“Hm?”
“I’m…” The room spins a bit. “I think I might be a witch. A real one.” It’s the only explanation that makes sense, even though it should make zero sense, because even though I am apparently a witch I still half believe that witches are not real. The two positions are coexisting in a chaos state in my head.
Morgan laughs. “Yeah, I know. Haven’t I been telling you that?”
I just gape at him, at Snapdragon, totally dumbfounded. Awitch!
A beyond-logic, unprovable, no-concrete-evidence-to-support-this witch! I catch my reflection in Maxima, which is the name of Grandma’s crystal ball, and am shocked to find a huge grin on my face. I touch my mouth to feel the broad curve, in awe. I am just like my sisters, just like Dottie and Aisling. They weren’t wrong, or lying, and I can trust them…they haven’t been leaving me out of a big secret con…
It is going to take some time for this to truly sink in.
As towhatsort of witch I am, I’ve got no idea. What magical layers might be wrapped up in paranimals and my ability to see them? I have so many questions. I am going to need at least four new Moleskine notebooks for conducting research on myself. Soft-covered for pliability, with ribbon bookmarks and elastic closures.
Morgan pokes the cat-thing gently. When it doesn’t react, he pokes it again. “Meow,” Morgan prompts.
Snapdragon yawns, jumping down.
I watch, disturbed and delighted as it wends between my ankles, staring up at me with those golden eyes, tail not somuchswitchingas uncurling and curling again. And I am struck by an alarming thought. “Paranimals are, by definition, Moonvillian animals that have been enchanted by the Black Bear Witch,” I hedge, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Which means…if Snapdragon’s been enchanted…”
Morgan sparks with understanding. “Then the Black Bear Witch was here, in our shop. Today.”
—
Friday evening, Morganstrolls into the Cavern of Paperback Gems while I’m shelving books. When I’ve exceeded my capacity for socialization upstairs, the Cavern is where I flee to be alone. It’s got atrocious marmalade carpet that I don’t have the heart to rip up because Grandma was so proud when she installed it herself, but I’ve hidden it with rugs, fringed Edwardian lampshades, and buttoned leather armchairs so weathered and creased that they’re about six shades lighter than they once were. The colors and textures here are rich. Dark but cozy. I want customers to wander down and feel like they’ve stepped into 221B Baker Street.
He’s wearing Angelopoulos Business Casual, which for Morgan means snug plaid trousers and three shirts with all of the collars popped. He’s swinging a burgundy briefcase.
“Guess what.”
It’s hard to tune Morgan out because he talks so incessantly, which means I’ve done a lot of accidental listening while trying to write a manuscript proposal (and by write, I mean readThe Silver Kissby Annette Curtis Klause and feel sorry for myself because I can’t write about vampires again, even thoughHenriette is not a traditional vampire, deriving her sustenance not from blood but from making men fall in love with her and then breaking their hearts). He’s forever guess-what-ing, and nobody’s able to accurately predict what he’s going to say.Guess what? If you drink Mountain Dew and then do forty push-ups, you’ll burn off all the sugar and only be left with pure, raw energy.(I do not think there is science to support this claim.)Guess what? Go read James Joyce’s love letters to his wife. Because I did, unfortunately, and now everybody else should have to.
I take a stab at it. “If you throw yellow socks into the dryer with a purple marker, they’ll come out with perfect stripes?”
He brightens. “Is that true?”
I tilt my head. “My first impression of you was so deeply wrong.”
“What’s that mean? What was your first impression?”
He doesn’t need to know. I sort through this week’s new arrivals, Snapdragon nudging the back of my leg for attention. His big, unsettling, pupil-less eyes have taken some getting used to. Despite looking so different to me now, Snapdragon’s personality is the same. This morning, I watched him try to jump through a closed window because he saw a reflection of Alex’s cheeseburger in the glass.
Morgan bows to Snapdragon. “How do you do?”
I fight back a smile. “Do you think he understands you?”
“Anything’s possible! We don’t know what all the witch has done to him. By the way, I’m calling this new paranimal a gingersnappus because he’s got gingery fur in cat form as well as paranimal form and, you know,Snapdragon. I looked it up onthe Internet to see if there are stories about other gingersnappuses, found nothing, but then it hit me!” Hethunks his head with his fist. “You wrote about it! InThe Serpent Tree.”
I frown. “No, I didn’t.”
He picks up several books I’ve wrapped in brown kraft paper, brief descriptions written on tags shaped like crystal balls. They’re for our Blind Date with a Book selection. He proceeds to juggle them. Books fall everywhere. “Yes, you did.” He then unlatches his briefcase (which turns out to be a backgammon case) and withdraws a battered copy ofThe Serpent Tree, stuffed with color-coded tabs (oh dear) like rainbow shark teeth. Morgan rambles through the pages, then taps one particular passage. “Aha! Look at this.”
Curled up beside a dented woodstove is a sleeping animal Henriette has never seen before. It has orange fur with black stripes, and its feet are wide, seemingly designed to burrow tunnels.
“Zelda.” He freezes me with a fierce, unwavering gaze, and the emotion that washes through me in response is one hundred percent professional. “Do you think you’ve seen one of these before? When you were little, like how you saw the huggle? And maybe you’ve held on to it subconsciously?”
The thought makes my head glitch. “I…I don’t remember what I thought was real and what I knew was only pretend. The lines blurred. But possibly?”
“I can’t believe you forgot you wrote about these! But you forgot you wrote about sleep paralysis demons, too.” He shakeshis head at me, grin lopsided. “How does a writer forget their own characters?”
