“Your conversation with Bob about pickleball was far stupider. And Iamsmooth, when I apply myself.”
“I like it better when you don’t,” I rejoin, not really meaning to. He glances at me in surprise but doesn’t say anything. Morgan is lost in thought as he removes his vintage varsity football letterman jacket, which distracts me for two reasons. The second reason is that his name isn’t Tony (which is embroidered in gold on the front), he didn’t attend Lyons Township High School in La Grange, Illinois, and to my knowledge, he has never played football competitively, let alone been a member of the 1989 state championship-winning team.
The first reason is that his plain white undershirt is a thin, almost see-through fabric, and that is doing magnificent things for me. I flip an internal notepad to a fresh page.Morgan Angelopoulos. Thirty-two years old. Species: Some type of fairy. Eyes: Like shining black tunnels. Hair: Don’t get me started. Chest: Appears to be quite nice. Definitely requires more thorough study.
“What do you think?” Morgan’s asking me now. Ah, so it appears he hasn’t been silent for the duration of my ogling after all.
I blink. “I like it.”
“Really? I thought you were going to say no.”
“Wait. What?”
We stare each other down, but I win (of course) because he doesn’t have the patience to survive staring contests. “About adopting a gang of ginger cats and attaching tiny cameras to their collars. See if they’ll lead us to the witch.”
Dear god. “That sounds expensive. What we need is…” My eyes zero in on a refrigerator magnet.Have Broom, Will Travel. “A formal expedition.”
Morgan cocks his head. “A day trip?”
“Days,” I correct. I can see myself in vibrant color: trekking through the woods with our briefcase of notes and the slapdash map Dottie drew. Discovering the spectacular. “Romina’s got a tent we can borrow.”
His eyes widen as if he can envision something spectacular, too.
We flurry for pens and paper.
Words gobble up the page.Can opener. Hand sanitizer. Hairbrush. Glasses.I won’t want to bother with contact lenses when I’m out in the field.Purifying water bottle.
“We’ll need enough food for three days,” I estimate.
“Then we should pack enough to last us five. Falling Rock Forest is vast and tricky to pin down.” He’s right—map out a trail and it will vanish, two new trails forming in its stead. We could wander the same area for hours and not realize we’re still standing exactly where we started.
Compass. Extra socks. Pocketknife. First-aid kit.On and on we go, giddy and dreaming, the list of supplies growing extensive. We don’t want to forget anything, because then we’d have to make a trip back home, and for some reason, that would break us out of our investigative haze. Once we enter the woods, we’re not coming out of them until we’ve met the legend herself.
“Three days is enough time to find her,” we repeat, fast-walking around the room, bumping into furniture, not paying enough attention to our surroundings. At some point, I musthave grabbed a suitcase, because I glance down to see myself stuffing a can of soup into it. Morgan adds marshmallows.
“This is fantastic,” he mutters frenetically. “You are amazing, Zelda Tempest. Amazing. Nobody else alive would be willing to do this with me. You’re not onlywilling, you’re just as enthusiastic!” He mangles a box of Cheerios as he stuffs it in.
“I know what you mean.” I should be more alarmed by this. Surely, if Morgan is enthused by an idea, then the idea is not sound. But I have already run away with visions of witches and paranimals. I haven’t been this happy since April, when I got carried away amending an essay for Aisling’s history homework and scored 110 percent out of 100.
Morgan’s sifting through Luna’s recipe box. “Where are all the food recipes? Look.” He flips a notecard from the box around so that I can read it.
Make Your Wish
1 fresh bay leaf, unbroken
1 teaspoon dried lovage
2 drops bergamot oil
½ teaspoon dried black walnut
A four-by-four-inch square of mulberry paper
1 yellow candle
1 small bottle or jar
1 cork
