Ria
Another book slammed shut.
“Nothing,” I said for the fourth time tonight, rubbing my temples.
The stack of old texts beside us teetered dangerously, pages curled with age and time. Candlelight flickered across the floor of the small attic library my mom had hidden beneath a false ceiling in our home.
If there was anywhere the answer should be, it was here.
And yet—every spell, every charm, every curse-breaker we found led to dead ends.
“She covered her tracks well,” I muttered. “Too well.”
Tessa didn’t respond, but I saw her jaw clench from across the room. She was flipping through a worn leather-bound grimoire, one of the oldest books in our collection. The language was archaic, full of runes and faded script.
“She always does,” Tessa finally said. “Sparkle’s been ten steps ah
