But work beckons. I bang out two new wedding concept boards and email them to more potential clients who might give me deposits before the end of the month. I set Mandy on a search for a pigeon to communicate with a pair of elves who don’t use email and possibly live in a tree. For the hell of it, I schedule an appointment to meet with the baker who made Fi’s cake, in case they’d be willing to work with me in the future. I leave texts and voicemails for catering and décor specialists so I can source more than just linens, chairs, and tables for the discerning paranormal bride. Courtesy of Joe the scuba instructor, I schedule a meeting with two Finnish mermaids preparing for an American-themed elopement. I’m thinking they’ll need tiki torches, tipis, a bushel of pampas grass, and at least three inflatable flotillas.
The biggest thing is my newest clients, Sidney and Brett.
Sidney Barroway is only a few years older than me. She’s the great-granddaughter of an industrialist, possibly a Boston Brahmin, all up in her yacht club, yadda yadda. At least she was, until her interest in BDSM led to her getting bit by the wrong hairy person. Why she felt I needed this information is as mysterious as her reasoning, mid-consultation, for pulling her feet from her Jimmy Choo mules and filing down her toenails with a sheet of sandpaper.
When Sidney was turned into a lycanthrope, I think she changed in more ways than a full moon can account for. Which, I suspect, is why she kept losing wedding planners. The one who dropped out last week literallypaid Sidney moneyto get out of doing their job.
Anyway, Sidney’s wedding to Brett will take place—as I said to Hanry—two weekends from now in downtown Boston. Since it’ll be a Catholic mass in a historic cathedral, per family tradition, the priests arerestricting her input, so she’s only requesting my help with the reception. That’ll be held at a luxury hotel where I’ll pick up the wedding planner’s reins to coordinate seventeen vendors. In addition to creating the group text to rule all group texts, I’ll perform a few physical jobs too, like delivering her catering and ensuring the safe arrival of her custom wedding cake, which is almost more expensive than a full year of NYU tuition.
The scale and costs of this wedding didn’t boggle my eyes in the slightest. Nope. Watered them, maybe. But Sidney seems—in spite of the trust fund and unfortunately doggish characteristics—like she could be a friend. If I didn’t know better.
Now and again, I find myself thinking about Fi, arriving wet onshore before the crack of dawn. I don’t know what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been there. It wouldn’t have been good.
She would’ve felt alone. Lost. Desperate. And I know that feeling. I felt it when Mom didn’t come home, and that first bill arrived, and I realized she’d never come back to pay it. When Grandma Rose’s friends laughed at me, snaggle-toothed, while I held my vomit-covered apple.
Point is, I need to know all I can about Sidney and Brett and their families. To ensure their big special day doesn’t become their worst. So I clack away at my keyboard, Hanry sips tea, and Bulan occasionally bursts out with accusatory language toward Elizabeth Bennet.
Generally, the great vibe continues until one morning, Hanry enters the shop with such an air of significance, he basically swarms half the room.
“I know what to do,” he says.
“With what?” I ask. “Your pumpkin art?”
“My mech suit?” asks Bulan hopefully.
“You’re still on that?” I ask Bulan.
“Better,” says Hanry. He accosts me with a dashing smile. “I’m going to help you with your saboteurs.”
To my disappointment, Hanry’s solution isn’t violence.
“You need something more hands-off,” says Hanry as we dodgethe ruffians of Salem. “Besides, you don’t know who your target is. It’s dangerous—and rude—to presume.”
“True,” I allow begrudgingly.
It’s a beautiful fall day, irritatingly sunny and cinematic. As Halloween approaches, the number of witches in this place is growing more alarming, and more diverse, by the minute. You’ve got your influencer witches, your gauzy-veil-wearing witches, your brujas, your steampunk-librarian-with-feather-tufted-eyeglasses witches, your pit-bull-terrier witches, and your Japanese schoolgirl non-witches. Everywhere I look is a feast for Grandma’s eyes. Even the Dunkin’ is spooky.
Why, Grandma. Why did you have to die at the cusp of Salem’s most rabid season? Why couldn’t you have passed away at a more innocuous time, like Christmas?
“Just to check, you said the white blur you saw in the woods was hiding, right?” asks Hanry.
“Hiding or floating. It reminded me of a plastic bag. Can a witch disguise themselves as a plastic bag?”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
I shrug. “Grandma’s friends are retirees. What else do they have to do except cosplay?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m asking because… well, it matters whether the source of your sabotage is living or not.” At my curious expression, he explains, “If you were being sabotaged by a plastic bagorby someone living, a psychic couldn’t help. For one thing, if your grandmother’s friends were behind this, they wouldn’t appear at a séance. Séances are for the dead.”
Wait. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—
“We could reach out to Grandma Rose,” I say. Why didn’t I think of this before? “She’s been watching me this whole time, right? Forget the weddings. She could tell me what she was trying to get out of me in her will! She’d let me know exactly what the tide thing’s about.”
“I haven’t recommended that for a reason,” says Hanry, his voice kind. “Sabby, séances can go wrong. They can lead to spirit possession.The longer your grandma lingers in the in-between, the greater the odds of her wanting to hang on to this world. Most legit psychics wouldn’t consider doing it for you, no matter the price.”
“So visiting a psychic is a last, worst-case, nuclear winter-y scenario.”
“You still have other options. Onegoodoption.” Hanry’s voice is painfully encouraging. A pedestrian light changes, stopping us at the curb. I wait as Hanry chews on his lip and sticks his hands into his pockets. He seems unwilling to say what he’s about to say. “Gnomes.”
