Page 131 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

Dahlia raised her eyebrows at Talula. “Did you?”

Talula, who was focusing very hard on maintaining the illusions above them, winked in answer. “Permits for what?”

As the last spiral of light whirled over them, casting the cheering awestruck audience in a rainbow glow, Dahlia whispered, “You are absolutely magical, Talula Smith.”

Talula, for the first time in her whole life, believed it.

31

On the morning of Samhain, Talula woke up naked in Dahlia’s bed for the second time in as many days, curled around her girlfriend like a vine. Talula let her lips barely brush over Dahlia’s shoulder. Dahlia, still lost to dreams, gave a semi-conscious hum of contentment and snuggled deeper into Talula’s arms.

They’d fallen asleep earlier this time (just barely), talking about plans for Samhain. Dahlia had playfully pouted when she learned that Talula had to be up before the crack of dawn. Talula had to be at the café for the first Volta reservation (not that she could tell Dahlia that). But they’d made up for it as much as they could, with long talks and deep kisses and every kind of intimacy in between.

Now Talula reluctantly slipped out of bed, wishing she and Dahlia could have a slow morning together. An idea struck. She quietly got dressed and padded across the chilly wood floors into the kitchen. In the fridge, she found eggs—likely the same ones that Dahlia had almost vandalized Kristen with—some butter, and a bag of shredded cheese. Talula smiled. She’d promised breakfast for Dahlia, after all. And there was one last magical recipe Talula still hadn’t tried.

Talula conjured her translation work to the kitchen. She opened the cookbook to the latest recipe—There’s Always Time for Fresh Scrambled Eggs—and reread the first step.

Begin by ensuring freshness. Pour water into a glass. Drop one whole egg (shell and all) into the glass. Focus on what makes an egg fresh. When the egg sinks to the bottom of the glass, remove it and repeat for every egg. Then proceed to the next step.

Kiki hadn’t steered Talula wrong so far. She pulled out a glass, filled it with water, and dropped the egg into the glass. It bobbed to the top like a pale little breakfast buoy.

Talula stared at it, then checked her notes again. Focus on what makes an egg fresh.

She groaned, wishing that Kiki could be less mysterious for once in their aggravatingly enigmatic life. But, obligingly, Talula considered the egg. She thought about all the lessons she’d learned through these recipes. She was able to tap into her elemental magic by recognizing that like calls to like. Now Talula could find connections to elements within herself to manipulate elements around her. Conjuring magic made her realize the world was always within reach. For illusions, Talula needed to shift her perspective, seeing things as they could be until her perspective was practically tactile.

But Talula still didn’t understand what eggs were supposed to teach her. She thought about what made eggs fresh. She thought about chickens, which led her to thinking about Wei’s eggs. She remembered one market day months ago, when she’d arrived before anyone else.

Wei had set up a simple cooking station behind his booth—a portable burner, frying pan, a small rice cooker, and a thermos. He’d waved Talula over and poured them both some hot tea from the thermos. While Talula sipped, Wei had held up a speckled egg.

“You know why no one has eggs like Wei’s eggs?” With a practiced hand, he’d cracked two eggs into the hot pan and scooped rice into two bowls. “Your grocery store eggs—do you know how old they are?”

Talula had shaken her head.

“Maybe one month. Maybe two months.”

“No way!”

“Agricultural laws say that farmers have thirty days from when the chicken lays the egg to put eggs into cartons for the stores. A whole month from when the egg gets laid before it goes into your refrigerator! That’s not fresh. That’s old, like me.” Wei had chuckled at his joke, then pointed at his own eggs. “These? Never more than a few days from laying to selling.”

When the whites of the eggs had barely set, Wei had guided the eggs onto the steaming rice. “Good ingredients, good attention, good timing. These are the most important things in all food.”

Finally, he’d pulled out a container of dark brown soy sauce. “And a little bit of salt.”

He’d handed Talula a bowl and her own set of chopsticks. Talula, a bit fumbly with chopsticks on a good day, had managed to grab a morsel of gooey yolk onto a cluster of rice. She’d closed her eyes and chewed. The warm, starchy rice, the tiny bite of salt, and the velvety richness of the egg had overtaken her senses.

When she’d opened her eyes, Wei was chuckling triumphantly at her ecstatic expression. “That’s why there’s no eggs like Wei’s eggs.”

Talula brought herself out of the memory and back to Dahlia’s kitchen. With Wei’s lesson in mind, she pulled up a kitchen chair and stared at the egg floating in the glass. She thought about the egg. About time, and how much of a difference it made. This egg used to be brand-new. But even though time had passed, it was still that same egg. It just had to go back to being what it was.

Talula wrapped herself up in magic, focusing on the way the egg used to be—fresh, new, still warm and nestled under feathers. Talula watched as the egg slowly sank to the bottom of the glass with a faint clink.

Talula came out of her trancelike state, pleased with herself. The magic had been easy, but surprisingly, Talula felt drained—more than she’d felt after any of her previous magical workings. She shrugged it off, fished the egg out of the glass, and reached for the next one.

Soon, Talula had a skillet full of silky golden scrambled eggs. She took a bite and hummed with satisfaction. The scramble had turned out just as delicious as Wei’s eggs (maybe better). Talula mulled over the possibilities of this new skill. She could always have fresh ingredients all year round. Then again, she already did, thanks to the Voltlette—her tiny accidental pocket dimension kept things fresh indefinitely. That thought made her pause. Did this new skill have something to do with the Voltlette? Or the Volta?

Her phone chirped a reminder at her. Talula shook her head. She didn’t have time to dwell on Kiki’s puzzles. Today was Samhain, the most legendary Samhain the Blue Moon had ever had. Just as important, if not more so, there was a girlfriend upstairs who deserved breakfast in bed.

Talula began poking around the cabinets and drawers of the kitchen, hoping to find a breakfast tray or, in a pinch, a sheet pan. She opened a door and revealed a room she hadn’t seen yet. Curious, Talula walked into what looked like the Joneses’ home office. Shelves were filled with a dizzying variety of books, their subjects spanning ancient Egyptian art to Amish medical practices. Various sets of framed diplomas adorned the wall. Talula smiled, spotting a well-worn certificate for “Dahlia Jones: Bubbliest Swimmer” from the Scottsdale Community Pool’s Little Guppies Club.