“Remember the auction?”
She gasps. “Morgan Angelopoulos. Ofcourse.” She fans herself dramatically. “Yes, my dear, forget all about Michael—I can’t believe I forgot what I saw in my crystal ball about you and Morgan!” Gilda slaps the tabletop heartily, then taps it twice with a long, glittering nail. Her eyes, a watery blue-violet, bore holes through mine. “You two,” she says mystically, “were written inthe stars.”
“Gilda, you are so full of it that it’s a wonder you can get up and walk around,” I say, but my voice brims with affection. “And no, notMorgan. There was a guy who’d meant to show up and bid on my date, but he wasn’t able to get there in time. I’m going out with him next week.”
“Oh.” Her tone flattens. “By all means…” She waves a hand. “Why shouldn’t you entertain the guy whomeant to show up? Very promising start.”
I stroll away. “Good night, Gilda!”
She tuts. “Whenever you get curious to know what I saw in my crystal ball, you know where to find me.”
Thirteen
Simmer one orange peel, one star anise blossom, and three sticks of cinnamon in a saucepan from noon till midnight to chase all the good luck you haven’t used up from this year into the next one. If you do not funnel what’s left of your luck into the new year, it will be irretrievably left behind.
Spells, Charms, and Rituals,
Tempest Family Grimoire
I make my wayto the front curb of The Magick Happens, where I check my phone to see if I’ve got any texts from Dylan, now that I’m thinking about him.
Over the last few days, he and I have built up a fiery exchange of banter:
Dylan:Hey, it’s me
Zelda:Hi! Miss me already?
Dylan:It was nice to see you again.
Zelda:It was nice to see you too. So, do you like movies?
Dylan:Yes
It ends there.
I don’t communicate by text very much unless I havesomething important to say; every sentence I trial-run for Dylan ends up sounding stupid and is therefore deleted. Dylan seems to be similarly reserved, so we’re not giving each other much to work with. How can a professional writer be so bad at coming up with words?
I’ve forgotten this part somehow—how awkward it can be right after the initial sparks, when you have attraction but little else to go on yet. It’shardout here in the wildlands of dating.
Wretched musical notes screech from Morgan’s apartment window, falling ineeeeeeks anderrrrrrrs around my poor ears. I wince, plugging them with my fingers. “Please take some lessons.”
“You would never say that to Beethoven!”
“I—” I peer up at him, leaning out his window. “Beethoven was a pianist. How dare you compare yourself to Beethoven.”
“At the very least, I’m a Chopin.” He begins to play “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” I prop my hands on my hips.
“That’s not Chopin,” I shout up at him. A few market-goers stop to watch. “That’s Edvard Grieg.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s my…” I pause, scowling. I dislike talking about myself. “It’s my favorite song.”
He scoffs, then continues sawing away. “This isn’t afavorite song. There are no words! ‘All I Need Is a Miracle’—nowthatis a favorite song.”
“Yeah, like thirty years ago.”
He stops playing, disgruntled. “And how old do you think your mountain king song is?”
