tall tower. “Is it something…solar? Astronomical? Something…” she paused, “…magical?” as Niko inhaled sharply. Mel reached over to tuck a tendril behind Niko’s ear. “You know you don’t have to hide things when it comes to me, right?”

“It’s crazy, Dr. Tanaka and his theories,” Niko replied.

“Try me.” Mel stared into Niko’s own eyes unblinkingly before Niko looked away.

Please don’t think I’m nuts…Niko raised her eyes skyward then, before replying. “Dr. Tanaka, and I know this is insane…he thinks the clock…this horloge thing…has, um…powers.”

“Powers as in, magic, you mean.” A statement, not a question.

Niko raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s crazy,” Mel answered. “I mean, there’s been centuries on centuries of written text, mystical ceremonies, artwork of stars, inventions in between. What’s to say there isn’t something…other?” She angled her head. “And how are you testing that? I mean, you’re taking pictures, but are you—”

Niko shook her head. “Can’t risk desecrating it. So yeah, taking photos, but they’re going to be specially treated after they’re double-encrypted into something else. It’s a long and boring process.”

“Doesn’t sound so boring to me,” Mel answered. “So what’s supposed to show up in the photo?”

“No idea. I thought Dr. Tanaka was kidding but he offered time-and-a-half so I took him up on the job.”

Another few snaps, and they were done. Mel’s stomach rumbled. “On a totally unrelated note, can we get breakfast? I’m starving—” Niko laughed and nodded as they set off on foot.

“A coworker told me there’s this café ‘round the corner over there,” Niko pointed. “La Bicicleta. It has the best double chocolate gofre waffles and pastels pastries. Not to mention their Café Carajillo is amazing…”

“Café Carajillo?” Mel looked puzzled. She knew about coquito…everything, but not carajillo.

“Espresso, alcohol—brandy or aged rum, and sugar,” answered Niko.

Mel smiled. “Sounds perfect!”

Late Evening, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Mel and Niko had spent the rest of their day wandering about the town of Ronda, admiring the expansive, airy views and the nearby forest greenery. After their café jaunt which seemed like minutes but was really hours, they found themselves near an open market that sold all matter of lace, textiles, and lavender perfume. What was it about lavender and European markets? Mel wondered to herself, thinking back to those brief vacations, those quick trips abroad back in high school, when Marisol would introduce her and Maggie to a professor acquaintance in bucolic settings, generally within shouting distance of voluminous vineyards and fierce, satsuma sunsets.

Those were the days. Well, apart from the fact she and Maggie constantly bickered, everywhere, all the time, back then. But at least that time, they both had Marisol.

Ping! Niko’s phone buzzed as the two sat together in bed. Niko checked the alert, which indicated that the horloge photos had been double-encrypted and speed-processed. Mel glanced over her shoulder as the file was opened, the pair emitting a gasp—

There, instead of the tall tower’s clock, was a dream-like vision of a gigantic—cathedral? Romanesque carved building? Whatever it was, it glowed from within, as people, contemporary people, gathered in droves among parked tour buses, the overhead sky a cornucopia of cerulean, fading into pearl and ambient apricot.

“Wow,” Mel spoke up, as Niko nodded.

“Yeah…”

“W-What’s this supposed to be? A dream? Or…landscape? Something happening in real time? Predicting something?”

Niko shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea…”

Same Time, Kitchen to Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie crept downstairs for a glass of almond milk and fresh-baked vegan chocolate chip cookies. It was always so nice having an older sister who was an expert at all things dessert and baking. Just for giggles, she decided to rest a hand on Jordan’s cufflinks, still resting on the kitchen island after his late hours at work, some time ago, but he hadn’t shown up yet—

A tall tower. Blue glass-like. Gold embossing, morphing, after a click of a camera, into an intricate ivory building, buses in front, the sky reminiscent of the Renaissance era, of expressionist ideas, chiaroscuro, and everything in between, from those Art History reports and research of yore, then—

“HELP! I’m TRAPPED!”

And all went black.

Breathing rapidly for the next several seconds, her heart racing, all thought of milk and cookies forgotten, she ran upstairs and opened Mel’s bedroom door without knocking.

“What the hell did you do?!” she all but shrieked at the shocked pair.

“What did we—”

“Jordan’s missing and I got a vision and—” she rambled, despite Niko, despite her non-magic front, despite it all.

Mel’s face dropped. “Ohhh crap.”

Chapter Text

Central Business District, Seattle, Washington

The last thing he remembered was exiting the glass building with the barest hint of a swagger, having helped a woman recoup her funds through those last two weeks of heavy-handed litigation. Her art curator ex-husband Giovanni had been furious at the thought of her receiving alimony, his eyes glowing a sharp red—

Jordan inhaled sharply at the memory. That's impossible, human eyes don't glow red! But then again, between the Chase family curse and the Vera-Vaughn women, nothing was out of the realm of possibility. The door gliding silently shut behind him, he decided upon a shortcut. Angling his visage this way and that, he spotted a narrow alleyway, just wide enough for someone of his stature to pass through. It would take him, he knew, through the wide parted buildings of modern metal, past one boulevard and another, cutting through more street in a few minutes than he could hope to achieve going the normal, traditional route.

He'd surprise Maggie early, maybe they'd enjoy some beignets in N'Awlins. Smiling at the thought, his feet made haste, himself thinking of the last time they sat outside al fresco, listening to bits of jazz filtering in from the nearby French Quarter, as they enjoyed a meal of vegan gumbo (hers) and a muffaletta (his).

They were due for some fun, anyhow, after that last dust-filled expedition spent mystical herb-gathering—but then, his senses faded, somehow, as he entered the lonely, abandoned alleyway as something, deep within its tunnels, made itself known, reeking of chloroform and turpentine and odd smells that reminded him of afternoons spent painting his mom's front door and chemicals besides, as everything faded to darkness...

Undisclosed Location

Minutes later (Or was it?) he blinked, massaging his head. A greyhound bus. Or so he thought. Ok, that’s pretty weird…

"Andiamo!" a voice called out, enough to make him nervous. Italian? What the...his limbs moved of their own accord in this odd swirling dreamscape, foggy yet luminous, as he descended the bus' stair, revealing himself not to be in Seattle's business district, but rather, some odd Italianate atmosphere. Reaching out, he felt a shimmer...a texture in the wind...a sort of...painted...canvas? "Oh....snap." His eyes widened in horror.

It was a pretty place, almost too pretty. Suspiciously pretty. And by the looks of it—he shaded his eyes as he continued to stare at the vaguely Romanesque, somewhat Byzantine cathedral-like building before him, its insides glowing bright, far brighter than any such place should have glowed. Ethereal. That was the word. Definitely, unmistakably, ethereal.

Using what he had learned from his time in the armed forces, he knew he had to situate himself.

Ok, J-man, he gave himself a pep talk. You hurt? He glanced at his extremities. No.

‘K, then. Where are you?

I don’t know—

I don’t—he paused, glancing back, realizing the bus itself probably had a logo of some type. Yes. There, in big, boldface type against pale metal, was a single word. Autotradizionale. A company name that definitely sounded Italian.

Ok…huh. Breathe. Italy, huh? And when are we? Half expecting to see an outline of Mona Lisa in the flesh, or Leonardo Da Vinci, or Renaissance women in high-platformed shoes, he was relieved to see others, tourists, wearing denim jeans and the occasional backpack. Contemporary. Thank God.

The colors continued to swirl as if in dreamy, miasmic fog. Dream? Or alternate dimension? He pinched himself, yelping as he did so. Ok, not a dream. So…dimension? An artistic one? He thought back to what could have possibly brought him here. Things like this don’t happen out of the blue. Think, J-man, think…

An answer, mere moments later. Giovanni. The defendant. The art curator with the red eyes. Damn. He musta been…He recalled Maggie’s description of her ex’s demon father.

“Like, a legit monster.”

“For real?”

“Red eyes, fire, the works—”

Jordan recalled that earlier conversation, upstairs in SafeSpace months upon months before. Time had passed swiftly, but there was a certain slowness, a certain steadiness underneath it all. Patterns, repeated. Causation, established, and all that. Once is an accident, two is suspicious.

So maybe this Giovanni dude had some mystical art up his sleeve.

Same Time, Kitchen to Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Maggie whipped out her phone and began doing a Renaissance Italian architecture reverse image search online, pacing around the room as Mel proceeded to flip through their most up-to-date Book of Shadows, Niko staring at them both as though they had two heads.

“Wait, so Jordan’s been kidnapped to Renaissance Italy?” Even saying it aloud seemed strange. Renaissance and kidnapping in the same phrase? That was a new one. For a moment, Niko wondered if she’d been drinking too much the previous night. She bit her own lip and yelped. Nope. Definitely awake. Definitely sober—

“No, just an art—”

“Maggie!” hissed Mel, poking Maggie hard with her foot as the latter yelped and glared, until she spotted Mel’s familiar raise of an eyebrow. Oh.

“Art…museum…that has a lot of…uh…Renaissance…Italy…art…works?” Maggie ad-libbed as Niko slowly nodded, the latter’s investigative prowess arising to meet the challenge.

“In that case, we should do an image search—” Niko began.

“On it. And done—” Maggie displayed her own phone, having located the painting in an art curator’s property, smack dab in the middle of Seattle’s Central Business District, where Jordan likely was last. It was next to the place he’d been working, which made it all the more likely he was trapped there.

“What’re we waiting for?” Mel interrupted the pair as they glanced over at her. “Let’s go!”

And so the trio took off.

Same Time, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

She shivered and sprang up in bed. Or as well as she could, third trimester and all. Propping herself up on a handful of plump, downy pillows, Macy came to, Harry stroking her shoulder in careful, slow rubs.

“Alright, love?”

Macy pulled the corners of her silken turquoise bathrobe about her shoulders, unsure of how to respond.

“Mace…” With a forefinger, he tipped her chin forward, her eyes meeting his. “What is it? What do you see?”

See? How about feel? “I don’t know. It’s probably…nothing.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” He sensed a certain amount of hesitation, of reticence quite unlike the woman.

She thought to nod, then had the distinct feeling Harry could see into her soul, bare beauty and all. Shaking her head, she pulled her bathrobe tighter against her skin, now flecked with tiny goosebumps. “Harry…I don’t know. I have this feeling—” she swallowed hard. “That something’s happening at home.”

Harry glanced around, and through the bedroom door leading out into the condo’s living room, sleek and modern, the balcony overlooking the distant waves. “Here?”

“Vera Manor.”

“Ah.”

“Something…”

“Bad?” He tried to complete her sentence; she made a face.

“Maybe? Sort of? Bad, mixed with…weird. Something strange.” Seeing Harry’s puzzled look, she attempted to backtrack. “Look, Har, it’s probably nothing—”

“But it could be something—”

“Just forget it, ok, Harry? Forget I said anything.”

“Love—”

“I mean it.” Macy sighed, hand upon her bump. “I promised Mel and Maggie I’d trust them with magical missions, and I don’t want to hover. Or make them think I don’t have faith in their abilities. Know what I mean?”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

Chapter Text

Front Entrance to Second Floor, Giovanni’s Art House

“This place gives me the creeps.” Maggie hugged her jacket closer, Niko keeping lookout as Mel muttered a quick choice set of words at the side entrance of a grey, austere, tombstone-like building. Living crypt, more like. The young empath glanced skyward, half-expecting to see a cawing bird and a spark of lightening, akin to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.”

But there was no raven; a quick click later and Mel turned the heavy brass handle, the trio nearly spilling forth onto the polished marble floor before them, an ornate staircase winding its way upward. It seemed quiet. Almost too quiet—

“May I help you, misses?”

A long drone of a sonorous voice echoed to the rafters as the three flinched, turning to a grey-haired man that crept out of the shadows.

“Uh, we’re um…art students, looking for a…Romanesque…Italian…Byzantine…cathedral…artwork?” Maggie managed. “Because we’re…uh…art students. Yeah, um. Art students.”

“Which institution?” the man’s voice echoed, causing an overhead chandelier to rattle, bits of dust falling to the floor like powdered diamonds.

Mel wracked her brain. Why hadn’t she concocted a decent backstory? “Uh…Parsons?”

“Quite far for a Parsons student to wander,” the man stepped closer as the three instinctively drew away. He paused, then spoke again. “On sabbatical, I presume?”

Maggie nodded. “Yeah. Right. Definitely. Sabbatical.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mel rifle through her purse. Hurry up, sis!

Then, more silence, as the elderly man, this butler, this concierge, this…whoever-he-was, began to spread a slow sinister grin. “Parsons does not offer a student sabbatical program, my dear. Why are you really here?” Again, a forward step. “Curious about enchanted art, are we?”

“Sonambuli!” Mel whispered the words, blowing a puff of aerosol toward the man, who collapsed in a heap.

“Thanks, sis,” Maggie breathed.

Niko nudged the man with her shoe. “Is he…?”

Mel shook her head. “Sleeping potio—I mean, sleeping, uh, spray. Investigative chemistry. I experiment on the side.”

“Huh.” Niko tilted her head, equal parts intrigued and impressed. “Wow. And I thought melt-away spy paper was top-of-the-line—” she thought back to the first exhibition she’d gone to a year ago, a panoply of officers young and old eager to show their latest scientific developments in espionage. A piece of paper was put into a cup of water, and with a single stir, melted away without a trace. Then came the blue juice flavored with grape and strawberry, the color meant to confuse the senses (and possibly mask whatever additional substance was hidden within). Plus, a coin that, when slid open, revealed the tiniest of swords the size of a third of a toothpick.

“C’mon!” Maggie’s voice beckoned from feet away, as the youngest Charmed One ascended the stair. Mel and Niko followed, the latter contemplating the predictive powers of the horloge in Ronda, Spain, hearing groaning and phantom moans. But that didn’t make sense…Niko glanced around the second floor corridor but found no trace of other humans besides themselves. No guard, nothing, save for the one asleep below.

They rounded the corner, Maggie feeling the air with her fingertips, until she stopped at what appeared to be a safe, locked with a sort of rotating handle not unlike a ship’s steering mechanism.

Niko glanced around yet again. It smelled dank and dusty, like old parchment, canvas, and departed souls. If there was such a thing. An abstract, spirituality sort of thing. None of this made sense. A photo from the horloge, and now...this? Maybe this was an underground illegal art ring, with a wealthy gangster in the middle of it all. Giovanni, according to gala clippings online. It made sense, sort of. Somehow, her brain made all of this improbable stuff, logical, turning the magic into the mundane, the peculiar into the predictable...

"Lemme help--" Niko proffered the pair, both of whom were examining the handle and muttering.

"NO!" The pair turned toward Niko as the latter flinched. 

"I mean, look, Niko, I took Art History so I can find the art super fast, I swear it'll take no time, we just..." Maggie met Mel's eyes. "We just need someone to stand guard. For us." Technically, while at Hilltowne U, she had taken the elective since it was past noon and didn’t require an early wake-up (sorority activities kept her busy all night). She’d attended the class three times…ok, fine, two times in person, even if she hadn’t taken the final because Vera Manor and everyone in it had been portaled over to Seattle. Departure due to personal reasons, she’d written on her Seattle State transfer application.

"You're sure?" They nodded.

“And, uh, face outward, to stand guard? Hovering makes me nervous,” Maggie added.

“Ok, ok, sheesh—" Niko complied, tapping her foot out of habit. One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…she heard the door open with a clang, heard two pairs of female feet delve in.

I hope they know what they’re doing…

Second Floor Safe, Giovanni’s Art House

“Dammit!” Mel cursed aloud as the door swung halfway closed behind them. More doors, she realized. But somehow, the space she and Maggie and herself stepped in was sound-proof, for Niko appeared to have heard nothing.

They turned door after door, many more artworks within, but none of them themed upon that ethereal building. An oceanic view of Positano, Italy, magenta blooms fresh and fragrant…

Then, more Italy. A Basque countryside, a Tuscan vineyard, a swirl of smoke and what appeared to be black amber near an Italian boarding house, then—Maggie spotted it--a glowing cathedral-like building, a bus, a throng of tourists.

"Jordan? Jordan?" A figure could be spotted within the canvas, waving their arms, shouting noiselessly, leaping up and down. “Ok, Jordan, I gotcha—” Maggie muttered as Mel yelped, having attempted to yank the canvas off the wall.

Undeterred, Mel dug through her purse once more, retrieving the Book of Shadows, glad she’d learned that compression charm ages ago. “Artwork, painting, trapped,” she recited aloud as the heavy tome flipped its pages. Seconds later, it landed on a weathered page, a paintbrush depicted at its front. “For the Unaware Artist,” it read.

Peering over Mel’s shoulder, Maggie glanced at the words written in calligraphy. “Ready?” Mel nodded.

Painted soul of yesteryear,

Take a brush and paint them near,

Return them to this earthly place,

Away from this cursed canvassed case.

Twice more they repeated the words. Within the artwork, Jordan felt a yank, a tugging sensation at his belly—

A swirl of light—

A smattering of Italian language—

Puncturing canvas and paper and invisible force fields—

Until he found himself in a dark, damp cellar-like place.

“JORDAN!”

He gasped as a figure pummeled him in a tight hug. “Yo, Mags,” he mustered. “Good to see you.” He nodded at Mel who was busy stuffing the Book of Shadows back into her purse. “Hey, Sarge.”

“I missed you,” Maggie murmured before disentangling from their embrace, not before leaning close, Jordan himself bridging the distance, until there was none, invisible sparks emanating from within their own tender souls, culminating in the briefest of passionate kisses—

“Hate to break up this lovefest,” Mel interrupted, “but we really gotta get going. Giovanni could show up anytime.”

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“So, let me get this straight, Jordan,” Niko sipped her tea before glancing above its rim at the man in front of her. “You’re going through the business district alleyway, and you’re stolen away into some dude’s…art museum?”

“Well, artw—” He jumped, Mel having stomped on his foot. “Ow! What was that—” Mel nodded pointedly in Niko’s direction, mouthing the word “mortal” where Niko couldn’t see.

“Ohhhh…riiiight,” Jordan understood. Niko didn’t know about the magic. About the Charmed Ones’ magic. That would be kinda hard to hide, in his opinion, but he hoped (and figured) Mel had a plan in action when the time came to tell Niko all about it. “Yeah, Niko, crazy I know…’s like I was sayin’ on the way here. Smell of chloroform or whatever, and boom—” He made a slapping motion on the kitchen table in front of him. “Just like that.”

“Wow,” Niko murmured. “Lucky it wasn’t worse.” She made a mental note to check on recent incidents in that particular alleyway. Maybe suggest additional police presence to Dr. Tanaka, who could route it to his superiors. Or something. Though if she thought about it even more, it seemed weird that an art curator would purposefully have a vendetta against a plaintiff’s attorney—

Oh.

“You didn’t happen to have any cases recently resolved with angry art curator defendants holding huge grudges, did you Jordan?” Niko attempted casualness.

He thought aloud. “Well…actually…yeah, I finished up this alimony case. Crazy amount of rage from the defendant, like his eyes, they glowed red. Honest to God.”

“What was his name?” Maggie spoke up.

Jordan glanced at the ladies curiously. “Giovanni. His name was Giovanni, and he was pissed.”

Next Morning, Mel’s Bedroom, Seattle, Washington

Akkadian shade. The plant itself sounded so sweet phonetically. It was, Mel knew, a way to cloak Niko. That is, if Niko ever needed cloaking. There were times Mel worried that Niko would dig too much, try to know too much, and Mel knew Niko was aware, that something was really, really weird with Giovanni.

“It’s rage. Jealously. He didn’t get the settlement he wanted. He’s got to pay up, and that was a huge motive—”

“But how could he harness the horloge—Mel, this doesn’t make sense! I need to revisit the alley, make some calls, do more digging—this is pure corruption. Wait till local news gets ahold of this—we’ve got to expose him!”

“Niko, no!”

“Something’s not right. You know it and so do I, Mel. Something’s got to be done.”

Mel shook her head. But what? She thought back to their conversation the night before, well after Jordan pleaded exhaustion and went upstairs to crash in Maggie’s bed. She continued gazing at a sleeping Niko beside her, reaching over to sweep a raven lock of hair.

How do I protect you?

No sooner had she had that thought, she heard a knock at her door. “Come in!” Mel called.

“Goddamned etch-a-sketch,” Jordan muttered, entering her bedroom.

“Wait, what?” Mel frowned.

He turned out his slacks pocket, his wallet somehow magically converted into a compact screen and two dials, much like the “Etch-a-sketch” 1990s game of yore, in which one would draw a picture with the dials, then shake it to erase it. His eyes met Mel’s. “This is bad, isn’t it?”

Same Time, Maggie’s Bedroom, Seattle, Washington

Between sending Jordan over to Mel’s bedroom to see if she had any potion to reverse an Etch-a-Sketch curse…or jinx (she kept forgetting the difference between the two), Maggie heard a ping from her cell phone.

Macy.

She checked her new message.

Hey Mags! How’s everything at Vera Manor? We’re chillin’ over here. -Mace

Maggie sighed, combing her hair through her fingers, debating how to best respond.

Hey Mace, we rescued Jordan from a ragey art curator who turned his wallet into Etch-a-Sketch—

She erased the text and started typing again.

Hey Mace, things have been crazy—

Nope.

Hey Mace, the usual. Everything is fine. -Mags

And—sent.

Chapter Text

Next Morning, Living Room, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy frowned. Everything is fine. And the phrase before that. The usual. Having gone to sleep early the night before, after a long walk by the beach coupled with a delicious Grecian halloumi meal and eggplant moussaka (and that pistachio ice cream…) courtesy of Harry’s cooking prowess, she reviewed Maggie’s text once more.

The usual generally meant...Macy blinked, having flashbacks of errant portals, mischievous trickster pixies, a drunken satyr, and more. Magical creatures? Possibly. Chaos? Definitely.

But she had other matters at hand needing attending to. Birthing class. One more session. Her stomach grumbled. And food. No matter what or how much she ate these days, she was constantly hungry. Internet searches lately had consisted of search terms:

“Is it normal to eat half a banana chocolate chip loaf in one sitting?”

“Why do I have insane cravings for Magnolia Bakery’s banana pudding?”

“Why do I want a second (or third) breakfast after the first breakfast?” Which of course, inevitably led to the next question—

“Am I sprouting a hobbit?”

Opening her laptop, plugging in her charger, she logged into the remote birthing class online, taught by none other than the fearless Cleopatra.

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Jordan reached out to cup his wallet. “Lucky I don’t carry cash,” he murmured before he felt a slap to his hand. Ouch. “What was that for?”

“It’s—” Maggie took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm, though a wallet transformed into an Etch-a-Sketch piece seemed anything but. “Just…don’t drop it. Or shake it.”

“Mags—”

“Or touch it!” she shrieked, realizing Jordan’s hand was already pulling the device out onto the kitchen countertop.

“Mags, it’s a drawing device, not a detonator—"

Mel sighed, sipping on her second cup of coffee that day. Jordan turned to her. “Anything in that book of yours about Etch-a-Sketch stuff?” That book, of course, being the Book of Shadows.

“Well…” Mel opened the book, propping it up next to the coffee machine. “Revelio,” she whispered, plus a few added words. “Artisto, Etch…a…Sketch?” The words felt ludicrous on her tongue. Weird. Silly. Strange, even. She waited a few moments for the Book of Shadows to move its pages of its own accord, but it remained stock-still, which somehow didn’t surprise her all that much. Leaning a hand across its spine, she turned to face her sister and Jordan, now seated at the kitchen island. “Is there anything, anything at all, Jordan, that you may have done? Or left behind? Getting out of the artwork?”

Jordan mulled this over, recalling his time in the Italian bus, followed by a view of an eerie-looking cathedral that glowed brightly from within. “Can’t think of anything—”

BAM!

Mel yelped, fresh coffee splashed all over her front, the three startled by a noise which appeared to have come from the Book of Shadows, which chose this particular moment to fling itself open to an awaiting page.

Grumbling to herself, Mel attempted to dab paper towels on her top, but Maggie reached inside her own purse nearby, tossing a pen-like object to her older sister. “Catch!” And Mel did.

“What’s this?” Mel frowned, turning the object over.

“Bleach stick.” Maggie went on, noticing Mel’s expression. “For impossible-to-remove stains on fancy clothes. I used it all the time in Hilltowne.” When partying. Red wine on pearl fabric. That sort of thing.

“Right. Thanks.” Mel busied herself, realizing it worked as her blouse went from a muddied color to its usual neutral hue. “Anyways…” she turned back to the Book of Shadows as Maggie and Jordan walked over to peer over her shoulder. “Seems like the book found something.”

Fifteen Minutes Later, Living Room, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Partway through the first half of the online session, Macy heard the instructor go through common infant observations.

“The baby’s eye color will start out bright blue, then can change to brown, or a slate grey—”

Instantly, as if on cue, a flurry of messages and questions flooded the accompanying internal chat.

Not all babies, read one.

My ancestors all have brown eyes. Not blue. Et cetera.

Fingers poised above the keyboard, Macy was about to write, me too, but paused. Sure, her father had brown eyes. Marisol too, based on Maggie’s videos. Probably since…forever ago, down the generational line. But what about Harry?

An unsettling though somewhat intriguing thought entered her brain.

You have no idea what your baby will look like.

Cleo began leading the class in a brief icebreaker exercise. “Draw how you think your baby will look. Think about their qualities. What do you want to pass down? To teach them?”

Eyes above her laptop, a piece of notebook paper tore itself out and floated toward Macy’s outstretched hand. Brow furrowed, she began to draw a rounded face, dimpled cheeks.

The baby needs eyes. A nose. Mouth.

She remembered her anatomy and physiology class from her college years, knowing that proportionally, baby eyes were large. A button nose, because that was what she remembered of baby ads on TV. She’d never interacted with babies before, never changed a single diaper, raised in near-isolation without her younger sisters, shipped off to boarding school at the earliest opportunity.

Button nose, check. Eyes…check.

A mouth? She remembered a Gerber baby jar repurposed as a coin jar when she was in kindergarten. “Waste not, want not,” Dexter had admonished, with a wag of his finger. Everything had a purpose in his household, everything was recycled, or otherwise disposed of at the earliest opportunity.

Sometimes, as a young child, Macy wondered whether she too would have been disposable, if she hadn’t been born with a quick enough wit, a sharp mind, instead aimless and purposeless. Would Dexter have turned her away? Relinquished all responsibility? Her brain, back then, always veered to the worst-case scenarios, decades before she knew about Marisol and Maggie and Mel.

Of course, Dexter probably would have worked with what he had, with considerable consternation and angst. He would have found a way. But it would not have been easy.

Wait—her subconscious spoke from within. That Gerber baby jar.

What about it?

You were in school.

So? Macy responded back, an entirely one-sided conversation, really.

There was a baby.

And in the next breath, she remembered. Mel.

Two and a Half Decades Ago, Miss Diane Baucum’s Kindergarten Classroom

“Sorry to call you over on such short notice, Dex—I mean—Mr. Vau—” the young teacher hesitated.

“Sir is fine,” Dexter replied in a clipped tone. He had left work early, thinking there was some sort of emergency, though Macy’s teacher failed to say what.

“I just wanted to bring this to your attention. The reason for our meeting.” She bade him to sit on one of the countless mini blue plastic chairs. He felt ludicrous attempting to, briefly contemplating sitting cross-legged on the puzzle mat instead, but he did have a certain respect for authority figures that was impossible to ignore.

He frowned. “A drawing? Macy does plenty of those, I assure you—her penmanship is perfect—she had an ‘Excellent’ rating last quarter—”

Diane interrupted. “I know, Dex—I mean, sir.”

“Then what is the problem?” Blunt as ever, he wanted to get to the point.

She pointed at the drawing itself, a family portrait. “I know you said Macy is an only child. That her mother is gone. But she seems to think she has a sister. And a mother.”

Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Giovanni’s Jinx,” Mel read aloud from the aged book, as a panoply of extra parchment fell out, taped to each other, listing each and every possible method of its employ, most of them rudimentary and art-related. “Hmmm…decoy glasses from Dutch turn-of-the-century…thermoses from Alaskan art, buffalos escaping from prehistoric cave paintings…contemporary objects turning to sand…”

“Wait—” Maggie spoke. “Sand? That’s—” That’s what Etch-a-Sketch is. Basically. Right? She turned to Jordan who nodded, realizing that sounded like his own predicament.

“So, Sarge,” Jordan addressed Mel. “How do we fix this?” He remembered a scene in Disney’s “Toy Story” movie that involved an anthropomorphic piggy bank. “Should I consult an artist? Get someone to draw me a wallet?”

“Ummmm…” Mel read through the list and the remedy. “Looks like a complicated brew sipped at midnight, with feverfew, powdered magnetite, hermatite, and ground pearl, while doing some sort of Deus Ex Machina chant.”

“Figures,” Maggie rolled her eyes. “Guess we better get cracking!”

Seventeen Years Ago, Macy’s Bedroom, Dexter’s House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

“Macy, what is this?” He held a drawing he’d found within Macy’s journal as the thirteen-year-old winced.

She should have known better. Everything and anything in this rowhouse was subject to her dad’s inspection. ‘Zero expectation of privacy,’ he’d say, time and time again. Because that was who he was. Who he always had been. And would be.

“Um…a family drawing?” Macy avoided his piercing glance.

“Macy Vaughn, tell no tales.” The drawing—her drawing—showed himself, a startlingly accurate rendition of Marisol, a tall Macy, a dark-haired younger girl, and a baby too. “This isn’t your family—”

“Yes it is!” Macy paused, realizing how crazy she sounded. “I mean…I have dreams at night. They seem so real. Of you. Of…of mom. And a girl who has dark hair, but sort of looks like mom. And I started dreaming of a baby. A baby girl. But I don’t think she’s born yet—”

Dexter’s hair prickled at the back of his spine. How did Macy know about Marisol? Of Mel? This wasn’t possible. Not probable either, and the baby drawn was only indication as much. “I won’t have you telling falsehoods, Macy. I am your only family.”

“I know, dad, but—”

“NO BUTS.”

Seventeen Years Ago, Some Hours Later, Hallway, Dexter’s House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Dexter reached for the landline, dialing a number he knew by heart. One ringtone, then a voice sleek and sweet and silvery. “Dex?” a groggy female voice answered the opposite line.

“It’s me.” For who else could be calling this late?

“What’s Macy done this time?”

“What makes you think—”

But she only laughed. “It’s all you talk about, hon. Macy this, Macy that. So what brave accomplishment has she done now?” Then she considered the hour he was dialing. “Or what trouble has she landed herself in?”

“The latter,” he confessed, before leaning into his story of the drawing—the family, Macy, the girl, the baby. “I mean, she’s so sure it’s her family. Scares me. Soley, tell me what to do—”

“I can’t,” she spoke softly. “You know I can’t.”

“She just made a mistake though, right? Maybe she wants what she can’t have?” Desperation to help his daughter lined his voice. “She won’t let go of this family she’s got in her head. A made-up fantasy, down to the baby—”

Marisol gasped, and paused, choosing her words deliberately. “The-the baby,” she whispered. “The baby’s real—not a fantasy—not—”

His fingers, his hand shook as his forehead met the wallpapered surface. “Marisol, what’re you trying to tell me?”

“I—” she glanced over at the living room to make sure she wasn’t overheard by Mel, whose ears were as sharp as anything. “Dexter—our—that time we spent New Year’s together—”

“What about it?” He recalled that night in vivid detail, drawing forth exquisite comfort from Marisol, from each other, two ships sailing in a vast, lonely sea. Two mere months ago.

“Dex…” her voice crawled to a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Same Day, Living Room, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy massaged her temple. There were those hidden thoughts, those forsaken dreams she had forgotten about long ago. That imaginary family she used to draw, once in kindergarten, another time, in middle school. It was as though her current condition had dislodged those memories from a smoky abyss, now revisiting her at this particular moment.

Maybe those drawings were just that. Mere drawings.

Maybe Dexter overreacted.

Seventeen Years Ago, Next Morning, Macy’s Bedroom, Dexter’s House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Light filtered in through the linen curtains, practical and unadorned, as she rubbed her eyes, realizing that Dexter stood beside her bed, suitcases in hand. “D-dad?” she sleepily yawned. “Wh-what’s that? Are we going on a trip or something?”

“No, Macy,” his voice spoke low in familiar baritone. “Just you, Macy.”

She sat up in bed. “Is this about yesterday? It’s just a drawing! I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” He cleared his throat, avoiding her glance for a few seconds, then staring at her hairline so that she could not deduce the machinations of his own inner thoughts. “You’re going to boarding school.”

“Since when?!”

“Since now.”

Despite her protestations, he dropped those empty suitcases beside her bed and strode away, leaving her to pick out her clothes and most prized possessions for the journey over, tears streaming down her cheeks. In her drawings, she saw herself, her parents, her sisters. But now, she had nobody. Not even her father.

What did I do, Dad?

Seventeen Years Ago, Next Weekend, Dexter’s House, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

“It’s been handled,” Dexter spoke crisply into the landline phone.

“She knew too much,” Marisol spoke.

“I-I know,” sighed he, running his hand over his hair. “I just can’t help but think—what if—” and another sigh. “Soley, did we really have to send her away?”

“It was best for her,” Marisol countered. “She would’ve started asking too many questions. It was a good thing Harry got there in time.”

Of course. Harry, her helper. While Macy lay sleeping, her last night before the trip to school. He’d muttered something, white light spilling forth from his fingertips, inducing a gentle amnesia as to family drawings and similar.

“Soley…”

“Dex?”

“Are we good parents?”

Silence, more mulling, and finally, a response. “We certainly try.”

Same Day, Living Room, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Her drawing complete, she studied it. There were Harry’s expressive eyes, her own nose, a tiny querulous mouth, plus a tuft of hair, neither quite so straight as Harry’s own, nor not nearly as curly as Macy’s, but somewhere comfortably in-between.

For now, it would have to do.

Chapter Text

Late Evening, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Sipping her decaf vegan green tea latte, Maggie double and triple-checked the list.

Feverfew.

Powdered magnetite.

Hermatite.

Ground pearl.

Four primary ingredients and a chant and midnight. Not so hard…right? She then flipped to the Wikipedia page on her phone. “Feverfew (Tanacetum parthenium) is a flowering plant of the Asteraceae family. Its name comes from the Latin word febrifugia, meaning “fever reducer.” Traditionally, feverfew was used to treat fevers and other inflammatory conditions.”

Fever reducer, huh? Luckily, Mel managed to stockpile plenty of herbs in the Command Center, one of which conveniently happened to be feverfew. She wondered whether Mel would ever divulge her sources, but she also had a sneaking suspicion that Kat’s herbal boutique in SafeSpace helped a great deal.

As for magnetite…again, Maggie turned to the internet, beneath a caption “what is so special about magnetite”:

“It is the most magnetic of all the naturally occurring minerals on Earth...Small grains of magnetite are very common in igneous and metamorphic rocks.”

Beneath those words, there were several photos of the stone in the form of beaded bracelets, dark, reflective, and glossy.

And hermatite…well…actually, hematite, looked identical to magnetite, and was apparently useful for anxiety and tissue regeneration. Interesting. Maggie took a couple more sips of her latte, noting that small bagfuls of each—feverfew, magnetite, and hematite—were further away on the very same kitchen table.

As for ground pearl? Again, she consulted the internet, brow furrowing as she noticed two different definitions. 1. Cochineal insect from Armenia. 2. Pearl, powdered, for aid in male virility—

At the second definition she coughed, nearly choking on her latte. Instantly, she felt a hand against her back, steadying her.

“Awright there, Mags?” Jordan.

“I—I’m fine,” she sputtered, trying to will away the blush that threatened to creep up her cheeks. What was the Book of Shadows playing at, creating magical Viagra (if that’s what this is)?

Another thought struck her. Did Mel know? Maggie’s eyes wandered to the bagfuls of ingredients, plus what she mistook as a standard empty vial, but was instead, on second glance, shimmering and smoky cream-colored, iridescent like how one would imagine a unicorn’s coat. Perfectly pristine.

Mel wasn’t in the kitchen. Mel wasn’t, to her knowledge, on the first floor at all. Mel was probably not in the house—Maggie paused.

Mel totally knew.

“You sure?” Jordan’s words brought her back to the present.

“Uh….yeah!” Maggie plastered on what she hoped appeared to be a genuine-seeming smile. “Let’s get brewing!”

Same Time, Caldera Velha, São Miguel, Azores Islands

Macy checked her phone, but there was no additional update from Maggie.

They can handle things.

It’s ok.

“Love, are you alright?” Harry appeared to her right, bearing a picnic basket of everything she found delicious—fresh green grapes, toasted baguette with churned butter, cheese (the hard type—no soft cheeses like brie), pickled artichokes, and more.

She nodded. “I’m just worried.”

“About…?”

“Home. Maggie. Mel. It’s a lot—” Magic. Everything.

“And they are perfectly capable of handling it all,” Harry gave her a knowing glance. “It will be fine. Besides, it’s high time you relaxed and soaked your feet, no? Morgana’s orders.” The aged woman had noticed Macy’s ankles at the last visit, and her sore calf muscles, prescribing time at the local waterfall springs.

“No medicine?” Macy had wondered, staring at the Rx slip of prescription paper. Two hours at Caldera Velha.

“Medicine of a sort,” Morgana answered with a twinkle in her eye. “I am a firm believer in holistic as well as Western forms of treatment. Trust me.”

And so Macy did. She took in the miles-high emerald ivy on either side of herself and Harry, the soft umber soil beneath her feet, the magenta blossoms blooming too, a cerulean blue pool of water in the distance before her very eyes, the sound of a thin trickle of waterfall making itself known.

Drawing closer to the waterfall, she noticed a young woman in white. “Uh, excuse me,” Macy ventured as the lady turned. “How does this…uh…work?”

“Me veja,” the lady replied, watch me, she seemed to say, as she dipped an ankle in, shook it, and dipped her other ankle before turning again to Macy. “Você também está gravida? I mean…you are pregnant too?”

Macy nodded. “How’d you guess?”

“Morgana, she tells us to go here. This waterfall,” the lady gestured, “is magic to us. This is your first?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Your partner, he is with you, no?”

Macy angled her head. “Is that weird?”

“My husband is watching our toddlers.”

“Toddlers?” Macy couldn’t imagine having more than one. Two under two? Or two under three?

The lady nodded. “Twins. There’s something about the…agua. The water. It is, how you say…magic.” She cleared her throat. “But I must be going. Enjoy yourselves!” The women nodded their farewells as Harry set up a picnic area further afoot.

Moments later, she sat upon the soft soil, dunking one ankle in the warm, gently-swirling water, practically sighing in ecstasy, then her other ankle. Oh my God. It was as if all of yesterday’s soreness vanished into thin air, replaced by a heady sense of relief. “Ugh, I needed this…”

Midnight, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

The contents having been brewed then simmered, Maggie poured its smoking contents into the mustard-colored ceramic mug she’d found earlier in the kitchen, one of Marisol’s creations decades earlier. She reviewed in her mind the ingredients. Feverfew, check. Hematite, check. Magnetite, check. Powdered pearl, check—she made a mental note to peruse Etsy after this and find a replacement for those pearl earrings she’d been forced to decimate, after spilling some of the earlier pearl essence. Whoops.

“So, uh, Jordan, bottoms-up?” She offered him the beverage, which glowed a faint cream color.

He sniffed it, noting a faint metallic whiff plus lacy bridal fabric, of all things, coupled with baby’s breath blossoms. “Smells like…magnets…and…marriage.”

Maggie gave him a side-eye. “Hey, just sayin’!”

“Ok, enough commentary, now—drink!”

As Jordan did so, she whispered those words. “Deus Ex Machina…Deus Ex Machina…” But how many repetitions were sufficient? She decided to quit while she was ahead. Two seemed enough as it was—

After wiping his mouth, Jordan swayed, the room about him growing blurrier by the moment, Maggie looking increasingly concerned. “Jordan…JORDAN!”

Next Morning, Attic, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

His tongue felt dry, his breath coming out in puffs due to a tiny crack in the attic’s glass window. Massaging his head, he felt a warm figure by his side. It seemed Maggie had slept next to him in a sleeping bag, as he was probably too heavy to lift to her bedroom.

Rising, he walked over to the glass window, admiring the vibrant streaks of clementine and apricot dancing across the sky.

“Jordan?” Maggie was beginning to awaken. “You ok? That stuff was kinda potent—” She noted, with considerable relief, that his wallet had changed back to its usual faux leather shape, no Etch-a-Sketch to be found.

He beamed, turning toward her. “Margarita Vera, I love you so damned much!”

Maggie swallowed hard. This has got to be a side-effect. She reached for her phone and texted Mel.

We have a situation. -Mags

Chapter Text

A Few Days Later, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

The passage of time had done nothing to quell Jordan’s amorous declarations.

“We’ve really got to do something!” Maggie hissed as she tip-toed down the stairs, groaning as she spotted powder-pink bouquet after bouquet in the front hall from none other than her boyfriend. “Lovestruck? More like love-stuck—" yelping as her foot hit another biodegradable flowerpot. This. Is. Ridiculous.

Mel nodded, groaning as she stood up from leaning over one of the bouquets. “Definitely over-the-top.” She’d spent the past mornings pruning the blossoms, one after the other, taking each discarded petal to her potions setup in the kitchen, trying to concoct serum after serum in the hopes that Jordan’s jinx-triggered ardor would wane. Alas, if anything, the opposite had occurred.

It wasn’t a problem at first. Honestly, it had been kind of cute in the beginning. But when Jordan kept gathering bouquet after bouquet, plus one Edible Arrangement after another, then resorting to coffee break serenades daily, Maggie knew she’d had enough.

“We need to call her.” She met Mel’s eyes, and Mel knew exactly who that person was.

“Ok…ok, fine—”

An Hour Later, Same Day, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

A burst of vibrant teal light, and in came the former Elder, dark robes billowing forth, the scent of Grecian blossoms intermingling with the ever-present roses. Without so much as a greeting, she stormed up to the bouquets, studying each, frowning, then turned to Maggie and Mel accusingly. “You should've called me earlier, dammit!”

“We didn’t think—” Maggie spoke.

“Of course you didn’t—” Celeste interrupted, chanting a few words under her breath to vanish each bouquet, one by one, petals and all.

“I mean, you’re retired. In Mykonos. We didn’t want to disturb—” began Mel, but Celeste cut her off.

“Mykonos can wait. Mortal too...” she pointed, indicating a now-snoozing Jordan in the living room mere feet away, thanks to a sleeping draught Mel managed to whip up. “Seriously, ladies? Does the Statute of Secrecy mean nothing these days? Damn millennials—” she ended in a mutter.

“Not mortal—not exactly,” Maggie murmured as Mel nodded in assent.

Celeste paused in her steps. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Mel clasped her hands, plastering a fake smile. “Nothing. It's complicated.”

The older witch’s eyes narrowed. “Try me.”

“Um…so Jordan…we think he’s…magic? A Whitelighter glow?” Maggie ventured.

“Impossible!” Celeste scoffed. “To be one, you have to—”

“We know, Castle Braith, soul-split, we get it. But Harry’s powers…we think he transferred some to Jordan. Awhile ago—” Mel attempted to explain.

“And you’re telling me this now?” Celeste threw her hands in the air, exasperated.

“Is that…bad?” Maggie asked nervously.

“Your paramour there,” Celeste pointed again at Jordan, “seems to have come into overabundance of magic. The first of February, pre-engagement ardor, true love, and Whitelighter power transplant? It's lucky he didn't burn the house down!”

Maggie gaped. “Wait, seriously, that’s a thing?”

“And what have you given him, anyways? Seems to be an amplifier,” Celeste bridged the distance, walking toward Jordan to sniff his breath, wincing. “Did you really think you could do this on your own?”

“We figured out it was Giovanni’s Jinx, and I created everything the Book of Shadows said—” Mel spoke, to her defense, but Celeste wasn’t hearing any of it, instead striding toward the kitchen.

“And this is the potion master’s brews at work?” Celeste squinted at the myriad bottles, glass and biodegradable plastic, plus something pearly corked up. “Well…” she held the pearly corked bottle to the light. “Not bad at first try, but definitely not suggested. Too much pearl.”

“But she did exactly what—”

“Maggie. Mel. Books are tools, not meant to be copied verbatim. And I assume you failed to read the footnotes?” Celeste looked from one sister to another as they shook their heads. “Really, you’re just as bad as Macy—” referencing an earlier time in which copious notes had been skipped over, unnoticed accidentally.

Mel cringed. “So what’s the verdict?”

“Too much pearl,” Celeste stated crisply. “Combined with the totality of circumstances, that young man needs a let-down potion.” She skimmed the countertops, her fingers opening and closing each of the kitchen cabinets. “I need vodka, tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, pepper, salt, and lime juice, STAT! Oh, and cognac, orange, liqueur, and lemon juice.”

Maggie and Mel speedily gathered those ingredients, placing them on the kitchen table, next to the other potion ingredients. “Celeste, what’s the cognac for?” Maggie ventured, recognizing the first set of ingredients to be a Bloody Mary—essentially, a hangover cure.

“Oh, the cognac, and everything else? Oh, that’s for me,” Celeste proclaimed, producing a cocktail glass out of her purse, courtesy of a sizing charm, as Maggie and Mel exchanged dubious glances. “I do love a good Sidecar.”

Same Day, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Island

After creating her Amazon baby registry online per Maggie’s request, Macy had sat back and waited as Maggie herself created Paperless Post invites to a virtual baby shower to celebrate Baby Vaughn-Greenwood. Virtual, of course, due to herself and Harry in the Azores, Mel and Maggie in Seattle. All of Macy’s registry items had come from oodles of research, whether on What to Expect online forums or up-to-date literature, comparing one cotton bib to a Dutch cupped kitchen baby bib, not to mention everything else—100% cotton burp cloths, soft onesies, baby first aid kit with thermometer and more.

That had been a few days ago. Now, all she had to do was admire the lavender color of the invitations—pink seemed so cliché and overused these days—in her own personal opinion, anyways. But waiting had its drawbacks. Waiting led to boredom, led to needless worrying, led to fear.

One first-world fear in particular.

The fear, however unfounded, that nobody would show up for her baby shower.

“Mace, just send me a list—"

“I don't have friends.”

Maggie laughed. “That’s not true—”

“Galvin and Julian died—”

“They’re your exes, not baby shower friendsies. What about Swan?”

Macy reflected on that earlier conversation as she glanced at the invite list. Swan had been the first to RSVP yes, posting on the message board thusly—

“SO EXCITED TO CELEBRATE BABY VAUGHN-GREENWOOD!!” next to a “swan” emoticon.

Truth be told, Macy was glad Swan had enthusiasm in spades. Which was in stark contrast to Maggie and Mel, both of whom seemed to not have RSVP’d at all in the subsequent days. Again, Macy clicked on both of their icons in the invite. Nothing.

What gives?!

Macy willed herself to calm down, silently reciting a mantra. Happy mommy, happy baby. Once, twice, then three times. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Right?

But that part of herself, her subconscious “slug brain” as she called it, began seeping negative thoughts into her brain. What if Mel doesn’t feel she’s “sister” enough to you? What if she convinced Maggie this was a stupid idea? What if Maggie thinks I’m too high-maintenance? What if they got tired of me? Or if not—what if…what if that chaos nymph was right?

What if you’ll never truly be their sister?

Her mind flitted back to a certain memory.

“Thou art not bound, three sisters shan't, your efforts be all for naught...” the chaos nymph once whispered in her ear during a bitter battle of magic, good versus evil.

“She’s wrong,” Macy spoke aloud, exhaling sharply.

“Who’s wrong?”

Macy glanced up from her laptop, noticing Harry approaching with a new drink from the local café—pomegranate-hibiscus ginger ale, straw in place. “N-nothing, Harry. I was just…thinking.”

He smiled, sitting on the modern rounded red couch beside her as she sipped the drink, tucking a curly tendril beneath her ear. “Penny for your thoughts, love…”

Noon, Same Day, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Did it work?” Maggie asked, her voice wavering as she watched a now-awake Jordan sip the enchanted Bloody Mary, imbued with the tiniest of pearlescent drops from Mel’s earlier potions brew. Celeste, Mel, and she surveyed Jordan’s visage for any changes in ardor, any alterations in demeanor.

Within seconds, his exuberant expression turned to one of utter gloom. “I want Stuffy.”

“I think it worked?” Mel locked eyes with Celeste. “Did it? Is he…”

Celeste reached for her Sidecar, gulping the drink until there was none left, before tucking it in her purse once more. “He’s ok now. Monitor for any sudden severe moods. Let him nap and he’ll be back to normal tonight.”

“Thanks—” Maggie began as Celeste strode through bright whirling light, vanishing, “—Celeste.”

“STUFFY.”

Mel and Maggie turned to Jordan. “Right,” Mel spoke up. “Stuffy’s upstairs, let me go—”

“I’ll go—” Maggie raced upstairs and returned minutes later with the teddy bear from Macy’s room. After clasping the toy, Jordan gathered in the fetal position.

“Mfghhh…thanks.” A quick mutter, and more napping ensued, as Mel and Maggie crept out of the living room.

Two Hours Later, Same Day, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Island

Harry re-examined Macy’s registry list. “Love, you only have a mini crib.”

“Yup.”

His brow furrowed, recalling Carter’s own fanciful bassinet, draped on all sides by lace…or was that mosquito netting? He didn’t recall. “What about a bigger crib? We certainly have the room—”

She shook her head. “A mini crib takes up less space—”

“Love, we have more than plenty of space—”

“It’s easier, in case.”

“In case…?” Harry frowned, unsure of what Macy meant. “In case of what?”

“In case the baby…ends up like me,” Macy whispered, referencing her own origins as Harry gaped. Oh.

“Macy, this baby will soon arrive—”

“You don’t know that—”

“Morgana is very capable—”

“But—”

A finger to her lips. “No buts, Macy. You have done everything in your power to see our little girl through. So has Morgana. So have I. And your sisters—”

Which led, of course, to a semi-unrelated topic of discussion. “They don’t want to come to my baby shower, Harry. They don’t.”

“Macy, I’m absolutely sure that isn’t the case.” Harry wanted to add, “you’re being ridiculous,” but of course, that would add fuel to the fire when in fact he was quite certain that was uncalled for.

“Harry.” She held up an Instagram post, Maggie’s, of countless pink blossoms within the front of Vera Manor, too many to count. “She’s not doing pink for the baby shower, she probably bought those for herself, Jordan’s been over, and both she and Mel opened their invites but never RSVP’d. They never said they’re coming. They don’t want me—they don’t care—”

Harry bit his lip, figuring now was as good a time as ever to come clean. “They certainly care, love. They were a bit…preoccupied…these past few days.”

“What could possibly…”

“Chaos,” he simply replied.

“Chaos,” echoed she. “Like…as in…” she waited for him to elaborate.

“Jordan was stuck in a painting, rescued, per Giovanni’s Jinx, with odd side-effects, one of which was limitless ardor.”

“Limitless…” the words turned in her mind. How could that be a bad thing? Unless…She recalled today’s date. “Does this have something to do with it being February? And limitless as in…those flowers. Jordan ordered too many, didn’t he?”

Harry nodded. “And the supposed Book of Shadows antidote became amplified due to it being early February, the month of passionate lovers.”

Ooof. “Poor Maggie. And Mel,” she added. “I wish I could’ve done something.” She sighed. “Honestly, I feel kind of useless right now—”

“You, Macy, are gestating our child. You are anything but useless.”

“Really?”

“Most assuredly.”

PING!

Macy checked the baby shower invitations. In that moment, it seemed both Maggie and Mel RSVP’d yes to the shower.

“SO excited to celebrate! Baby Vaughn-Greenwood!!!!!! <33333333-Mags” followed by a series of heart-eye emojis.

“So happy for my sis and future baby NIECE!! -Mel” which preceded a large amount of baby emoticons, then a bright-colored heart emoji.

Whew!

Chapter Text

Clouds of miasmic silver parted, giving way to peculiar places and resplendent renderings…she stepped forth, admiring the giant glittering teddy bear decoration before her upon the cobblestone path, large and ornate, opulent and fantastic all at once. A giant thirty-foot Stuffy-meets Christmas holiday décor.

Stepping forth onto the umber pavement, she drew her attention to the bear’s center label, emblazoned in gold glittering twinkle lights. “Le Village Royal—”

Before realizing, with horror, that the ground was moving beneath her, buildings shaking—

The bear—it began to rise—

And come toward her—

Morning, Bedroom, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Macy sprang up in bed, panting as Harry gave a start. Several breaths later, she began to calm down.

“Love, are you—”

“I’m fine.” It was just a dream.

“A nightmare?”

She shook her head, then nodded. “It was…weird.” Not exactly bad, but a giant animatronic bear shaking the foundations upon which she stood didn’t feel great either. Pregnancy had given her the oddest, vivid, downright peculiar dreams. The night before, she had dreamt herself traveling up an escalator in a sea-embedded department store, clutching a halter dress of rich blue hue to her breastbone. It was downright bizarre.

Her phone buzzed, jolting her back to reality. Maggie.

Macy skimmed the text.

Still on for today? La Fav? -Mags

She typed a response.

Yup, wouldn’t miss it! -Mace

Rising slowly into a seated position, she used her telekinesis to summon herself a pair of chic black maternity leggings, coupled with a sea-green blouse, plus a long thin black sweater for layering purposes. I’m ok. This…this is ok…I’m going to a café in Paris to meet my sister…while living on an island.

Sometimes, she had to pinch herself to see if it was all real—this married, expectant life, her Harry, her sisters. If she hadn’t marched up to Vera Manor that fateful night, demanding answers, where could she have been? What would she have done?

Maybe she’d move out of that Air B&B into a long-term rental apartment. Maybe—her throat constricted—Galvin would still be alive. Even if he was better a coworker than a boyfriend, she knew he tried to go to the ends of the earth to cure her darkness. Magic would not have manifested itself to attract nefarious beings hell-bent on humanity’s destruction. She could have been anonymous, a talented geneticist, a bright future ahead of her. But that would have meant not learning about her sisters. A brilliant scientific career, but one devoid of family.

Two roads diverged in a wood—

And I—

I took the path less taken.

Those words of Robert Frost rang in her head as she kissed Harry farewell and, with a spare marble, disappeared through its electric churn to Paris, France.

Same Morning, Living Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Ughhhhhhh…where am I?” Jordan groaned, massaging his head as everything came into focus. Then he remembered. The Etch-a-Sketch wallet, Giovanni’s Jinx. And—

And—

Those flowers. How he’d proclaimed he wanted to marry Maggie and have “all of the babies” with her.

“Oh shiiii—” Jordan scrambled to his feet. This was worse than those college hangover days. Lots of damage control to be done—

When a slip of paper landed at his feet, which had, apparently been laying on him the whole time. He began to skim the note:

Hey Jordan, I’m away baby shower brainstorming. Will be back later today.

P.S. I blame Giovanni’s Jinx, not you.

P.P.S. You’re cute when you mutter.

P.P.P.S. There’s an extra breakfast sandwich in the fridge. Har sent it up. -Mags

“Whew,” he breathed, proceeding to the kitchen. A breakfast sandwich was exactly what he needed right now. And it seemed Maggie didn’t hold anything against him.

Snowy Hillside, Quebec, Canada

Staring at the two reedy toboggans before her, one carpeted in crimson blanket, the other coated with a plaid fabric upon which lay crisscrossed crimson cord, Mel turned back to Niko. “Dr. Tanaka wanted you to do what now?”

“Ummm…survey the Frontenac manor, gather historical intel—”

“From a sled?”

“I’m not the one who makes the rules, Mel—”

“Sorry—” Mel repressed the urge to roll her eyes. If she didn’t know any better, it seemed Dr. Tanaka was trying to couple them up, without realizing they’d already been together for some time. What’s his deal? “So, what are we looking for, again?”

Niko checked her phone. “Something about the ghost of Louis de Bade and energy orbs. Lurks on the 2^nd floor. Also, something about a woman in white who gets in bed with you—”

Mel made a face. “Ew, how rude!”

“I guess that explains these, then?” Niko pulled out an envelope. “Frontenac reservations for two on Tanaka’s dime. Something about harvesting unseen energy. But first—camera. Toward the second floor. Ready?” She seated herself on the crimson-blanketed toboggan.

Mel sighed as she sat behind Niko on the same wintry object. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

4 Rue de Rivoli, Café La Favorite Saint-Paul, Paris, France

The moment she laid eyes on its front stoop, she knew this was no ordinary meet-up. The front drapery was a candy-striped pink and white, covered with a plethora of cherry and strawberry-hued blossoms, sweetly fragrant, the signage also flamingo-hued and laser, neon-cut in carefree-yet-stylish script. Passing the tall bouquets of flowers on either side of the entrance, she pulled the door open and stepped in, spotting an eagerly waving Maggie.

“Hey sis,” she spoke. “How’s Jordan? Heard there was some commotion…”

“Oh that?” Maggie waved her off. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing to worry about—really there’s no need to—”

“Maggie. Harry told me everything.”

“Oh.”

“But he said it’s all over now?”

Maggie mustered a laugh. “Jordan’s sleeping his mystical hangover off. And Harry was nice enough to leave a breakfast sandwich for him, so he’s covered.” She folded her hands, glancing expectantly at her oldest sister.

Macy felt Maggie’s eyes on her. “What?”

“Planning. Your baby shower.”

The oldest Charmed One’s mouth dropped open then closed. “Oh—that.” True, gestation was currently happening, but she hadn’t stopped to think a baby shower was in the works. Those events were for other people. Other people with families. Large ones.

“So what’s your theme?”

“My…theme?”

“Mace, every shower has a theme. Like…uh…floral? Or woodland? Woodland’s very gender neutral. Or dinosaurs? Maybe nature? Or something chic, to go with that purple idea?”

Macy shook her head. “Honestly, never crossed my mind.  Harry and I…we just want this baby born alive. Alive and healthy.”

Maggie reached over and clasped her hand. “Look, Mace, I get that you’re worried, I do. But you’ve done all you could and you’re in the best hands possible. And this baby deserves to be welcomed, right? Plus, you’ve survived all those 1^st trimester symptoms. Heck, celebrate, woman!” She spoke those words a bit too loudly, causing a couple of Parisians dining nearby to glare. Loud Americaines, Maggie imagined them saying. Whatever.

“You got a point there,” Macy smiled despite herself. Noticing Maggie sipping a hot drink, she glanced at the menu before her then flagged down a waiter. “Latte aux amandes Earl Grey?” The waiter curtly nodded.

“Earl Grey almond milk latte?” Maggie noted. “Good choice, that stuff’s delish.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Well. Once. Ok, twice. Had to chase down a ghost at the Sorbonne and needed a pick-me-up.”

“And the second time?”

“With a certain quasi-Whitelighter-in-training.”

“Ah.” The ordered tea came within minutes, and Macy felt her insides instantly warm with each sip of the lightly-spiced bergamot beverage. More mulling over baby shower details in her head, and suddenly a few ideas came to her. “I like the color lavender, but also green—the color of rose stems. It reminds me of when Harry gets me flowers. And dark green represents life.”

“Ok, sounds good—” Maggie began taking notes on her phone. “So that’s colors. What about…snacks? Mocktails?”

“Snacks…” Macy thought aloud. “Um. Isn’t this virtual?”

“Yeah, but I mean, for mailing favors—”

“I guess…dark chocolate-covered pretzels? Something with peanut butter? Heart-shaped? But definitely not too cheesy. Can it be BYO snacktime?”

“Mace.”

“Fine. Something with chocolate, something with fruit or whatever.”

“Mocktails?”

“Nothing too complicated, please, Mags?” If it was too complicated, part of Macy thought nobody would show up. Making a drink virtually at home would be too much work. And she would be too much of a bother. And…the list could go on. “I mean, sparkling cider’s ok.”

“But Mace, you’re my sister. And as the sorority social planning expert of this familia, I want this to be your moment to shine.”

Macy took another few sips of her almond latte. “Point taken.”

“Sooo…mocktails?”

“I barely drink.” The last time she’d had a shot was last fiscal year. And a nasty-cheap tequila at that.

“Jeez, help me out here, Mace!”

“Ok, ok…sparkling cider with…purple hibiscus syrup and ginger? Mixed with pomegranate extract?” Macy cited ingredients she’d been leaning toward, not to mention a mixed ginger ale drink Harry had sourced for her back at the island, half-expecting Maggie to look crestfallen, saying it was too complex, but her youngest sister merely brightened.

“Yes! Now this is what I’m talking about!”

And so the planning continued.

A Few Hours Later, Bar to Room, Frontenac Manor, Quebec, Canada

Sipping their spiked hot ciders, they reviewed their earlier footage of the second floor manor’s windows. Orbing shadows, mysterious lights…One by one, Niko flipped through each phone snapshot, when suddenly—

“Stop—that photo,” Mel spoke up, as Niko flipped back to the photo.

“This one?”

Mel nodded. “I think there’s a…” she squinted, looking closer. “Shadowy…something…with eyes.” Then a sort of chill enveloped her. “And it’s staring straight at us.” Indeed, it appeared there was a sort of phantom, a de-saturated image of a being, its visage focused on the sledding pair’s phone.

After downing their drinks, they paid their tab and requested a room. Luckily (or unluckily), the only room able to fit two people was that very room containing the alleged phantom.

“It’s really haunted,” the front desk clerk made sure to mention. “We’ll throw in a discount.”

“We’ve heard—” Niko spoke.

“And thanks—” said Mel, grabbing the tiny envelope from the clerk’s hand, containing two keys to the room. Not keycards…keys. How old school.

Inserting the key into the lock some fifteen minutes later, they found that the door swung open easily, revealing Victorian carpet, a large trundle bed with plenty of pillows, billowing blankets, and rich emerald fabric, a desk, and a TV. A bathroom was directly to the right of the entrance, and the curtains were drawn, creating an oddly heavy atmosphere. A mirror lay directly in the front of the room, reflecting the trundle bed in its entirety.

“We should take a nap,” Niko mentioned, gesturing to the bed as Mel nodded.

“Definitely. That toboggan really wore me out.”

A half hour into their snooze, Mel began to shiver, noticing a brisk, icy chill. Had someone opened the window and forgot to shut it? But that was impossible, she knew, for the windows, even from outside, were ones sans hinges, to create a full picture window.

Goosebumps began to emerge on her arms, hair practically standing on end as she sensed a secondary presence…well, not secondary…since Niko was snoring beside her. More…tertiary. How can she sleep through this?! Mel rose, plumping the pillow behind her, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, shivering as the curtains began swinging of their own accord, the curtain rings rattling as if in discordant discourse.

What is this room trying to tell me?

But what came out was this instead: “What’s wrong?” and “Help me…help you.”

As if in answer, she spotted the mirror, now fogged up, revealing two words:

Beware Tanaka.

Somewhere, somehow, Mel vaguely recalled Dr. Tanaka’s supposed interest in harvesting mystical energy. But why on earth was he to be feared?

Reaching for her own phone, she took a snapshot. And hours later, when Niko finally awoke, Mel showed the image to her.

“That can’t be right,” Niko frowned. Dr. Tanaka was a mentor, not a monster.

“Do entities lie?” Came Mel’s question. Entities, of course, being implicitly acknowledged as the post-life. Ghosts. Banshees. Et cetera.

The question hung in the air as they continued to examine the image.

Villingili Resort, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After Macy returned back to the island, she met Harry for a long-overdue respite by the water. He’d rented time at a resort spa, time that involved sitting upon recliner chairs with comfy teal pillows, a table between them of classy stemware, all on a polished timber harbor boardwalk of sorts. Just beyond that walkway in front of their recliners was a large hammock with two more teal pillows, all overlooking the glassy blue water that stretched on for miles upon miles, meeting a bespoke sunset of tangerine and pineapple hues.

By now, Maggie was holding down the fort at Vera Manor and tending to a mostly-recuperated Jordan. Mel was off on a mystical adventure with Niko up north, and she, Macy Vaughn, was exactly where she needed to be, next to Harry, her Harry, on a happy little island, far, far away.

Chapter Text

Kitchen, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“DAMMIT!” An eggshell shard flew past her fingers, dancing along the rim of the trash bin, before plopping over onto the floor in resignation. Thirty-two (well, thirty-three weeks as of tomorrow), and carpal tunnel had more than wreaked havoc on her everyday life.

It all began Monday of the same week. She had awoken the morning after a frenzied nesting session, cleaning every closet, dusting, knitting to no end, to find herself unable to fit her wedding band and her engagement ring on her left ring finger. She’d used a pink Alexandrite stone sterling silver ring in their stead, a bauble Harry had given her one Valentine’s Day quite awhile ago, but, as she glanced ruefully at the stone, and back at the sodden eggshell—it just wasn’t the same.

In this tropical idyll she stayed with Harry (up until the baby comes, Morgana had said, for liability purposes). Macy couldn’t fault the woman for caring, but not seeing her sisters in person was truly taking a toll. That, plus both of her hands aching and swollen, unable to be put to any use knitting, nor writing. Just…reading. But there were only so many books one could purchase remotely, and she wanted to keep saving money for the baby.

Speaking of which…Macy paused her machinations, neither cleaning up the eggshell nor continuing to stir the pound cake batter (Morgana never said she couldn’t bake, right?)—

Could the baby hear curse words in utero? Oh God. Her mothering abilities were already questionable.

She briefly imagined, with a certain degree of horror, a cute little girl cheerfully toddling around, before uttering her first word that just so happened to be an expletive as everyone flinched in horror, glaring daggers at herself, akin to the movie “Meet the Parents.” Can’t let that happen—

Flour, two eggs, almond milk, half a stick of avocado vegan butter made up the mixture, which she continued to stir. Manually. The mixture smelled of Madagascar vanilla and cupcakes of yore, and once thoroughly blended, she poured the mixture into a loaf pan, and some leftover dough into a smaller muffin tin, a patty-pan sort of thing. Not because her appetite for everything baked and dessert-related and chocolate-related was through the roof. Of course not.

Macy knew, popping open the oven, standing to the side due to her fast-burgeoning bump, that this would be a pound cake (and some) fit for a queen.

Well, a queen…and her squirmy little princess. Truth be told, she'd heard odd bits of popping noises from within as the child bounced around, a cross between popcorn and a horde of eels, often causing her to stop whatever she was working on, due to the sheer oddness of the sensation. At those instances, Harry would regard her with equal parts reverence and fatherly fear, asking if she was ok.

I’m fine Harry, I swear—she’d said those words more than a hundred times since the beginning of all of this.

But was she?

Closing the oven and turning on the timer, set to forty minutes or so, she took another bite of edamame. Lightly-salted, cooked soybeans, a typical island snack hereabouts, willing herself to like the taste after secretly fantasizing about everything unhealthy and alcoholic.

Oh, who was she kidding?

Screw healthiness. She wanted a mimosa. Badly. But of course she had another several weeks. Still…she glanced at the kitchen island table before her, upon which a single glass, filled with pink fizz, lay. Raspberry lime seltzer mocktails could only take her so far.

And then another thought occurred to her. The baby shower was next week, and in her nesting frenzy, she realized she had nothing to wear. Ugh, I knew I forgot something.

Living Room, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

“Showers, amirite?” Jordan joked as he entered the living room, having spent the better part of the hour rereading his Constitutional law books for an upcoming trial. “This is the fun part—"

Mel glanced up at him where she was crouched on the ground, busy installing what appeared to be a mini crib. “Your turn,” she spoke, handing him the Alan wrench, before striding away, her face crimson and perspiring from her earlier efforts at building the object.

“Ooookay…” he ventured, before glancing at the instructions Mel had tossed onto the coffee table. There seemed to be fifteen…no, twenty metal washers that had to be tightened between each nail and screw bed of the mini crib. Then he heard a shift from the sofa feet away. “Mags?” He bent forward to kiss her, but she brushed him away, showing him her phone.

“How’s this centerpiece look? And the blooms?”

Jordan squinted. “Are those supposed to be grapes…or flowers?”

“Ugh, I knew it!” Maggie plopped back onto the sofa. “I’m never gonna find the perfect décor—this whole thing—why did I—” her voice quavered. “Macy deserves more. She deserves the world. Not—” she gestured at her phone and the barely-assembled mini crib. “This.”

“Mags, time-out.” Jordan left the washers and nails and railings, pulled Maggie off the couch, motioned for her to leave her phone there, and quietly began directing her to hold each rail steady as he inserted a nail, a washer, a screw. Several minutes passed, as one pole turned to two, three to four, each intersecting and building upon themselves, until, twenty minutes after that, the mini crib was fully formed.

They stood back and examined the object. Maggie squealed, hugging Jordan tightly, before locking eyes, himself drawing her into a long, slow kiss. Breaking apart, Jordan was the first to speak. “What do you think?”

Her eyes twinkled. “She’s gonna love it!”

An Hour Later, Outside Quai de L’Horloge to Chocolaterie, Montreal, Quebec

Hurrying along the snowdrift path, Mel wondered why she couldn’t have been gifted with some other more useful mystical power. The power to freeze time had been great—but it left too many people suspicious and led to odd poker dealings. Boiling and freezing were good in a jiffy, helping her escape out of many a sordid situation involving a nefarious creature holding a weapon. But why couldn’t she have been given…

The dexterity to build a crib for her own sister?

The skill of diplomacy, that would’ve avoided many an incident?

Maggie’s empathy?

She sighed. Her mother, when alive, had kept reminding her to take stock of her talent, to take pride in the woman she was, faults and foibles and all. But still. Mel couldn’t help but think her directness drove Ray away, all those years ago, leaving a young, heartbroken Maggie behind.

“Stop being such a coward!”

“Mi hija,” his eyes darted toward Marisol’s bedroom. Her bedroom. They barely saw each other as it was. “You’ll wake your mother—”

“I don’t care!” she snapped. “Be there or don’t be there at ALL!” Mel pointed at Maggie’s closed bedroom door. “What’re you teaching her—”

“That I’m a busy professor with multiple obligations—”

“WRONG!” Mel swallowed hard. “You’re teaching her promises don’t matter. That SHE doesn’t matter. That men can’t be trusted. And on her BIRTHDAY.”

His face fell. Maybe she was right. Maybe they were all better off if he went away. Far, far away. Maggie was still young, it was true. Maybe Marisol would fix this. Reunite with Maggie’s true father. Because he’d tried to be a father, goddammit, he’d tried!

And yet, to Mel, it still wasn’t nearly enough.

“Mel?”

The middle Charmed One paused in her tracks, briefly noticing that her surroundings appeared positively crystalline, tall pearly iced-over trees to her left, the clock tower less than a mile before her, its base fading in the distance from the fog, the fog itself a cream-lilac turning to a pale powder blue where sky met stratosphere. “Niko?” She stammered, then recalled their last text exchange days before.

Niko had gone ahead to Dr. Tanaka’s next recommended artifact location for siphoning energy. Mel promised to drop by toward the tail end of the journey.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too,” Mel murmured as Niko enveloped her in a kiss, snow swirling about them, a most pristine, picturesque scene reminiscent of snowglobes of yore. “Wait—how’d you know how to find me?”

“I just…” Niko paused. “Had a feeling, I guess.” She pulled on Mel’s jacket, “well, this helped too. It’s not every day someone wears this type of material, with glowing parts at the ends—”

“Safety measures,” Mel laughed aloud. She’d tipped the edges of her jacket in special paint to ensure visibility even in the most extreme weather conditions, and apparently it had worked. “Can we go for some hot cocoa? It’s f-freezing—"

They ducked into the nearest Chocolaterie, which specialized in all things chocolate—Mel noticed maple leaf-molded chocolate with special fillings inside (praline, maple rum), according to the captions, as the scent of rich semisweet chocolate and cinnamon spices permeated the air. “This place is amazing,” she breathed, as they stood in line for their order, then upon receiving their drinks, sat at a booth at the back.

Between sips of her hot cocoa, Mel began to speak. “What were your findings?”

Niko bit her lip, glancing around to ensure no one was watching, before unzipping her large purse, within which a tightly-closed mason jar was found, a strange glow of light coming from its interior.

“Wow,” Mel murmured. “Is—is that—” Magic? So badly she wanted to use those words, but wondered what lexicon Dr. Tanaka would use with Niko. Ultraviolet substances? Post-radioactive conglomerates? Far be it for her to expose the mystical world, it already had enough trouble within.

“Deactivated rontgen, or a non-dangerous radium derivative,” Niko answered, closing her purse.

Mel raised an eyebrow, thinking of all the times Macy had schooled herself and her sister on laboratory safety in SafeSpace, lest they accidentally blow the place up. No radium is safe radium. Anything glowing is suspicious till proven otherwise. “That doesn’t sound right…”

“Why would he lie to me?”

“I’m not saying he would, just—are you sure about this?” Mel found herself asking. Do you know what you’re getting—no—what you’ve gotten yourself into?

Niko exhaled slowly. “It pays the bills more than any other gig I’ve had combined. Uses my skillset. Gets me off my mom’s back.” She paused to take another sip before glancing pointedly at Mel. Unlike you…with your sisters…Vera Manor…“I don’t really have a choice.”

Kitchen, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy retrieved the pound cake and patty pan mini-cakes from the oven, the scent of warm vanilla filling the apartment. Harry, it seemed, was still sleeping in after coming in late in the wee hours of the night, having been called to defend the island against a gigantic sea serpent. It required ropes and a very agile person…or a Whitelighter able to morph and move through air at will.

No rest for the weary.

She checked her phone. She’d texted Maggie earlier—

Nothing to wear for baby shower. S.O.S.

The reply line had those trademark three dots, for the longest time, as Macy used a spatula to ease the loaves out of their metal baking tins.

“Clothes…what am I going to wear…for a shower…” Macy paced around slowly. Not the blue dress, it didn’t fit anymore. Her leggings? No, can’t wear leggings to your shower!

“That smells divine—”

Macy whirled around. “Harry! Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Sleep’s for the dead,” he mustered a laugh, though Macy knew he was very much drained. “I smelled something delicious?”

“That would be the pound cake,” Macy sliced off a small piece, which he popped into his mouth whole, savoring it to the fullest.

“Delicious,” he murmured. “And if you wore nothing but a paper bag, I would still find you the most gorgeous woman in the room.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Harry, I don’t have anything to wear, that’s the problem!” Then other problems, latent enough, swam to the surface. “Nobody’s contributed to the registry, and a long-lost friend wants to gift me stickers because that was our thing decades ago. STICKERS?!” Macy attempted an exhale, anchoring an arm to the countertop. “I need a lot of things—but STICKERS? STICKERS?! What’re we, ten?”

Harry’s face grew in alarm as Macy listed her grievances one-by-one. “Mace, forget about the stickers, it’s just one person, really—”

“Then there’s the constant lightening pain in my groin—”

He winced at that one.

“Another friend who wanted to buy me something off-registry like she thought she knew better than me at what we needed as parents—”

“Love, I’m sure Swan didn’t mean it like that—”

“My chocolate cravings are through the roof—”

He couldn’t disagree.

“And…” her voice caught on a sob. “This baby doesn’t even have a car seat or a place to SLEEP! We’ve got several more weeks and she’s got NOTHING—”

Macy made to walk away, into the bedroom, to lock herself in, but as she drew the knob, she felt herself obstructed, then enveloped into a tight, all-encompassing hug. “Harry,” she whispered, as her hand met his, curling around just so, “a hug’s not going to solve the problems we have—”

“But it can be a start, no?” Harry chuckled lightly into her mahogany tresses as she nodded, taking slow breaths to calm herself. “Patience, dear Padawan—let people give you what they will. Let them love you. The registry will resolve itself.”

And she knew, deep down, he was right.

PING!

They sprang apart, startled, but it was just Maggie replying.

I have the PERFECT dress!

A photo was attached, of a lovely gown laden with floral designs of plumerias, wisteria, hibiscus, and other flora and fauna near and dear to her witchly heart. Thanks, sis, Macy texted back.

Next Morning, Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Niko would be in Canada for another week, she knew, but it didn’t keep her from worrying about the woman. Even the knowledge she could orb by marble to anywhere in the world Niko was, didn’t do much to assuage her.

On a whim, Mel flipped to “suggested news” within her internet browser, and gasped.

BREAKING NEWS: DECREASED ACTIVITY AFFECTING NATIONAL TREASURES: QUAI D’HORLOGE.

It went on to describe tourists inexplicably leaving the grounds due to a lack of sentimentality, lack of paranormal ghostly activity they had wanted to explore, and the loss of the heart…the soul of those buildings. As if the souls of those treasures had been wiped away. Obliterated.

Uh oh.

Chapter Text

Monday, Valentine’s Day, Bedroom, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

One eye opened, then her other. "Stop looking at me like that," she muttered, wincing as she pulled herself upright in bed.

"Like what?"

She felt a stab of pain, taking slow breaths as she swung her legs past the bed's edge, before glancing up at Harry, who was already dressed in his signature cravat. "Like I’m breakable." Those random pains in her groin seemed to be happening with greater frequency these days, but a quick internet search told her they were definitely not labor pains, were definitely normal at this stage, and known as--

"Effing round ligament pain," she gritted her teeth as Harry handed her her turquoise bathrobe, paused, then draped it around her shoulders to assist her further.

"Love, should you really be doing that...?" Harry tried not to question Macy's judgment, but there were times he had to bite his tongue. With great difficulty. "You could call off the meeting? Stay in bed?" He offered an arm as she took it, clumsily pulling her maternity slacks on.

"Harry," her eyes met his. "It's been scheduled for weeks. And I have to exercise. Walking lowers blood clot risk." Every day, from the very beginning, she had walked at least a mile, to get energized and keep her heart pumping and strong. But now...now?

There were so many things the pregnancy books didn't mention. Awful gas. The weird mid-morning hunger quenched only by 2 peanut butter cookies (the type of hunger made worse by drinking water or eating fruit instead of something carb or protein-based). And now, this.

After handing Harry her phone, she summoned her laptop, turning it to her latest notes on donor amenability. SafeSpace needed funding. And there were deep pockets to be found—if one knew where to look, if one asked the right questions, if one was reasonably cordial, attentive, polite-yet-assertive—

A quick "ahem," and she noticed a pain au chocolat, hot cocoa (well, milk and chocolate syrup), and fresh fruit salad comprised of perfectly ripe pineapples, grapes, soft Bartlett pears, and Hayfield pink-tipped oranges. "Thanks Harry," she murmured, retaking her phone as he crossed the threshold of their bedroom, softly closing the door behind him.

Solarium, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Chewing on the end of her pen, Mel paused for a moment before typing a set of keywords into her laptop.

Rontgen. Radium. Radium derivative.

Instantly, a website was generated; clicking on it, she noticed sleek advertisement-style script, the type vaguely reminiscent of a state-of-the-art funded laboratory or…she inhaled sharply. Vivian.

Tanaka Pharmaceuticals, the main header read. Revolutionary medicine. In development. Mel attempted to scroll through various menu pages, but again…

Work in progress. Estimated timetable: FY2022 Third Quarter.

Another thought occurred to her. What could this site hide? Copying the link, she opened it in incognito mode. Instantly, another piece of information was made known in a side tab that wasn’t there previously.

Rontgen extraction. Capsules. Curative. Derived from the historical ages…

And then she pieced it together—those essences, those activities Dr. Tanaka was tasking Niko with—they were sucking the souls out of historical treasures, trapping souls worldwide, it seemed, all for the express purpose of medicinal commercialization, to give mere mortals power, in doses—

What the hell?!

She scrolled down, skimming, frowning as she did so, committing keywords to memory.

A revolutionary solution, it read toward the conclusion. A means to cure…there ensued a veritable laundry list of conditions. What’s biphasic triplicate apraxis? And diastolic systemic…? And…There were so many, too many to count. There was no way something mystical could do all that. Which meant it was a sham, which by extension meant Dr. Tanaka was, by extension, a fraud.

But Niko wouldn’t be back for another few days, when Macy’s baby shower was. On impulse, she reached for her phone, dialing once, waiting a couple of ringtones, until—“Niko, you free? It’s Mel!”

“Oh, hey Mel! Free for now, maybe ten minutes?”

“I can call another time…”

“No, now’s fine,” Niko stated. “What’s up?” she quipped.

Mel decided to come clean. “Niko, Dr. Tanaka’s—your work—extracting rontgen—”

“What about it?”

“It’s a sham. He’s a fraud. Niko—”

“Seriously, Mel?!” This was followed by shocked silence on the line.

“Niko, I know you’re not ready to hear this, but—”

“My senior thesis was on the allopathic alternative aspects of radium and defensive uses, I think I’d know if anything was up!”

Mel swallowed hard. “Look, I don’t blame you—but—he’s trouble. You need to get out while you can—”

“And do what, Mel? This is how I pay my bills. This is how I survive. I’m sorry if that’s not good enough for you.”

“I never said—”

“I’m sorry if I’m not good enough for you—”

“Niko, why are you acting like this?”

“Oh, like you didn’t know it’s Valentine’s Day today?” Niko drew an exasperated breath. Then the line went dead. Mel stared at her phone.

This wasn’t good…

Less than five minutes later, a text came through from an unlisted number.

Care to join the three Susans and I? Come and play? Mel rolled her eyes. Delete.

Lounge, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

Between sips of her almond roast vegan pink cacao latte, Maggie perused cushions and baby books and toys off various sites, each cuter-sounding than the other. Ella & Mila. Les Petites Pois. Bundlesome. She flipped past one plushie, in the shape of a miniature winged Pegasus.

"Aw, that's so cute! Totes adorbs," she said of the next item, a mini stuffed DNA helix toy. For the budding baby scientist.

"Mags. That's not even on the registry," chuckled Jordan, coming up behind her, touching her shoulder ever-so-gently, his other hand clutching a biodegradable cup of medium roast chicory blend.

"But I'm her aunt and it's my duty to spoil her," she pleaded as he laughed good-naturedly.

"Touché," he said.

Ping!

Maggie checked her notifications. A text had arrived from Mel. She clicked it open.

I’ve got a Niko situation. Need your empath smarts. -Mel

Excusing herself, Maggie ducked behind a concrete pillar, dialing Mel’s number. “’Sup, sis?”

“I told Niko.”

Maggie frowned. “You told Niko…” You like her? You want to make things official?”

“That her boss is a fraud. That everything she worked on till now was a sham.”

“Yikes. Mel, did you really have to do it on Valentine’s Day?”

“What’s that got to do with anything? Besides, isn’t it an over-commercialized, over-hyped holiday for cisgender males to compensate for falling short the rest of the calendar year?” Mel had never been one to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Not since second grade when she sent a crayoned paper note to her crush Emmy Urseline, who read it aloud, cringed, then refused to talk to her the rest of the school year.

“Uh…” Maggie opened her own Instagram, perusing through Niko’s page. “Not according to Niko. She digs this holiday. Heart-print mugs and hazelnut frappes with powdered sugar in the shape of Cupid arrows. And pink decorations, “Love Actually” screenings whichever country she’s in at the moment. And rosemary cocktails with rose petals—”

“Wait, how do you know?”

“I friend everyone I meet,” Maggie answered shortly. “Then I learn more about them. You should really try it sometime Mel. I love you, you’re my sis. But God, you can be so clueless sometimes…”

“Ok, ok. Just—” Mel sighed, massaging her forehead. “Tell me how to fix this?”

Bedroom, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Checking Harry was gone, Macy opened her bedside drawer, where Harry's Valentine's gift lay. A book about foster kittens to read to their little girl. A wood massager for sensual nights. And sleek, comfortable sweatpants, because though he owned an enviable tie collection, he hadn't much in the way of casual clothes.

And so the meeting began. Led by Swan, fortunately, though Macy threw in a few head nods. Some key statistics. Swan really, truly was a one-woman powerhouse. She made a mental note to give the lady a performance bonus. Or if that wasn't feasible, a gift card. Maybe Amex or Amazon. She deserved it.

Work was such a distraction she hardly noticed her round ligament pain.

“Well, yes, we do have our fiscal year goals in place, some aspirational, but well within reach—” again, a head nod to that.

“Our goal is to help small businesses, and these three areas of focus would aid that effort—”

The meeting continued for another twenty minutes and concluded with a small round of applause and a promise from the donors to check in once they discussed everything in full with their executive trustee board.

“Swan,” Macy noticed the woman had remained on the line. “A word?”

“Yes, Macy?”

“I just—well—thanks for everything you’ve done for SafeSpace,” Macy spoke. “Especially, even now. I really love your passion and enthusiasm for these initiatives, and your drive—it really shines through.” Swan smiled, then Macy continued. “Since I’ll be out for some months on maternity leave, can you be the head of SafeSpace?”

“T-the head?”

“Until I get back,” Macy clarified, noticing Swan’s nervousness. “I’ve written everything down. Temporary.”

“R-right,” Swan nodded repeatedly. “Temporary. I—I mean—sure—I mean—YES!” She let out a short squeal. “I’ve always wanted to be leader for a day—”

“Weeks?”

“Y-yeah, weeks. That—Macy, you don’t know how much this means to me! Thank you!”

With that, they said their farewells, and Macy shut off her laptop. Funny enough, her round ligament pain seemed to have dissipated, just the tiniest bit.

SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington

An hour later, Mel found herself back at the Command Center, spreading a cornucopia of Valentines décor about the long table. A few metallic confetti sprinkles here, a few “I’m sorry” sayings there, with some pink and white and red M&M candies in a crimson heart-shaped container.

Dear Niko, she imagined herself writing. I’m sorry I fucked up—

She erased that thought and started again. I want to wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day. Sometimes, I get so stuck in my head, and stubborn, and headstrong, that I—

Ugh, nope. The day was about Niko, not her. As if on cue, Mel’s phone buzzed—a text arrived from Maggie.

Write from the heart. -Mags

Mel thought this over, nodded to herself once or twice, and began writing.

Dear Niko, I am sorry for…

And I admire who you are, and who you have become…

Several stickers and confetti bits later, she stepped back, deeming the card worthy of the aforementioned woman. Granted, it wasn’t the wordiest note in the world, but she’d exercised a heck of a lot of restraint when it came to that rontgen aspect, and this was the best she could do under the circumstances. Is there ever a “I’m sorry you work for a super-villain, and oh, by the way, I love you?”

She guessed not, but as she honed in on the projected map, tossing her marble into the open air, itself swirling and popping, she supposed now was as good a time as any.

Hôtel Nelligan, Montreal, Canada

She landed just outside Niko’s door. Pausing to straighten her outfit and check her hair, she knocked on the door, which opened instantly.

“Niko—”

“Mel—”

“I’m sorry—” they spoke in unison.

“I shouldn’t have been so—y’know,” Mel spoke. “You’ve worked hard to get where you’ve gotten, and I can’t just come in and try to tell you…to order you around. Also—” she thrust a small crimson bag into Niko’s startled grasp. “For Valentine’s Day.”

Niko squinted. “But Mel, you don’t do Valentine’s Day.” And I do. I love romance, the meet-cutes, the works. Is this a problem? Maybe it’s a problem?

“You’re not a fraud.”

“Wow, Mel, what a way with words—” So much for—

“I mean…” Mel tried again. “I found some things that don’t look great with Dr. Tanaka. I’m sorry I pressed the issue. I put my foot in my mouth way too many times to count. Can we try again? Please?”

Niko thought about it, then opened the door to allow Mel into a gorgeous exposed-brick interior, a queen-sized bed, and polished wood flooring that practically glistened, locking it behind her. “I don’t disagree with you, Mel,” she spoke carefully. “But I’m indebted to him for helping me find my career path, and if we’re going to take anyone down, we need iron-clad evidence. Can we let this rest till tomorrow, then investigate?”

“Sure,” Mel answered, noticing roses, a mini bottle of champagne, and a paused DVD movie, “Love Actually,” on the flat-screen TV in front of them. “Who got you those?”

“I did. I’m a sucker for romance. Champagne?” Niko reached for a glass, filling it halfway, handing it to Mel. She then grasped her own.

“To apologies and adventures?” Mel posited as Niko nodded.

“Apologies and adventures.” They each sipped from their own respective glass, then bridged the slow-lingering distance between them, readying for a kiss…and then several more.

Living Room Area, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After her walk, and a nap (or two), she had enjoyed a scrumptious meal of lobster tails, coupled with mixed rice and expertly-cooked green beans Almondine. “Harry,” she laughed as she handed him his bagged gift, “you’ve really outdone yourself this year.”

“Anything for you,” and with that he handed her a gift, expertly wrapped, along with a lovely bouquet of flowers, fresh from the afternoon’s floral market several streets away.

“How did you manage to get to the florist? They close pretty early today,” Macy remarked, unwrapping her own gift.

Harry grinned. “One of the many perks of being a Whitelighter, love. The ability to orb within a moment’s notice.”

“Ah.”

The wrapping fell away, revealing a silvery white-gold necklace with a lovely tiny diamond bauble, sparkling and shimmering. “Wow, Har,” Macy breathed as she lifted her curls, himself placing it about her neck. “It’s beautiful—”

He opened his own gift minutes later, appearing vaguely perplexed at the book.

“For reading to our little one.”

“Duly noted—” he smiled, then noticed the sweatpants. “I did so need a new pair. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Har.”

Finally, Harry pulled out the wooden massager. “Oh my—” he felt his cheeks turn a faint crimson as Macy giggled.

“I figured we could use some relaxing?”

Harry’s visage took on almost an animalistic expression of pure, radiating lust as he reached forward, stroking Macy’s curls, absorbing their scent along her smoothened cheekbone. “Can we test it out?” Macy ventured, her eyes glittering.

“Most—” he swallowed hard, then nodded. “Most definitely.”

Chapter Text

Saturday, Baixo Pelo Mar Café Balcony, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“Eat up love.”

Macy stared at the repast before her, sumptuous piping hot croissants and bacon, glistening ripened kiwi, bananas, pineapple, and citrus, and swallowed hard. “I don’t know, Harry. I’m not exactly hungry—”

Deftly slicing a croissant in half, he spread a thin layer of Nutella upon it, handing it over to Macy, adding one of each piece of sliced fruit to her plate. “You’ll need your strength today,” he gave her a knowing look as she reached for her fork, chewing slowly on the kiwi fruit.

Harry, she thought to herself, it’s only a baby shower. “I’m sitting the whole time. And besides,” she added, after taking a mouthful of croissant, “it’s not like anybody will show up—” She exhaled slowly, willing the pounding in her head to recede. Her baby’s movements and seaward motions had evolved into full-on punches and rolls at five in the morning, and her ability to stay awake hours after was questionable at best. “Can’t we cancel this, Harry? I mean…”

“Macy.” A statement, not a question, imparted all at once, coupled with a lift of his brow. “We talked about this earlier. “It’s only an hour, two at most, and it’s to celebrate the life—our life—within,” as he drew his gaze to her very much prominent belly.

She gazed at the lime tree to her left, past the ocean view balcony, its leaves lush and full, thinking of a mind game she used to play as a child, every time she felt tense. Imagine you’re the tree, she told herself. Five hundred leaves, sixty pieces of fruit, and sunshine as long as the horizon is wide…

“Coffee, madam?” The waiter suddenly appeared, interrupting her thoughts.

“Um…” Macy paused, then spoke. “Can you do half-caf? Mostly decaf? But definitely some caffeine?”

The waiter bowed once, “very well,” assembling the beverage mere minutes later. “For you.”

“Thanks,” she answered, before turning her attention back to Harry, and breakfast. “I mean, the Jardin de Paix was supposed to be free, but it’s not—” referring to an outdoor venue of pink picnic tables beneath an elegant vined trellis of pale lavender wisteria, overlooking the ocean.

“Macy, you don’t even like pink.” Continuing to chew on his own croissant, he studied her visage for the next few seconds. “What’s this really about?” He placed his fork down. “You know very well that Maggie is quite talented in party planning. Mel and Jordan have been coordinating possible infant necessities for the past month. And I—” He thought back to the night before, spent unfolding the bassinet (separate and distinct from the larger mini-crib, of course). And the British fairy tales he’d accumulated, placing them upon a temporary bookcase that wobbled and was not at all child-friendly, knowing that a pristine bookshelf was soon to arrive. Then, he thought of all of the first-aid objects taking up residence in the bathroom.

The Nose Frieda.

The anti-colic pacifiers.

The thermometer and the electronic nail clipper.

And, after further thought (and a sip of his own coffee), he had a realization of his own. Macy hadn’t opened a single item—they all lay pristine in their cellophane, plastic packaging. His mouth made an “O.” “You’re not still thinking of—”

She nodded, noticing his grave expression. “I can’t help it. I mean, I didn’t come out alive earthside…not till Knansie. If I can’t, how can this baby?” Macy blinked rapidly as she picked at her paper napkin, tearing ribbons across its edges.

“Mace,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke a mahogany tendril. “This is different—”

“You don’t know that,” came her own voice, barely above a whisper.

Same Day, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Mel sat at the kitchen island, perusing website after website in incognito mode, finding infomercials on those glowing capsules, equal parts horrifying and intriguing. The spirit of historic treasures…and the ghosts within…sucked away for mortal greed.

The good news was, it seemed, that everything was still in pre-prototype phase. That is, nothing concrete had happened. No pills, just extraction. The bad news was that, well, Dr. Tanaka and company somehow had the mystical ability to extract essence in the first place.

How could a non-magic mortal do this?

Then came another thought.

An insider.

She heard Maggie and Jordan descend the stair and placed her phone on the table. Niko was still in Canada, but today was Macy’s day, and celebrate they would.

“Games—check, party favors—check, mini crib—” Maggie glanced over at Jordan, who placed the object down with a thunk. “Check!”

“Games?” Mel frowned, thinking of typical shower games, like ‘guess how many rolls of toilet paper wrap around mommy’s belly,’ or ‘guess how much mommy gained—’ and shivered in disgust. “Please tell me they’re not crass. Or weight-centric—” she added, thinking of all the typical baby shower horror stories she’d read about online.

Maggie shook her head. “These are different. No toilet paper allowed.”

“Oh thank God. And the favors?”

“Keychains in non-toxic gold paint. Different animals too—” Maggie spoke excitedly, grabbing a bag Mel hadn’t noticed, off Jordan's shoulder, spilling its contents across the kitchen table. “Dinosaurs here, a bird over there, and oh—yeah, a squirrel, and a—” she pointed to what appeared to be a giant guinea pig bead.

“Capybara?” Jordan proffered.

“How’d you know?” Maggie turned to him, bemused.

“Watched PBS kids shows at my grandma’s growing up. Glad it paid off,” he chuckled.

Kitchen, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Harry dialed a number, cupping his cheek to the receiver, pacing as the dial tone surfaced, followed by a cheery Portuguese greeting. “Morgana? Morgana!” he practically shouted.

“Oh Harry, how are you? And Macy and the baby? Heard you were having a shower today,” her voice streamed through, juxtaposed with the wail of at least twenty babies. Though she herself was invited to Macy’s shower, she had to decline, as she was on call at the local Azores hospital that day, keeping a watchful eye on the newborns.

“Yes—ah—well—about that—” Harry blustered on, checking to see where Macy was. Likely in their master bathroom, getting ready for the event in question.

“What is it?” Morgana got right to the point. “I’m up to my ears in screaming babies. Hurry up, now—”

“Macy. It—It’s Macy—”

“What about her?”

“She—she’s having second thoughts. About the shower.”

“Not the baby though?”

Harry smiled despite himself. “Definitely not the baby,” he spoke, thinking of all the times he’d seen her return from outdoor walks, earbuds in to the latest Portuguese song or classical lullaby. “But she hasn’t mentioned a possible name once, or unwrapped any of the newborn toiletries, and—”

“All in good time,” Morgana spoke, the babies’ cries dissipating somewhat on her end, though through what means Harry had no idea.

“We need to be ready, though,” he said. “And she’s thinking of cancelling altogether, even though her sisters will attend, it was originally virtual—”

“But it doesn’t have to be.”

Harry mulled those words over. “True, but—”

“No buts. You do have a safe, reliable mode of mystical transportation, no? And everyone is of sound mind, body, health?”

“Yes, but—”

“And Macy needs them, right?”

He nodded. “But she doesn’t seem to think so—”

“Oh?”

“Morgana, if you have something to say, do say it!”

“Well…what I see is an anxious first-time mother whose own birth story was fraught with horror and mourning. And by anxious, I mean scared, and by scared, I mean petrified.”

Those words sunk in. “Petrified?”

“Harry, I told her to check kick counts. Usually patients take that to mean twice a day, tops.”

“How many times did she count?” Harry had been so busy doing chores, running errands, that he hadn’t thought about the kick counting app Morgana had provided, free of charge.

“Fourteen times, Harry. Fourteen.”

“Good lord,” he muttered. “I’ll never understand—nor be able to fully put myself in her stead—but Morgana, what else can she—we—do?”

“Absolutely nothing…but take nothing for granted, and celebrate your baby today.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.” Morgana paused as a baby on her end let out an ear-splitting shriek. “Though I do offer biophysical profiles to high-risk pregnancies. Being the survivor of a birth gone awry would certainly qualify, if not age alone—checking cord circulation, fetal breathing practices, movement, with a score at the end—”

“Thanks Morgana,” Harry sighed, relieved. “That would give us additional peace of mind.”

After quickly bidding goodbye, he decided to turn his attention to Macy—

“Ahem—”

He gave a start. Macy was right behind him. His cheeks colored. “How much of that did you hear?” He also noticed she wore a gorgeous dress of every lilac and plum blossom imaginable. “And you look lovely—"

To his utter surprise, she smiled. “Enough to know you’ll make an amazing dad. And…thanks.”

Jardim Monet, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

The pair arrived at the venue an hour later, an outdoor garden overlooking a lily pad pond reminding Macy of French Impressionist art, a white Victorian garden table and chairs under the vined trellis. On the table, she noticed figs from Morgana’s garden, plus fresh-squeezed guava juice from the local Faial marketplace.

“Harry…” she walked around the table so that she stood at one end, he at the opposite, with three chairs between them. “I thought this was virtual?”

“About that…” He heard a familiar whoosh and detected a static-filled circular strobe of light.

“SURPRISE!” came familiar voices, from several feet away.

“Maggie? Mel?! Jordan?!” cried Macy. “Ohmygosh! But I thought you were all busy—and planning on staying in Vera Manor—”

“Nothing we’d rather do than hang with you, sis, especially today,” Maggie responded as Jordan began unpacking the games and gold-painted party favors, plus envelopes.

“Anyone want a capybara?” Jordan called out, swinging a keychain as everyone laughed.

Gift-giving soon commenced. “Unwrap these,” Maggie pointed to the cards as Macy opened each, showing a photo of the item in question. For the parents-to-be, for their baby…no heart can explain all the love it can bring, read one card. Another read, for your girl, with all her mahogany curls. And so on.

A mini crib.

Bilingual Portuguese-English books.

A high chair that would grow with the baby.

Bibs. A toy dragon.

And much more. “Oh my gosh,” Macy began tearing up despite herself. “Thanks…thanks so much for all of this…”

“The cool part is,” Mel spoke up, “that we all marbled to your condo as soon as you left and deposited the items. And Harry helped with some of the advance setup.”

“Wait,” Macy paused. “You mean—you transported that crib and those—using one marble?”

“They don’t call it magic for nothing,” Jordan quipped. “That stuff works.”

“As it would,” Harry nodded. “Shall we play some games?”

They began with Emoji Baby Books Pictionary. “Ready…set…go!” Maggie turned on her phone’s timer for five minutes, as the group began.

Macy glanced at one. A spider, a pig, a cobweb, and a girl. "Charlotte’s Web." Easy peasy. She filled out the rest with considerable ease, like Maggie and Mel, though she was stuck on another emoji line depicting five pieces of fruit and a bed. What the…

Harry on the other hand, was stuck on the emoji line depicting a bull, a tree, and a bee. Bull…tree…sting? The show “Bridgerton” came to mind regarding the bumblebee, but he doubted there had been a child adaptation of the series. He made a mental note to peruse Twitter and pose the question to Shonda Rhimes.

“You haven’t read Ferdinand?” Jordan leaned over, spying Harry’s paper.

The Brit frowned. “Ferdi—pardon?”

Jordan laughed. “Ferdinand the Bull. Dude chills under a sunlit tree then some punk decides he’s scary enough to bullfight after seeing him stung by a bee. Goes wild. Y’know. Bull gets captured, enters the ring.”

“No, I don’t know—” Harry’s eyes grew large with concern. “And what becomes of the bull?” He imagined all sorts of horrors. “They don’t turn him over to the butcher—”

“He sniffs flowers, pisses everyone off who came to see a fight, then ends up back where he started.”

“With the tree, and the sun.”

“Exactly.”

“But what’s the strawberry jam thing for?” Jordan pointed at the next emoji line, depicting a bear, a blue coat, jam, and a well-worn briefcase. Technically, Maggie never said one couldn’t debate answers together.

Harry gave him a look. “You haven’t heard of “Paddington Bear”?”

“Padda-what now? Is he, like, an animatronic bear? Like, Winnie the Pooh?” Jordan wondered aloud.

“He journeys to England, finds a home with an adoptive family that loves him,” Harry described the general plot. “Though the specifics escape me.” It had been years, decades even, since he had picked up a children’s book. “He goes to the theater, shopping, and such.”

“Cute.”

“Quite.”

“Time’s up!” Maggie exclaimed moments later. She gave the answers. “Who got all thirteen questions right?” Nobody raised their hands. “Twelve?” Macy and Mel raised their hands. “Ok, not bad you two—” she skimmed the game sheet again. “Eleven? Ten? Nine?” Both Jordan and Harry raised their hands. “Soo…first place goes to Macy and Mel! Check your inboxes for an e-gift card.” Instantly, Mel and Macy’s phones buzzed, indicating as much.

The next game began. Baby Item ABC. Maggie turned on her timer for five minutes as everyone stared at their paper. “What baby item begins with each 26 letters of the alphabet? Begin…NOW!” She sat down, deciding to participate herself.

A…? Maggie’s mind went blank. She skipped over a couple more. D…diapers. O…onesie…P…pacifier…T…toys. There was no way she could remember U or V, but she’d certainly do her best. Mel, too, it seemed, was struggling with U and V. And Y. And K.

Macy’s mind buzzed with ideas, having put her own tiny registry together. B…bottle. L…linens. Soon enough, all but two were filled out when the timer went off.

“Who’s got all twenty-six?” Maggie glanced around. Nobody raised their hand. “Twenty-five?” To everyone’s surprise, Harry raised his hand, reading his entries aloud for the ones others had missed.

“C…cot, L…lovey, M…Moses basket, P…pram, W…wind—”

Mel frowned. “The heck is a lovey? And a cot? And a Moses-thingy?”

“In order,” Harry recited, “crib, baby blanket, bassinet, stroller, gas,” as he looked over at Maggie. “Technically, Maggie, you never did specify they had to be in standard North American English.”

“True,” Maggie admitted. “The winner of this game is…Harry!” Jordan gave Harry a cheery fist-bump.

After the games had wound down, they all enjoyed the delicious spread of nibbles—the plump figs, the guava juice, the fresh-baked cookies Macy had made ahead of time, in case there wasn’t anything there (chocolate chip walnut with heart sprinkles), plus a fanciful veggies-and-hummus setup.

“One last thing,” announced Maggie as she passed around a final set of paper. “Fill this out for the expecting parents. Write a message, advice, or prediction for the baby to read when she turns 18.”

“That’s so sweet,” Macy murmured as Harry nodded in agreement; she rubbed her belly, feeling the subtle kicks and rolls and tumbles.

Who will you be?

It was the first time she had contemplated her baby’s life beyond the within. The first time she could think of possibilities, to allow herself to dream, to think of Harry holding their little girl, crooning jazz tunes from the 1940s all the while, loving her…loving them all.

And she began to wonder as the festivities drew to a close—what will we name you?

She began to hope, and despite all of the horrors of her early years, to imagine a happier time in the future, so close she could taste it…

Chapter Text

Tuesday Morning, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy reread Swan’s cheery text over a piping hot cup of London Fog latte—decaf Earl Grey tea steeped for three minutes exactly, plus non-dairy milk fortified with calcium and a sprinkle of fresh-ground cinnamon from Morgana’s cinnamon bark tree.

Send a couple of baby photos! It’s for a game. And I know it’s a girl, but can folks wear non-gender-specific colors (i.e. blue, greens, etc.)?

She wondered what photo she should send. It couldn’t have any revealing details, so the one photo she had of Marisol and her was out. There was that one photo of her newly reborn and swaddled, akin to an ‘angry potato,’ her cheeks crimson, her mouth open as if to protest the indignity of departing her once-warm surroundings. What about that one photo her dad took of her at toddlerhood, propped up during tummy time, countless financial magazines before her as if she were a moneyed mogul-in-training?

Weighing her options, she dug through her phone, found both (she’d taken digital snapshots of archived photos long ago), and sent them both to Swan, adding in the body of the email that any color attire was perfectly fine by her.

Within minutes, she received a new bit of email, the header in all caps:

OH BABY! LET’S CELEBRATE OUR VISIONARY LADY, DR. MACY VAUGHN!

“Oh my God,” Macy muttered as she scrolled down the invite list. Swan had added the entire SafeSpace directory.

“Something wrong, love?”

She lifted her eyes from her keyboard. “Nothing, Harry. Just…first-world problems I guess. Swan wants to do an office baby shower.”

Harry sat next to her, sipping his own piping hot beverage, Earl Grey (but likely caffeinated), examining the invite details. “She may want to, Macy, but do you want to?”

She laughed half-heartedly. “Didn’t know I had a choice—”

“We oft do, even if it seems as though we don’t.”

“I mean, I’m not against Swan hosting a baby shower, but I just…” Macy threw him a plaintive look. “What if nobody shows up? I’m not exactly Miss Popular here. What if it’s just Swan and me?”

He reached forward and squeezed her hand, a light kiss to her forehead too. “And perhaps, the father of the baby? And its aunties and uncle too? Jordan, I mean—”

Maggie and Jordan had been growing closer and more serious as of late. “I know, Harry. Jordan.”

“Love, what I mean to say is—you’re in good hands. And even if nobody shows up, you have us.”

“In my corner.”

His eyes crinkled with equal parts kindness and mirth. “Yes, in your corner.”

A Week and a Half Later, Virtual Baby Shower, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores, Islands

She checked her phone. Exactly two minutes and twenty…ten…five…seconds to go…and counting…

Swan’s mailed decorations had arrived the night before, a smattering of silver and damask, plus a keychain of similar color of glass beads with a unicorn bauble at the end, that could be repurposed into a lovely bookmark.

Another inhale and slow exhale later, Macy clicked on the Zoom SafeSpace virtual link to start the meeting. Well…baby shower—

And came face-to-face with a beaming Swan, Niko, Mel, Josefina, Katrina, Ruby, and Maggie and Jordan.

“SURPRISE!”

Same Day, Two Hours Before Virtual Baby Shower, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

As the adage went, another day, another dollar—but in this case, a temporary break from ten to noon and then some, from said dollar-chasing. As Mel rounded the corner with Niko, they nearly collided with a tall, curly-haired—

“Omigawd, MEL!”

Mel swallowed hard. She recognized that visage. The light lilt of her voice. The same voice that had cried out in horror over a year ago at phantom insects crawling about her face. And so, too, came the feelings of shame, of having used this woman to access the astral plane. Once upon a time.

“K-Katrina?” she stammered as Niko rested an arm to steady her.

“Do you two…uh…know each other?” Niko finally asked, noticing a deep pause in conversation, Mel and Katrina staring at the other as if the other had two heads, before Mel broke contact.

“Uh, Katrina, she used to run the herb shop here—” Mel managed to speak at last. “She had to take, a…sabbatical—” Would she be anywhere but here…anywhere but here…Even now, the guilt at having derailed Katrina’s shopkeeping job ate away at her, regardless of permanence.

“But I’m back now, and cleared for deep meditation,” Katrina clarified, a hand reaching out to touch Mel’s arm before pausing mid-air to regard Niko closely. “And you are…?”

“Niko Hamada. Mel’s girlfriend,” Niko replied matter-of-factly as Katrina withdrew her arm, glancing once again at Mel before hastily striding past. “What was that about?”

Mel shook her head. “Long story.” They turned a corner to the main SafeSpace lounge next to the café. A table was set up for various activities—games, perhaps, some drinks, crafts, as Swan flitted from one end of the table to the other, before sampling one of the baked goods, declaring it—

“Deliciously gluten-free!”

“You do have other options besides gluten-free, right, Swan?” Mel spoke directly to the raven-haired lady.

“Umm…” Swan bit her lip before brightening. “Sugar-free, pea-flower-free, and dairy-free!”

“I mean…” Mel tried to word things as clearly as possible. “With usual flour, non-allergen-specific? For the common folk?”

Swan frowned, then nodded. “Ohhhh, yup! Definitely! We just got a batch from one of our newest in-house bakers!”

Niko tilted her head. “Wow, didn’t know you guys had in-house culinary staff—”

“Actually,” Mel thought aloud, “neither did I.”

“Well, technically, she’s a patron, but I sampled her muffins, and, wow!” Swan squealed, waving a figure over, a petite lady with lovely thick tresses, a most angular visage, and limber limbs. “There she is. RUBY!” Swan leaned over to whisper to Mel and Niko. “Ruby baked these really yummy muffins that had—”

“Let me guess, Maine blueberry and candied lemon zest?” Mel spoke up.

Swan nodded. “You’ve tried them too?”

“Awhile ago,” Mel blinked rapidly, aware Niko could sense a certain amount of awkwardness. “I mean, a really, really long time ago—” as Swan busied herself once more, this time with the impending baby Pictionary game.

“Mel,” Niko reached for her girlfriend’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s ok. You have a past. I get it.”

“Y-you do?”

“I mean, c’mon, everyone does. Greta, remember?”

Mel nodded. “Right. I mean. Yeah. Definitely.” And she began to wonder. “Swan? Swan! A word?”

“Yup?” Swan dashed right over, nearly careening with another SafeSpace patron as Niko strode to the café, intent on ordering coffee. “What is it?”

“Who,” Mel attempted to ask casually, “was responsible for the guest list?” Macy wouldn’t do this to her, would she? What about Maggie? Did she accidentally piss off her sisters?

Another high-pitched giggle. “Me, of course!”

“You?”

“Well,” Swan noticed Mel’s semi-horrified expression. “I mean, Macy has a lot going on with the baby, and Maggie and Jordan are in school, and you were away in Canada with Niko, so I decided to do the guest list myself. Did I do something wrong?”

“Besides invite two of my longtime exes?”

Swan’s lips made a shocked “O.” “I had no idea!” she muttered, blinking hard, as if trying not to cry. “Between choosing healthy gluten-free almond-free allergen-friendly food, getting the games together, running SafeSpace without Macy…things slipped through the cracks. And dealing with senior leadership and stakeholders and everyone wanting everything every minute of the day. And…I’m—I just—please don’t hate me…"

“Look, Swan, I don’t hate you. I’m just—surprised.”

“I can tell them to leave?”

Mel looked across the room at Katrina, who was now engaged in friendly conversation with Ruby, and sighed. “Never mind. It’s just an hour, or a couple hours tops. Right?”

Swan sighed in relief. “Thanks so much for understanding! I’ve got to get the non-helium environmentally-friendly balloon substitutes from the second floor—excuse me—” as she rapidly ascended the stair, just as someone, dressed in shocking pink, descended.

Who was that? Mel stepped closer just as the woman turned toward her. “HOLA PRIMA!”

Josefina.

Of course it was Josefina.

Same Day, One Hour Before Virtual Baby Shower, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

“And that’s why it’s awkward,” Mel recounted a nutshell version of her dating sagas to Josefina at the café countertop, obtaining caffeine before the event itself.

“Ay Dios mío,” Josefina exclaimed between sips of her own latte concoction. “And Swan seriously had no idea?”

Mel shook her head. “She didn’t run the guest list by Maggie. Thought she could do it all. Without asking.”

“Si,” Josefina responded. “Been there, done that. Learned that lesson,” she alluded to the smoking handbag that had magically held Macy and Jordan prisoner. “Lo siento, I still feel bad.” If Maggie and Mel hadn’t iced up the bag, if Macy and Jordan hadn’t found an escape, Mel’s soon-to-be niece would never have begun to exist. Certainly a chilling thought.

“Anyways,” Mel was keen to change the subject. “How’s life been after you went home?”

“Ay,” Josefina said with a now-cheeky smile. “Asumes que me fui a casa—” You assume I went home.

“You mean, you didn’t?” Mel frowned, now spotting Niko making conversation with Maggie and Jordan in the distance before centering her attention on Josefina. “Then where did you go?”

“Un misterio,” Josefina replied. A mystery. “Here and there, some apprenticeships, some good, some,” she gestured with her hand, “meh—”

“All to become a fully-trained witch?” Mel realized Josefina was taking charge of her future mystical education and couldn’t help but be impressed at her sheer gumption.

“Exactamente.” Exactly.

Same Day, One Hour Before Virtual Baby Shower, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

Noticing Mel chatting up who appeared to be her cousin, Katrina turned her attention once more to the Maine blueberry lemon zest muffin display before her. “Wow, those smell delicious—” taking one, she reached for a napkin and bit off a small piece. She could have sworn she saw sunshine in that moment, pure, undulating, and—“beautiful,” she half-murmured, half-groaned. What was in these, anyways?

“They certainly are,” smiled a petite woman before her, curly hair, lovely bronze hue and all. “I baked them—name’s Ruby—"

“Katrina,” as the women shook hands. A few more minutes passed as Katrina attempted to eat her muffin daintily, licking the candied lemon zest off her fingers. “I’m not like this usually, I actually have manners, I swear,” she laughed. “Who taught you to make such delicious muffins? With such entrancing herbal varieties?”

“My grandma,” answered Ruby. “She was one-of-a-kind. Magical. In more ways than one,” she reminisced briefly.

“Magical?” Katrina echoed. “How so?”

“Folks came from far and wide for her remedies. Could set a sandstorm free, whatever that meant. But I prefer to lay low.”

“Ditto,” Katrina nodded. “But your muffins, you’ve surely become very popular because of them?”

“I don’t actually bake that often. Just for…” Ruby bit her lip, glancing across the room at Mel, who was in deep conversation with Josefina. “Significant others. Past ones.”

“Ah. I see we have someone in common,” Katrina picked up on Ruby’s glance.

“You too?” Ruby looked puzzled. “But I thought you left…?”

“Awhile ago. After some…magical misgivings. It was short-lived though. With Mel. Not to say anything’s wrong with her, honestly, I had things to work through—” Mystical hallucinations, much?

“Me too,” Ruby interjected. “Made her muffins, wanted her to stay, but the magic—her magic—”

“It was a force to be reckoned with, no?” Katrina murmured as Ruby agreed wordlessly. “I think I’ve had enough magic to last me a lifetime,” as she laid a soft hand upon Ruby’s arm, the latter enjoying the gentleness of her touch.

“And I like living an ordinary life.”

The two women smiled at each other. “Are you free next weekend for brunch?” Ruby asked suddenly.

Katrina grinned, her visage positively glowing. “Brunch would be great.”

Noticing the festivities were soon to begin, they found seats next to each other as the Zoom screen came to life.

Same Day, Virtual Baby Shower, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy stared at the displayed photos of babies, all newborns, all pictures submitted by guests.

Guess everyone’s baby photo. And—GO!

Glancing at her pen and paper, she’d written down a couple of easy entries. Maggie’s photo displayed an unusual array of corkscrew curls. And of course, she recognized her own baby photo. Moving down the list, she noticed a dark-haired baby that appeared extremely tall. Jordan? Probably Jordan.

Next, she examined two photos side-by-side, both of which showed babies of East Asian descent. One was Niko’s, the other Swan’s. Whose was whose? Both had black hair, both were pale-complexioned. After some seconds, she examined both photos’ bassinets, the babies’ caps, and the babies’ swaddles. Niko was considerably taller than Swan, so Macy focused next on the babies’ estimated height, noticing one to be half an inch taller. Guessing Niko, she thought, jotting down Swan for the other entry.

Inches away from her, Harry jotted down his own guesses, though Macy couldn’t help but feel bad Harry wasn’t able to contribute his own baby photo, as it would have been too dated, the mimeographed edges too arcane to not attract notice that Harry was, in real human years, closer to a hundred years old than not.

DING! Swan’s timer went off as everyone turned up onscreen. She went through the photos one by one, seeing whose hands were up—who had guessed correctly. Macy was correct in guessing Jordan, but to her surprise, the taller baby was Swan, not Niko.

“I was born a couple of weeks premature,” Niko called out by way of explanation. “But I caught up soon after.”

Macy had guessed everyone else’s baby photo correctly, and recognized her own put up. Who guessed her correctly? She noticed that Jordan had. So had Maggie. But Mel—Macy noticed, with some dismay, that her hand remained down.

Don’t take it personally, she told herself. It’s not like Mel or Maggie even knew you existed till a couple of years ago. Don’t pin it on them. It’s not their fault—not—their—

The screen suddenly went black.

“DAMMIT!” Macy cursed aloud as Harry hastily reached for the power cord, which had unplugged itself possibly due to her own upset, causing the screen to peter out instantaneously.

“Love—it’s fine—see?” Harry scrolled the mouse, turned the machine back on, and logged back into the Zoom session, which indicated that there were ten minutes remaining.

“Macy, we almost lost you!” Swan’s voice rang out.

“I-I’m still here,” Macy managed. Still earthside. Still alive. Despite all the odds.

“And the winner is…” Swan regarded her tallies closely. “HARRY!”

Everyone cheered on Swan’s side of the screen as Macy mustered a laugh. Soon enough, the session was over and after giving various people her thanks (most notably Swan for organizing the shindig), Macy logged out and turned her computer off.

“Harry, you never told me you were so good at facial recognition.” Sometimes, she wondered what else, good or whatever, he was hiding, for he had led a very long life prior to her.

“Physiognomy,” he answered in one breath. “That is, an elective course I managed to take during the 1940s before the fad fell away."

“Which is…?”

“Study of human faces, determining what one’s personality is like based on such an assessment.”

“Ah.”

“But it was deemed inaccurate at times, and personality tests soon replaced it.”

“Inaccurate?”

“One subject had a Port wine birthmark across his visage, which made determining his personality particularly difficult. As you can very well imagine.”

“Right.” She couldn’t in all honesty, but nodded nevertheless. “Harry Greenwood,” she declared, resting an arm upon his shoulder as she stood up slowly, “you are a man of many talents.”

Same Day, One Hour After Virtual Baby Shower, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

While cleaning up the baby shower décor, Mel and Niko discussed their latest progress with Dr. Tanaka. It was a welcome change from the past coming back to haunt the middle-most Charmed One; that said, it seemed Katrina and Ruby were getting along very nicely, with a possible brunch date in the works, according to SafeSpace's rumor mill.

“It’s coming along slowly,” Niko said, removing a taped biodegradable streamer from a cement pillar. “But I don’t think he’ll be siphoning historical junctures anytime soon.”

“What makes you think that?” Mel asked, frowning.

“Just a feeling…”

“Niko…” Mel called after her girlfriend. “Niko, what did you do?”

Chapter Text

Outside Consulatório Obstetra, Bairro Antigo, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

"Sadist," Macy hissed under her breath as Harry half-led, half-pulled her away. Her last appointment, this time with an older nurse on staff, hadn't gone as she imagined.

"Perhaps you should give up carbs," the woman offered, in the same breath stating, "your baby's head is in the 75th percentile, weight over 6 pounds..." emphasizing the fetus' large (and healthy) abdomen, but Macy had tuned her out by then.

Does she know who I am? First dairy, then caffeine. All of it put her in a foul mood. More limitations. More restrictions. And it all kept piling up—

“Macy, please—”

Whipping her curls around, she gave her husband a pointed glare. “Do not ‘Macy’ me—”

Together, they continued to walk past the local lanes, sunlight glimmering through fanned ferns and palm fronds aplenty, the sounds of the local marketplace ringing from a distance. Fresh fruit smoothies. Jicama and spiced mango. Peppery flounder baked whole.

“She wasn’t trying to insult you—”

“Never said she was—” Then she sighed. It wasn’t Harry’s fault the baby had a large head and an equally healthy-sized abdomen. Well…technically it was…The words of her high school science teacher rang in her head. This is how babies are made. Genetic material from the mother, material from the father. Fifty-fifty. “Fifty-fifty,” she said aloud.

“Pardon?” Harry was confused. “Your gestational period’s coming to a close. And I don’t think I have the innate ability to shoulder the physical aspects. I may not be able to birth this baby from my loins, but I am trying to go above and beyond.”

“I know. I know. I’m just so—” Her hand flew out and he seized it as she simultaneously yelped. Damn pelvic pain. “Why didn’t anyone warn me about—this?” She gestured downward. Her pelvic bones had become differently aligned in the past few weeks due to the hormone relaxin, which was code for it always hurts to walk, and then some. Truth be told, it felt like every time she so much as moved wrong, it felt as though her cartilage was ripping. Or something like that. In a smaller voice, she continued. “Harry, I’m just…I’m so tired.”

“You’ve done an admirable job with our little one. Just a couple of weeks more,” came his reply as they rounded the corner, coming up on their cozy condo on Epicenter Pico.

Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After they both had something to drink (he an Earl Grey, she a sparkling pomegranate ginger ale), they continued what they had originally been doing before the earlier medical appointment, brainstorming names. Macy had reached 36 weeks, and according to medical searches online, early term was next week.

Lucinda had been Harry's suggestion. “How about it, love?” He smiled in a coaxing manner as Macy’s uncertain expression became one of thinly-veiled disgust.

"We're not naming her after Cinderella's evil stepsister."

"Oh, but it's such a lovely--"

"No."

"I only thought--"

"NO."

“Fine, then.” He took another few sips of his tea, staring into the distance. “What about…” he consulted a small notebook of his. “Fiona?”

Macy shook her head. “Too delicate-sounding. Too…princess-y.”

“Pamela?”

“Too seventies.”

“Annie Laurie?”

“Too…literary,” Macy responded, knowing in her heart the rationales she gave sounded ludicrous. Annie Laurie was a really poetic name from “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” after all. A rose with any other name would smell as sweet, no? “Don’t get me wrong, Har,” she continued, sipping her ginger ale. “They’re not bad, but they’re not…her.”

He nodded in understanding. “We’ll just have to find the right one, then.”

Rising from the crimson living room couch, Macy headed to the master bedroom to take a much-needed nap. Ever since reaching the third trimester, her sleep patterns had been unceremoniously interrupted at four o’clock in the morning, every morning. As in, the witching hour. Peaceful early morns had been replaced with a series of popping sensations, clicking of limbs, kicking of teeny tiny little legs, and the odd feeling of having what felt like a bowling ball in the base of her pelvis, with squirmy eels up top.

Pregnancy was…weird, she thought to herself, as she drifted off into an unsteady, unyielding sleep.

There she stood, lying in wait within a damp, dark cavern. ‘Easy peasy’ she spoke aloud, as if to reassure herself of her intentions matching the intended goal. Conquer the Whispering Evil. Lock it away in…she held a canister. Here goes nothing—instantly, she sensed a miasmic fog, the dimming of darkness itself until her environs had reached an inky onyx hue, completely devoid of light, laughter, and joy.

A cloud—she watched in horror as it headed closer, entrapping her within its thrall, as it consumed her, entering her, millions upon millions of glassy, mystical thorns making themselves known from the inside, as she fumbled for her marble, orbing away from the tunnel to the familiar confines of Vera Manor.

‘Mace, you’re hurt!’ Harry caught her in his grasp, rushing upward in one fell swoop to her bedroom, laying her down, pallor pale and ghostly grey, Mel and Maggie staring in disbelief and horror. The Whispering Evil was not supposed to be fatal. A cerebral nuisance, yes. A societal scourge, probably. But…this?

‘She…she can’t,’ Maggie whispered, cuddling up against Macy’s left as Mel took Macy’s right, atop the queen-sized bed. It’s too early. Please, not here. Not now.

‘We didn’t have enough time,’ muttered Mel between wiping her own cheeks with a sleeve. Not nearly enough, leastaways.

They saw Harry standing in the doorway, Macy’s eyes luminous despite her condition, her visage lifting just a millimeter. ‘Harry,’ her voice cracked. ‘I need…to talk…to…H…Harry.’ And so the sisters departed.

And suddenly, despite the pain, despite those infinitesimal shards running deep within her veins, despite it all, she felt the warmth of his embrace, and smiled through her tears. ‘It’s always been you—’

‘Oh, love…We could have had Paris,’ he breathed deep to steady himself, lest he full on sob in her presence. ‘We could have gotten married. We should have had years. Decades. A century, maybe.’

‘Our kids would’ve driven…us…nuts,’ she gasped back in response, citing an earlier conversation they’d had mere months before. A witch’s powers mixed with a Whitelighter’s. Orbing and potions, transfiguration and transmutation.

‘Aye,’ he nodded, responding hoarsely as he squeezed her hand. There wasn’t much time left. ‘Just know that I love you, Macy Vaughn. I loved you from the moment I saw you.’

‘When the globe nearly hit…y…your h…head?’

He laughed. Nearly cried. And nodded.

This made her smile. ‘Liar,’ she pronounced, as he squeezed her hand again. Thrice.

I…Love…You. Their secret code.

His visage ebbed and waned, her focus upon his own eyes fast dissipating, as light turned to darkness—

Macy awoke with a yelp, massaging her ribs. Her baby thought it would be fun to lodge itself up there, despite having moved downward within her body in recent weeks.

Would wonders never cease.

Almost as soon as she’d woken up, she had forgotten what she had dreamt, but it must have been particularly poignant. Or upsetting. Or both, given she found herself with a tear-streaked pillowcase.

Mel’s Bedroom, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Mel gasped as she spotted the online headline.

EXTRA, EXTRA: Crime Expert Missing—

Skimming the article, it seemed Dr. Tanaka had last been seen in Canada during an art relocation planning meeting. And before her sat Niko, holding a postcard of Ketchikan, Alaska, featuring blackberry bushes and what appeared to be a salmon fishery. Beyond its timbered cabin-like walls, she could faintly make out the words carved on a piece of its surface, in fine print.

I’ll love you dear, I’ll love you…till China and Africa meet, and the river jumps over the mountain, and the salmon sing in the street. -W.H. Auden

“Never thought you were the sentimental type,” remarked Mel as she moved forward, bridging the space between them for a kiss.

“Well…I do enjoy surprising you, now and again,” Niko replied moments later, their hair slightly more mussed in the intervening moments.

Mel paused, staring at the postcard again, noticing a dark-haired, possibly Asian male figure glancing out the cabin’s window. “Wait a second—is that—?”

“Some things are better left unsaid,” answered Niko with the barest hint of a smirk, and Mel understood it would be awhile before she understood the full meaning of everything. “Trust me, it’s better this way.”

And somehow, Mel would have to learn to do precisely that, realizing that somehow, without so much as uttering the word “magic,” Niko in her own right had become an extraordinarily powerful witch, whether she realized it or not.

Next Evening, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

After a lovely dinner of steak, rice, and fresh-braised zucchini courgette by candlelight, the pair began to dance to an Ed Sheeran “Thinking Out Loud” cover, an entrancing piano and cello duet. The biophysical profile done that very day had indicated a strong little girl, with mighty little legs, Whitelighter properties, and a well-sustained placenta and umbilical cord. Macy could not quite exhale, having known her own birth origin all too well, but it was reassuring nonetheless. I can't wait till you're earthside, and in my arms. And the music continued.

When your legs don't work like they used to before