Luna’s dressed in denim shorts and a crochet tank. “I don’t get cold.”
I poke her. Our older sister is eternally bragging that she never gets cold, flaunting Birkenstocks and halter tops in the dead of winter. Romina and I can’t tell if she’s committed to the bit and is secretly freezing, or if she should be studied by science.
The chilly air is rich with fryer oil and salt, the Midnight at Moonville festival in full swing now that sunset has begun to paint itself between the trees.
“Ferris wheel?” Morgan suggests. His face is still wet from bobbing for apples. He dunked his whole head repeatedly until I made him stop, and is still sneezing water. Quite proud of his three apples, though.
“Looks like it got stuck again,” Luna remarks. We all crane to watch people in the bottom carriages glare at Ivan, who’s experimenting with the buttons and apologizing drunkenly. Trevor and Teyonna, seated in the carriage at the very top, couldn’t be happier.
We pass a stage where a local garage band is making my teeth vibrate with bass, then a hayride wagon that I drag Morgan away from, coming to a stop in front of Gilda Halifax’s booth. She’s beaming in the midst of hundreds of individually wrapped traveler’s talismans, wearing a spangled silver muumuu and blue eye shadow that rolls all the way up to thin eyebrows painted on with a liner that’s closer to green than brown.
“Come get your talismans!” she’s crooning. “They’re my own special recipe, and I’m the only one alive who knows it. I’ve been baking these beauties since 1982!”
“She’s shameless,” Romina mutters darkly.
Luna crosses her arms. “Grandma’s going to haunt her for a month straight, after this.”
I shake my head. “Vile woman.”
We all step in line.
“Six, please,” I say sweetly.
“Ahh, it’s mygirls, how verydivinetoseeyou.” Gilda smooshes Luna’s face between her bejeweled hands. “Come by Bowerbird’s Nest later, I’ve met a man online who’d be amazing for you. Name’s Denver. Quite young, in dog years. He carves puppets. They all bear a resemblance to his mother, but with a net worth of six million, we’ll let it pass.”
“I’ll talk to whoever you please if you’ll give me the traveler’s talisman recipe,” Luna replies.
Gilda scrunches her nose. “I couldn’t possibly. Family secret.”
“It’s supposed to bemyfamily’s secret—” Luna begins, tersely, but Gilda’s already moved on to Romina.
“Darling, you’ve got to touch up your roots. They’re crying out for help. How do you like the hat I sent you? You’re such a doll, I can’t help it, every time I see a good hat I have to buy it for you.”
I brace myself when it’s my turn. “Zelda, you’re looking more and more like Baba Yaga every day.” Her eyes fill with sorrow. “But it isn’t too late for you. Let’s go shopping some time. Let me do something different with your hair.”
Gilda tells Alex that he needs to repaint his mailbox, and fawns over Morgan’s black opal rings before finally doling out our cakes. “I shouldn’t let you have this,” she tells Morgan. “We all know how much you like to harass us in E-flat.”
Morgan breaks his open, then immediately starts puffing on a whistle.
“I can’t believe you still put charms in them,” Alex disparages. “Isn’t that a health and safety violation?”
“Are you the fuzz, boy?” Gilda rejoins. “Mind your business.”
I unwrap my triangular cake, breathing in the sweetness of cinnamon, pumpkin, chocolate chips, and brown sugar. As I’ve done since I was a child, I take a nibble of each corner before splitting the talisman open to reveal my charm.
“You got the bell, too!” Romina shakes hers at me. “Twinsies.”
With traveler’s talismans, you get either a whistle or the bell of a jester’s hat. If you ring the jester’s bell in someone’s ear while they’re sleeping on Halloween night, the ringer and the sleeper are brought a week of laughter. If you get the whistle, you’re supposed to blow it before bed on Halloween night and your All Saint’s Day will be a lucky one. It’s tradition to give half your cake to a friend, to share the good fortune.
I devour mine in two bites, because I don’t share.
Luna studies Morgan as he whistles happily. “What does it feel like,” she says at my ear, “to be the sister who’s no longer running from love?”
My quizzical expression prompts her to add: “In the prophecy. Remember? When the silver luna moth makes itsappearance, one of us will be running from love, one of us waiting for it, and the third will already be in over her head. Romina was the ‘in over her head’ sister, and I’m the one who’s been waiting for love.”
My lips press together, gaze sweeping over her face. Doesn’t she know?
Luna awaits my response, totally guileless.Hmm, poor woman’s in for a rude surprise.
