“It’s been raining a lot,” I remind them. “That probably sped up growth.”
They look at me like I’ve suggested we dress like clowns and play Twister.
“Zelda,” Luna says piteously. “It’s magic. Justlookat all these pumpkins.”
The two of them discuss illogical theories. Before I can water down their enthusiasm by pointing out alternatives, Trevor goes, “Psst!” and waves me back inside.
He points across Candleland, where the top of somebody’s head moves on the other side of a shelf of dragon egg candles (melt them down and find a wee silver dragon inside). “It’s that dude again,” he whispers.
“What dude?”
My confusion morphs into pleasant surprise when a familiar figure emerges, book in hand: J. A. Howley’s latest,Under the Second Moon. We hosted the author recently for their book tour and still have a few signed copies.
He smiles when he sees me, gray eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
Warm pressure expands in my chest. “Dylan.”
“I don’t want to wait a whole year for another auction,” he says. “Can I take you on a date?”
I’m so traumatized after last night that I don’t want to go on any dates for a good while, but Dylan is a nice, normal man. And I doubt he cares that I’m not a witch. “Yes.” I tune out the earsplitting noises Morgan is creating with his violin. “That sounds lovely.”
He discards the book on a random candle display, whichadmittedly makes me twitchy. “Are you free this Friday night?”
“Yes,” I say, before remembering that I’m scheduled to run the night market that night. “Sorry, no, I can’t. How about Saturday?”
His smile turns wistful. “I’ll be out of town. Next Friday, perhaps?”
I don’t consult my schedule, worried he’ll change his mind. “Absolutely.”
We exchange numbers, then chat for a bit about J. A. Howley before he apologizes for having to cut this short, as he has to get back to work (he’s a bank teller, and this is his lunch break). I wave goodbye, following him to the door.
Morgan’s violin screeches obnoxiously. I wince. “Can you please play that less badly?”
He holds my eyes as his bow dances the foxtrot over strings in the worst rendition of “Come On Eileen” imaginable. I cannot believe I ever fantasized about kissing this man.
—
That evening, I’msnuggled with Aisling and Luna on their living room couch, squeezed between eight (eight!) throw pillows, watching a movie. Luna’s apartment is a love letter to maximalism. In this bite-sized space, she’s stuffed a peacock-blue sofa, plush violet rug, three ottomans, and numerous cat trees. Posters of blown-up vintage tarot cards—XVIII La Lune hangs above the television, gazing down upon us all. An apothecary cabinet whose drawers won’t shut because they’re so full of dried herbs; royal blue silks draped from hooks inceiling corners, glittering with moons and stars; a tapestry of various fungi; and tree branches. Tree branches absolutely everywhere. She’s got them plaited so that they appear to be growing along the walls, over doorways and the glass bead curtains that scatter sunset across the paint.
One look at Luna’s place makes my attic look like a wasteland. Romina’s house is much more serene, with plenty of plants and a color scheme designed to make you feel like everything is going to be okay. The little garden elf is sitting in Luna’s kitchen right this minute, table spread with witchy paraphernalia.
She’s taken a journal and attempted to age it with water spots and burnt corners, undoubtedly going for a “has been sitting on a bookshelf for over a hundred years” effect, copying down information from notes of varying origin. Spells. Hexes. Lists of herbs and flowers and their purposes. Ghost stories Grandma told us. The mechanics of candle magic, mixing and matching scents to inspire particular outcomes. Local folklore and superstitions.
“What exactly are you doing?” I ask.
She flips the journal so that I can see its cover, embossed with the wordsTempest Family Grimoire.Contributions by Luna, Zelda, and Romina Tempest.
“Ha! What am I supposed to contribute to this, exactly?”
“I predict you’ll end up writing over half of this grimoire,” Luna intones.
“Oh, honey. No. You’re not brainwashing me.”
She narrows her eyes, jabbing one finger in my direction. “You’re a witch, Zelda Margaret,” she says firmly.
“If I were a witch, don’t you think I would know it?”
“Youusedto know it. Then you un-knew it.”
