One girl’s quest for belonging leads to perilous secrets.

Will she uncover the truth before it’s too late? Amoura Renly is anything but average, much to her dismay. When a violent confrontation with a bully awakens her connection to magic, Amoura struggles with the realization she’s farther from fitting in than she ever imagined. Desperate for a fresh start, Amoura enrolls at Elderwood School for the Magically Inclined, tucked beneath the streets of San Francisco.

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But with a unique connection to magic seemingly different from her peers and a secret police force “disappearing” anyone deemed a magical abnormality, fitting in is the least of her troubles. As Amoura navigates the dangers of a society that fears what it doesn’t understand, she uncovers the truth about her connection to magic and the dark secrets that threaten her very existence.

EXTRACT

CHAPTER THREE
The Visitor

“Good evening, Mr. Renly. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Her voice
made me think of running my fingers through warm bathwater. I couldn’t see Dad’s
face from my hiding spot, but the way his spine stretched a half-inch taller as he
greeted the stranger made my heart thump in my throat. Through the doorway came
a floating obelisk, caped in deep forest green with a slim silver cane clasped under
her right arm. Black lace crawled like creeping vines up her neck from below her
cape, a sharp contrast to her porcelain skin and painted red lips. She wore her crow-
colored hair in a simple bun high on her head, pulled so tight my scalp hurt just
looking at her. Swishing around, she inspected the foyer from ceiling to floorboard
before settling her gaze on Dad.

“I should be the one thanking you for coming all this way, Ms. Blackwood. And so
quickly!” Dad’s baritone voice took an unnaturally high-pitched tone.

“Doctor Blackwood,” she corrected, lifting her chin. Even from a distance, I could see
the electric twinkle in her sapphire eyes. “When Dean Matigan shared with me what
happened this afternoon, I knew I could be of help. And it was no trouble—a quick
half-hour trip on the skyway.”

“Oh, right,” Dad said, rubbing his bald head. “You would come by the skyway; that
makes sense.” He was quiet for a moment. “Sorry, we’re all still shaken up
about…everything.” My six-foot-one father, usually the picture of relaxed confidence,
looked like a schoolboy under the stranger’s gaze. He ran his hands over the front of
his apron, smoothing and re- smoothing non-existent wrinkles.

She observed him, her mouth curling into an unreadable smile. “I’m sorry. May I take
your coat? Or—or cape, I mean?”

Dr. Blackwood flicked one long finger toward her collar. My hand shot to my mouth to
stifle a gasp as the cloak slid from her shoulders, spun in midair as if dancing alone,
and folded itself over his extended arm. I still couldn’t get a good look at Dad’s face,
but the smile on her lips as she floated off into the living room made me feel pretty
positive he was as surprised as I was by her floating outerwear.

“Your home is lovely, Mr. Renly,” Dr. Blackwood purred. “I’ve always loved the old
craftsmen houses of Portland.”

Dad shook his head as if to snap himself out of a dream. “Oh, thank you,” he called
back. He hung the cloak on our crowded coat rack with care. I knew he was scolding
himself for not moving some of our family’s Pacific Northwest puff coats to the hall
closet. This elegant frock shouldn’t have to interact with our common people coats,
his voice chastised in my mind. “My husband and I put a lot of love into this place.”
He followed her into the living room and out of my view. “The houses in Portland
were the reason we moved here. We knew we could never get this space in San
Francisco.”

Like a mouse, I scurried on my hands and knees along the entryway wall. You’re
acting like a child, Renly. I ignored the scolding voice in my head and sank flat to my
stomach, body flush with the wall, then pulled myself forward just enough to peer
around the corner. Dad stood rigid in the middle of the living room, his profile to me.
Dr. Blackwood stalked the perimeter, examining artwork hanging on the wall.

“You lived in San Francisco?”

“Yes, that’s where Mateo and I met. He was in nursing school, and I worked for a
tech company. We wanted to start a family, and the city didn’t seem like the right
place to do that.” He paused, shrugging. “So, we moved here.”

“And the child?” She picked up our family photo from the coffee table. “When did she
join your family?” My cheeks flushed as she referenced me. I knew I was the entire
reason for her visit, but hearing her refer to me as “the child” made me feel like a
thing rather than a person. Like a specimen under observation.

“We adopted Amoura as an infant, three years after we settled in Portland.”

“I see.” She studied the photo in her hands, and the room fell silent. I wondered if
Dad felt as awkward as I did, watching her examine our family as if reading secrets
on the frozen faces, smiling goofily back at her.

“And her gifts,” she continued, eyes still on the photo. “You had no suspicion of your daughter’s abilities?”

Many thanks to @annecater for inviting me to be part of #RandomThingsTours

About the Author

Meg Kramer is an expert at writing in odd places. She penned her debut novel, Amoura Awakened, in the lobbies of her daughter’s many after school activities and appointments, and in her car outside her local bookshop.

Meg spent ten years working as an elementary educator, inspiring kids to explore their unique creativity and view themselves as writers. One day, she decided to take her own advice and wrote her book. Meg is a mother, an LGBTQIA+ ally, and an indie music enthusiast. When she’s not writing or “momming”, you can find Meg wandering the streets of San Francisco, hunting for magic in the cobwebs of the city’s oldest Victorians.