Chapter 1
Dragonfly Spellman’s Last Will and Testament
SOPHIE
Friday, June 22
I unfurl my copper-and-green faerie wings, extending them as far as they’ll reach, six feet, three inches on either side. Although a twelve-and-a-half foot wingspan is considered wide for a faerie woman, I’m not complaining. I can wrap my whole family in a feathery warm embrace, and they can’t easily escape. Even my cousin Cassia, whose wings haven’t manifested because she’s half human and a complete bundle of nerves, just rolls her eyes when my feathers accidentally smack her in the face. She’s my best friend, and most of the time I love her to pieces, except when she disagrees with me.
“Are yousureyou don’t want to make some discreet inquiries?” asks Cassia for the third time. She’s on her knees scrubbing out the second-hand display cases I purchased from Vlad Lazar, who’s refurbishing his gourmet grocery store down the street. That sweetie of avampire practically gave them away to me, along with several of his killer cake recipes.
I arch my back and glance around the bakery-in-progress, courtesy of my recent inheritance. The garish red wallpaper is hanging down in strips, which Cassia and I have been slowly removing, leaving behind divots in the walls. The old oak floor is pockmarked, most of its finish worn away, and the street-facing windows are clouded and dirty. Only the tin ceiling has survived the ravages of age unscathed.
But when I close my eyes, I can clearly visualize the new Rhyme ’N Riddle Bakeshop: emerald green walls with ivory trim, several small, wrought-iron tables and chairs squeezed in front of the plate glass windows, and a row of gleaming display cases filled with mouth-watering desserts. For the walls, I’m thinking of hanging artsy posters like you might see in a New York bistro.
I know it’s going to be just perfect.
What youwon’tsee on these walls are any of my unalive ancestors, leaning out of their picture frames and offering dreary advice. My mother doesn’t seem to mind, but frankly, they drive me almost as crazy as the gargoyles who blow raspberries every time I enter Mom’s café across the street. Absolutely no mostly ghostly faerie ancestors will haunt my bakery, thank you very much.
Cassia is still waiting for a reply. I push a chunk of wavy brown hair out of my eyes and give my wings an emphatic little flap. “I have no intention of making any inquiries—discreet or otherwise. Owning ninety percent of the Rhyme ’N Riddle Bakeshop is just fine by me. I’m sure Auntie Dragonfly knew whatshe was doing when she insisted on bequeathing ten percent to Leslie T. Barker.”
Cassia pushes herself off the floor, her soapy rag making little pitter-patters as it drips on the wood. “Auntie Dragonfly thought she was living in a villa off the coast of France for the past decade, instead of a musty old mansion in Michigan.”
I burst out laughing. “It was pretty funny visiting her, especially when she demanded we speak only in French around her.”
“My point exactly! Poor Auntie Dragonfly was losing almost as many marbles as wing feathers toward the end.”
“I know you’re only trying to look out for me. But I’m not worried about the mysterious ten-percent owner of my new bakery.”
Cassia sniffs uncertainly. “If you say so.”
I arch an eyebrow at my anxious cousin, who’s three months older than me but acts like an overprotective auntie herself most days. She sighs but drops the subject.
If I’m being completely honest, I’ll admit to being curious about my mysterious business partner and a teensy bit… concerned.
According to my great-aunt’s will, I must use my inheritance to pursue my dream—opening a bakery in Riddle Hill, the only supernatural town in Wisconsin—and I must employ Leslie T. Barker at the bakery for one year. Further, I must provide Leslie with room and board, which isn’t as onerous as it sounds. When I bought the shop, I also purchased the two-bedroom cottage that sits behind it.
After the year is up, I have the option of buying Leslie’s ten percent ownership stake and asking her to make her own housing arrangements. The legal language, which makes my head hurt, also makes it abundantly clear I can’t fire Leslie for twelve months. But if Leslie decides she doesn’t want to work at the bakery and live behind the shop with me, she can walk away at any time, and then I’ll have one year to buy her out.
That doesn’t sound too awful to me. I can put up with anyone for twelve months. Besides, how unreliable can Leslie be? She was Auntie Dragonfly’s companion for the past few years, although we’ve never actually met. Whenever I went to Michigan for the weekend, Leslie used the opportunity to visit her sister.
I retract my wings into the hidden slits in the back of my t-shirt and kneel down on the floor next to Cassia, who hands me a damp rag. She taps her phone, and we start singing along to the latest Roxie and Rossi album as we work. When we finish cleaning the display cases, we decide to tackle the wallpaper stripping again.
Ugh. I’d like to give a piece of my mind to whoever invented wallpaper. It may look nice when it’s fresh and new, but removing it later is like peeling an onion one layer at a time with your fingernails.
I toss the scraping tool onto the floor in disgust. “At this rate we’re never going to finish in time. I’m using magic!” The bakeshop’s grand opening is a few weeks away, and there’s so much to do I might start hyperventilating if I give it too much thought.
Cassia points at the drywall behind me, which looks like someone dragged a garden rake across its gouged,pitted surface. “But that’s what happened the last time you tried! Aunt Phoebe specifically told you not to use magic again on these walls… they’re not sturdy enough… and your magic isn’t…”
“Stable enough,” I grumble. “I know what Mom said, but I disagree. All my magic needs is a smidge more finesse. Now stand back.”
Cassia scurries behind me as if she’s afraid I’m going to bring the wall down on her head. Unfurling my wings with a powerful flap, I raise my hands and concentrate all my faerie magic on stripping the icky burgundy paper from the opposite wall. I close my eyes, feeling the power course through me, my wings vibrating with the sudden surge of energy.
I don’t have a specific incantation in mind, and now I kind of wish I’d checked my oldFaerie Magicktextbook from high school. I’m pretty good at taking basic charms and adding useful little twists and modifications. And if I were a more studious faerie, I’d probably know half a dozen spells by heart that I could repurpose in the moment. I’d be more like my faerie parents instead of like… well, me.
It’s too late now; I need to push on.
Cassia gasps, probably because she can see my magic swirling around me, which is a pretty cool gift, courtesy of her faerie father. She’s the only person in our large extended family who actuallysees magic, but I have no doubt she’d rather be able to cast spells like me. Sometimes I feel guilty because I manifested my faerie gifts when we were kids, and Cassia has given up all hope of ever becoming a proper faerie. But I keeptelling her it’s never too late. I just hope for her sake I’m right.
