“No one,” I answer her firmly, not in the mood for a candle wax burn or a tarot card reading that guarantees my future suffering. Sofia and I went through a witchy phase at RISD, the art school we attended for college, but while my own belief in magic was crushed beneath the weight of adulting, hers remains intact. My muscles relax as I take in the familiar decor—half candles and crystals, half organized business owner. On top of moonlighting as my wedding photographer, Sofia also runs an arts community where creatives rent studio space.
“Anyway, aren’t there repercussions for hexing people?” I ask. “Like seven years bad luck?”
Sofia comes back from the kitchen with a plate piled high with flaky pastries I know are stuffed with slow-cooked pork in cinnamon-laced tomato sauce. My mouth waters. Mr. Morales doesn’t make them often, but when he does, he knows to make enough leftovers.
“See! I knew I could bring back the witch in you,” Sofia saysdelightedly, setting the plate down on her coffee table. “But no, seven years bad luck is the mirror thing. What you’re referring to is the Law of Threefold—whatever energy you put into the universe gets returned to you three times over.”
“And you’re willing to risk getting the threefold shaft by hexing people for me?”
“The Threefold Shaftsounds like every erotica book I want to read,” she replies, folding her petite frame to sit cross-legged on the couch next to me so that her knee is digging into my hip.
I snort as we simultaneously grab empanadas. My first bite of warm, tender pastry feels like an explosion of nostalgia in my mouth. I close my eyes and I’m back in the Morales kitchen—my favorite place on earth besides Larkwood.
When I was growing up, Sofia’s house felt far more like home than the two houses my parents used to shuttle me between like an inconvenient house guest. After school, I’d soak in the love and comfort of people who would load my plate with second helpings and fuss over me like I mattered. I would watch Sofia’s dad twirl Mrs. Morales in the kitchen despite her rolling eyes, and ache for the kind of everlasting love and stability they had. Even now, they’re the reason I still believe Happily Ever Afters exist.
The inner corners of my eyes prick, and I know I’m seconds away from falling apart again. Sofia rests her head on my shoulder, her dark curls tickling my cheek. “Tell me what’s going on, Gracie. And don’t leave anything out.”
I blink away the sting in my eyes. “Well, the long story short is that I’m about to spend my every last penny on a billboard that has the wordsASS WIPEprinted over Jude Larkwood’s forehead.”
At her raised eyebrows, I sigh and launch into my tale of woe. Once I’ve updated her on everything that’s happened, Sofia’s delicately tattooed hand comes up to cover her mouth, brushing her small silver septum ring. “Gracie, that is just… so much. Like, the motherload of shitty luck, especially after Agatha’s passing. But listen.” She grabs my empanada-free hand, squeezing tight. “Once the dust settles and you get a plan in place, I think it might be for the best.”
“For thebest?” I repeat. “In what realm of possibilities is this not the worst-case, apocalyptic scenario for me?
Sofia winces but goes on. “I’m not saying that this doesn’t suck in a completely monumental way. But it’s been three years,” she says, leaving the past unspoken.Three years since Calvin left you. Three years since your business imploded and you ran away from the world.“I know you love Larkwood, but I don’t think it’s healthy for you anymore.”
When I struggle to get words out past my hurt feelings, she quickly goes on. “I mean, I think everyone has the right to float around in long nightgowns and lick their wounds in an enchanted cottage after something like that but…” She sighs. “Maybe it’s time to leave the cottage-core life behind and try your hand at Grace & Veil again. You know I’d make room at KILN for you.”
Throughout this entire speech, my spine has gotten stiffer and stiffer. At the name of my failed business, it could support a concrete dock.
“So, you’re saying I shouldn’t even fight this?” I ask. “And just reopen a business that’ll cost meanothermountain of money I don’t have?”
Sofia’s lips press together as her hand leaves mine. “There are always startup costs to a new business.”
I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. “I couldn’t take that risk again even if I wanted to. No bank on the planet would give me a loan right now. At this point, I doubt they’d even lend me a hand if I fell flat on my face in their lobby.”
“Okay, but what aboutRandy?” she demands, pulling out the big guns.
Something pinches in my chest. Named for the host ofSay Yes to the Dress, my middle school obsession,myRandy is a bedazzled keepsake box, stuffed with sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and broken dreams. Thinking of it now is like a swift kick to my inner child.
“I still sew!” I insist. “I sewed my dress for Agatha’s funeral.”
“That’s great,” Sofia allows. “And when was the last time you made anything before that?”
“I made that custom bunting for my sister’s bachelorette party, remember?”
Sofia gives me a flat look. “Sewing the wordsSAME DICK FOREVERonto little triangles for your scary stepsister doesn’t count.”
I make an exasperated sound. “I know you’re trying to be supportive, but not every childhood dream is destined to work out, okay? Maybe mine was supposed to be a stepping stone into some actual stability for once in my life.”
Sofia tucks her hair behind her ear with an impatient flick of her hand. “A stepping stone, my ass. I think all the bullshit Calvin used to say about getting a ‘real job’ finally sank its claws in. I think you were on the cusp of making a name for your brand, and then the breakup destroyed your confidence.”
“Calvin wasn’t wrong, Sof. Being able to pay my student loans on time and more than the bare minimum on my credit cards… it’s been a game changer. I just need to get back on my feet, and I want to do it at Larkwood.”
“But, Gracie,” she says slowly, “how on earth do you plan on fighting this? If Agatha’s grandson wants to sell the estate, what can you do to stop him?”
I shift on my seat and grab my empanada again to avoid eye contact, mumbling, “Well, I do kind of have a plan.”
I’m about to lift the pastry to my mouth when it’s snatched away. “Nuh-uh,” Sofia scolds. “No treats till you spill this so-calledplan.”
