(Ideally, perform on the full moon, but can also be performed on any Thursday.)
Write your ambition on the paper, fold it up an odd-numbered amount of times, and drop it into the bottle with all ingredients. Fill with rainwater. Cork, and seal with drops of candle wax. Suggestion: use a candle scented like rum, honeycrisp apple, and sparkling ginger.
“Have you ever tried making something like this?” he inquires.
I shake my head. “Although I guess I could. Couldn’t I? Since it turns out I’m a witch.” I join him, perusing recipes for Emotional Healing, Shrinking Debt, and even an Antidote to Being in the Right Place at the Wrong Time. What I find most intriguing is that there is nothing in the box pertaining to love magic. Odd, since Luna’s occupation centers on that branch of spellwork.
“Youhaveto experiment with potions,” Morgan tells me, pulling items from cupboards. “It’s a waste of witchery if you don’t!”
He has a point. I scrutinize a jar filled with viscous red liquid. “What’s this for?” But the label tells us exactly what it’s for:For Lucid Dreaming.
“Oooohh,” we murmur in tandem.
I’ve never searched this cupboard before, as it’s laden with Luna’s witchy fixings. Now that I have become a witch myself, however, perhaps I should have a closer look.
There are neat, orderly rows of colorful bottles, some corked, some stored in repurposed marinara jars. None of the actual ingredients are listed, only the potions’ purposes.For Ant Control. For Purification. For Twice the Tomatoes.It becomes evident that Luna’s hidden the good ones in the back: behind boring potions dedicated to controlling soil alkalinity and getting stubborn wrinkles out of clothes, we hit upon a jackpot.
For Mischief, For Mayhem, For Wednesdays, For Windfalls.
There’s a thump on the stairs, and we devolve into frenzy, whispering at each other to hurry, to be quiet, putting it all back. Then, once we realize it was only Snapdragon rolling down the stairs in pen form, we lug it all back out and start spilling potions into measuring spoons.
“We need a cauldron,” Morgan says. I point to another of Luna’s kitschy signs:Crockpots Are Just Electric Cauldrons.“Bingo! I’ll plug it in right away.”
“We’re going to cook mischief and mayhem in a six-quart slow cooker.” I cackle, dashing a spoonful ofFor Wednesdaysin with half a bottle ofFor Saturdays. Can you use them only on Wednesdays and Saturdays? Or does the potion makeanyday become Wednesday or Saturday? We are about to find out!
Morgan addsFor Rain. I sprinkle inFor Dry Skies. The smells vary, but they bend toward acrid. “This is so much fun!” I exclaim. “Why isn’t Luna doing this all the time? I’ve never seen her use this stuff.”
“Luna is a square,” Morgan informs me sagely. “She doesn’t have the oomph to do what we’re doing.”
He is so right. “I feel like a scientist. This is so much better than working from a recipe.”
“Why work from a recipe when you can make your own?”
It’s hard telling when a potion is finished cooking, but our concoction makes the journey from smelling like frog spawn and being an oily brown porridge half-burnt to the ceramic to smelling, somehow, like tiramisu. My mouth waters.
“Makes no sense,” I remark, sniffing the mixture once Morgan’s ladled it into an empty vial. It’s paled to a lovely golden hue. “We didn’t add any tiramisu-ish ingredients.”
“Makes no sense at all!” Morgan is gleeful. “Hm. Got some on my arm, and it is unexpectedly cold. It’s like liquid nitrogen.”
“Whichalsomakes no sense.”
His smile is radiant. “I know!” He does a double take, inspecting his arm. “Wait a minute. I had a scratch here, I swear. Got it from Forte. But now the scratch is gone. Do you think this stuff might’ve healed me?”
I can’t respond, because I’ve just spotted a bottle ofNever Everand that is the worst label Luna could have possibly given it. The temptation is irresistible. I tip some into the Crock-Pot.
“That smells delectable,” Morgan says, leaning in. I lean in, too. We’re shoulder to shoulder, and our eyes meet, glimmering with mischief and mayhem and—
The Crock-Pot explodes.
Or rather, once I’ve smeared purple goop out of my eyes, I can see that the Crock-Pot itself is still intact, but all the potion has fountained out of it, all over the walls, fridge, and floor. “Are you all right?” Morgan gasps through his laughter.
“Neither of us is all right. Luna’s gonna melt us into candle wax and use the magic to seal our ghosts in the underworld.” But I’m laughing, too. “You’re a bad influence.”
“Me!” he cries. “I was following your lead.”
“Luna’s not going to believe that. You’re in so much trouble.”
“No, I thinkyouare.” Morgan uses a kitchen towel to gingerly wipe potion off my chin, and the action fills my vision with him, makes it impossible not to dwell on how close he’s standing, how delectablehesmells. He’s right. I am in trouble.
