“But there was something stuck to its head. And it—”
“A fence,” he interrupts eagerly. “That’s what you said. But maybe it wasn’t?”
“Listen, I don’t know what I thought I saw. Obviously, my mind was playing tricks.”
“Tell me what youthoughtyou saw, then.”
I keep walking. There are dips in the earth over the oldest graves, indicating caskets long caved in, obelisks so timeworn that they’re smooth as river stones. “Leave me alone, you jerk. You won’t believe me, anyway.Iwouldn’t believe me.”
“Zelda.”
A hand covers my wrist, and I stop. Trace the hand up to his shoulder, and then, cautiously, I study his face. He’s nothing but earnest. “I would,” he says.
Ten
Two drops of frankincense oil on your doorstep will keep enemies at bay.
Spells, Charms, and Rituals,
Tempest Family Grimoire
After I describewhat I thought I saw to Morgan, coral antlers and all, I feel so absurd about the whole thing that I go back to The Magick Happens and begin researching tardigrades and TrES-2b, the darkest known exoplanet, to calm myself down. Sensible activities for a sensible woman, who is not so given over to flights of fancy that she thinks an antlered dog might be loping around town.
Soon enough, Morgan pops in and, ignoring my presence entirely, begins his usual work routine—a process I used to think was captivating but am now peeved by. Everything this man does peeves me lately.
He switches on his computer, then pops behind the counter where I’m sitting to pour himself some coffee, as he cannot possibly write until he has a liter of caffeine in his system. But then he spots a stray pen that needs a cap, so he goes hunting for it, and then he sees a candle out of place, so he has to scout where it goes; but before he can do so, he sees the other half of the muffin he misplaced earlier. By the time he’s finished pouringhis coffee, it’s been fifteen minutes since he started. Then he does something truly chilling—
Morgan starts readingCalling the Spirits: A History of Seancesbut gets sidetracked after five pages. When he comes back, he picks up the wrong book:Ghosts: A Natural History: 500 Years of Searching for Proof, and starts readingthat, opening it to page five. He does not look at all confused or surprised by the mix-up; he simply continues on with it, muttering a great deal of “Hmmm” and “Ahhh.”
“You say something to me?” he asks Trevor when he runs out of delays.
“No.”
“Thought I heard my name.” He traipses back to his desk, types a sentence, frowns at it with his head tilted sideways, then quickly hammers out a paragraph. Minimizes the document, scrolls the Internet for a minute, right-clicking every headline he sees into a new tab until his browser is fighting for its life. His attention jumps to the busy street beyond the window, fingers drumming in tune with music. He gets out of his chair, freezes, then sits back down. Writes another sentence. Just when it looks as if he’s found his groove, the door chimes to announce that a customer has entered and Morgan rolls his chair across the room, lassoing them into a debate about whether Tasmanian devils really have gone extinct or if they’ve just gotten uncommonly good at hiding.
“You look like you want to do a murder,” Trevor tells me.
“That’s just her face,” Luna says merrily. “It’s ‘resting murder face.’ ”
“Tasmanian devils aren’t extinct,” I grumble under mybreath, marinating in that dig about the witch’s hat. Now he’s got me second-guessing my choice of author photo.
Luna leans closer. “Huh?”
I pick leaves off the counter, sweeping them into a trash can. “Nothing.”
Morgan tips up his chin imperiously, withdrawing a violin from a desk drawer. Saws at the strings with his bow, producing a terrible racket.
“Come, quick!” Romina shouts from out back.
We dash into the courtyard behind the shop. It’s a beautiful brick-walled square with aboveground planters teeming with flowers of all sizes and colors, Romina’s pet silkie chickens, gnarled trees, and the carriage house where Romina lives. If The Magick Happens is a three-layer cake, then the carriage house is a strawberry with a whipped cream swirl on top, garnishing the plate. It’s picture-book adorable, swarmed with ivy, and…
“Pumpkins?”
I touch one of the green globes on a thick vine that scales the side of the cottage. From where I’m standing, twenty other baby pumpkins are visible, climbing their way up to Romina’s roof. “Odd place to put a pumpkin patch.”
“Ijustplanted this all a couple of weeks ago,” Romina insists. “I think I must have enchanted the seeds somehow, for it to grow this quickly. And look at how full the garden is! My flowers grew back abnormally fast after cutting them down to use for Kristin’s wedding and the May Day crowns.”
Luna gasps. “You’re right. I swear, there’s twice the number of flowers now.”
