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The entire community of Primrose Court had grown up around the Mudpuddle, and therefore, there was no better place for a newcomer to stay. Particularly a loner like Dan. Apart from the trivia circuit, he didn’t socialize much.

It also didn’t hurt that his maternal grandmother, also known as Granny Luna, lived and worked in the cafe, too.

Dan set the trophy down on the nearest empty table in the Mudpuddle Cafe and dropped into a chair across from it. The cafe was nearly empty this spring evening and he was glad of it. He wanted nothing more than to eat his supper in peace and then head upstairs to his apartment and settle into a long, hot bath with an excellent book. That was another one of the perks of staying at the Mudpuddle. He never ran out of things to read.

It was late July and the days were long and languid. Back in Boston the newspapers for Ordinaries were full of dire predictions about the effects of the current heatwave. But the weather within Primrose Court was always a bit more moderate and the temperature inside the Mudpuddle Bookshop and Cafe was always perfect. The bookshop took care of its own.

The last dying rays of day light streamed in through the curved windows of the turret reading nook, illuminating the titles that customers had left on the cart for reshelving. Ordinary novels, magical recipe books, a guidebook on the care and feeding of familiars. It was such a homey, welcoming space with its mismatched chairs and benches. Several of the tables had game boards hand painted on them. The Mudpuddle was a popular place for families and teens to gather. But the cafe was always quieter around dinnertime. People preferred to eat with their families.

Dan glanced up at the long wooden counter where Granny Luna was making an awkward and unconvincing show of stacking clean coffee cups as she pretended not to watch him. He wasn’t fooled. He knew Granny Luna didn’t have to do that kind task manually. One subtle swish of her massive feather duster and the cups would be clambering to get into the proper stacked formation. Another and the crumbs would see themselves right out the door to where a host of sparrows sat waiting expectantly. He’d seen her work her fairy magic before. He wasn’t sure why she seemed so shy about employing it in front of him.

“My feathers! You look terrible, Danny-boy,” Luna said, not unkindly, in her lilting Irish accent.

Luna was pale with a shocking white fluff of hair and crystalline blue eyes. She was so petite she barely cleared the bar, even in her rhinestone-encrusted platform shoes. Sharp-eyed and sharp-boned, she had the kind of presence that made people lean in when she spoke.

“I’m fine,” Dan lied. If he sat still for too long he suspected he might turn to stone. His back muscles were knotted and tense. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, then rotated his neck. He wasn’t comfortable with anyone making a fuss over him.

Unfortunately for Dan, making a fuss was Granny Luna’s favorite thing and default setting.

“Nonsense! Get a look at you. You’re covered in sawdust and you’ve got bits of plaster in your hair. Did you remember to eat anything today?”

“I had something,” Dan mumbled. Had he? A muffin. He’d had a muffin this morning. But that had been hours ago. He’d been so engrossed in his work that he’d completely forgotten to eat since breakfast.

“You’re a terrible liar for someone with the gift of gab running through their line…” Granny Luna tutted. “I can see the hunger written all over your face, child!”

Dan smiled at this. He was far too large for anyone, most especially a miniscule, aged, Irish garden fairy, to be calling him “child” but he allowed it. He smiled at his improbable grandmother, raised his brows and bared his canines playfully as he said, “The better to eat you with, Granny!”

“Now that’s more like it!” Granny lit up at the feigned threat. “And I’d like to see you try! I’m still too quick for the likes of a big beastie like you.”

With this she became a blur, darting off abruptly into the back room.

Dan pulled his bag closer and fished out the trophy, unwrapping it and setting it on the table. By the time he was done, Luna was back holding an oversized mug of tea. She set the cup in front of him and stared proudly at the trophy like it was one of her own prized carnivorous plants.

“Have you given her a name yet? Decided where you’ll keep her?” she asked. “It’s so sweet the way you carry her home with you each night.”

“When the tavern’s complete and has working locks, I imagine she’ll get a shelf of her own. But I’m not about to name a trophy, Gran. Besides, what makes you so sure it’s a she?” Dan’s tone was defensive.

“You called her she!” Granny Luna retorted.

“Because you did!” Dan shook his head.

“Hm-mmm.” Granny Luna scanned him with probing eyes. Then she said, “Will Porter’s stopping by. Maybe he’ll have some ideas about names.”

Dan was glad to hear his old friend would be coming to visit. Ever since Dan had rented the spare apartment above the bookshop, they’d gotten together once or twice a week for coffee and to catch up. He hadn’t seen Will in almost two weeks, though, which was a long time for them.

“Will mentioned that you have a book signing coming up?” Granny dangled the question lightly, teasingly, like a worm at the end of a hook. She’d keep angling, he knew, till he told her more about it.

“That’s true. Next week. In Portland, Oregon.” He turned the trophy a few degrees to the left, as if adjusting its angle of contemplation. “At Owl’s Books.”

“Owl’s?” Granny straightened up, eyes wide. The bookshop was famous on the west coast, much the way the Mudpuddle was on the east. The massive new and used bookstore occupied an entire city block in the old, industrial part of town known as the Pearl District. But Owl’s was not just a landmark destination for magical folk. They sold books to Ordinaries as well. That made it even more of a legend. The magic required to sustain the veil in plain sight was a testament to the Book witches who had set its spells and presided over it for generations.

Folk or Ordinary, Owl’s was the place for authors to see and be seen. They only hosted a handful of signings for illustrious guests.

Dan knew it was a great honor. He could feel the weight of what it was supposed to mean to him; the same way he could feel the weight of the sphinx trophy as he schlepped it back and forth to his worksite every day. But it didn’t make him feel special. It felt performative. He was still the same old Dan Wilder at the end of every day. The loner with aching muscles and a trophy for a pet. He didn’t think he deserved the fanfare. He was only going because his publisher said he had to.

Feelings were so much more complicated than trivia.

“Yeah. I’ve heard it’s a nice venue,” he mumbled.