Apparently, neither was the kitchen. Collecting canisters and mixing bowls had been the only easy part. Cosmo had hopped onto a bar stool next to me as I stood there, reading my aunt’s recipe over and over again. That is, the secret, magical part of her recipe. Combining flour, butter, sugar, eggs and few other ingredients was foolproof, even with my limited culinary skills. The crucial bits though took all my concentration and willpower, which weren’t helped by the flow of instructions from the cat and the memory of the letter.
“Bex, you’re not taking this seriously.” Cosmo slid out his claws and tapped them on the work top.
“Sorry.” I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could, held my hands over the bowl with the spice mix and let my mind paint a picture of a mini cow, with a flower tucked into its halter. It peered at me with soft brown eyes like chocolate and …
A cascade of flour exploded over my head. Cosmo screeched. My eyes flew open, only to be hit with more flour as both the cat and I shook ourselves. My spell had gone wrong. Again.
Maybe I’d chosen the wrong image, to reinforce my words. No. Cosmo had told me: it didn’t matter what I envisaged, as long as it conjured feelings of serenity and happiness. Mini cows did that, in spades. I’d felt a surge of something, too, until…
“You’re doing it again,” Cosmo hissed as more flour cascaded from the canister.
“I can’t help it,” I protested. “Maybe baking isn’t on my personal witchcraft list.”
“There are two types of powers, ones that you already possess and only need to learn how to wield, and others that only come from study.” His tail swished. “You have to learn the baking part or you won’t be able to fulfil your duties as Violet’s replacement. These cookies are powerful medicine.”
I felt another heat surge, only now it was emotional pain. I couldn’t let her down, if I had to live through a flour tornado.
“Don’t cry.”
I sniffled. A stray tear had glued the flour onto my cheek. “I need a shower.”
He nodded. “Make it a quick one.”
“I’ll take as long as I need, thank you very much.” I’d decided I needed to stand my ground, or he’d think he could twist me around his paw.
“I see.” There was an ominous pause as he brushed the remains of the flour out of his fur. “If you want to be late for your dinner appointment, that’s your choice.”
“Darn. I forgot.” I whipped off the baking apron and glanced around. The kitchen looked as if it had been hit by a storm. It needed cleaning, but then I’d definitely be late. Unless – “You couldn’t do a spell to fix this?” I asked Cosmo.
He fixed me with a stare. “Does it look like you’re Cinderella and I’m one of your faithful little helpers?”
His voice was gentle, though. I gave him a mock salute ad I did a quick calculation. If I had a speed shower, I could at least wipe off the worktop and run around with the broom.
I did that while Cosmo slunk off to have a nap. We both needed a break from each other, he even more than me. Underneath his default snark and sass, I sensed more than grief. Unless I was wrong, Cosmo was deeply worried.
The nearby church bells rang as I pulled into Ange’s driveway.
My old friend lived in an A-frame house, with a wrap-around porch and a picket fence. Light fell through the oval stained-glass panel in the front door, hand-made by Ange. I admired the geometric design and the swirl of the glass, which added to the depth of the blue, green, and golden tones. A tiny voice inside my head wondered if she’d had magic on her side, too. Cosmo would know. I made a mental note to ask him for real information instead of his vague allusions as I rang the doorbell.
Ange’s husband Nick opened the door. In town, he was known as “the young Doctor”, although once he hit sixty, the adjective might be dropped from his name. There were three doctors in the practice. One of his senior partners had taken care of Aunt Violet for decades.
He pulled me inside. The house was filled with the homely smells of a roast chicken.
A lump formed in my throat as Nick took my coat and put it in the wardrobe I’d given them as a wedding gift. This house held so many happy memories. My daughter and Ange’s slightly older son had raced each other on scooters down the hallway when they were little, while we sat in the kitchen and laughed ourselves silly over things only insiders could think funny.
“In here,” Ange called out. I entered the kitchen. A rack with gleaming copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling, perfectly placed for her to reach everything without being in the way. The kitchen island was another piece I’d sourced for her. It had fit so exactly, from the dimensions to the materials and period, that I still smiled wheneverI was looking at it. Of course, until now I’d been clueless that magic had assisted me in locating it.
A strand of hair fell into her forehead as she added a dollop of butter to the potato mash. Nick pushed it back behind her ear. She grinned at him. Those two had been married for a quarter century, and yet they seemed as loved-up as when they first dated.
Wait, I thought. What was going on? Did my recent divorce make me notice these things more or did observational powers form part of my magical inheritance? I’d never been overly sensitive before, as demonstrated by my ex-husband, whose affair with his assistant had been going on right under my nose for months.
I armed myself for the inevitable pain that followed every thought of him. It didn’t come. Instead, I felt numb.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked Ange.
“Tell Nick what you’d like to drink. I thought we’d eat here. I want to show off my new table.”
“It’s stunning,” I said. She’d copied Venetian glassblowers and created a scarlet red glass sheet with soft dimples and swirls and encased it in another glass-like material that was smooth and warm to the touch. I selected a small glass of red wine that mirrored the table. One drink wouldn’t hurt.
