“Sorry, Blair, but I need to see Addison.”
Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps Addisoncantake every single customer.
I step aside and gesture for Mr. Patel to take a spot right behind Mrs. DeWalt.
“Traitors, all of them,” my sister Chelsea whispers, sidling up to me.
I bite back a laugh. “Stop it.”
“I don’t really mean it.” She fluffs the ends of her long blonde locks with one hand. “But Isort ofmean it.”
Chelsea smells of vanilla and lavender, like she’s fresh from the oven—in a good way. She leans back on the counter and stretches her feet up onto the shelf in front of us.
I smack her leg, and she rolls her eyes before setting her feet back on the floor. I grab my rag and continue wiping down surfaces. If nothing else, it’s a great distraction from my lack of helping customers.
Chelsea, I notice, doesn’t lift a finger to assist me. Instead she bends over and searches the shelf for something. It’s cluttered down there, full of books on hold for people, pens, notepads, balls that children have abandoned and never claimed.
My younger sister comes up for air holding a black slip of paper. I pretend not to notice it. In fact, rubbing a circle into the counter seems an appropriate response.
Chelsea clears her throat dramatically and reads (really thickening up her natural Southern accent in the process):
“You are cordially invited to a witch ball in honor of Blair Thornrose. February 1st. 112 Castleview Lane. White tie required.”
She drops the invitation onto the counter, and I stare at it, hoping it’ll burst into flames. But it does not. Not that destroying it will change anything.
“So. You excited for tonight?”
“Nope.” Hoping the conversation is over, I turn my attention to the front door. But from the corner of my eye, Chelsea watches me for a ridiculously long moment. “Did you want me to say more?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, then.”
A group of teen girls—probably werewolves if their long, dark hair is any indication—stop to peer into the windows of thestore.Please come inside. Save me from this conversation.But to my disappointment, they move on. Our town has all kinds of supernaturals—all are welcome as magic is out in the open. Humans know our kind exist, and they mingle with us. However, they are not allowed to own property in Castleview, and that’s the way things are.
My sister is still waiting for an answer, so I say, “I’d rather hide under a rock for all eternity than walk into another witch ball where people are just going to gossip and whisper about me behind my back.”
Before my family got into this situation, this whole having-to-get-married thing, Ithoughtthat I wanted to marry, but when I started meeting eligible supernaturals, old feelings of inadequacy—myinadequacy—got dragged to the surface.
Chelsea shoots me a sympathetic look. “An ‘I’m not ready for the ball,’ or ‘I am ready,’ would’ve been just fine an answer, too.” I scoff as she elbows me. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Maybe our family’s magic will be okay.”
At that very moment, a young woman pops out of a book, her cheeks red, hair tangled. She blinks and looks around, confusion and frustration etched in tiny little lines all over her face. “What? No, no, no. I was supposed to have a full hour. It’s only been…” She glances at her watch. “Forty minutes.”
“Right,” I mumble to Chelsea. “Our magic will be okay, you say?”
It will very muchnotbe okay.
My sister jumps up. “I’ll go smooth things over with her.”
As she walks away to deal with the frustrated customer, I shake my head. No matter how much we may want to believe otherwise, our magic is failing. People being thrown from books before their allotted time’s up isn’t a new occurrence. And it’s only going to get worse until we can’t put people into books at all.
And then we’ll be done for.
I just wish…I just wish that the men at those balls didn’t look at me the way that they do—eyes glittering with hope until the whispers start.
And they always start.
The door opens again, and I plaster a huge smile on my face just so it can drop, because in walks Catherine Farber, aka Chatty Cathy, and her besties.
