Morning comes soft and ordinary—light across the sink, kettle starting to fuss, the floor cool when I swing my feet down. Bella is already at the table with toast and jam, legs tucked under the chair like she’s trying to be small and comfortable at the same time. Grams moves the kettle off the heat and looks at me the way she does when she’s decided what today will be.
“We’re working on concealment today,” she says. “Without the necklace. You need to learn to lower your own brightness.”
“Good,” I say, because I want something I can repeat that doesn’t depend on metal or stones. “Tell me what I’m aiming for.”
"Dimming your aura."
Bella licks jam from her thumb and watches me like I might sprout wings. “Are you going to explode the kitchen?” she asks, half-teasing, half serious.
“No,” I
