Page 82 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

She started to make another but then checked the time and swore. She needed to prepare for the next phase of Operation Save Samhain.

The following morning, the farmers’ market (and really, the whole town) was buzzing with the latest Halloween surprise—this time on their front step. Each home and business in Pine Hollow received an envelope of luxurious midnight-hued card stock sealed with gold wax.

The gilded calligraphy inside offered a simple message:

The honor of your presence is requested.

The Magic Box. October 24th. Sunset.

Do you believe?

The effect was mysterious. Intriguing. Enchanting. And exactly what Talula and Dahlia had intended when they’d delivered the messages in the middle of the night.

Now the Saturday morning marketgoers could feel a distinct hum of excitement. Everyone talked about how they found their invitation, their theories about the recent “magical” goings-on, their plans for attending the Magic Box’s mysterious event that night. Smiling, Talula listened and swallowed a yawn.

For once, Talula wasn’t milling about the stalls, asking about apples or arugula. She had her own booth, draped with a sparkly black tablecloth. It boasted a stack of neat pamphlets (Celebrating Samhain: Get to Know Halloween’s Great-Great-Great-Grandma!), a smattering of autumn leaves, and some crystals. Plus, free food. Talula had set out a silver samovar that poured aromatic tea and several plates of fried chicken, bacon, and egg sliders (the breakfast version of her latest recipe). Above Talula’s head, a banner announced The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium Information Booth. A tiny decorative chalkboard next to her elbow read i’m a witch! ask me anything!

It was one of Dahlia’s ideas—give people a chance to talk to Talula, ask her questions, and get to know the celebration as more than just a Halloween-themed orgy (Dahlia’s words). Simon, of course, thought it was absurd and stayed home. But Talula trusted Dahlia, so here she was with signs, sandwiches, and symbols of the occult. So far, her most frequently answered questions included:

Q: “Do you worship Satan?”

A: “I don’t actually believe in Satan, but I do believe in celebrating the beauty of the season. Want some tea?”

Q: “Do you really dance naked in the forest underneath the full moon at midnight?”

A: “No. Mostly, I try to be in bed by eleven. Plus, you know, bugs.”

Q: “Is there gluten in this?”

A: “Yes, sorry. I’ll look into gluten-free options next time!”

If a line of questioning started to border on harassment, Emilio or Anna would pop by from across the way to help deescalate (and swipe another slider). A few people did stop to try the food. While they chewed, Talula explained the essence of the celebrations—she also promised four bounce houses this year. Some asked follow-up questions, some nodded politely and left, and others asked if they could have another sandwich or cup of tea.

Then, Talula had her most unexpected visitor of all.

Mrs. Bochart’s hand slammed down on her table. In her free hand (the one that hadn’t just scared the bejeezus out of Talula), she held a partially eaten slider.

“What is this?”

Anger and a hint of shame burned Talula’s cheeks. She took a breath and answered calmly, “It’s a breakfast slider with mango coleslaw, chili honey, bacon, eggs, and fried chicken on—”

“Buttered. Brioche.” Mrs. Bochart spat each word with enough venom to make Talula queasy.

Talula didn’t like where this was going. But she tried for a let’s-make-peace tone. “I know we didn’t leave things on the best of terms last week, and I regret it. I should have stayed calm and talked to you about the petition privately. But unless there’s something I can help you with, I think you should leave.”

“Yes, you can help me,” Mrs. Bochart hissed. Her eyes burned with accusation. “You can help me by keeping your thieving magic fingers out of my fridge.”

Talula’s stomach plummeted. She swallowed and managed to say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mrs. Bochart leaned closer until her nose almost bumped Talula’s. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize my own butter, little witch?”

Talula’s mouth worked, but no sly little not-quite-truth appeared on her lips. Her brain was a cacophony of emergency bells and Mayday alarms.

“I know you’ve been up to new tricks, but this? You’ve crossed a line, girlie. Your mother should have taught you better than—” but Mrs. Bochart’s threat was cut off by a voice as cool and sweet as cream.

“Hi, Mrs. B.” Anna laid her hand on the older woman’s arm. “I think it’s time you come away now.”

Mrs. Bochart rolled her shoulder back, loosening Anna’s hold on her. “I’m going.”