“Ah, there it is.” Thistle bobbed her head. “What’s the plan here, Riddler? What Machiavellian scheme are you concocting?”
“Even I can’t torture Margaret when she’s as pathetic as this,” Aunt Tillie explained. “I’m afraid she might hurt herself. The changeling thing did a real number on her.”
“You still haven’t told us your plan,” Thistle pointed out.
“Nobody needs your mouth,” Aunt Tillie snapped. “My plan is a good one.” She puffed herself out. “We’re going to do a memory charm so Margaret isn’t afraid any longer. We’re going to make it so she doesn’t remember the changeling thing. That’s what tipped her over the edge.”
It was an interesting approach. “What happens when someone brings up the changeling and she doesn’t remember it?” I asked.
“Who is going to bring up the changeling?” Aunt Tillie made a face. “We’re the only ones who know about it and we’re not going to bring it up.”
“What if there are gaps in her memory?”
“She’s old. People will think she’s starting to slip. That’s the way it is.”
“Isn’t she the same age as you?” Thistle asked.
“Watch it, Mouth!” Aunt Tillie jabbed Thistle in the side. “I’ll start messing with your memory if you’re not careful. By the time I’m finished with you you’ll think you’re a pig in a tutu.”
Because Aunt Tillie actually owned a pig that she often dressed in a tutu, it was a believable threat.
“Let’s take a breath.” I extended my hand between Aunt Tillie and Thistle. “How is this going to work?” I asked Aunt Tillie. “Is it a potion?”
Aunt Tillie removed a bottle from her pocket. “All we have to do is get her to drink it, then tweak the magic a bit. We don’t want her forgetting everything—then she really will end up in a home, and that’s not fun for me. We need her to get past the stuff that’s ruining her life.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the one ruining her life,” Thistle supplied.
“One more word,” Aunt Tillie warned, raising an index finger. “Just one more word and you’re going on my list.”
Thistle didn’t look daunted. “I’m serious. Maybe we should just leave it alone. What if we make things worse?”
“When do I ever make things worse?” Aunt Tillie was affronted. “I’m a fixer.” She thumped her chest for emphasis. “I fix things. That’s what I’m going to do now.”
“Only so you can go back to torturing Mrs. Little without a guilty conscience,” Clove argued. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Unbelievable!” Aunt Tillie threw her hands into the air and stomped her feet. “I’m done talking to you. All of you. I’ll handle this myself.”
To give myself time to figure out a plan of action—I had no idea what that was going to look like—I turned to Evan as the vampire dropped down from a nearby tree. He was quiet like a cat, slinky, and I had no idea where he’d come from.
“What were you doing?” I demanded.
“Spying,” Evan replied. He didn’t look embarrassed. “Margaret is in the living room, tucked under a blanket. She’s watching some television show about ancient alien conspiracies.”
“Those are great shows,” a voice said from the bushes.
I jerked when I recognized who it belonged to, then braced myself for the appearance of the diabolical clown doll.
Crusty—I had no idea who had chosen the creature’s name—had become a regular fixture at The Overlook, the inn my mother and aunts ran. Weeks ago, Aunt Tillie had brokered a deal with him. During the Great Clown Uprising of Hemlock Cove, he’d offered help in exchange for keeping his autonomy. Now the creepy little monster was Aunt Tillie’s third sidekick. He was sarcastic, crude, and not entirely reliable.
Aunt Tillie loved him for some reason.
“Those are good shows,” Aunt Tillie readily agreed. “I’ve learned a lot from them.”
“Name one thing,” Thistle challenged.
“Stonehenge was built by aliens,” Aunt Tillie shot back.
“Oh, here we go,” Thistle muttered.
