My older sister thinks I’m the Tempest who’s been running from love, when I have, in fact, been waiting for it. Which means she’s the one running. And she has successfully convinced herself otherwise.
“Feels fantastic,” I finally reply, clearing my throat. “Can’t wait to watch when it’s your turn.”
Aisling runs up. “Mom! Can I take eight grams of cat’s claw bark from the herb drawer at home?”
Luna sighs. “Who are you trying to hex this time?”
“Not a hex. I need it for Samuel.”
I blow an involuntary raspberry. “What use does a ghost have for herbs? He can’t even touch them.”
She tips up her chin, defiant. “You’re the reason he needs more, thank you very much. You dropped all of Samuel’s cat’s claw bark into a cauldron.”
I muss her hair. “You and your imagination. Please never change, my darling.”
Luna and Aisling follow a path of glow-in-the-dark painted footprints toward home. Our shop is festooned in orange and purple fairy lights. Pumpkins, spider orchids, and scabiosa line the walkway.
I stoop to admire one of the pumpkins.
“These are the pumpkins that grew on top of my house,” Romina informs me. “Note how much bigger and orange-er they are than regular pumpkins.”
“You didnotgrow these.”
“Did too.”
“This one has a sticker from Moonville Market still on it.”
She picks the barcode sticker off. Pastes it to my forehead. “You think magic can’t grow pumpkins with stickers on them?”
I tap her flower crown playfully. “You’re right. There isn’t any evidence to prove it can’t.”
She preens.
There certainly is a surge of enchantment in the air tonight. I breathe deeply, my senses compressing it all into a memory I’m going to treasure every time magic resurrects it for me in the future: crisp air, sleeves again, leaves falling, the blush of golden hour, shop windows decorated with black cat decals, love potion number nine.
“My purse!” Romina cries, plucking at her boyfriend’s sleeve. “I must’ve dropped it. Quick, Alex, use your gift before somebody steals all my trail mix.”
“I don’t have a gift,” he insists. “I am not a witch.” He pauses, then points at The Sleepy Shrew. “You left it on the concession shelf.”
Romina shakes him. “See?I told you.”
“Deductive reasoning! Not witchcraft.”
The two of them bicker, and I wind an arm around Morgan’s waist, leading us away to peace.
We switch on our EMF readers, as the veil is thin tonight,aiming them this way and that. Unfortunately, electromagnetic field detectors are easily triggered by cell phones. At the rate that ours are lighting up, it’ll be difficult to catch anything genuine. We stay close so that we don’t lose each other to environmental hazards (potholes hidden beneath rolling dry ice, children running amok on toy broomsticks, the beguiling come-hither of vendors who promise Morgan that he won’t regret trying deep-fried butter on a stick). We end up in a corn maze, where at last our readings normalize before blinking again.
“Red level five,” I report bracingly. “There’s got to be paranormal activity present.”
Morgan pats down his pockets. “Where’s my EVP recorder? I need this for the podcast!”
I’ve been a guest on Morgan’s podcast three times already. We don’t discuss paranimals publicly, as we don’t want them disturbed or experimented on by anyone, but I’m glad to recap late-night ghost hunting jaunts through town, hoping to cross an apparition.
“Over here, Hot Drama.” I follow the red flickers of my EMF reader, Morgan begins to narrate our current situation into his recorder, and we turn a corner only to find that Joan and Wanda, the ladies from the murder mystery dinner theater, have inadvertently set off our devices with their smartwatches.
“Damn it,” Morgan mutters.
“We’ll come back later, once everybody’s gone home,” I assure him. Just Morgan and me, skulking through the foggy shadows, inviting dead people to haunt us…Truly, if a more romantic date exists, I haven’t heard of it.
