Chapter Text
The day before classes, Abigail sat cross-legged on the floor of her dorm room, her back against the wall, her phone resting heavily in her hand. The room was dark except for the soft glow of her desk lamp, and Haley was already asleep, her breathing even and steady.
Abigail stared at the number saved on her phone.
Arcane Emporium – Landline
She hesitated for a moment, then she pressed call.
The line rang longer than it should have, echoing hollowly in her ear before finally clicking over to voicemail. The recorded greeting was unmistakably Rasmodius’ voice—measured, patient, faintly amused.
“You have reached the Arcane Emporium. If this matter concerns mundane commerce, please leave a message. If it concerns the unseen, I pray you know how to reach me.”
The beep sounded impossibly loud in the quiet room.
Abigail swallowed.
“Hi,” she began, her voice softer than she had intended. “It’s me.”
She paused, staring at the wall like he might somehow hear her better if she faced forward.
“I don’t know if you can even get this,” she continued, forcing the words out, “but I needed to talk about… the disagreement that we had.”
It had been sharp and serious, and she had stormed out afterwards.
“I know you said some things… then I said some things, but I shouldn’t have said what I said,” she admitted quietly into the receiver.
Her throat tightened.
“If you decided to leave because of that fight… I’m sorry.”
She drew in a shaky breath.
“Just come back,” she murmured. “We can fight about it again if you want. I’ll even let you win the argument.”
The silence on the other end of the line felt immense.
“I’m serious,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
She ended the call slowly, staring at the dark screen long after it went blank.
A few blocks away, in his high-rise apartment, Cliff stood before his own reflection in the darkened window, the city lights glittering behind him like distant constellations. His phone rested in his palm, and he turned it over once before dialing the same number.
The Arcane Emporium rang.
When Rasmodius’ recorded voice answered, Cliff closed his eyes briefly before speaking.
“Hey…” he said. “It’s Cliff.”
He exhaled slowly.
“I still have it.”
He glanced toward the locked drawer in his desk—the one he had warded twice over since that night Rasmodius disappeared.
Rasmodius had given it to him in private, pressing it into his hands with a seriousness that had unsettled him at the time.
You are not to tell Abigail about this, he had said firmly with a tone that brook no argument.
Cliff’s grip tightened on the phone.
“You told me to keep it safe,” he continued, voice steady but low. “That I would need it when the time comes.”
He hesitated.
“But I don’t understand why I can’t tell Abigail.”
He leaned his free hand against the window, staring out at the city.
“Did you know something would happen to you?” he asked quietly. “Did you know you would be gone?”
The idea had been gnawing at him since his disappearance.
“If this is a contingency plan,” Cliff continued, “I need more clues. I need to know more.”
His voice softened slightly.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do with it,” he admitted.
The voicemail beeped, warning him his time was nearly up.
“If you can hear this,” Cliff said, “give us a sign. Anything.”
He ended the call and stood there in the dark, the weight of the secret pressing harder now than it had when Rasmodius first placed it in his hands.
In two different rooms across the city, both of the wizard’s children stared into silence, each convinced that the answer for Rasmodius’ disappearance rested partly with them.
And neither of them knew that the other felt the same.
.
Abigail was stomping across the quad with the kind of determined, irritated stride that made several passing students instinctively step out of her path, her boots hitting the stone walkway in sharp, rhythmic thuds while she clutched a steaming paper cup of herbal tea in one hand and muttered under her breath like someone personally betrayed by the concept of higher education.
The morning air was cool and damp, the campus lawns still glittering faintly with dew, and the tall buildings of the university rose around them in pale gray stone that looked far too calm and academic for the kind of catastrophe Abigail felt was currently unfolding.
“I can not believe this,” she huffed, blowing impatiently across the surface of the tea before taking an aggressive sip. “I mean seriously, Cliff, how am I supposed to sit through a three-hour Fourth-Year Advanced Experimental Textiles seminar and critique someone’s conceptual weaving project when Rasmodius is missing.”
She emphasized the last three words with dramatic indignation.
Cliff walked beside her with considerably less theatrical urgency, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, though the way he chewed thoughtfully at the inside of his lip suggested that he was thinking just as hard about the situation as she was.
“Lower your voice,” he murmured.
Abigail spun toward him, nearly sloshing tea over the rim of her cup.
“Why should I lower my voice?” she demanded. “Our wizard father vanished into thin air and I’m expected to act like my biggest concern today is loom tension and fiber composition!”
Cliff glanced around the quad automatically, scanning the nearby students who were drifting between buildings with coffee cups and laptops, completely oblivious to the fact that an actual wizard had disappeared under extremely suspicious magical circumstances.
“That’s exactly why,” he said quietly. “Because if we start running around campus telling people something weird happened to Rasmodius, we’re going to draw attention to it.”
Abigail made an incredulous noise.
“But something did happen.”
“Yes,” Cliff said patiently. “Something magical.” That much was obvious.
He paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully.
“And the last thing we want is someone asking questions we can’t answer.”
Abigail scowled at the ground as they crossed the courtyard, the steam from her tea curling past her nose.
Her mind drifted back, unwillingly but vividly, to the moment when she and Cliff had raced down the narrow stairwell into the mall basement, practically tripping over each other with excitement as they burst through the doorway into the Arcane Emporium.
They had expected Rasmodius waiting with some dramatic speech about destiny and responsibility and their very first magical mission. Instead, the room had been silent.
The candles were blown out, thin trails of smoke still twisting faintly in the air.
The teapot on the small wooden table was still warm to the touch, the faint scent of herbs lingering like a ghost of someone who had just stepped out for a moment.
Everything in the shop looked exactly the same as it had the day before, except Rasmodius wasn’t there.
Abigail could still remember the way her stomach had dropped.
She had pulled the enchanted magnifying glass from her bag with fingers that were suddenly shaking much more than she wanted to admit, kneeling on the floor between the shelves and sweeping the lens slowly across the room while Cliff stood behind her holding the invisibility cloak like it might somehow help.
“Anything?” he had asked.
At first there had been nothing.
Just faint magical residue from the usual enchantments woven into the room.
And then—
Under the lens, near the centre of the floorboards, pale streaks of shimmering energy had formed deliberate shapes, curling lines that were completely invisible to the naked eye but unmistakably intentional when viewed through the enchanted glass.
Abigail had sucked in a breath.
“Cliff…”
The words were written clearly, though they flickered and warped like reflections on water.
SPIRIT WORLD
She had stared at the message for several long seconds, her mind racing through possibilities.
Spirit world… What does that even mean?
Back in the present, Abigail groaned softly and took another frustrated sip of tea.
“Spirit world,” she muttered. “What kind of clue even is that.”
Cliff exhaled through his nose, remembering the rest of the evening.
After they had left the Emporium, they had spent hours surrounded by stacks of old books and journals that had once belonged to Cliff’s mother, the Witch. The pages were brittle with age and filled with cramped handwriting and arcane diagrams.
Cliff had flipped carefully through one of the older grimoires, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Wait,” he had said suddenly.
Abigail looked up from the magnifying glass.
“What?”
Cliff ran his finger slowly along a passage written in faded ink.
“There’s an entry here,” he said, reading aloud. “About methods of accessing the spirit world.”
Abigail’s heart started racing again.
“And?”
Cliff frowned.
“It references a specific text,” he continued. “Apparently there’s an ancient tome that rituals a pathway between the physical realm and the spirit plane.”
Abigail leaned closer over his shoulder.
“What’s the book called?”
Cliff read the title slowly and the problem became obvious immediately.
“Apparently the book is extremely rare,” Cliff explained now as they approached the arts building. “Most copies were destroyed or lost centuries ago.”
Abigail threw up a hand.
“Of course it is.”
Cliff continued walking calmly.
“But according to the journal, the nearest surviving copy is supposedly held in the special collections section of the university library.”
That had been the moment Abigail’s entire plan to remain in Pelican Town and continue investigating had collapsed and why she had reluctantly agreed to head off to the university once classes started up again.
She groaned again now as the tall doors of the fine arts building came into view.
“This is ridiculous,” she said dramatically. “I should be investigating this whole spirit world thing, not discussing textile symbolism.”
Cliff only chuckled at her.
.
Years ago, it was a bright afternoon many years earlier, sunlight spilling through the wide kitchen windows of their old house in soft golden sheets that turned the dust motes in the air into tiny drifting constellations. The backyard beyond the glass was lush with summer green, the hedges humming lazily with bees and the faint scent of lilacs drifting inside with the breeze.
On the living room rug, a very serious tea party was underway.
Abigail was barely four years old, small and round-cheeked in the way toddlers were, her chestnut brown hair brushed carefully into soft waves and tied into two uneven ribbons that bounced each time she nodded emphatically during conversation. She wore a frilly purple dress with puffed sleeves and a lace collar, the kind Caroline had picked out because it made her daughter look sweet and proper and ordinary—things Caroline desperately wanted for her.
Little Abigail sat cross-legged on the rug in front of a plastic toy tea set, carefully pouring imaginary tea from a pink teapot into a row of mismatched cups that were arranged in a very deliberate half circle while chattering a mile a minute.
Not the half-heartedness of a child playing pretend, but animated conversation—bright, excited chatter as if several guests were seated around her.
Caroline froze in the doorway.
At first she had smiled automatically, watching her daughter from the kitchen with fond amusement, but then Abigail leaned forward slightly, listening. Legitimately listening with her head tilted in concentration.
“Uh-huh,” she said thoughtfully. “Mama says I can’t go outside the yard, but maybe you can.”
The smile slowly faded from Caroline’s face.
A cold knot began tightening somewhere deep in her stomach and Caroline’s heart began to pound.
The room suddenly felt too quiet, the cheerful afternoon light turning harsh and wrong around the edges.
Memories began creeping in—of dark shapes in corners when she was a child, whispers she could hear that no one else could, the suffocating dread of lying awake at night knowing something unseen was watching her from the foot of the bed.
And worse.
Caroline’s breath caught, she knew exactly what this was. Abigail was seeing spirits, just like she had.
No. She said to herself firmly. Absolutely not.
Caroline’s chair scraped sharply across the kitchen floor as she stood.
Abigail looked up, startled by the sudden movement.
Caroline crossed the room quickly, her heels striking the hardwood with sharp, decisive steps.
“Abigail.”
“Yes, mama?”
Caroline stopped in front of the pretend tea party, staring down at the empty spaces where Abigail had been offering cups and cookies.
Her voice came out sharper than she intended. “Who are you talking to?”
Abigail looked confused by the question. “My friend, he said he’s from the spirit world,” she said simply, as though the answer should have been obvious.
Caroline felt her pulse hammer harder.
“There’s no one there,” she said firmly.
Abigail frowned.
“Yes there is.” She turned slightly and pointed beside her. “Krobus is right there. Look, he’s waving at you.”
Caroline’s fear surged up quickly, hot and suffocating. “No,” she said sharply. “There is nobody there.”
Abigail blinked, confused.
“But—”
“You’re being silly,” Caroline interrupted, her voice trembling now. “And you need to stop making up lies.”
Abigail looked from her mother to the empty space beside her, her small brows knitting together in bewilderment.
“I’m not telling lies,” she said quietly. “He’s right—”
“That’s enough!” The words snapped through the room like a whip crack.
Abigail flinched.
Caroline crouched down, her face serious and unyielding.
“You musn’t tell lies like that,” she said sternly. “Do you understand me?”
Abigail’s lower lip trembled. “I’m not lying,” she insisted softly.
Caroline grabbed the plastic teacup from Abigail’s hand and set it down firmly.
“There is nobody there.” The fear in her chest twisted into anger now, desperate and protective and destructive all at once. “And we do not make up imaginary friends and pretend they’re real. That’s enough nonsense for today.”
She gathered up the toy teacups and the plastic teapot in one quick motion.
“Since you want to tell lies, you’re grounded and you can forget about dessert for a week. And you’re going to say your Hail Marys tonight.” She returned holding the rosary she kept near the kitchen doorway, the beads dangling heavily from her hand.
“You need to ask Jesus for forgiveness for telling stories like that.” Caroline’s voice turned stern with fear she didn’t know how to explain.
Abigail’s little hands clenched in the fabric of her frilly dress.
“That’s not fair,” she said quietly, hurt flashing across her face.
Caroline’s chest tightened painfully at the look in her daughter’s eyes, but she hardened herself against it.
Abigail glanced once more toward the empty space beside her and her expression shifted—confusion giving way to wounded frustration.
.
The campus café was warm and dimly lit, smelling faintly of roasted beans and cinnamon. Rain pattered softly outside, the kind of spring drizzle that made the windows fog up. Luiza sat across from Holly at a small wooden table cluttered with laptops, open notebooks, and half-empty mugs of coffee with her pastel highlighters spread out like a rainbow arsenal across the tabletop.
It was supposed to be a study session for their Audio-Visual Communications Technology course. Today’s lecture had been about “multi-platform media ecosystems” and the professor’s lamenting of how his video news segment that he tried to launch last year was an epic fail and the campus newspaper was still the staple source of information, like it was the stone age or something.
Now the girls were animatedly discussing it.
“I mean, it could be fun,” Luiza said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He said it’s the best way to understand how creator-driven media changes distribution models. And we both have abandoned Youtube channels, maybe we could help him make his campus news show a success?”
Holly smiled uncertainly, stirring her coffee. “Yeah, but… I don’t know. I kind of have heebie jeebies of seeing myself in front of a camera. I don’t think someone like me is interesting enough to watch.”
Before Luiza could chime in to reassure you, the barista—a guy in his late twenties with a scruffy beard and an easy smile—came by with a tray. “Hey folks,” he said cheerfully. “Sorry to bug you, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Are you telecommunications majors?”
The girls nodded. “Yeah,” Luiza said. “We’re in our final year.”
“Cool,” the barista said, balancing the tray against his hip. “That was my major too. Graduated from Ferngill Republic State about three years ago.”
Holly blinked at him, doing some mental math and coming to conclusions. “Wait—you mean you couldn’t find a job?”
Someone else would have winced at her bluntness, but the barista didn’t seem offended. He just shrugged, good-natured. “Tried for a while. It’s a small field—lotta grads, not many openings. This was supposed to be temporary, but… I like it here. Tips are good, and the regulars are nice.”
He took their orders for refills, jotted them down, and went back behind the counter.
The table fell quiet. Holly stared at her notebook, her face pale as she began spiralling with the look of someone whose brain was feeding her every anxious scenario at once.
“Luiza, what—what if that’s me in three years? I thought I was finally studying something real, thinking I’ll be a working professional, only for it to all be a waste of time when I’m stuck in a minimum wage job.”
Luiza tilted her head and tried to reassure her. “Come on Holly, not everyone’s path looks the same. Some people get lucky right away, others take longer. Doesn’t mean they failed.”
“But what if I do fail?” she whispered. “What if I’m not good at anything? I mean, the Harvey thing didn’t work out so what if—”
Luiza reached over, gently nudging her notebook closed. “Holly, you’re not a failure. You’re good, you just don’t believe it yet.”
For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of espresso machines and the rain tapping the glass but Holly stayed quiet, tracing a finger over the condensation on her mug. It was clear from the way she bit her lip when she was lost in thought, the faint shimmer of worry in her eyes—and feeling a very familiar ache named anxiety.