Chapter One
The Day the Wind Shifted
The morning mist still clung to the windows of the little cottage on Wisteria Lane, casting the kitchen in a sleepy, silver-blue light. A kettle purred softly on the stove, and a sleepy cat curled by the hearth, twitching its tail every so often like it was chasing dream-mice.
Liora Elwen sat at the wooden table in her faded lavender nightdress, pouring honey into her tea with slow, drowsy motions. Her journal lay open beside her, filled with pressed wildflowers, half-written poems, and little sketches of dreams she barely remembered when she woke.
Outside, the garden was waking too—dewdrops hanging like pearls from the vines, birds singing in sleepy murmurs, and the scent of mint rising from the earth.
"Uncle Thayer?" she called softly, knowing he was likely still out back tending to the morning herbs.
A muffled voice came from the garden door. "Leave some tea for the plants, Lio."
She smiled and took a sip. It tasted like lemon balm and sunlight.
By the time the clock struck nine, Liora had changed into one of her favorite dresses—a soft cream one with tiny embroidered violets—and tied her hair with a pale green ribbon. She packed her little cloth bag with her coin purse, a spare ribbon, and a pouch of flower sugar she'd made the night before.
Her boots clicked gently on the stone path as she left the house, locking the gate behind her. She waved at a few neighbors tending to window boxes or hanging little glowing charms over their doorways. Moonhollow always felt like it was half-asleep, half-daydreaming. Just like her.
Her first stop was the Potion Emporium run by the twins—Thimble & Thistle.
The shop stood crooked at the edge of a twisted little street, its sign swinging with a wind that wasn't blowing. Painted mushrooms grew on the roof, and the windows were steamed up with lavender smoke. The bell above the door sang a different note every time someone entered.
Today, it chimed in the key of G.
"Welcome back, Miss Moon-Eyes!" Thistle chirped from behind the counter, where she was bottling something that looked like dancing starlight.
"You're late for your own destiny," Thimble added, not looking up from the floating spellbook he was flipping through with a feather.
"I'm just here for the chocolates I bought yesterday," Liora said with a soft laugh. "The hazelnut ones with the candied violets on top?"
Thimble raised an eyebrow. "Darling, you know the shop reshuffles every night. You might find chocolates—or a box that hums lullabies."
"But I remember where I found them," Liora insisted, stepping carefully between shelves of glowing teacups, floating glass jars, and a bowl of marbles that kept rearranging themselves into letters.
She walked to the back, where she'd seen the sweets last—a little wooden drawer that had smelled of vanilla.
It wasn't there.
Instead, she found a jar labeled "Whispers in Lemon", a book titled "Spells for Homesick Ghosts", and a velvet box that meowed when she opened it.
Thimble leaned around a shelf. "Try the moon-colored drawer near the salt potions. The shop likes you."
Sure enough, tucked behind a stack of glowing cubes, she found a small box with the same candy violets pressed into its lid. The chocolates were there—along with an extra one, shaped like a tiny butterfly.
She smiled. "Thank you."
The twins waved her off with matching grins and riddles, and she tucked the box safely into her bag.
The morning light had warmed into a golden glow as she arrived at Marnie Thistlewick's Bakery, its windows fogged with sweet steam and the smell of spiced sugar rolling out into the street.
"You're almost late, buttercup!" Marnie called, hands deep in dough. "The jam tarts are throwing tantrums again."
Liora grinned and tied on her apron, quickly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let me handle them."
And so the day began.
Liora's shift at the bakery was a rhythm of warmth and wonder.
She kneaded enchanted dough that rose faster if you sang to it. She dusted pastries with glittering sugar that shimmered in candlelight. She boxed up crescent rolls that hummed lullabies when warm and made sure the heart-shaped buns didn't stick together—those ones had a habit of falling in love if placed too close.
Children ran in asking for dream-drops and starlight cookies. Elderly couples picked out breads that changed flavor depending on their mood. Marnie whirled through the kitchen like a cinnamon-scented storm, tossing instructions and hugs in equal measure.
Liora loved it.
She loved how the shop felt like a heartbeat of the village—always warm, always alive.
She loved wiping flour off her nose and catching Pim the fox familiar trying to sneak a tart from the windowsill. She loved wrapping up loaves in parchment and tying them with moon-thread.
By the time the sun began to dip, Liora's arms were tired, her apron dusted in gold, and her cheeks rosy from the oven's heat.
Marnie passed her a covered basket, warm and fragrant. "Delivery for Granny Elowyth. Don't let the cinnamon buns argue too much on the way."
Liora laughed and untied her apron, tucking it into her bag. "I'll make sure they behave."
The village was slipping into its evening hush as she walked—lanterns beginning to glow, windows lighting up one by one like sleepy fireflies. She passed Ciela's flower shop, where moonbuds were blooming gently in twilight. Callen nodded to her from his lantern cart. The twins waved from their window again, sipping tea that poured itself.
The path to Granny Elowyth's cottage curved gently away from the heart of the village, past the crooked stone fence and under a canopy of whispering trees.
She knocked once.
The door opened with a quiet creak.
"Come in, my starlight," Granny Elowyth said from her armchair, her eyes crinkling. "The wind tells me you had quite the day."
Liora stepped inside, the basket in her hands, and the scent of the cottage wrapped around her like a story waiting to be told.
Granny Elowyth poured her a cup of tea from a pot that never seemed to empty, the steam curling into butterfly shapes.
"I suppose," she said softly, "you've been feeling… different lately. Dreams that don't belong to you. A tug in your chest like someone is missing, though you couldn't say who. Butterflies that hover a bit too long. The world nudging you, gently but insistently."
Liora looked up slowly. Her voice barely above a whisper.
"…Yes."
Granny gave a small, knowing smile, though her eyes were sad behind it.
"It's because the Butterfly Glass is waking," she said. "And it remembers you."
Liora blinked. "Remembers me?"
Granny leaned closer. "It's a mirror, child—but not a normal one. It shows not your reflection, but your truest longing. Your heart's voice. And once every hundred years, the magic that keeps it protected begins to fade. It calls out, needing a new guardian to believe in it… to feed it with feeling."
She reached beside her chair and pulled out an old velvet book. A silver butterfly charm hung from its spine, and it looked so ancient that even the moonlight seemed cautious around it.
"There was once a boy," she continued, her voice barely louder than the crackling fire. "His name was Evanor. He wasn't born in Moonhollow—but he came here long ago when the Garden still bloomed all year round. He was… different. Quiet, like the wind between trees. The Glass loved him."
Liora leaned in, her fingers tight around her teacup.
"But one day," Granny said, "a witch came to the village. Not a wicked one, at first. Just lost. Heartbroken. She wanted the Glass to show her a way to bring back something that was already gone. But the Glass does not show what was. It only shows what is longed for."
"And what she longed for," Granny added, "was not hers to take back."
Liora's heart thudded.
"She tried to break it," Granny said. "To trap her wish inside. And when Evanor stepped forward to protect it, she cursed him—cursed him to live inside the Glass itself, locked between memory and longing. Neither alive, nor dead. Only half-remembered. And every hundred years, the Glass needs a guardian to keep his fading spirit anchored… and to protect the magic he once defended."
Liora stared into the flames, her mind spinning.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why now?"
Granny's eyes softened. "Because you're about to turn twenty. And the mirror always calls just before that age. It's how it's always been. A guardian is chosen by the spirits of the Garden… and by the Glass itself. And the Glass… it's been humming your name for years."
Liora didn't speak.
She was remembering the butterflies that followed her home. The way petals curled toward her hands. The feeling she'd had since childhood—that something was waiting for her, just out of sight.
And then, another thought surfaced—an ache.
"My parents…" she whispered. "They died when I was five. In the woods. Near the Garden."
Granny's expression darkened just a little.
"Yes," she said quietly. "They were trying to reach the Glass. Trying to find the truth about you. About why the mirror sang when you were born. They were caught in a storm of old magic. Magic that doesn't forgive mistakes."
Liora's breath hitched.
"They knew something," Granny went on. "Something about what's coming. But only the Glass knows the whole truth. And it doesn't speak plainly. It reveals. Slowly."
Granny reached over and gently took her hand.
"When you turn twenty," she said, "I'll tell you everything. The full story. Of your parents. Of the Garden. Of Evanor. And of the danger that's coming."
"But for now…" she nodded toward the window, where the stars had begun to bloom in the sky, "just listen to the butterflies. They'll lead you when the time is right."
And in the mirror near the fireplace—just for a moment—Liora saw silver eyes looking back at her.
And this time, she knew his name.