Page 61 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

“It’s possible,” he admits. “I can’t be sure. But something about it smells… fresh. Like they’re nearby.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the beacon the police gave us, the device that will summon help at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll have this on me at all times,” he says firmly. “And I need you to be on guard, Ecco. Don’t let your focus slip, not even for a second.”

I nod, worrying my lower lip with my teeth.

The rest of choir practice passes in a blur, the sweet harmonies washing over me as I try to pay attention to the children’s music and stay alert at the same time. I can’t shake the constant prickle at the back of my neck, the sensation of being watched.

The town hall, previously so familiar and comforting, now is claustrophobic, the shadows lengthening and twisting in the corners of my vision. I keep twitching, thinking I’ve seen something, but then realizing it’s just my imagination getting the better of me.

Please, I plead silently.Let this be over soon. I can’t take much more of this.

The words are like a desperate prayer for relief from the stress and uncertainty that have become my new normal. I’m so tired of being afraid, of jumping at every shadow, and second-guessing everyone I see.

As practice winds down and the children start to disperse, I turn to Graeme.

“I want to go visit Velda, see how she’s doing,” I tell him. “I feel terrible that I didn’t make it over there with Mariah the other day. She did so much for me when I was younger. And…focusing on someone else’s problems instead of my own will be good for me.”

Graeme nods, seeming to sense the anxiety that’s pressing down on my shoulders and tightening my chest.

“Of course,” he says gently. “Let’s go.”

As we approachVelda’s thatch-roofed cottage, blanketed cheerily in snow with glittering icicles sparkling in the afternoon sun, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. Memories of my childhood come rushing back, of warm afternoons spent in this very home, nibbling on freshly baked scones and listening to Velda’s whimsical stories.

After my mom left town, Velda and her wife Myrtle were always there for me, offering a safe haven. They became like a second set of grandparents to me, especially once Dad’s parents passed away.

Even now, just the sight of their home fills me with a sense of belonging.

A pang shoots through me as I think again about how Myrtle is gone, Velda left alone in this cottage that was previously so full of love.

Before Graeme and I even have a chance to knock, the door swings open, revealing a sniffling Velda wrapped in a threadbare quilt. Her normally warm brown skin looks ashen and her eyes are watery, but the smile that lights up her face is as warm as ever.

“Ecco, dear!” she exclaims, her voice slightly hoarse. “And this must be your handsome bodyguard I’ve heard so much about.”

My cheeks flush at her words. What has Mariah told her?

Velda ushers us inside, fussing over us like a mother hen. “Come in, come in,” she insists. “Let me put on some tea.”

As she bustles off towards the kitchen, I take a moment to drink in the familiar surroundings. The cozy living room looks just like I remember, with its overstuffed armchairs andshelves crammed with well-loved books about every magical topic imaginable. The air is fragrant with the scent of herbs and honey, although a mustiness hangs about the house now too, almost as if I can smell Velda’s illness.

Graeme’s hand finds the small of my back, a grounding touch.

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low.

I lean into him, letting his solid presence anchor me.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Better than okay, actually. Being here… this place is like a second home.”

We settle into the cozy living room and I admire the familiar magical decor. The throw pillows are embroidered with intricate runes that shimmer and shift in the light, and the curtains seem to ripple and sway of their own accord. Even the teacups Velda sets in front of us on the coffee table are adorned with delicate, iridescent dragonflies that flutter their wings as the steam rises from the aromatic brew.

Velda and Myrtle always used to joke that the two of them together created more magic than most people could handle.

My gaze drifts over to the clutter of cold remedies and used tissues scattered across the table, and my heart twists with concern.

“Velda, I hope you’re feeling better,” I say, reaching out to clasp the older woman’s hand. Her skin is thin and papery beneath my fingers, but her grip is still strong. “I wish there was something I could do for you to help you get well.”

Velda’s eyes crinkle at the edges as she smiles, the lines of a life well-lived etched into her face.

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