“What can I do to show you that youdoharm even if you don’t mean to? There isn’t a magickal being or creature who can trust Normals. We keep magic secret for a reason. Because Normals would grind us into sausage if they thought they could extract our magic that way. Normals have annihilated elephants and rhinoceroses because youbelievethey’re magic. They’re not, by the way. They’re just going extinct.” I’m getting more upset as I talk. I drop my fork on my plate with a loud clatter and hide my face in my hands.
“Penelope,” Shepard says, “nobody’s going to grind your friend into sausage.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” he says, “that doesn’t work.”
“I can’t believe we’re just sitting here, eating staggeringly expensive eggs, while Agatha is somewhere having the magic fracked out of her.”
“Is there something else we could do to find her?”
“I don’t know—there are spells. But we’d have to know where she is, generally speaking. And I’d need a lock of her hair. Or a photo. I didn’t exactly pack for a séance.”
“I’m sure you have a photo of Agatha.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“On your phone.”
I look up at him. “Merlin, you’re right!” I take out my phone and open Agatha’s Instagram account. “I have thousands of photos of her.…”
Shepard scoots closer to me, still eating his eggs and hash browns. He looks at my phone. “She’s pretty.”
“I know,” I say glumly. “That just makes me worrymoreabout her. She stands out.”
“What do we do next?” he asks.
“Right,” I say. “We’ll need a candle.”
“There’s one in the bathroom.”
“And I’ll need your help.”
“Me? I’m not even a lay-witch.”
“As long as you have a soul, we’re fine.”
He looks a bit worried.
“Shepard, it’s fine—this isn’t dangerous.”
He smiles. “My soul is at your disposal.”
We clear away the breakfast dishes and I sit back down on the bed, motioning for Shepard to sit across from me. I set the phone between us and take Shepard’s hands. He has objectively nice hands. I notice this because mine are objectively subpar. My palm-to-finger ratio is too high, and my fingers are chubby. There’s nothing for it. We had to have Grandmother’s ring enlarged to fit me.
But Shepard’s hands are perfectly balanced with long, even fingers. He’d look dashing with a magic ring.
We sit with our legs crossed, and I levitate the candle over my phone. I’ve pulled up a nice photo of Agatha, a selfie onthe beach. She looks happy. (Happier than I ever saw her at Watford.)
“Who are we contacting?” Shepard asks.
“Any spirits who can help us.”
He twists his mouth like he’s thinking. “Maybe we should specify ‘friendly’ spirits.”
“Close your eyes,” I say. I close mine, too, and whisper the spell—“Kindred spirits!”
49
