I love it.
Finally, I finish making my latte — not as expertly as they do down the street at Second Cup — but with enough pistachio syrup and my own magic that it will do the trick.
Magic, at least, is the one thing setting Sugar & Salt apart from the rest of the adorable storefronts and restaurants here in Silverlight Shore.
Except for my sisters’ stores, of course. A small smile quirks the corners of my lips. Between the four of us, Hazel included, Silverlight Shore has plenty of magic to spare.
No sooner has the thought bubbled up when the espresso machine lets out a mechanical groan, smoke pouring from the back of it.
“Shit, shit, shit—” I yell, fanning the smoke away from the alarm overhead. The swinging door from the kitchen opens as Gunner trots out, a grim set to his hound dog face.
“Why did you do that?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” Perplexed, I fumble with the small window latch and fan the smoke out the screen. “How is it even smoking? Like, what does it even have in it that smokes?”
“You used a spell.” His shining nostrils flare slightly as he scents the air. “I can smell it.”
“I didn’t…” I trail off, because he’s not wrong. I can smell it too. My magic has a slight lemon-syrup scent to it, and it’s mixing with the machine-oil smoke the espresso machine’s now burping into the air. “Shit.”
My phone rings in my apron pocket, and I fan the black smoke towards the window with one hand and reach for the phone with the other.
“Hey, it’s me,” my sister Rose’s voice is breathless, annoyed. “Did you do something to the coffee machine here before you left for work? It’s all messed up and it smells like your magic.”
“At home?” I stare down at Gunner, like he knows something, then swing my gaze back to the espresso machine smoking — slightly less — on the countertop.
“Yeah, at home.” Rose sounds distinctly grumpy, and the sound of running water fills the background. “Did you mess with it?”
“No, but my machine here just broke, too—” I stop midsentence, gripping the front counter with my free hand. My vision narrows, and I swear out loud before sinking to the floor.
“You’re having an episode,” Rose tells me over the phone, all business now. “Gunner, put it on speaker.”
I drop the phone, my sight narrowing, tunneling, until all that’s left is a spot where I rest my cheek on the floor.
“Talk me through it,” Rose commands. “Tell me what you’re seeing.”
Gunner’s cold nose presses against my temple, his weight settling against my back. The worldmoves.
“Hazel.” My voice sounds far away, and the sounds of the still-upset coffee machine might as well be from a different dimension.
“What about Hazel?”
I’m dimly aware of the sound of a pen scratching across paper.
My littlest sister’s red-streaked hair appears, sunlight dancing off it, snow sparkling as it hits her head, the distinct pink of our family home behind her.
“She’s coming back.”
The vision twists, my red-and-blonde sister’s head disappearing, the sight forcing me to some new place, something different. Posey’s shop, full of parts and tools and the smell of motor oil and diesel.
It’s stuffed to the brim, all kinds of broken devices cluttering her tables and the front counter, each tagged. Posey’s nowhere to be found.
“Posey’s. Broken stuff everywhere.”
The odd chime of a grandfather clock ricochets through my brain, and the scene switches again. Nausea roils my stomach as I’m jerked through time and space.
I inhale, and the scent of Posey’s repair shop fades, replaced by the smell of brine, the sound of waves crashing on sand.
The lighthouse.
