Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ouch!” Macy winced as she removed a set of small, chubby fingers from her mahogany curls, a shade darker than her little one’s corkscrew own, which enveloped her tiny visage akin to a cherub. “Mommy’s hair is not for pulling—”

“Need a hand love?” Harry’s eyes peered across the room at his wife and young daughter. Maya.

She shook her head. “Just hurry up and take the photo? Please?” The last word came as if a plea, and Harry wished to acquiesce, though his understanding of modern photographic technology was woefully bereft. If only Jordan were here, he thought to himself, but knew he would dare not contact the young man, as he himself was off in Seattle covering an extremely important high-profile pro bono case in circuit court.

Harry stared at the camera again, willing himself to pick the right button. Alright, well…he supposed cameraphone was the more appropriate term, as this particular portable device was used both to contact people and to take photos. But placing the electronic object on a tripod seemed to further complicate matters, as he pressed what he thought was the photo button, which instead provided some sort of a countdown…

He studied the layout again, a large emerald potted plant to the left, a taupe woven wicker basket filled with the loveliest, fluffiest faux fur pearl-hued blanket, and a cream-colored chaise upon which was a tea-colored silk throw draped at the left, as his wife, dressed in a sleeveless-yet-sublimely elegant sea green floral gown, attempted to calm a most energetic Maya Madalena, currently sporting a little island dress of pale damask pink. Macy’s eyes were attuned to Maya’s quick-fire movements, her right hand draped over the small of Maya’s back, her left steadying her daughter on the other side. His wife appeared as if she were giving whispered words of wisdom, waxing philosophic, giving motherly advice, or any number of wise and wonderful things, and for the briefest of moments when Maya wasn’t wriggling about, she seemed to listen to her mum. Almost, he thought with a smile.

Click! A second later, the camera went off, the image popping up within the saved pictures section of the cameraphone. Oh. “Bollocks—” he muttered aloud, waking Macy from her reverie, or whatever she had been dreaming and scheming with the child. Their child. How long ago it seemed, he mused to himself, that he had been a father to Carter. And how impossible he thought it would be, that he would ever become a father yet again. But then came magical, curious, beautiful Macy, scientist extraordinaire, who had turned his Whitelighter world inside-out and upside-down, for the better. At Macy’s inquisitive expression, he hastened to explain. “The camera,” he stated. “It went off—I hadn’t realized it had a timer, love, my apologies—shall I delete it?”

“NO!” Macy exclaimed, then as Harry regarded her curiously, softened her tone. “I mean, no. Harry—” her hand was outstretched now. “Can I…I mean…may I see it? The photo?”

Hesitating, Harry removed the cameraphone from the tripod, placing the device in her hands as she hurriedly flipped to the image in question, sucking her breath in sharply. “Love, I—I didn’t know about the timer—I wish it were different—” He imagined a straightforward photo, a mother with her baby seated atop the lap, possibly unsmiling, serious, but nevertheless one for those heirloom family albums his family used to have back in Manchester. “It’s not how I imagined—” For half a millisecond, he wished he were a more modern man, adept at all things technologic and otherwise.

She handed him the phone back. “It’s not. It’s better," she remarked with the faintest quirk of an eyebrow, as if to add, wordlessly so, and stop apologizing, for heaven's sake.

“Really?”

Macy nodded, pulling out a much older photo from her dress pocket, yellowed with age, the one that had created the idea for this photo shoot in the first place. “And we can take many more.”

He drew nearer, sitting, gently placing Maya into his lap as Macy took her turn, placing the cameraphone back into the tripod for a series of timed photos before racing back to the chaise in time for the first of many family photos that day.

Inside the refrigerator, there was an almond cream cake filled with kiwi fruit, papaya, and berries of every size and type, plus freshly-squeezed guava juice, courtesy of Morgana's friends from Faial Market on the adjoining isle. Champagne for the adults, too. Family would gather upon the balcony in several more hours to regale little Maya with “Happy Birthday!” singing and plenty of presents (some practical, like clothes or books, others less so, like loud clanging light-up toys), but here, in this place, right here, right now, Macy was filled with joy at having had a year of her daughter. And seeing Harry grow and evolve as a father.

A few more minutes passed as the last of the photos were taken. “How do they look?” Harry asked, somewhat anxious about the results, as Macy flipped through them once more.

Placing the device facedown onto the coffee table before them the next moment, she reached over Maya’s curls to kiss Harry. “Absolutely picture perfect,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

It was the smell of burning paper that roused her.

Slowly, carefully, Macy disentangled Harry’s arm, wound close around her nightgown as she pulled herself into a soporific sitting position. Suppressing a yawn, she glanced outside, taking in the scent of neighbor (and cousin) Matias’ melagueta peppers and clove pods growing upon his balcony porch. The chirping crickets, swaying palm trees, and warm Azorian twilight, too, shining in the glow of the slivered moon.

Opening the door to the right of their shared bedroom, she climbed the winding wrought-iron staircase, intricately carved in loops and whorls and phantasmic blossoms, until she arrived at the second floor, the cool bamboo surface kissing the soles of her feet.

Macy carefully studied the three bedrooms, listening for any signs of mischief or other miscreant behavior. First, outside her eldest, her half Whitelighter Maya’s bedroom, hearing a soft snore emanating from within, juxtaposed with the cool island breeze from her cracked-open window. Then, the oldest of her two younger children (fraternal twins)—Henry’s room was silent, and he was no doubt exhausted from his earlier hiking adventure with his father, having built a makeshift fort and an improvised firepit to cook comestibles to receive his latest cub scouts merit badge.

She moved onto little Matilda’s room. Her crimson-haired child, with a spritely personality to match, who was more in likeness to Morgana, Matias’ on and off-again female companion (even long after their decades-ago divorce). The odor—Macy pushed the door open—it wasn’t fully shut.

There, in the corner of her littlest one’s bedroom, she saw her child curled up in a ball in the corner, lip quivering at the exploded firelight within her trash bin.

“Aguamenti,” whispered Macy, as the fire quickly extinguished itself. She flew toward Matilda, the child extending her arms to be held, and together they hugged for several long seconds, which extended into minutes.

Lip quivering, wiping her eyes on Macy’s nightgown sleeve, Matilda lifted her head, surveying the smoldering ash splattered across the floor.

"Mommy, am I broken?"

Macy paused, turning slowly, studying her daughter’s visage; she opened her mouth to speak but no words came out at first. Then, straightening her nightgown, Macy found her voice. "Why would you say that?"

“F-Flames, Mommy. IliLusherskrtinfrrrr…” The last sentence was muffled as Matilda had buried her head in Macy’s shoulder once more.

“Come again, sweetie? That last bit?”

“I…I lit Lucia's skirt on fire. A-at daycare today. I didn’t mean to—”

Oh no. Macy thought back hours before, when she had been preoccupied with Maya’s orbing within her grade school. Granted, it helped her get to classes on time when the buildings were so far apart, but there were stern words said. When Macy had arrived afterward at Morgana’s to pick Matilda up, it had been a rather hurried affair. “Morgana never mentioned—”

“S-she got r-rid of the flame.”

Macy sighed. There was so much about child-rearing she never knew, or child interactions generally, having grown up isolated as an only child reared by a strict, quiet, no-nonsense father who wasn’t too keen on playdates. She made a mental note to cross-check things with Morgana but trusted the aged woman’s judgment. As long as there was no blood or trips to the hospital, folks were typically in the clear. “And Lucia?”

“I ‘pologized. She’s ok.”

“Good.” Macy gently combed her fingers through Matilda’s curly hair, which closely resembled her own in texture. There wasn’t really a rulebook on how to comfort one’s child after said child performs an act of mystical, unintentional pyromania, though in that moment, she wished with all her heart there were. And she really hoped Lucia’s parents were not the litigious sort.

What do I say? How should I act?

As if in answer, her mind flickered back to the night she discovered her own pyro powers, and the resultant conversation behind covered cloth with Marisol. It was brave, matter-of-fact, and thus Macy continued to speak.

“Sweetie, can you tell me why Lucia’s skirt was on fire?”

Matilda shrugged, herself run out of tears to weep. “I dunno.”

“Were you angry?” Macy put on a mock-frowning face for emphasis as Matilda bit her lip, then nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Lucia was playing on the swings and I was supposed to get a turn. She didn’t give me a turn.”

“Did you remind her nicely and say ‘please?’” Macy was about to mention ‘please’ was the magic word, but truthfully, between Maya’s illicit orbing and Matilda’s flames, she’d had more than enough of magic for one day, though she did not show it.

“Yeah.”

“But she didn’t give you a turn?” Matilda shook her head.

“Did you tell Morgana?”

“Morgana was helping cousin Tory draw a snowflake. Tory grew up here with hot weather. Tory doesn’t know what snow looks like.”

Right. “Ok, I know cousin Tory’s never seen snow. But. Anyways. Then what happened?”

“Lucia stuck her tongue out—and I got so angry—and—and t-then—f-flames—” Matilda stopped, her eyes growing large at the memory.

“Then you lit Lucia’s skirt on fire?”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“Sweetie, I know,  I know…” Macy kissed Matilda’s forehead softly. “Sometimes, when people don’t do what we expect or want, it can make us really upset. But you can’t go around setting fires to solve problems.”

“She said I was broken.”

“Lucia?”

“Uhhuh.”

Macy sighed. “You're not broken. You're my daughter. And my statement still stands.”

“Why?” Matilda’s emerald eyes gazed up, almost piercingly so.

“Because, sweetie, if you set fires everywhere, then nobody else can use those toys or do anything fun. Not just Lucia, but Henry too, and Maya. Fires can cause pain, burns, and make people really sad. They can even hurt animals if it gets too big. But fires are pretty outside when camping with marshmallows. There’s always a time and a place.”

“But I can’t control it!”

“Matilda,” Macy levelled with her youngest. “You can, and you will.”

“How?” Matilda looked at her own tiny hands, comparing them to Macy’s slender own.

A thought crept into Macy’s head at that moment. “How would you like to get your ears pierced tomorrow? To get special jewelry that’ll help control the flames?” She thought back to Mel and certain types of enchanted jewelry in her possession. Ones that would dampen intense magic until children were old enough to control things; for earrings, one quick twist and magic levels could be adjusted.

Matilda squealed. Earrings! “Mommy, really?” Maya didn’t have pierced ears.

Macy nodded. “Honestly, I thought we wouldn’t have this talk for another…ten years. But I think it’s time you learned. Promise me though…”

“Anything!”

“Don’t go lighting Lucia’s skirt on fire ever again. Or anybody else’s clothes at daycare. Or anything for that matter. Count to ten if you feel angry and need to breathe, ok?”

Matilda nodded repeatedly.

“Promise?”

“I promise, Mommy.”

“Good. Well—” Macy lifted the child back onto the bed beside them. “I’m glad we had this little chat. Why don’t you get some sleep, and we’ll talk again in the morning?”

They kissed goodnight; Macy rose and made for the threshold—

“Mommy?” Matilda’s voice called out in the darkness.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Macy smiled. “I love you too, my fiery princess.”

Chapter Text

“Make a wish!” Macy indicated at the two, her youngest, soon to enter first grade—Henry, a thoughtful contemplative boy, and next to him, Matilda, the one curly-haired redhead of the family. Her born philosopher, and her fiery princess both.

“May I?” Matilda pointed at the two-layered cake, comprised of dulce de leche and coconut cream, with six unlit birthday candles atop.

Macy nodded as the young girl’s face brightened. Squinting her eyes closed, Matilda took a deep breath, then exhaled, flicking a finger across all of the candles, setting each and every one aglow.

Beautiful, Harry thought to himself, holding their older daughter Maya’s hand. Entrancing, that. He thought of his last date night with his wife at the local black box theater, a production of Marcella De La Luz Lights the World.

Matilda would too, he was sure of that, her fire powers inherited by blood through her mother. As for Henry? In magical fantasy parlance, he was…well…a squib. No magic detected of any sort, despite his own efforts at producing such. Rorsach flashcards had been employed to sense Henry’s inner workings, those blobs, whether they resembled moths or butterflies, or cloned zebras.

Part of him felt sad. Not at Henry’s inability to do magic, really—just the sense that somehow, their little boy was missing out on a part of the world the rest of the family shared and held dear. What would happen when the boy grew older, and missions were conducted abroad, overseas? But then again, he’d faced this on a more stateside level with Jordan, then a mere mortal, and the lad had come out fairly unscathed. Harry hoped for his own son’s sake, that that outcome could be replicated.

On the other hand, Harry thought of Matilda’s fire powers, previously uncontrolled at daycare, not to mention Maya’s orbing abilities at the most inopportune times, especially when the child didn’t want to eat her vegetables. One snap of her fingers, and she was away feeding the ducks at the local park’s pond. Mel had designed an anti-magic shield within the kitchen after that, but it seemed magic could be as much boon as it was burden.

He and Macy both had spent countless nights at the dining room table, drawing out charts and diagrams and discussing how to parent such differently-abled children. What rules could apply to Maya, that wouldn’t necessarily apply to Henry? What if Matilda lit her homework on fire? How would they explain how Maya cut class and ended up at a kitten shelter, happily brushing the local tabbies?

There was never a dull moment.

As the festivities continued and everyone lined up for a slice of cake, Henry turned to him. “Daddy, how did you find out about me and Matilda?”

Harry chewed a forkful of (delicious, scrumptious!) cake, then put his fork down. "Well…" he noticed Macy approaching. “How about we let your mother tell the tale?”

Several Years Ago…

Harry and Macy stared at the pink and blue glitter, utterly confused. Boy or girl? "Suppose Morgana got it wrong?" The Whitelighter ventured aloud, though he was certain enough the lady’s faculties were quite intact.

Macy shook her head. “Morgana doesn't make mistakes," though Harry sensed some hesitation. They glanced about them in the solarium, spider vines winding their way across the various windowsills, mugwort and fern sprouting in the opposite corner. Macy thought back to those gender reveals gone awry she’d seen on social media. An excited couple, opening an envelope, popping a balloon…pink? Blue? Both. And confused expressions too…

The next morning, Macy found herself at Morgana's garden, sipping iced guava juice with the woman. The journey there had taken no time at all, with a glassy marble snatched from the recesses of SafeSpace’s Command Center. A knock at the garden gate caused it to swing open, and she was happily welcomed by the crimson-haired lady who appeared to be pruning her orange tree, one of many cultivars sprouting in her garden. And Morgana was ever the consummate hostess—fresh drinks and healthy snacks aplenty.

Macy took another sip before beginning the discussion, which she had mentally rehearsed before arriving. "Morgana, did you...uh...make a mistake?"

The lady peered down her pince-nez. "I never make mistakes."

The oldest Charmed One pulled out the now-creased envelope. "A rainbow baby having her own baby?" The term ‘rainbow baby’ of course, referring to herself, though her own birth had been unusual, necromancer and all. But even as she voiced that aloud, she knew it didn't make sense. After all, Maya's impending arrival was announced by a bevy of pink sparkles. And pink only. Why should the second time be any different?

Morgana shook her head. "Nope. That typically includes a celestial event. Or an actual rainbow. Remember?"

And suddenly, Macy did, thinking back to when Harry wheeled her out of the Azorian hospital a few short years before, squirming bundle in her arms. Look...he had said, pointing skyward. A rainbow...hidden between palm trees and the morning dew.

Macy thought some more. "Then...a child with both parts?"

"Intersex? Hardly," scoffed Morgana. "Your latest scan did not show that rare fetal event. The sparkles would've been emerald green."

The young woman wracked her brain. "Transgender?"

Morgana shook her head, biting her lip to hide a smile. "Usually that's found out once the child is born and discovers who they truly are. And we love them for them. But for purposes of this particular glitter at this specific moment...no. Besides," Morgana noted with a twinkle in her eye, "such sparkles may be purple...lined with gold."

"Sounds fancy..."

The crimson-haired lady nodded. "It certainly is. And quite celebrated in this magical island community, might I add."

"Um..." Again Macy pondered. "What about...LGBTQ?" She pictured a little Mel, adorable and stubborn, imagining her indignant, hands on her hips, mouth pursed into a pout.

"Rainbow glitter, that."

So...no. Pink definitely meant girl...so a..."Girl?" Macy spoke slowly. Morgana nodded. "Blue...boy...so..." Macy's voice trailed off. Suddenly, an idea surfaced, as impossible as it seemed. “What if there are…”

Morgana nodded. "It's as simple as that, dear. There are two."

Later, after the story’s retelling, when the children gathered in Vera Manor Garden for games, Macy reached over, ruffling Harry’s hair, silvery at spots, a smile creasing his cheeks, none the worse for the wear. The birthday boy and girl had made their wish, and it would be time for presents soon enough.

“And you, love?” Harry whispered, squeezing her hand. “What do you wish for?”

Macy thought back to all those years ago in SafeSpace, namely, Harry’s impassioned speech. Skinned knees, birthday parties, a family, football games, future proms, maybe a future wedding...or three. All of this...plus more. She squeezed his hand, thrice, code for I love you.

And he understood.

Chapter Text

"Have we decided?"

"Hm?" Harry lowered the newspaper he held, his eyes darting past his morning espresso to his darling wife of a few years, Macy. "About..."

"The jolly old man. Uh," Macy lowered her voice. "S-A-N-T-A," she spelled out, her eyes darting upward.

“San—” began Harry, far too loudly.

“Shhh!” She pointed toward the stairs. Maya, she mouthed. “Alias K-R-I-S K-R-I-N-G-L-E.”

His mouth puckered into a frown. “I know who he is—” Harry thought back to holidays in Manchester as a young lad, fidgeting through midnight services, darting toward the family tree, holding a present, albeit a small one, to his ear, jingling it this way and that to try and guess the mystery item within, before his own father returned from the pub reeking of ale, boxing his ears moments later. It hadn’t been completely bleak though—he remembered his mum’s cooking.

Roast with Yorkshire pudding, the sweet cardamom-clove spiced gingerbread from scratch. And those same biscuits, once cooled down, set together with confectionary icing made from a simple recipe of powdered sugar and cream. Decorations too, those ‘hundreds and thousands’ rainbow sprinkles he was so fond of, plus those chocolate nonpareils and cinnamon red hots—

“But do we want her to?” Macy’s words jolted Harry from his nostalgic reverie. Her, of course, being Maya.

It had been a matter of considerable debate. Pros and cons of whether their three young ones should maintain that magical mythology, of which Harry was a fan, for his own childhood had been so bleak besides that one bright spot, or defer to realism like Dexter had. That every gift came from Dexter. Macy had grown up knowing from an early age there was no such thing as Santa. But should she foist that onto the kids, Maya age 4 and the twins, Matilda and Henry, age 15 months? 

She remembered walking to the tree each Christmas day. No running, Macy, came the admonishment if ever she forgot. There was really no reason to check the tags; whatever presents hadn’t come from relatives through the mail, plus ones she’d hand-picked and wrapped herself for her father, were undoubtedly hers.

Predictable? Very.

Lonely? Definitely.

And a part of her, deep down, wondered whether she was capable of creating the very image of Christmas that she herself had never had—loud, family-filled, kid-friendly, and…most of all…silly and, well, fun. Sure, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” each year had its own joys, but she wondered what it would have been like to watch those Disney “Once Upon a Christmas” holiday specials, in bright technicolor animation.

And sure, as a single child at the time, Macy didn’t exactly want for much in the way of material goods, but when making gingerbread houses alone in the kitchen after Dexter went to sleep, exhausted from work, she wondered what type of holiday other kids had.

Did they spend till midnight Christmas Eve piping each Royal icing icicle onto the gingerbread house’s front? Did a little sibling scatter sprinkles everywhere, eliciting frustration and amusement?

Each M&M would find a place upon each dot of icing on the house’s sides, color-coordinated. Blue on one row. She would place several mini candy canes in a single sandwich Ziploc bag, using a butter knife to its outside to chop the candy into tinier pieces, creating a mock picket fence perimeter.

Then, she might have retrieved those candied grapefruit slices, cutting them one-by-one into thin slivers for additional wintry effect. She wondered whether others’ Christmases were nearly so isolated, or so quiet. Dexter was a light sleeper and didn’t like having Christmas music at loud volumes as a consequence. It was all she had ever known for decades, until she learned of Mel and Maggie, of course.

Again, she thought of her oldest. Maya was finally at an age she could enjoy the fun of unwrapping presents and decorate gingerbread. The works. So why on earth did Macy have such misgivings? Somehow, she felt that letting them believe in Santa meant lying to them, with a surge of betrayal years later once the truth was artlessly discovered by way of taunting peers. She'd seen others go through it. At the same time, Macy knew her non-belief in Santa played more than a little role in her reluctance to accept that telekinesis was a thing, once upon a time.

In the way of myths and tales, was it better to have loved and lost, rather than never loved at all? 

Harry reached over for a thick slice of gingerbread laden with clotted cream and a paper-thin slice of gourmet candied orange, but Macy's sight pulled it just out of reach.

"Nuh-uh. Answer first."

A heavy sigh emanated as Harry folded the newspaper, tossing it aside. "Love, it should be a mutual decision..."

"This isn't my area of expertise..."

"MOMMY!!!"

Both froze. "Later," Harry whispered as he orbed upstairs. That way was the fastest, after all. Macy glanced over at the untouched gingerbread she'd baked earlier that morning. She made to do the dishes, thinking how ironic it was that magic missions weren't the trickiest part of parenthood. This was. The whole 'Santa' thing.

Belief in a mythical creature that clearly didn't exist. 

But are you certain? Since you never believed as a child?

This she was unsure.

Then, an idea came to her.

"Mace, this is bloody ridiculous!" 

He stared at himself in the living room mirror as Macy bit back a laugh. His slacks and silken dress shirt had been replaced by fluffed white cuffs, a red furry outfit, a jolly-but-sagging crimson hat, and black-strapped boots.

A secondhand Santa suit.

"I'm just trying to visualize..." She tilted her head this way and that. "I'm new to this."

"There's photos of Santa on every billboard." Every magazine, every television advert. Is this really necessary, love? The beard was quite itchy too...

Still, she wordlessly pleaded. For me?

He turned his attention to his midsection, adjusting a gigantic faux gold belt buckle several sizes too large, then clacked his heels for good measure (also to check whether this wasn’t just a simulation crystal experiment). It was not.  At his side was a gigantic canvas sack containing Lord-knows-what.

“Let Maya decide?”

"Oh fine," he huffed, picking up the sack, heading feet away to the front entrance, knocking against the closed door, once—twice—

“SANTA!!!!!!!” An earsplitting shriek could be heard from the head of the stairs. Maya, freshly awake from her afternoon nap.

“No orbing, Maya, walk down—” Macy began, but rather than comply, Maya disappeared for a few long seconds, reappearing holding hands with a tired Henry on her left, Matilda on her right, rubbing her eyes. Then, a slow walk down the staircase went the tiny trio.

Several minutes later, the children landed on the final step. “You’re REALLY here!” Maya scream-shouted excitedly, gesturing wildly. “See?” She turned to the twins. “That’s Santa. Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, and he brings toys and candy and—” her voice growing exponentially more and more high-pitched as she began jumping up and down. “I never thought you’d come and youdidyoudidyoudid!”

Finished with her spiel, she dove-bombed the figure, hugging him tightly around his faux gold-buckled midsection. “I’ve been really good this year!”

‘Santa’-really-Harry and Macy exchanged dubious looks.

“Sorta…good,” Maya corrected herself. “Except for orbing to Central Park fountain with cousin Tory and getting soaked. But I’ve been mostly good!”

Points for honesty. Harry performed his best impression of the jolly fellow, clutching at his sides, laughing, “ho-ho-ho!” Then he opened the sack, pulling out a giant candy cane for Maya, decorated with mini sugar elves on the sides, plus mini squishy toys for the littler ones. “Mus’ get going,” he stated. “Visiting kids all over the world.” Smiling, he knelt and cupped Maya’s cheek. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

Maya nodded fervently. “We all will.”

“Lovely. And a happy Christmas to all!” Again a booming laugh before Macy opened the front door and he stepped through, quickly orbing upstairs to their locked bedroom where he quickly changed to his usual garb, dress shirt, slacks, and all, nearly tripping over the buckled shoes in his haste.

Mere moments later, a rapid set of knocks issued from just outside the hallway. “Daddydaddydaddy!” came an ecstatic shriek. “You won’t GUESS who visited us today!”

Several hours later, all the children sound asleep, Macy met Harry in the solarium, fire merrily crackling away, stockings set up, with chocolate chip walnut cookies and eggnog on offer. “A toast to the handsomest, well-dressed Santa?” she proposed, a sly twinkle in her eye as Harry nodded, taking the proffered beverage. Together they snacked, enjoying a semblance of holiday cheer while the rest of the house was in slumber. Mel was away keeping an eye on Epicenter Pico (and getting a free vacation of it), and Maggie and Jordan were having a much-deserved, much-needed couple’s week away in sunny Costa Rica.

Then a thought popped into Macy’s head as she laid down the flute of eggnog.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?”

She bit into a cookie and chewed slowly, savoring the semisweet chocolate and roast walnut. “What about introducing them to Krampus?”

Harry cringed. The Austrian-German vaguely monstrous double-horned nightmare-inducing creature?

“Kidding! Jeez, Harry…” Macy watched as he realized she was joking, though he gave it some reflection, between another two sips of what was possibly the best (and booziest) eggnog he had ever had.

“Perhaps during the rebellious teenage phase?”

Macy cheekily grinned. “I wholeheartedly agree," using her telekinesis to put the earlier Santa hat atop Harry's head, not a moment later.

Chapter Text

Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Harry glanced at the combined detritus of lactation cookies (coconut, chocolate, oat, baker’s yeast, flaxseed), half-sodden burp cloths, and spilt milk and sighed. Things just weren't the same any more. Those nights spent orbing into the heart of Paris, traipsing along the Seine, arm-in-arm...

Gone were the nights at L'Étoile Bistro...

After Maya’s birth, he and Macy continued staying at the so-called “nesting room,” rooming-in with their newborn daughter as they adjusted to being a family of three. And today had been the day after their discharge from said nesting room. They had returned home to Epicenter Pico No. 23, Harry forever glad to be rid of the nesting room altogether. Despite its lofty architecture and sunlit tiled awning, the shower’s water pressure was absolutely abysmal (to him anyways), and it just did not feel quite like home as their own condo did, kitchen island and all.

“Feed Maya every three hours—”

“P-pardon?”

“Harry, eight times a day,” clarified Morgana crisply, glancing at the British gent through her lowered pince-nez, before departing the nesting room, a clarion call emanating forth from within just after—

Maya’s face was beet red, her tiny fingers balled into irate angry potato fists. ‘Feed me now,’ her body language seemed to say—

He shook his head, recounting his last conversation with Morgana.  Every three hours? Lord, it was a miracle if he could manage that.

Between fighting monsters while Macy recovered postpartum, and reconciling himself to the fact his ambiguously-mortal body wasn’t quite what it use to be, he knew he had his work cut out for him. He picked a piece of paper off of the living room table, in Macy’s distinctive handwriting. Maya’s feeding schedule, it said. It looked utterly exhausting.

Just then, he glanced at an ornamental mirror, reflecting the inside of their master bedroom, and Macy herself, conked out in bed from the rigors of childbirth, hair askew, her maternity blouse dotted with spit up. He thought back to their time rooming-in.

Hours crawled by in the nesting room. Wailing, on Maya’s part. Singing, by Macy. Every single musical, and then some, poured forth from her mellifluous lips.

Then…quiet, as Maya’s temper was momentarily satiated by her mother’s milk. With that came the break of a new dawn, fresh, clementine clouds overlaying a blazingly fierce sunrise. And with the sunrise came breakfast trays, a bit sparse and somewhat economical. Commercially-packaged range juice, Arabica coffee, a muffin. Maybe a vegetable omelet if one was lucky.

“No scones?” Somehow, due to sheer sleep deprivation, his filter escaped him, as he detected a glare from Macy’s general direction. Oh, bollocks...

“Just EAT, Harry.” A statement, not a question, from his beloved wife.

Despite his better judgment, and his severe want of clotted cream, strawberries, and fresh-baked British scones and the like, he decided he valued his life enough to keep his mouth shut. Rooting around the breakfast tray, he half-heartedly reached for what appeared to be a blueberry muffin. Suppressing a cringe, he closed his eyes, taking a bite.

Utterly disgusting.

The texture of wet sandpaper, he was horrified that the maternity ward served such things as these to previously-pregnant women, especially on an island known for its unique cultural history and culinary prowess. He wondered if this was what typical Americans ate on the regular, based on his experiences and recollections of Hilltowne, overhearing collegiate conversations about culinary malfunctions. If so, he certainly felt pity for his cross-the-pond counterparts. This baked good was somewhat gummy, as if a primary schooler had forgotten to add baking soda, then decided to add room-temperature applesauce (wholly unnecessary) at sporadic, altogether peculiar, temper tantrum-fueled rates.

And suddenly, an idea came to him.

Three Hours Later…

“What’s all this, Har?” Macy had been coaxed out of their bedroom, into the living room, now decked in ambient fairy lights, the living room table now laden with crisp pommes frites (French Fries), gourmet aioli, relish, raw oysters, citron, escargot, and more. “This smells amazing. But—where? How?”

“I heard,” Harry spoke slowly, “that L'Étoile Bistro opened a Brasserie recently. So I decided on takeaway.” He studied her astonished visage. “Unless, of course, you don’t…like…it?”

As if in answer, Macy brought a garlic-seasoned escargot to her lips, tasting its briny freshness and sauced pesto-like puree.

“I love it. Thanks, Harry,” she added.

“It’s the very least I could do for the mother of my child,” answered Harry, himself uttering a low groan upon tasting the crisp, salty fries. How did the French create such delicious food?

Perhaps long gone were the days of the Bistro, but the Brasserie certainly beckoned.

And suddenly, despite the sleep-deprivation that plagued them both, he welcomed parenthood with wide-open arms and a steadfast heart.

Chapter Text

Midnight, Morgana’s House, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

The auburn-haired woman answered the phone, groggily so. “H-Hello?”

“Oh my God Morgana!” A young woman hissed on the other end. “You have to help me, Harry’s driving me insane, I swear it’s like he wants to—”

“Macy?!” Morgana blinked, her eyes adjusting to her device’s fluorescent-like lighting. “Why do you call at so late an hour?” Disturbing her one day off, too, but surely this was urgent. “Is it Maya?”

“Yes?” Macy seemed less certain. “And…uh…no?”

“Do explain?” She had a sixth sense, pushing her pince-nez glasses up, that she was in for a very, very long evening up.

“He’s—he’s too helpful—”

Morgana’s mouth pursed. “Too…helpful?” She thought back to the others she’d helped along the path to begetting their child. Or children. The men were generally of average aptitude and eager to learn and contribute. Occasionally, there was the one man who didn’t understand the rigors of childbirth and the postpartum period, but those could always be reformed. Was Harry one of those? Surely not…and ‘too helpful?’ What on earth—

“I’m a prisoner in my own home,” came the next utterance.

“Come again?!” She’d have Harry’s hide for this. “I can come by and—” But what could she, an octogenarian, do these days? Tell him to fob off?

“No—don’t, please don’t—I just—I don’t know what to do—”

“Dear, take a deep breath.” And to her relief, Macy did.

“I’m so…restless. And my stitches are almost healed. I need to leave the bedroom and just, I don’t know, be. Go to the beach. See the sunrise. Do all of the things. But Harry thinks I’m such a fragile doll. He won’t even let me take the dishes to the sink. And he doesn’t want either of us to ever leave Maya’s sight. I mean, I get it, it’s his daughter. But it’s getting ridiculous. You know, the other day, when Mel volunteered to drop in, he got so goddamn testy and called me a hypocrite and muttered something about outsourcing parental care—”

“He did WHAT?!”

“Morgana, you gotta help me—please—” Macy hissed the last few syllables. “Harry’s not himself—he’s running himself ragged, and he—and we—we’re taking it out on each other. We just need a moment away. You can understand, can’t you?”

“Yes.” Morgana silently wracked her brain for a possible solution. “You did say Harry had an interest in fine arts?”

“Theater, Puccini, that stuff—”

The elder woman began formulating a plan. “Dear, leave it up to me. I got this—”

“I hope you do—” Macy muttered. “I just feel so—” She paused, trying to find the right words. “Tired. Everything in my body hurts. And Harry won’t lay off. I just feel so—so—broken—” her voice cracked as she thought of the past twenty-four hours of a very colicky Maya, who had eaten twice the normal rate of milk, and screamed thrice as loudly.

“Trust me. I’ll handle it.”

Next Day, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“Madalena Village has an opera house?” Harry tilted his head, equal parts intrigued and wary. “I didn’t know.”

“Harry, there are lots of things you don’t know—” Morgana began but broke off. “Point is, I snagged two tickets—one for you, one for Macy. Your wife begged—er, I mean—mentioned you wanted to go to the theater. And it’s Puccini, one of your favorites, tonight—”

“What about Maya?” His eyes veered to the tiny form situated in the mini crib, so helpless, so dear.

“I’ll watch her, the dear.”

“But you’ve never been a mother.”

This, of course, earned him a swift, sharp jab to the shoulder courtesy of Macy herself. “Sorry, Morgana, Harry’s sleep-deprived and doesn’t have a filter.” Well, that and postpartum anxiety.

“Harold Greenwood.” Morgana stared down at Harry, a formidable feat as she was certainly shorter than him. “I am the head of obstetrics, which requires knowledge of the female body, basic infant pediatrics, CPR, NICU babies, and far more. Are you insinuating I don't know the care and keeping of babies?”

“Oh.” His cheeks colored as he realized just how asinine he came off. “I mean...fresh air will be good?”

Her eyes traveled to Macy. “Yes. For the both of you.”

An hour later, Macy found herself staring at the nearby mirror. Feeding her daughter caused chest changes of an ample sort. Nixing dresses that made her chest look almost too much, she luckily found a palm leaf-printed navy and emerald spaghetti-strap sundress, islander formal.

A rustle of clothing, and there Harry was behind her, straightening his fine linen shirt. “She’s in good hands, Har.” Morgana arrived minutes after, leaving no room for Harry to back out at the last possible minute.

“Shall we?” he said finally. Macy nodded, as they both orbed off to the nearby theater.

Teatro Micaelense, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

The pair shared an elegant dessert of French Neapolitan mille-feuille puff pastry over sips of sublime Earl Grey tea (his had cream, Macy’s oat milk). As the velvet curtain rose to Turandot, plain walls turned to ornate scenery, the plot centering around a Prince Calaf, who fell in love with a Princess Turandot. He could only marry the princess if he solved three riddles, and a single wrong answer would end in his execution.

“Should we check on them?” Harry whispered in Macy’s ear as the next act began, but Macy shook her head.

“I trust her with Maya.”

“She’s overly practical, but is she the cuddly sort? Affectionate? For Maya?”

“I think she’s the sitter Maya needs.” And that would have to do as far as reassurances. After getting shushed for talking in the theater for the third time in as many minutes, Harry finally settled down, engrossing himself in the thematic elements of the opera, winding his arm around Macy’s shoulder, wondering why he’d been so reluctant to leave the condo in the first place.

Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

They arrived home three hours later, Morgana hugging both, delivering a brisk goodbye before winking and departing. “Oh my...” Harry found himself saying. For the living room was sparkling clean, burp cloths meticulously folded. Bedsheets were freshly laundered, pillows puffed, Maya wearing a beautiful new peach-hued onesie. Approaching the kitchen island, he spotted a note that there was shrimp cocktail, fried rice, and chicken spinach Florentine for tomorrow's lunch and dinner.

“What I said, earlier...” he began, “I take it all back.”

Morgana was truly a saint of epic proportions.

What had he been afraid of, anyways?

Opening the fridge, he popped a shrimp into his mouth. “You know, Mace, we really ought to do this again!”

Chapter Text

Sunflower Steeple Spa. Or so she called it, those ornate glass windows beckoning from a bygone Byzantine era, palm frond after palm frond lacing its edges and creating the perfect indoor serene ambiance second to none. Directly before her, a warm, bubbling hot tub she was positively aching to sink her form into, its water iridescent and bright. Sighing in ecstasy, she made to approach, then stopped short, spotting a pair of sporty shower flip-flops to her right.

Dammit.

This was not reality. This, she knew, was but a dream. She had those ‘tells,’ one of which was shower flip-flops. She never wore bulky shower flip-flops in real life. Never. Definitely not in college, and most certainly not now—

Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

”WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

Macy sprang up in bed, that deliciously soothing dream but a distant memory.

Another day, another…diaper?

Shifting her weight off the bed as to not awaken Harry who was sound asleep, she approached the bassinet, snatched a pacifier from its edge, rubbed it against her silken nightie’s sleeve for good measure (if she was more awake, she’d probably run it under warm water to sterilize), and plopped it straight into baby Maya’s mouth. Five weeks old, and her lungs were as robust as ever, both parents came to understand.

Sure, Macy was glad Maya was home from the hospital, safe and sound. And yes, she was glad she had Harry to take charge of all the nighttime feedings, once she’d pumped with her electronic equipment and placed her milk into containers, containers which went into tiny infant feeding bottles, all of which required washing—

Oh God. So much washing—

And laundry too—

Realizing Maya was temporarily placated by the pacifier (or dummy, as Harry called it), Macy glanced around Maya’s side of the master bedroom. No longer was the area pristine, the corner virtually untouched. There were tiny board books in a miniature bookshelf Mel and Maggie had gifted Macy. A hundred or so “size 1” disposable diapers too, rolled up and tied with rubber bands, a souvenir of the ‘diaper cake’ Swan had put together as part of the workplace baby shower. It wasn’t an edible cake—just a purely decorative one using rolled up unused diapers to create the cake ‘layers’ then topping each layer with festive ribbon, new pacifiers, rolled-up new onesies, and cute little baby booties.

Harry spent most of his waking time doing the laundry, since Maya had the unenviable habit of constantly spitting up.

“That can’t be normal, love—” Harry glanced at Macy nervously. “That must be 5 milliliters unconsumed, at least!”

“I—I don’t know,” she replied wearily. “Honestly, Har—I—we’re just doing the best we can.”

Between Harry’s paternal anxieties (whether Maya was too cold or hot, hungry or fed, spitting up or no), Macy, once again, needed a breath of fresh air. Just a couple minutes.

One Block Over, Epicenter Pico, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

A few minutes later, baby monitor in hand, Macy found herself a block away, doing a short walk since she had not yet gotten cleared for running.

Orange, blue, green red—

The houses to her left appeared newly repainted, their architectural style reminding her of something akin to California townhouses-meets-Barbados. Bright and cheery, they instantly lifted her spirits, the fragrant blossoms especially, which hung over the orange house just so.

Everyone came from someone. A few ‘someones’ repainted these. They had mothers.

This—this is not forever.

Maya will grow up.

This is not forever.

Feeling somewhat recharged (or as recharged as someone could be with six non-consecutive hours of sleep), Macy headed back to her own condo, to Harry, Maya, to home, not realizing she was being watched by a certain sharp-eyed crimson-haired head obstetrician.

A Few Days Later, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy rose, having heard a knock at the door. Opening it, she found no one—

Her foot touched something—

She stared down, spotting a pristine ivory-hued envelope. Curious, she tore it open, revealing a gift certificate toward a fancy dinner. Compliments of Morgana, who, in her carefully-scripted handwriting, noted that Maggie would take care of the day-of logistics. Day of, as in—

“Tomorrow?”

What’s tomorrow? She wondered for half a millisecond then realized.

Oh.

Oh.

It was her and Harry’s wedding anniversary. It was their anniversary tomorrow, and she—and probably he—in the middle of postpartum craziness—had completely forgotten.

A second later, she heard a ping—

Checking her phone, she noticed a text from Maggie.

Wear your finest, for some fancy wine & dine! -Mags

Macy sighed, staring down at her own maternity-turned-nursing shirt-dress, splattered with milk stains and spitup. She felt anything but ‘fine.’ She texted a response.

Do I have to?

Not a second later, came a ping.

Uh…YES?!! I’ll watch Maya all night. Celebrate couple time! Enjoy yourselves! -Mags

The oldest Charmed One suppressed a groan. Between daytime and nighttime feedings, pumping sessions, Maya scream-crying for reasons unknown, plus diaper changes all the time, this was one more complication she didn’t need.

Or did she?

She glanced at Maggie’s most recent text and formulated a reply.

If you’re sure…..but I don’t have anything to wear :/ -Mace

And honestly, she didn’t. Even though she lost some of the pregnancy weight, breastfeeding meant her chest was swollen and tender, and most of her pre-pregnancy dresses didn’t fit up there. There was that one dress, black-and-white, sunflower-printed she could wear, but it seemed too dowdy for a night out.

You realize glamour powder’s a thing, right? I’ve got plenty. -Mags (aka Auntie Mags)

Clearly, Maggie wasn’t letting this go.

“Fine. Fine!” Macy said aloud. A decent night in at this point meant, to her, twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep. Maybe a movie. Netflix and chill. She felt too…frumpy. Too…bloated. Wonder if that glamour powder helps postpartum moms?

Next Evening, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy glanced at herself in the mirror. The green dress from so long ago, the one she used to re-woo (was re-woo a word?) Harry fit surprisingly well.

“Love, can you hold Maya while I adjust my tie?”

She smiled. “Of course—” taking the squirmy baby into her arms, just as Maya opened her mouth—

“Brrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!”

And the green dress, its silken emerald, was now covered in spitup.

“Crapcrapcrap—” Macy muttered, just as she heard a familiar whoosh in the living room, knowing it was Maggie coming through the SafeSpace Portal via marble.

“Mace?” Maggie called out, knocking on the bedroom door. “You nearly ready?”

The door opened, Macy holding Maya, indicating the ruined green dress. “I am—or was—until Maya here decided to, uh, decorate it—”

“Ooof. That sucks—but give her here, who’s the bestest girl in the world?” Maggie took Maya into her own arms practically cooing. “And let’s trade—” Maggie indicated a nearby vial of glamour powder labeled “dinner night out.”

“Ugh, thanks Mags,” Macy reached for the vial with her sight, as it landed cleanly into her outstretched hand.

Ten minutes later, Harry found himself waiting for Macy as she busied herself in their bathroom getting ready. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he found himself asking Maggie.

“Totally!” Maggie exclaimed, bouncing Maya up and down while seated on the crimson living room sofa. “We’ll do some bonding over Disney movies, watch Descendants 3…it’s about princesses and princes at boarding school,” she added hastily, noticing Harry’s expression. “Don’t worry, it’s not, like, PG-13 or rated R or anything.”

The door creaked open, and there was, in all her splendor, Macy. She’d used the glamour powder to clean the emerald dress up, adding silken embellishments and tasteful sequins here and there. Her makeup was a subtle bronze with peridot notes, her lips a deep, velvety maroon that either the most expensive makeup (or magic) could possibly achieve.

“Mace,” Harry swallowed hard, suddenly unable to speak.

“Is it too much, Har?” her eyes darted anxiously between Harry and Maggie.

“No-no-no—” Harry spoke finally. “You look—what I mean to say is—wow, Mace.”

“I hope it’s a good wow?” Macy asked nervously.

Maggie jumped in. “What Harry means is you look drop-dead gorge, right Har?”

“Precisely.”

Sacred Flower Restaurant, 50 Rue De Clignancourt, Paris, France

The pair had orbed themselves to Paris once more. It had been several long months since their last sojourn there, though it felt like a lifetime to Macy. If it were up to her, once any kids she and Harry had were grown, they would live there for a couple of months a year, seasonally—snowbird or timeshare style, she hadn’t yet decided.

For she had other things to do. One of which, of course, was to decide upon a certain prix-fixe menu.

“Hmm…steak frites or filet mignon…haricots verts, and…caramel tart? Or souffle?” she mused aloud, her fingers enveloped by Harry’s own from across the crisp linen table.

“Souffle?” Harry’s eagerness at finally having another of the fluffy dessert was evident in his voice as Macy bit her lip and smiled.

Souffle it was.

After placing their order with a very attentive waiter who bore a rather admirable handlebar mustache, Harry began speaking once more. “Love, I’m surprised you chose Sacred Flower. I mean, when in Rome?”

She nodded. “I figured we’d done the escargot, and honestly, feeding Maya and postpartum…stuff made it necessary.”

“Stuff?”

“Iron loss, Harry. Postpartum blood loss. Not a lot, but enough to make anyone faint.”

“Oh. I never realized—”

“It’s not something they really talk about in health class,” she mused, watching him through a champagne glass that somehow materialized before them, one to a person, his visage glittering amid carbonated bubbles, fizzling brightly.

“And I assume that’s post-1940s?” Harry had never had a ‘health class’ per se. The physical education he’d had was mostly tackling and wrestling, and the general health education Macy referred to wasn’t offered anywhere except for colleges in the 1940s. Jimmy Westwell wasn’t exactly a schoolmarm and had missed that tutelage.

“Yup.” Reaching for her glass, she sipped, her eyes closing as she sniffed the sweet Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque, its pear and citrus notes positively dancing atop her tongue. “Wow,” she breathed. It was so long since either of them had made any time for each other. Once Maya had come along, it was all hands on deck.

Harry noticed her subtle movements, shifting her glass this way and that, the light reflecting onto his cheek, glimmering across his brows. “What’re you doing?” he asked, though he had a general idea, as it seemed similar to what he’d done eons ago—examining her as though she, scientist Dr. Macy Vaughn, were a modern-day Mona Lisa, her hair a mahogany curled counterpart to the original, the crinkle of her eyes an indication of mirth, her lips smiling and equal parts enigmatic, a puzzle of pristine perfection he wished to study, for the rest of his waking life.

She grinned, as if reminiscing of the same. “Studying,” she answered. “You.” As if it weren’t obvious already, she added silently.

Sometime much later, after a delicious repast of the most delectable filet mignon Macy had ever had, they dug in to their shared dessert, a cloud-like confection fresh from the oven, topped with almond whipped cream and a bittersweet chocolate piece above.

Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

It was funny how a single anniversary dinner could improve one’s perspective on the newborn weeks. But it had, somehow. Macy knew this to be true, after relieving Maggie of her babysitting duties, Maya fast asleep in her bassinet.

This too, shall pass.

All the sleepless nights, the colic, the spitups, the reflux, and everything in between—trying to stay alive and sane throughout it all—

This too, shall pass.

A mantra that would stay with her for those countless midnight feedings. And after, when Macy and Harry were together at long, long last, the sheets askew, the air smelling of cinnamon and cloves, she imagined years from now, the infant grown into a child, grown into a teen, then finally, an adult. The circle of life.

And she knew, deep down, she and Harry would survive.

Chapter Text

Maggie watched her older sister pour out a potent alcoholic beverage into three meticulously-clean shotglasses.

“What’re you doing?” Maggie asked, bemused.

“Counting the number of shots before I say something I'll regret.”

Maggie smirked. “I don't need alcohol for that.”

Epicenter Pico No. 23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

There were, as Macy came to discover, plenty of rules on what to drink and what not to drink when it came to breastfeeding her daughter Maya. The most important of them being, no alcohol lest it leach into Maya's milk. At the same time, there was no actual scientific study stating a specified volume of alcohol that would leach in, but she didn’t want to be labeled that mom.

Still, she craved the vestiges of her former carefree self, every now and then. Sighing, she glanced at a squirming Maya, unsatiated due to countless spitups, before leaning her head back on the king bed’s teak surface, her neck resting atop the cream-colored pillows (the blue ones were substituted out since Maya managed to get spitup on those too, despite being entirely within Harry’s arms at the time).

But she still really, really could use a mixed drink—

Maya continued to squirm, the bassinet practically rocking back and forth—

Macy paused—

Wait...the bassinet doesn’t have an automatic rocking system—

“MAYA!” Macy shrieked, leaning forward to catch the infant, as the bassinet tipped—

And righted itself once more.

Shaking, Macy held Maya close. What happened?!

Then she realized. Those infant Whitelighter powers. Using her own telekinesis, Macy placed Maya back into the bassinet gently, ensuring those magical powers of Maya’s were distracted away. A few lullabies took care of that, several interminable minutes later.

Massaging her temple, Macy realized that the closest thing to a mixed drink she could have was sparkling raspberry lime water with orange juice to stay awake during feedings round the clock. That version of her, the one with her hot pink halter amid a crowd of inebriated undergrads, seemed so far away and up till now, forgotten. And caffeine? Limited to a cup of coffee...and caffeinated London Fogs—Earl Grey tea, almond milk, vanilla extract, and cinnamon. But it wasn't the same.

She had also been baking meatloaf from scratch, batch baking oatmeal cookies too. “Who was this Macy?” She’d heard Mel wonder aloud during one of their three-way online sisterly chats, herself in the island, Mel at Vera Manor, and Maggie in a soundproof glass room at SafeSpace. Maggie had started these once a week, and Macy wondered whether it was just for sibling companionship or to make sure Macy didn’t go certifiably insane.

She loved Maya to pieces. Of course she did. But everything else? Between working through exactly what FMLA and paid leave or unpaid leave meant (and messing up her timesheet so much she was sure HR would launch a million fire-tipped arrows her way), paying dues for the board membership Julian had so kindly foisted her with before his death, and…well…Harry getting caught looking at 1930s burlesque, maybe she was just a touch losing it.

Not by a lot—but enough to question her own sanity at times.

Macy held up his phone, a recent purchase in the event of family emergency. “Harry, what is this?” She pointed to the internet screen that she’d begun searching for colic symptoms on, realizing that the home page was not the home page, but rather ‘Feisty Females Anonymous’ with its main feature being a flapper-style woman, her feathered boa coming around her scantily clad—“Oh God—” She practically threw the phone at him. “Explain. NOW.”

He at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Love, you’ve undergone major surgery. Stitches. An ordeal. And I”—he glanced downward, then at her, almost plaintively.

A man has needs. She knew what he wanted to say, even when he didn’t say it out loud. A man has certain biological needs. Perhaps this was a side effect of attempting to become mortal at one point. No, it probably was. Which meant his libido was soaring. Which meant it needed quenching. And, well—

Quenched it, he had. Albeit creatively.

She bit her lip. Harry had been up for every feed, washed every dish until sparkling clean, done the grocery shopping and herbal remedy perusing at Faial Market, visited aging Matias, her elderly relative. Family. Her family.

But speaking of family, all she’d had was Dexter. No Marisol. Just one parent. No interpersonal dynamics to be learnt from. There was nothing in any playbook she’d had about what to do if you caught your husband watching or reading…lascivious literature.

“Should I be offended?” She tread carefully, using the first possible thought that popped into her mind.

“NO! I mean—” he shook his head vehemently. “No, love. I care for you and your physicality so much, and hormones overtook me.” He blushed. “Er—mortal ones.”

Which, of course, confirmed her theory, though she raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not paying for it?” Partly because…who pays for that unless they’re addicted? But also…are any funds being siphoned? She needed to know.

“Bloody hell, no. Mace, you know me!”

Ok, Mace, she thought to herself. You know Harry. Pre-lascivious literature Harry. He woos you with flour and flower. He dances with you underneath the twinkle lights of Vera Manor Garden. He worships the ground you walk on. There is no one else—

No one else—

Six weeks, and cleared for intimacy—

And this—

And…and…

…Which of course, fifteen minutes later, led to Macy drinking her London Fog in a temperature-kept thermos while sobbing in the shower in the fetal position. How had Marisol gone through this three times? Any why weren't there more single children?

Effing hormones. Effing lascivious literature. Effing bodily changes. Effing…effing…everything.

Suddenly, the glass door to the shower opened, a pair of arms hugging her into his own despite her half-hearted attempts to resist.

Then, a shower of kisses, from the top of her mahogany curls, now well-sodden, to the very tips of her fingers, the deluge of water continuing to pour forth, a veritable rainforest.

A whisper in her ear: “I love you, and only you—”

And here, now, she let him show her just how much he did.

Chapter Text

Bahama Cowork Café Pool & Lounge, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“I have this under control.”

Harry glanced at Macy, who repeated the above a second, then a third time, herself wearing a black one-piece swimsuit and a bright cropped caftan sweater over, perfect for today’s balmy weather by the pool.

“You’re absolutely sure?” He glanced at her skeptically, nodding over to Maya, who was calmly sleeping in her portable pack-and-play next to them. Macy had a grant application deadline to meet as part of remote SafeSpace work, it was Mother’s Day, and the task had shown up at the very last minute.

“Yes, Harry,” she raised an eyebrow. Should be easy-peasy. The fashionable diaper backpack lay at her feet for pumping as needed, there were spare diapers, Maya had been recent fed and diapered, and was fast asleep. How hard could this be?

“She’s due for her sleep regression soon—”

“Harry.”

He sighed. “As you wish, love—”

Ducking behind a palm tree, he discreetly disappeared to do the morning’s grocery shopping at Faial Market. This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind for Macy’s first mother’s day, but with Morgana on call for the birth of triplets, Matias was watching the triplets’ biological cousin Tory, a frenetically energetic, mischievous preschooler, and things were—as Matias put it—‘utter chaos.’

Mere seconds after Harry disappeared, Macy returned to reviewing the grant application, as she was supervisor of the process and had to complete a couple of associated questions. She’d done many a scientific application, but never one for a pro bono legal clinic run by a Whitelighter-in-training to serve magical persons. Pixies. Goblins. Ghouls. Wayward spirits.

Could wayward spirits be corporeal enough to hold a pen and sign disclosure documents?

She pondered that, shook her head, and continued reviewing.

Could pixies pay using genuine acorns instead of cash—

“Ugh—” she muttered. Too many things to think about. Whatever. Focus, Mace!

The question appeared before her, onscreen. What does your organization exist to achieve?

Macy frowned, ignoring the fact Maya began to twitch in her sleep, slowly stirring, her feet jostling the inner edge of her makeshift bed. She wanted to ensure justice for all pixies, that they could get their acorn necklaces back, that goblins could guard their wares safely, that wayward spirits would obtain recompense. But this was magic, and the application surely was made by a mortal.

“Justice.” She mulled the word aloud, typing, deleting, retyping, as a small smile made its way along her visage. After enough of an answer, she moved onto the next question.

Who does your organization serve?

After a pause—pixies, goblins, ghouls, wayward spirits—she typed in “vulnerable populations.” She began typing about historically disenfranchised populations based on the notes Jordan had emailed her that very morning—

“Mfgh—”

Turning toward the pack-and-play, Macy noticed Maya’s eyes wide awake and alert. But she’s supposed to be sleeping—

“Six week sleep regression…crap—” she muttered under her breath as Maya drew in a long breath, about to—

“WaaaaaaHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Oh God—Oh God—Oh God—

Macy reached over, fishing for a pacifier from the diaper bag, and promptly placed it in Maya’s mouth, which placated the infant.

Whew. That was close. Luckily, it was early enough that the pre-summer crowd hadn’t shown up yet, just a neighbor or two, or three.

Vision, mission, or values statement?

This too, came from Jordan’s notes, though Macy took it upon herself to sanitize the content, lest it arouse suspicion of non-mortal presence. A minute of this, and she found herself able to slowly exhale. Just one question more, Mace. Just one more—

What major projects have been carried out by your organization in the last two years?

Biting her lip, she knew she’d have to come up with something other than “N/A” or “Not applicable.” Something’s better than nothing—

“Pfffffffffffffffffffft—WaaaaaaaHHHHHhhhHHHHHH—” Maya spat out the pacifier and again began wailing like a fire alarm.

Macy’s arm dove into the pack-and-play to wipe the pacifier off using her caftan sleeve, then put it in Maya’s mouth, but the infant pursed her lips and shook her head stubbornly.

Come on, come on, come on, sweetie—just one more question!

But Maya wasn’t having it. “AiiiiiiiAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” Her wails devolved into full-blown shrieks that could rival those of banshees. Macy spent the next several minutes (they felt like an eternity) trying the pacifier, checking her diaper, bouncing her on her own leg to a lullaby Dexter had sung to her as a baby. Nothing worked.

What was worse, was the couple of people there at present began glaring daggers at her. I’m trying! I really am! Macy wanted to tell them, but between a thrashing infant and juggling her own laptop in her lap, she was preoccupied. I feed her! I do all the things! She’s not normally like this! I’m a good mom!

Aren’t I?

Her surroundings faded away until the only thing she could hear, the only thing her brain could notice, was the sheer volume of Maya, who kept screaming. Macy began timing subconsciously as one method after the other was attempted, sometimes on repeat. Nothing was working. The air around her grew compressed and confined, until she found herself practically choking to breathe, herself on the verge of tears, willing herself with all her might not to cry—not here—not now—

Damned sleep regression. Harry was right. I won’t call—he’s busy—I can’t—oh, Harry, Harry, Harry! Her mind began to scream, almost, but not quite eclipsing that of her now crimson-faced daughter’s wails, growing more and more incessant by the minute.

Slamming her laptop shut, Macy squeezed her eyes shut, recalling Morgana’s advice to count to ten whenever frustration would over take her—a new parent exercise.

One—two—three—four—five—

“Love, y’alright?”

Instantly, Macy’s eyes flew open. Harry had materialized behind the same tree, and was now before her with bags of fresh fruit, vegetables, and more.

She smiled. “I am now.” And she meant it. As casually as she could, she continued. “Can you watch Maya for a few minutes? I have one more question on this app—”

“Will do.” He hesitated, then spoke. "I had a feeling you needed me."

"That obvious?"

"Call it...Whitelighter's intuition?" He didn't mention the vice grip of a Macy shriek he'd heard in his own brain as he perused the peppers section, nor the banshee wails of Maya he'd thought he'd imagined in the fruit aisle.

In any event, those few minutes were all she needed; Harry spent that time carrying Maya in his arms, waving to passerby, splashing water together at the kiddie pool’s edge, and telling her the names of all the foods that began with the letter M.

“M is for…melon!” He pointed to one of his wares. “And…” he continued. “Meat!”

Though Macy was exhausted throughout it all, she found herself content at this father-daughter interaction before her. And she wondered what Maya would be like as an older sister, someday.

Later that evening, when Morgana was busy watching Maya, Macy and Harry went out for a walk, passing fronds upon fronds of burgeoning palm trees, the sweet scent of plumerias permeating the night air, as tea lights sparkled in the distance.

Suddenly, Macy broke the silence. “Har?”

“Yes, love?”

“Have you ever thought about adding to our family?” She added hastily, “not now—I mean, she’s still practically a newborn—but, say, later?”

Though his visage was obscured by the surrounding darkness, she could practically sense his joy. “I’ve thought about it quite more than you think, Macy. But are you absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely? Well…more like maybe. Not now. But someday?”

He nodded as they headed back home. “Definitely someday.”

Chapter Text

Midnight, Outside Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village. Azores Islands

She stared at the glowing swing before her, garlands upon garlands of twinkling tea lights strung about its base, and upwards, across its roped parallel stems, to the sturdy tree that beheld it. This evening walk (walk, not jog, since it was only eight weeks postpartum), meant she tended to stop and smell the roses, so to speak. Be entranced by the fireflies and tweets of rainbow-hued birds, not to mention the fluttering wings of a bright blue butterfly just so.

It also meant she was incredibly restless.

Her legs used to speeding past dusk scenery, skies lit with gold and clementine hues, back in Hilltowne, this was a welcome change. She had tried to pull evening jogs there but monster hunting had created schedule conflicts, leading to jogs at strange times of the day.

It seemed to call out to her, as if she’d been there before…

Three Decades Ago

“Wheeeeeee!” The tiny girl’s mahogany curls flew in the breeze as her father pushed her atop the swing. “More!” She shrieked with delight, as Dexter’s visage bore a bittersweet smile.

Marisol should be here.

“Two more times—” he cautioned. A distant cousin was getting married here, at twilight of all times, fairy lights decorating everything to the nines, from the teak awning to the trellises to the very swing his little girl was on.

“Marisol…tell me what to do…” he muttered to himself as he counted…

One…

Two…

And paused the swing as Macy’s feet grazed the ground beneath it.

He often asked in such a way for divine (or not divine, since she was alive, but elsewhere) advice. He knew he could come across as gruff. Just last week at the shore a child had kicked a ball, a stray ball that nearly tripped him and Macy. “Don’t do that!” he’d snapped, causing the child to cry, their mother throwing Dexter an utterly withering glare.

A sunny personality, Dexter was not. There was always that curmudgeonly aspect to him, that Marisol had polished and called an ‘old soul’ while laughing aloud at previous breakfasts, bright light shining through gauzy goldenrod curtains at Vera Manor. But somehow, she always knew what to say and do, and always seemed to know how to bring the best out from him.

Shaking her head, Macy blinked and continued her nocturnal traipsing, until she came upon a community garden some blocks away, a gorgeous cluster of wild wisteria, periwinkle purple, materializing out of the dense fog, for there had been clusters of thunderstorms in the past few days, one hour there, gone the next, creating little patches of miasma all around the isle. Squinting, she noticed an edge of a blossom, its silvery sheen reflecting the moonlight above, so glossy she practically reached out to touch it before recovering her senses.

Mace…seriously? These could be some rando’s flowers. Remember what happened to Rapunzel’s mom? Those greens? Something called trespassing?

Her conscience brought her back to the present. Another block, then turning around, realizing that somehow, nightfall had lessened, spotting a purple lilac haze of sky, a brazen backdrop behind a dandelion’s fluffy fronds, white and full. Plucking it, she blew the seeds forth.

I wish, she thought to herself, I could have many more days. And nights. Us, as a family. Me, Maya, Harry.

Please don’t let me be Marisol.

Please don’t let me become Marisol.

To bargain one’s life away from one’s child was a feat she knew her own heart couldn’t endure. After that, she returned once more to the glowing swing, the sky having morphed to a powdery cerulean blue.

Glancing this way and that, she mounted the swing, testing her weight on it gently, lest she break it (she didn’t know how old it was, and who knew how stable). But it didn’t give, and was just as strong as it had been the moment it was made.

Pushing off with her feet, she flew into the air, forward and back, for a count of…

One…

Two…

Three—

Then she stopped, jumping off just as the swing approached the ground.

A perfect landing.

Shaking off that eerie feeling of déjà vu, Macy departed for home, crossing streets, blocks, until she was within a window’s glance of Harry, holding Maya, bottle in his hand, doing the entirety of her nighttime feedings.

And she smiled, produced the condo key, swung the door open, stepped through, and quietly closed and locked the door behind her.

Chapter Text

Tuesday Morning, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“You mean to tell me, that you didn’t buy any size two diapers?!” Harry’s incredulous voice echoed off the walls as he stared at his wife. “At all?”

Macy bit her lip. Sure, she’d gotten newborn diapers from countless folks from those two baby showers that felt like eons ago. And then she’d stocked up on size one diapers, some of which came from Maggie, who’d scoured the internet, switching Macy’s tropical location to that of North America instead, for faster, more efficient (though ethically dubious) means.

That, of course, had been four weeks ago. Now, as Harry eluded to, his efforts in diaper changing his daughter had been quite challenging. Besides squirming constantly, he found it near to impossible to fasten one end of diaper Velcro to its other end. A manufacturer defect? Harry pondered this thought to himself, before realizing Maya had simply outgrown it.

It was Macy’s job to source the diapers. Harry did all the night feedings, Macy pumped, Harry prepared the bottles, and it was Macy who had to find the diapers.

“Was it a shortage?”

She shook her head.

“It slipped your mind?”

Macy exhaled slowly. She could tell a falsehood, perhaps smile apologetically and nod, but Harry knew she was sharper than that, even with oodles of sleep deprivation. “I didn’t want to—”

His mouth puckered into a frown. “Didn’t want to? Mace, you’re on the committee board, money shouldn’t be an issue!”

“It wasn’t money—”

“Then what, love? Thought Maya could start potty training at two months old?” They both knew that was completely ludicrous, at least regarding how they planned to raise her. Diapers until age two. Potty training. Then, a child, ready for nursery school. “Outsource to Morgana?” He regretted the question as soon as he’d asked it. Of course Macy had forgotten. Right?

“You know that’s not what I meant—" How could she possibly explain to her husband that she hadn’t bought size two diapers, not for reasons of money or laziness, but that she didn’t know how long Maya would live, given her own necromancer history?

Suddenly, it dawned on him. “Knansie?”

She nodded. “It’s stupid, but—”

Heaving a sigh, he took his beloved’s hand. Of course it was utter drivel, but he wouldn’t dare say it aloud. “Macy, we’ve gone over this, that’s in the past.”

“I know, but—” Things don’t add up. The island, the present, feels steeped in the past. Things don’t make sense. Why so many déjà vu’s?

He continued. “And it’s your—our—turn to have a happily ever after. You know you deserve as much, right?”

Do I? Those were Macy’s thoughts as she made a hasty departure. “Gotta go to Morgana’s—fresh air--?”

Harry nodded. “As you wish.”

Garden, Morgana’s Residence, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

But do those really exist? Happily ever afters? Macy’s realism reared its ugly head every now and then, further fueled by her own personal memories to date. All those years without Marisol. Without her sisters.

It was all her fault. If she hadn’t come to be, Dexter and Marisol could be on this island paradise together. Maggie would be here. They’d be one perfectly happy family. Maybe Mel would’ve been the same person as ever, cross-dimensionally speaking, but—

“Stop thinking like that!”

Macy gave a start, then realized it was a sharp-tongued Morgana who’d spoken. “Like…what?” Macy ventured.

“Like you blame yourself for Soley and Dex.”

Soley? Only dad ever called her that—those letters—but how did Morgana—

Macy’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you know.”

In the ensuing seconds, Morgana silently cursed the fact she hadn’t drunk her morning coffee yet. Chocolate macadamia, a dash of sweetener, no milk. Multiple on call shifts at the hospital had left her brain feeling like mush this morning. She thought this through. “I don't want to be a shadow on your past, Macy.” She took a sip of her own coffee, offering Macy a mug; the latter acquiesced.

“Meaning?” Macy took a tentative sip of her coffee, piping hot. Caffeine coursed through her veins like none other.

“Isn’t the past worth forgetting? Especially if painful?”

Macy shook her head. “I want…clarity. Please.”

“Well…if you must know…you were here. On the island. When you were very little.” Those memories, they’re not an accident. Time and time again, Morgana had noticed the lady staring a little too closely at a swing, the peak and crest of the sea, and more.

“I...I was?”

“Quite a lot, by my own memory, before and once Marisol left, after which you and your father returned to Philadelphia.”

This was…a revelation. Before, she could understand. Family vacations were perfect on an island. But after Marisol left? Odd. Wouldn’t that involve a certain amount of mental anguish, walking the shores without your love?

“Why just after?” Dexter had been a tenured professor, enjoying accolade after well-deserved accolade for his efforts in biotechnology and informatics, if the dates lined up correctly.

“Why would anyone take a leave of absence from a successful career, you mean?” Morgana lowered her pince-nez to give Macy a pointed look. “You, Macy.”

“Me?”

Morgana nodded. “You were inconsolable day after day, night after night. You were a smart baby. You knew something wasn’t right. That there was a missing piece of your family. Deep down, you knew.”

Just Over Three Decades Ago, Kitchen, Vera Manor, Hilltowne, Michigan

The goldenrod curtains in the kitchen swayed same as ever, but their very motion made her lip quiver with sadness. The song…that familiar song…’you are my sunshine,’ made her cry.

Wailing…oh how she wailed! Which soon, turned to screaming.

Beet-red, her fists banging against her high chair, the toddler was positively irate. Shaking with rage. Suffering from sheer sorrow. And unsurprisingly, unable to process it all, completely overwhelmed as she was by the enormity of it all.

Colic, the books called it. But Dexter knew better. Rubbing his temple, Macy was too old, too precocious, for hours-long colic. His precious little Marcella. His little Macy.

Hours passed in a blur, the girl’s screams echoing into the ether.

Unable to bear those sounds much longer, Dexter rose from his spot at the base of the stairs, dialing a number he had memorized a long time ago.

After the first ring tone, a familiar voice could be heard. “Dex?” she murmured.

He wondered how she knew, but swept that thought aside. She’s a prophecy witch. Of course she knows.

“Soley, I can’t do this.”

Her voice rang firm and true. “You can and you must.” And in a softer tone, “we had an agreement—”

“No, Soley, you and that—that creature—not me—I never—” his voice broke. “I-I can't be the person she needs me to be,” he uttered in the hoarsest of whispers, before sobbing outright for one minute, then two, her listening on the other end, patiently.

“Dex. Talk to Morgana. I'll give your number. Go. Stay on the island. Even for a bit. It'll do you some good.”

“Soley, you mean it?”

She nodded on the other end. Why she had to be the one to arrange everything, given Dex’s familial ties to the island, she never knew, but maybe it was her own connection to magic that sealed the deal. “I'll take care of everything—”

Present Day, Morgana’s Residence, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Macy stared at a curlicued fern leaf, itself speckled in shimmering emerald and gold hues, before turning back. “Then what? And why don't I remember any of this?”

“Oh,” Morgana spoke aloud. “But don’t you?” She pointed to a blue butterfly fluttering in the distance upon a miniature orange tree. “Sometimes painful memories, early childhood ones, can be easily repressed…but recalled when the time is right.”

Just Over Three Decades Ago, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Blue. The color blue. Blue butterflies, brighter than any color blue she’d seen in those board books. Toddling across the sand, pitter patter, her arms outstretched for Daddy, waves crashing upon the sandy, sienna shoreline.

Daddy is happy.

Daddy smiles.

But his eyes are sad. Very, very sad.

She frowns, confused. What's wrong, Daddy? Tell me what's wrong. What's wrong?

Tears fall. His.

She reaches out to touch his face, connecting constellations, every tear on each cheek.

“I...I'm good. We...we're good,” Dexter manages, noticing little Macy’s concerned expression. She noticed everything. Smart baby girl. “We’re…good.”

 If only he could believe as much.

Present Day, Morgana’s Residence, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

“Know this,” Morgana rested a wizened hand upon Macy’s own. “Know that Marisol and Dexter loved you so very much,” her green eyes brimming with unshed tears, as Macy nodded.

And suddenly, those size two diapers, that bit of bickering earlier with Harry, didn’t seem so all-encompassing any more.

Soon enough, Macy found herself ordering size two diapers online.

Perhaps she’d spring for that size two-and-a-half. Well, now was as good a time as any.

Chapter Text

An Unreasonably Early Morning Hour, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

She nodded then jolted awake once more, the oldest Charmed One finding herself pumping, all to feed little Maya later on by bottle. The T-Pain song endemic to her collegiate years rang in her head.

How did it go again? It’s one o’clock in the morning—

Wait, no. It was ‘five o’clock in the morning.’

Right. Fifteen minutes, every three to five hours for this, coupled with morning and night feeds every two hours. Harry had been, to be put mildly, shocked at this patterned prospect. She recalled their conversation earlier that day…

“Love, every TWO hours?!” his voice rose, incredulous. “How on earth would anyone expect to survive such sleep deprivation? Earn a livelihood? Did Morgana say—”

“Yes, Harry.” Her patience wore thin as she found herself, not for the first time that day, week, or even month, counting to ten, maybe even twenty, as he continued to try her patience. “A newborn’s stomach is only the size of a cherry, then it expands, to a walnut, then bigger over time.”

Still skeptical, he raised an eyebrow. “What about night nurses?” He thought back to his era, just after the turn of the century. The Ford Model T was making its debut and waffle ice cream cones were all the rage after their World Fair debut.

“Harry, why would we even want night nurses?”

“A night nurse watches the baby all night so parents can sleep. Granted,” he looked around the condo, “there’s not much room for a spare au pair suite, but I suppose—"

“Harry—”

“—That we could use my pension from Hilltowne, but it’ll cost a pretty penny—”

“HARRY!”

This grabbed his attention. “Love?”

“Harry, we don’t need a night nurse. We don’t need an au pair suite.”

“But what if—” he lowered his voice lest Maya somehow understand despite her infancy. “We don’t know what to do?”

Macy smiled. “Don’t worry, we will.”

“Are you certain?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be, Har.” She hadn’t had any siblings growing up, but she’d babysat friends’ kids back in Philadelphia. She did plenty of research when pregnant. How hard could it be?

Well, Macy mused, harder than she’d thought. Glancing at the plasticine tubing, the honey-yellow pump supplies, she wondered, not for the first time that day, whether she’d been too hasty dismissing the night nurse idea.

With each whirl and swish, her life’s essence feeling as though draining from her body, she wondered what a night nurse could do. A night nurse could ensure at least six hours’ consecutive sleep. A night nurse could be on call the entire time. She imagined so many wonderful evenings, alone, with Harry.

Date nights in Paris.

Macarons at the café.

Champagne on ice.

A sultry—

But then again—she checked the time, five minutes left—a night nurse was freakishly expensive, and catered to multiple families. Who knew whether she and the night nurse would get along? And what if the night nurse challenged her authority as a parent? Doubt, combined with sleep deprivation and the postpartum hormone dump, could trigger bad thoughts and feelings. Baby blues, it was called. Postpartum depression, by others. She’d read a book about a woman who overexerted herself with a cross-country trip, plus infant, hospitalized for postpartum psychosis after abject exhaustion set in, plus bickering by in-laws who questioned her mothering abilities.

There was only room for one mother here. Sure, other cultures and locales did things differently, she knew. But Maya—

“WaaaHHHHHHHHHhhh!”

She sighed. Maya—

Maya had distinct cries. Hunger cries were high pitched and incessant. Too cold or too hot meant a lower cry. A series of ‘medium’ cries meant she was bored and wanted to go outside and be around all the action—be it the sandy shore, an outdoor terrasse, or elsewhere. Her little girl at nine weeks old was already demonstrating an adventurous spirit!

And all of these things, she would never have found out if she hadn’t subjected herself to all of the sleep deprivation, taking the time to understand each and every subtle nuance, approaching the newborn weeks from a scientific perspective, hypotheses and all.

What would soothe her colic? What noises does she love best?

Why does she wake every 4 am morning, the witching hour?

Et cetera.

Checking the time again, she realized her pump session was complete. Hurriedly gathering the pump parts and washing them in the kitchen sink, she paused, realizing Maya’s cries went silent.

Ears pricked, she listened toward the bedroom, hearing a low British voice crooning lullabies from the 1930s, as that door opened, bearing Harry, bleary-eyed yet smiling as he gently rocked their little girl.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green…when I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen…” he continued singing, now looking straight at Macy as he went through the Old English lullaby, “Lavender’s Blue.”

I love you, he mouthed.

Out of nowhere, her phone buzzed. A rooftop party invite on Facebook. Set to tonight. Shaking her head, she clicked through, sending kind regrets. Besides being bone-crushingly exhausted, the pair, she knew deep down that there would be more time for parties later on.

Someday.

One day.

As someone wise once said, the hours were long, but the days were short.

And she, for one, was determined to see things through.

Chapter Text

“That sweater,” Harry paused to drink Macy’s form in. “Is it new?”

Macy nodded eagerly. “How’s it look?” She hoped he would find it chic, perhaps. Stylish, maybe.

“Matronly—I mean—quite motherly,” smiled Harry benignly, as Macy felt a stab of shock.

Matronly? Motherly? What the absolute f—

Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Her hand rapped one, then another egg, against the porcelain bowl. Crack! Then she stirred, bakery flour melded into egg, sugar into baking soda, yeast for good measure, though her spoon technique was almost hammer-like as she recalled their conversation from the night before.

Matronly.

Motherly.

Those adjectives weren’t bad per se. But it had been a shock to the system, for she had always known herself to be sexy, gorgeous, alluring, awe-inspiring, in Harry’s eyes and in his terms, even so far back as when she’d harbored the Source of All Evil.

And much as she enjoyed motherhood (well, it was ten weeks of it so far), she wanted to be the woman he’d fallen head over heels with. Not just a mother, but as a lady. A seductive one at that.

Of course, neither of them had been in the mood as of late, given Maya’s tendency toward colic and unpredictable wakings in the middle of the night. He did, however, have a sweet tooth, not to mention a fetish for double entendres. And that was what led her to experimenting with a new recipe she’d found on a Taiwanese food blog translated into English.

Dirty Buns.

Macy took it upon herself to seduce Harry. Well, maybe not seduce in that way, but perhaps so under the guise of delicious, deviously-named sweet treats. Some several minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, then twenty more, as she ensured those pain au chocolat pastries were well-folded, then popped them into the oven for baking, after which she would transform them into…dirty buns.

While the concoction rose elegantly in the oven, she turned her attention to the chocolate mousse, setting up a piping bag and metal tip. Using her sight, she applied a spatula to the pre-made mousse, putting it into said bag. Easy peasy.

DING!

The oven door opened, revealing piping hot French pastries, which she lay atop the kitchen stove burners. Into each pastry went the piping bag, filling each confection with creamy chocolate mousse, somewhere between the airy texture of whipped cream and the mouthfeel of pudding.

And—done. But not exactly, as she had two more steps, steps which she completed in surprising swiftness, as Maya napped in her bassinet in the main bedroom. The next step was melting chocolate tablets into a rich, smooth glaze, dipping her spatula in it, spreading it across each pastry. After that came the final step—sprinkling a hefty amount of cocoa powder per pastry.

She checked the recipe screenshot on her phone—was it really three tablespoons per pastry?! Shaking her head, she followed the directions anyways, determined to make this the most delectable chocolate dessert to knock Harry’s socks off—

Hopefully…literally and figuratively. Speaking of which…

A turn of the key, and Harry had arrived. He sniffed the positively beguiling air. “Love?” he called out. “Did you bake something?” For me? Time and time again, she had baked treats, only for him to be disappointed that no, they weren’t for him. No, no sampling either. And no, no second batches—

One batch of vegan gluten-free oatmeal raisin cookies went to Swan. A batch of coquito powdered coconut cookies were gifted to Maggie, on another occasion, a batch of bittersweet chocolate crinkles to Mel (with a sprinkle of chili spice, for experimental purposes), and yet another time, a batch of dulce de leche shortbread for dear cousin Josefina.

But this—

“For me?” he spoke aloud as Macy nodded, biting her lip, a naughty twinkle in her eye. No longer was she wearing yesterday’s motherly sweater. Instead, she sported a spaghetti strap black slinky tank top and form-fitting leggings, the tank top especially low-cut. He walked closer and stared at the ooey, gooey pastry.

Chocolate powder over melted chocolate over pain au chocolat, with chocolate and chocolate mousse inside?

Instead of replying, she deflected. “Harry,” she practically purred. “Care for a taste of my dirty buns?”

His mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?!”

Her lips spread into a slow Cheshire cat grin. “Dirty buns. Found it on a food blog,” she mentioned casually. “Had some PMS chocolate cravings, decided to succumb, and made a quadruple chocolate thing—” she took one in her hand, using her sight to place one in Harry’s also. She bit into her own, molten, melty chocolate positively dripping down her lips, her chin, down to her—

He gulped—noticeably lacy, noticeably risqué—brassiere. And was that a sheer, positively see-through black tank top? “I-uh-ah-Mace—” he stammered, before taking a large bite of the pastry, positively dripping with chocolate.

Harry tasted the cocoa powder first, reminding him of those times he’d spent before becoming a new father, decades ago, exploring Italy, a cappuccino in hand as he surveyed the landscape from a local terrazzo. Then came the warm, liquid chocolate, not a flimsy imitation syrup—no!—but rather, of those expensive tablet-esque types of yore. Crisp pastry followed, this he knew well—pain au chocolat, a French pastry, its flakiness giving way to a thin lozenge of pure—again—chocolate.

But—his eyes widened. There was something else.  Fluffy-yet-creamy, not-quite-whipped but airy just the same—

“Chocolate mousse,” Macy responded to the question she’d noticed in his eyes as she dipped her finger into her own pastry, uncovering a mound of the sweetened stuff, which she proceeded to lick slowly and deliberately so, causing Harry to groan ever-so-slightly. She paused, noticing his seeming discomfort. “You ok, Har?”

“Yeth—” he managed a muffled croak, as he swallowed, realizing he’d just tasted everything sweetened and saccharine and sugary yet not cloyingly so. Swallowing hard, he somehow recovered himself. “I-I mean—yes—” Good lord…had she infused it with some sort of—he tilted his head, studying the remains of his pastry. It made him feel all sorts of things…everywhere. It made him feel as though he were king, a queen by his stead. It made him want to climb mountains, all to come home to this—this and much, much more. Seduction by sweets? Hardly outside the realm of possibility…

“Aphrodisiac?” Macy proffered, knowing exactly what he was thinking. She shook her head. “Just chocolate, once, twice…I mean, we do have that ‘no magic for personal gain,’ right, Har?”

She paused, noticing Harry’s eyes glazed over. “Uh…Har?” She waved her hand in front of him as he was jolted back to present. Had her chest always been so full and rotund? If he could just reach, reach a few more inches, and—He realized Macy had just said something that flew over his head completely.

“Oh—right! I mean…pardon?”

“Times over. Chocolate.” She raised an eyebrow, somewhat bemused.

“R-right,” he breathed. “You sure you didn’t—”

“Of course not—”

“Then what—” he began, nibbling the pastry ends, now positively crumbs.

Sighing, she glanced skyward, then met his eyes once more. “You said my outfit yesterday looked matronly—or motherly—”

“Is this what this is all about? Mace, really, I—”

“I don’t want to be just a mother. Sure, that’s a part of my life. But I was once your love. There was a time you seduced me—there was a time I felt like…a sensual woman."

“Love,” he took her hand to his lips, kissing it. “I misspoke, and knew I’d done such. So many sleepless nights. I meant motherly, in every sense of the word. But you are always, always my lovely, sensual,” he leaned closer, whispering, cradling her ear, “sexual,” he murmured, “being,” as she felt a jolt of electricity from within. Warm, sparkling…erotic.

He continued. “Honestly, Mace…I was waiting for you.”

“For me?”

Harry nodded. “Postpartum can be a right bit—” he coughed, “I mean, it can be overwhelming. My stint in Women’s Studies had me researching post-pregnancy as part of standard course curriculum. I can never truly understand what childbirth is like from a physical perspective as a cisgender male. And I never, ever wanted to impose if your body were not fully healed, physically, mentally, emotionally. But…I take it…you’re ready?”

Macy smiled and nodded, thinking back to that fateful night long ago, beneath the trellised tea lights of Vera Manor Garden, how he had met her, taken her by the hand, cradling her back, as a sultry melody played in the foreground. Two ships, passing in the night…or so the saying went. Except, they did meet. And they carved out a life, married, made a tiny human…

Contemplating this, Macy took a few more bites, before her finger slipped, chocolate mousse falling past her collarbone, liquid chocolate trickling past her tank—her mouth formed an “O.” “Whoops, spilled some—”

But before she could react, he found himself lowering his mouth onto her collarbone, slowly yet most assuredly so. “May I?” he asked in a low tone, as she assented, a certain sparkling warmth spreading through her insides. And so, licking and sucking, continuing his ministrations as such, over and over, lower, and lower still, Macy’s voice dissipating into breathless moans—

He gave fervent thanks to the powers above for whomever had invented those buns, as they stumbled into the guest bathroom, Macy locking the door behind them.

They were really quite delicious, those dirty, dirty buns...

Chapter Text

Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

Curly hair askew, Macy leaned on the kitchen counter, typing on her phone, holding a glass of citrus seltzer in one hand—a mocktail—and a baby bottle that had previously been floating mid-air, from the bedroom to here, courtesy of baby Maya—in her other hand.

Biting her lip, she continued typing on her phone.

Why is my child acting like a ragey monster…

Why is my infant inconsolable?

Why is my baby…

The internet generated many responses, summed up in four words:

Four. Month. Sleep. Regression.

Lasting...oh, a few days to two weeks, according to some deeper digging, frown lines materializing upon her own forehead like none other.

Macy groaned audibly, then willed herself to take a deep breath. Her dad dealt with this with Marisol, and if they could, so could she, even if these days, hours, weeks, minutes, seconds all seemed to bleed into each other like a smeary splatter painting.

Sleep patterns shifting meant crankiness and inability to sleep. For Macy, this meant an added layer of witchery. Plastic baby bottles, pristine and full, floating mid-air, then hitting the wall seconds later, their milky contents spilling forth in all directions.

Wails that caused infinitesimal window cracks. Onesies flung from every which way.

Tiny curled fists, grabbing the nearest object or person available, even if that meant Macy's curly hair. She’d taken to wearing scrunchies, her hair looped in a long ponytail, but even those had a disquieting habit of disappearing…and being found under the crib, stashed alongside many books about cats. Black cats.

Not that she had any issue with black cats. They were quite cute, actually. Maggie and Jordan had a kitten, Coquito. The little creature was really adorable, a splash of white stripe dotting its tiny forehead.

She didn't know how much more of this she could take. Maybe it was Maggie's kitten Coquito who'd horked up a hairball at her feet hours ago in Vera Manor. Or Maya's umpteenth spitup on the tummy time mat—or all those books about cats, which, as it turned out, had been presents from Auntie Maggie for Maya, except meant for Maya’s birthday, months later in advance. Which then meant, of course, that Maya had found a way to orb said books out of Vera Manor to here, possibly using orbing mechanisms. Or had crawled under Maggie’s bed at Vera Manor. Both seemed just as likely, given such precociousness.

Creeeeak!

She turned, noticing the fridge edging open, wondering if Maya was once again trying to float bottles in. A flick of her fingers slammed it shut—oh NO you don’t!

“AAAAaaargh!!” A male cry burst forth.

“Omigawd HARRY!” Horrified, she realized it was her husband sneaking a nighttime snack. After giving her a particularly pitiable look, he went to the living room couch, munching on custard pie, flaky crust and all. 

Sighing, she turned back to her phone. She started to understand why Marisol might’ve wanted to bind all three of their powers. One baby was challenging enough (let alone acquiring earthside status). Three? Macy inwardly shuddered. Much as she wanted more children someday, she couldn’t begin to fathom the challenges her mother had dealt with.

She deserved a medal—

No. Maybe a Nobel Prize.

Another bottle sailed above her, stopping at the sink. Reaching for it, Macy washed it—

Definitely a Nobel Peace Prize.

Used books, mocktails, YouTube café music—she'd tried it all to unwind, in the midst of it all, in a desperate attempt to stay sane. Harry was ‘on shift’ with Maya from now until early next morning, so it was his job to deal with the flying bottles, onesies, and cat paraphernalia—this four month thing likely leading to bursts of energy, sudden growth spurts, Maya’s desire for independence…

Then an idea struck her. An AO3 story perhaps. People wrote stories all the time, right? Now was as good a time as any, she thought, lifting her laptop from the coffee table, carrying it to the balcony, shutting the screen door behind her.

Turning on the laptop and opening it up to a blank page, she began to type a draft title: "Seducing Mr. Greenwood," a fiction piece. What if, instead of meeting through magic, she'd been paid to talk to Harry at a wedding? She, in management, he, an English literature professor?

Heck, the rom-com practically wrote itself—

After a quick spurt of typing, she submitted the piece and waited—a minute, several more, then, as she sipped her mocktail, an hour, then two—

“Not very sporting of you,” she heard his voice as he brushed a kiss on her cheek, his breath still holding the lingering scent of custard cream, spotting her open laptop.

“Well…” she offered, cheekily, “hundreds of hits tend to disagree.”

His eyebrows rose, somewhat bemused. “Oh really?” He sat on the chair beside her, as if to say, do tell. Was this the new modern form of exhibitionism? A creative Renaissance, a modern rebirth? An alluring commentary on the state of…he glanced at her visage, his gaze migrating downward…things?

“Really really!”

He contemplated this. “Did you make me tall, dark, and handsome?”

“With cologne that smells like aged pine and vanilla,” she grinned, shutting the laptop between them as they finally allowed themselves to relax, snuggling deep within the other’s embrace.

Chapter Text

Saturday Morning, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

According to Morgana, who Macy had called late the evening before, locking herself in the spare bathroom, sliding to the floor, exhausted, nothing could cure an old fashioned sleep regression. "Wait it out." And jewelry was a last-ditch option.

Earrings in an infant? That would temporarily dampen magic?

That sounded like pure bliss to Macy, as she’d dodged too many bottles to count. But she knew it was her pent-up frustration and sleep-deprivation talking. Dampeners were a last resort.

”Remember, you’re the mother here.”

Macy thought about what Morgana’d said—

Whoosh!

Another bottle sailed out the bedroom, past the living room area, hurtling toward the kitchen counter where Macy was currently nursing her pounding head. Pounding, of course, from lack of sleep—

“NO!”

Where had that come from? Macy realized that was her own voice. A very “I’m-the-mother-no-nonsense” sort of voice. She realized the bottle had halted mid-air, as if in askance.

She glanced at the bottle, and back through the open bedroom door, to where little Maya was, the baby’s eyes following her, her tiny eyebrow arched in a way to make her resemblance to Macy uncanny.

“GENTLE hands,” Macy admonished, speaking loud and clear, her eyes taking the bottle back through the length of the condo, through the doors, to stop next to Maya, who looked somewhat perplexed.

“GENTLE.” Macy repeated the word as she pulled the bottle toward her general periphery once more, not to crash onto the wall, but land softly within her own hands. “Gently. See?” she said, softer this time, before letting her eyes travel the bottle back to her daughter.

Let’s try again, she indicated wordlessly.

As if Maya had understood, the bottle rose, up, up, up, and sailed toward her mother, this time landing in front of her instead of splattering against the wall.

Macy nodded, satisfied. “Better,” she smiled, as she took the bottle, preparing it for a fresh batch of milk for the next feeding. Until then…her AO3 fanfic beckoned.

So here she was, working on "Seducing Mr. Greenwood," a fiction piece. Fleshing out the chapter, piece by piece. She frowned a bit. Where had she last left off? Oh—

That’s right—

Mr. Greenwood. Tall, dark, handsome, aged pine and vanilla. A wedding. Management admin at college, himself English professor.

And so the story continued…

Seducing Mr. Greenwood, AO3 fanfic

Mr. Greenwood scanned the room, avoiding the eyes of hungry older women, eager to foist their young adult daughters his way. And found a young woman seated next to his new coworker Swan, who seemed vaguely familiar though he could not place her exactly, her dark eyes expressive and sweet, hair curled just so.

Hands on her maroon gown, she stood. “This was a terrible idea. What was I thinking?!” she spoke mostly to herself. Going alone, post-breakup, to a wedding, didn’t seem such a great idea after all, even if it was for her longtime friend Chloe, who had gotten her into and out of many a hare-brained adventure. Of course Julian was staying in Europe. Of course he wasn't coming back, Of course he didn't want kids—

Too much liability. Too much resources.

I’m not ready, Mace.

I won’t ever be—

Shaking her head, she suddenly spotted a tall, dark-haired, and yes, admittedly handsome figure. Well, damn. Despite her better judgment, she made to leave, but Swan pulled her back. “You need this as much as he does!” she all but yelped.

“No I don't!” Macy hissed back, but Swan held fast—figuratively and literally. 

“Yes. You do. Here's twenty.” Swan pulled out a clean crisp twenty dollar bill.

“Swan,” Macy muttered, looking around to see if anyone noticed. “Are you seriously bribing me?!”

“If it goes south, have a cocktail and Uber fare?” Swan mused aloud, tasting a bite of unicorn ombre wedding cake. Delish, she mouthed. Then she grew serious. “I heard you crying in the bathroom yesterday. It's been months, Macy. Chloe,” Swan waved at the bride (so much taffeta, she looked like a walking cherry blossom), “was really worried.” She paused. “We're all worried.”

“I’m fine,” sighed Macy. If only she could believe it—“I swear—"

“Are you?” Swan took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Have you seen anyone new?”

“Not exactly—” Macy hadn’t seen anything or anyone new, unless she counted the vegan Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra caramel chocolate core ice cream, and that latest parody sorority horror TV show on Hulu.

”All the more reason…you need to put yourself out there...”

“But I’m not ready—"

Swan, noticing her new coworker passing by, gave a little push as Macy stumbled into his arms.

Aaaaaaaaah!

It was, of course, the handsome stranger. “Are you alright?” he asked, sounding positively British.

Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, Macy found herself nodding.

“Would you care to dance?” he then proffered.

As Macy turned around to glare, Swan cheerily waved, mouthing call me after, as she reached for a mixed drink that was positively drenched in pink glitter.

What was it called when a friend paid you in cash to dance with a complete stranger? Ah, yes. Bribery.

Bribery, and let’s face it—desperation, she thought. Though he’s kind of hot—snap out of it Mace!

“What's your name?” he asked, leading her to the dance floor, as if he could have belonged in a waltzing Bridgerton series just as much as a contemporary setting.

“M-Maddie,” she stammered. “Madalena.” She made up a name, as she knew full well there was no way she'd ever see him again. “Uh, your name?”

“Harry. And how do you know the bride?”

“Longtime friend. We go way back,” Macy admitted, though it was more than that. She took a leadership position at the local university where Swan and Chloe worked. Chloe as an ever-so-eclectic art instructor, Swan as an urban studies junior professor full of knowledge about nonprofits and similar.

As they moved to the music, she noticed a few heads turning, looking—hostile? Mostly middle-aged or older mothers, oddly enough. The dance having finished soon after, they found flutes of champagne and sat down at a nearby sweetheart table-for-two.

“Everyone keeps foisting their maiden daughters on me,” he joked after a beat, noticing their stares.

“What a problem.”

“It is!” he exclaimed. “I feel like live bait. Ever since my last relationship ended, they’ve been trying to trick me into this, that and the other thing.”

And somehow, Macy could relate. “How’d your last relationship end? I mean,” she backtracked, “it’s ok if you don’t want to—”

“It’s fine. Long story short, she betrayed me, and I left.”

“I’m sorry.” Macy didn’t know what the betrayal was, but felt bad for him nonetheless.

“Yourself? Though I doubt someone as lovely as you would be alone tonight—” he coughed, blushing. “I mean—that is to say—I should never assume—”

She smiled. This guy seemed so well-intentioned. Sweet, even. “Yup…I’m by myself. Recent breakup. My ex, he didn’t want kids. Didn’t see a future. It’s complicated. But it’s ok. Really,” she said, blinking hard, before noticing his expression.

“His loss.”

They talked more, through one flute of champagne, then another, and another, until they were the only two lingering in the venue, most of the guests having departed. Up ahead, past the expansive French doors, were boxwood bushes impeccably trimmed to resemble a labyrinth.

He held out his hand, and she took it, as they ambled toward the maze. Once inside, they navigated twists and turns, her hand reaching for his, as they came upon a hidden turret, the scent of cherry blossoms and honeysuckle positively intoxicating, her hand reaching to stroke his visage, his lips, perilously close to hers, as she closed her eyes, allowing them to meet, quickly, passionately so—

And seconds later—

RRRRiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnngggg!

Someone was calling her from her cell. Breaking apart, she straightened her now-rumpled gown, gulping for breath, having come to her senses. “I don’t usually do this. I can't,” Macy found herself saying. “It's too soon.”

“I understand.” And he felt sad, as though she were the only woman in the world for her. Ridiculous, no? There were, he knew, many more women to meet, but in this moment, all he ever wanted was her. More of her, if ever such a thing were possible. Maybe I’ll never see her again.

Three Days Later, Hilltowne University

She’d avoided Swan’s phone call the next day. Missed texts, too. She didn’t want to recap her foray from the past weekend, and that champagne was strong. But there was a board meeting. And she, being leadership, had to attend.

During roll call, she heard the name Harry, but nobody had shown. Then, several minutes into the meeting, noticing a figure had slipped in, she’d heard a man ask, “Madalena, what are your thoughts? Or, erm, Maddie?”

She froze. Wait a second—

“Macy,” she whispered. “My name's Macy,” she said, louder, as Swan turned toward her curiously, others too exhausted from the weekend’s festivities, to care about scholarship fundraising and any associated cereal breakfasts and pizza parties.

“Pardon, I must've misheard.” The talk went on. Froot Loops or organic vegan cinnamon O’s? Any sponsorship or financing? What about that vegetarian dairy-free pizza joint? The last item was specifically brought up by Swan.

At the end, Macy was the first to leave, darting through the corridor at breakneck speed, but felt herself pulled into a side hallway.

“What're you playing at?” A low growl, deep and warm, enough to make her legs tingle. “Giving a false name? How unbecoming.” But both knew how the other felt, his touch electric, her lips, there, bringing him to his knees—

“I can explain.”

“Please do.”

Their eyes met, a quirk of her brow, as they felt for a door that led them into a spare study room that she knew, from having studied architectural blueprints and the like, was 100% soundproof.

Six Hours Later, Blue Owl Coffee Shop, Hilltowne University

“You look good. Really good!” Chloe spoke; she had returned from a quick honeymoon, eager to start the semester refreshed. They sat with Swan, who beckoned them over, having heard her words.

“Is it him??” Swan exclaimed excitedly to Macy as Chloe looked excited.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Macy feigned ignorance, but the wrinkled bits of her blouse did not pass unnoticed by the two. Swan and Chloe sipped their drinks, giving each other a knowing smile.

Present Day, Epicenter Pico No.23, Madalena Village, Azores Islands

There.

Macy clicked the laptop shut, just as a baby bottle made its way before her, politely so, instead of crashing into the kitchen wall.

“Better,” she grinned. “Much better.”

Chapter Text

Months Later, Saturday Night, Lake Champlain Resort Village, Vermont

“FUCK!”

An empty cartridge of mascara whizzed past the closed door, knocking the ambient owl art astray. Macy continued rifling through her overnight bag, hastily packed less than 48 hours before as Harry had surprised her with a weekend escape to Vermont’s premiere resort condo, in an attempt to liven up their married life post-baby.

Weekend after weekend had involved endless screaming (Maya’s, poor girl was teething), pacing (Harry), and throwing (nothing dangerous, not at anyone, just hormones), and Harry had taken it upon himself to research “Switzerland,” “America,” “chalet,” and “Autumnal equinox” and this was precisely what resulted.

This, of course, being, a cozy pine wood floor mini cottage-like condo with an expansive futon couch, robotic heaters that talked, free wine tastings, and a lovely last night-of-weekend away dinner in the seafood restaurant nearby.

Formalwear only.

Children discouraged—no crayon placemats available.

Verify attire suitable via social media channels.

Which was, to Macy’s estimation, all well and good…if she’d actually packed any formalwear. Unfortunately, the sleek black cocktail dress she packed…thought she’d packed, had turned out to be a black maternity night shirt.

That was exactly what was to be expected, having packed in the dark, Maya howling in the other room with yet another cold pacifier floating in from the nearby refrigerator (score one for telekinesis!).

Pants? Check.

Sleeveless, soft blouses? Check.

Maternity pumping bra? And utilitarian sports bra? Check.

Sexy cocktail dress meant to charm the pants off her husband? Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

Continuing to dig into her bag, her finger brushed a small glass bottle she knew she hadn’t packed herself. Brow furrowed, she closed her hands around it, pulling it out. Uncork in fashion emergency, read her sister Maggie’s handwriting.

Macy grinned. Having sisters was awesome. She did pause for a moment, wondering if she shouldn’t be worried Maggie included a spell for lingerie, but quickly brushed that thought away. This restaurant date would be a no-go without proper attire, and since the resort town was in its off-season, many other restaurants weren’t open. And the rest that were, were mostly McDonalds and Denny’s.

Not that she had anything against either. They came in handy for mom-like auntie get-togethers with Mel and Maggie, free Happy Meal toys included, all given to Maya to distract her, as she sloshed each in her gums (under careful parental supervision, of course).

Here goes nothing, she thought to herself, uncorking the tiny bottle, sprinkling a pinch of the sparkling lilac glitter into her right palm.

“I need a nice outfit, please,” she whispered, lips cupped to her hand. “Something comfy, something dark, something sultry, nothing stark—”

Then, a small wind blew, growing stronger as the glitter rose from her hand. She watched with awe as her gray leggings morphed into an elegant smoky Kate Spade jumpsuit, low-cut and form-fitting at the chest. Her simple rose gold ring transformed rim-by-rim into a honeycomb pattern with Swarovski crystals and opal. Costume jewelry, proceeds of which went to Save the Bees. She’d seen the ad in a magazine for bath crystals and accompanying jewelry.

Something grew from her ears—hands clapped to them, she glanced at her reflection, noticing thin white gold ivy-like earrings emerging from seemingly nothing, with little elven-carved leaves and buds delicately hewn.

Her pink-and-white candy-striped socks, the ones she’d grabbed in a hurry? Instantly turned into sheer tights and the most stylish spiked heel she had ever seen, the type she’d seen once in a New York City magazine, filed it away under “things she loved but could never find a time to wear”—

A minute passed, then a few more.

That was it, right? She surveyed her silhouette, noticing the way invisible forces painted a sultry cat’s eye-styled eyeshadow, navy to smoky, simple blush, and a rouge that looked so sensual it made her blush.

Well damn.

About to head toward the door, she tripped over her bag—

Which had suddenly transformed into a black Michael Kors bag with gold gilded edges. Biting her lip, she grinned.

Note to self: buy Maggie all the coffee and all the fancy drinks.

“All set,” she whispered to herself as she opened the door before her, the evening beckoning her toward her one true love, waiting mere feet away with a bouquet of roses, his mouth open as though he couldn’t believe his eye.

“Mace,” he shook his head, blinking thrice. “Macy, Mace, love, you look—” his voice dropped an octave, his eyes growing dark. “Ravishing—”

They set out into the night, as Macy closed the front door behind them, a twinkle in her eye.