“No, that’s okay.” I sit up and take the spoon and tub,hugging the ice cream to my chest and not caring that beads of ice are crystallizing on my shirt. “I’ll eat it.”
Just for them, I take a bite, and it’s amazing. Of course. But it’s not plugging the massive hole in my chest.
Blair picks at a thread in the comforter. “I’m sorry for not telling you the truth about Feylin.”
“Me too,” Chelsea murmurs. “I really, really wanted it to be true love. It has to happen to somebody in this family, and when all that magic released, I thought for sure it was love.”
“Nope, not love.”
They look so sad, and honestly I can’t be angry with them. Mama and Dad would’ve told all my sisters not to say anything to me about what had happened to Tess, and I understand that.
After I’m a few bites in, Chelsea says, “We heard about your magic. Of course, we saw it, too, last night. Congrats!”
“Congratulations,” Blair adds, beaming.
“Thanks,” I reply flatly.
They exchange a look. It’s Blair who speaks first. “Addie, this is what you’ve always wanted. Why aren’t you excited?”
“Maybe because of…you know what,” Chelsea reminds her.
“Right. Well, it’s still a great thing that’s happened, and we want to celebrate it.”
“With ice cream?” I ask around a mouthful of chocolate and fudge.
“No.” Chelsea’s eyes sparkle. “We’ve got something better in mind.”
I’m standingin front of a rack of cast-iron skillets. These aren’t your normal variety cast iron. They’ve got long handles and wide-mouthed pans, perfect for sitting on. There are eight of them. Wait, nine now.
One has a shiny red bow wrapped around it.
“Surprise,” my sisters say in unison.
I nearly drop the ice cream, which I’ve been clutching like a starving dog with a bone. Anyone dares take my Tillamook and they’re dead.
Tears prick my eyes. “You got me my own riding skillet?”
Blair grins. “We sure did. Want to take her for a spin?”
“Yes. Wait. I think my magic’s burnt out. I couldn’t send Mama into a book twice.”
“It’s probably built back up now,” Chelsea tells me. “The least we can do is try.”
I run my fingers down the rough texture of the cast iron. My whole life I’ve wanted one of these for myself, but I had to settle for riding double behind someone—my dad, usually.
But now I’ve got my very own skillet.
I set my ice cream on the back porch table and grab the long handle. It feels good, cool, but the texture gives it bite.
We take our three skillets outside, and I throw one leg over like I’ve done numerous times. My left hand is positioned in front of the other, and I ease back onto the flat side of the pan before allowing my magic to slowly unfurl.
It hesitantly winds around the skillet like it’s feeling it out, trying to decide if the cast iron is friend or foe.
Apparently it makes a decision, because the next thing I know, I’m shooting up into the sky, zipping above the trees, the wind slapping my face and bats scattering as I race toward the full moon.
My sisters quickly catch up, laughing.
“Isn’t this the best?” Blair yells.
