Do I believe in magic, truly?
In a place like this, it’s impossible not to.
But lately, the magic’s been changing. What once was a fluttery zing is a dense churning, manic and confused thanks to the chaos of plants I’ve got crammed in the sunroom, all the different energies mingling at too-close range. The state of our atmosphere is downright unpleasant. Ordinary customers don’t notice, but to my eyes, nettle and lady’s slipper three feet from each other spells palpable disaster. I’ve got dried flowers suspended from the ceiling, vines swallowing up every inch of wall space, live shrubbery overwhelming my workbench. As demand for flora fortunes has grown, I’ve had to keep more varieties on hand, and I’ve run out of room. Every day, the air between Luna and me is charged withwhat if.
What if we aren’t able to climb out of the sinkhole we’ve crumbled into? Three months ago, the vacant lot next door went up for sale, and we figured it was the answer to our prayers. Not only does the property come with a greenhouse (albeit a pretty old one), but the lot is paved, so why not use that space for a magical night market? It was a competitive sale, so our landlord and business partner, Trevor, decided to waive the inspection, and we pouredallof our savings into a property that has turned out to be a dumpster fire.
I still cringe, remembering how we’d celebrated when the other bidders stepped back, unwilling to match our offer. I imagine they are all laughing at us now.
Without glancing up from the computer behind the front desk, Luna tells me, “It’ll happen.” Even though witches only get one main specialty and Luna’s is candles, she’s uncannily perceptive. I think this is more of a Luna thing than a witch thing.
“Mm.” I tie on my apron—green, purple, and gold, like the banner out front, our shop name emblazoned in a medieval font—and turn the hand-painted wheel of fortune until it clicks to Monday. On Mondays, our deluxe subscription box brings you eight grams of dried verbena, a bottle of honeysuckle oil, a Love Awakens candle (rose, amber, and cardamom), and a historical fantasy novel of our choice. For in-store purchases only, a fresh posy good luck charm can be added to the box for $2.99.
“Your aura has an interesting little dash of happy surprise in it.” Luna tilts her head and smiles. “Which ones bloomed?”
I jiggle one of the ancient leaded windows unstuck, raising it as high as it will go. A cool breeze sails in, along with a whistlingeee-ee-ere, eee-ee-ere. I glance sharply upward, where a lark watches me from a tree branch, head cocked as if he knows a secret. “The windflowers.”
“Fantastic. Dry some out when you get a chance so I can throw them into a batch, will you?” She finally looks up at me, dark circles rimming her big blue eyes, chin-length corkscrew curls tugged into a tiny blond bun. Our eyes are the only feature that the three of us sisters share. Luna’s taller than I am, more willowy. Zelda’s shorter and curvier, with long ginger waves; my hair’s naturally pin-straight brunette, but these days I keep it in a bleached bob—and usually under a hat. Straw boaters with silk ribbons are my favorite for spring.
“Do you think I should start making lotions and bath oils?” she asks.
I blink at her. “My darling Luna, you cannot be serious. You’re stretched so thin.”
Snapdragon is on her lap, rubbing his gingery face along her wrists. She bends her head to kiss him.
“I’m looking at a witchcraft store run by this lady in Little Rock, and you should see all the stuff on here. She doesallof it by herself, too. Creating, shipping, processing orders, promotion, all of it. I feel so inadequate.”
“Look around you. You’ve made this businessthrive.”
While she and I technically don’t own this place, we’re undeniably the ones in charge. Grandma handed the reins over to her son (our dad) when I was twenty-two. My sisters and I once looked forward to inheriting it from him someday, but he lost the shop to our mother a year later in a tumultuous divorce, after which she sold it for a pittance out of spite. The dream is to buy it back someday. As the store’s success grows, though, so does its monetary value, and our dream of family ownership recedes that much further from grasp. I can hardly blame Trevor for not wanting to sell. He fell into the witchy business entirely by chance and has seen only profit since then.
Her expression is grim. “I don’t know about thriving. Not anymore. If we can’t put up the night market, I don’t know how we’ll recoup the price of the lot.”
“It’s too early to start worrying.”
“Can’t start worrying when you never stop.”
I thrust my coffee mug under her nose, which she accepts, growling at the screen. Blue light slants across her freckled face, many of which are actual freckles and several of which are tiny rainbow dots tattooed across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. I grab the mouse, closing her browser.
“Hey! I was doing reconnaissance.”
“Go back to bed.” The shop is open from ten to five on weekdays, noon till four on weekends, but she rises at five to get an early jump on preparing the online orders.
She hand-waves.
I pass the giant fireplace with the emerald tiles, patting Grandma’s crystal ball on its mantel for good luck. My niece, Aisling, says she frequently glimpses Grandma’s reflection in its curved surface; says she sometimes hears her voice curlicuing down the chimney like the notes of a song, or hears her snoring while a ghostly Dottie dozes in a rocking chair facing the hearth.
I open the front door wide to let in more fresh air and wander barefoot onto the cracked wet sidewalk, mentally scrolling through my lunar calendar to recall which moon phase we’re in—waxing crescent—which means it’s time for aboveground planting of annual flowers and fruits. There isn’t room for anything new. I turn to go back inside, head full of strawflowers, but just as I do so, a red Nissan Cube with yellow rims whips into the empty space in front of the store, bass so loud that the boulevard vibrates.
Trevor jumps out, attempts to slide across the hood, but only makes it a quarter of the way. “What’s up, beautiful!”
“I’m covered in dirt.” I show him my palms as proof. “My clothes smell like chickens.”
He rolls his eyes. “Stop flipping over compliments before they’ve baked on one side.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Have it your way. What’s up, ugly! Where the hell are your shoes? The sidewalk is where all the bugs live. What’s wrong with you?”
