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“And your life line, Kate… it is incredibly long.”

She says that like she’s surprised. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Like, I’m not about to keel over tomorrow and become a ghost on Halloween or anything.”

Bonnie is still paying close attention to the creases in my palm. “That’s what happened to Johnny Gray when his coupe ran off the road.”

“What was that?”

She shakes her head and pats my palm with hers. “How’s that familiar of yours?” she asks, changing the subject. “He giving you any trouble?”

I slip my hand out from under Bonnie’s. When I first took Mr. Whiskers in, I asked the local shopkeepers on my street if they had any idea who he belonged to. He was too friendly and well-kept to be a feral cat, and I thought maybe he was lost rather than a stray. It was Bonnie who told me that he was a no-good stray that had been roaming around Shadowvale for ages, getting into trouble. She suggested I neuter him, then toss him back to the streets to fend for himself, but I couldn’t do that.

Not the neutering part, of course. At first, I instinctively figured that my new cat was a male. Then, when I got a better look and noticed that he didn’t have a fluffy pair of cat balls, I figured that meant he was a she, but Dr. Anderson—the local vet—assured me that I was right, that Mr. Whiskers was a mister, only one that had been snipped long before I found him. His paw was okay, too, and Dr. Anderson smirked as he said that sometimes the Cat Distribution System works in mysterious ways and Mr. Whiskers was meant to be my cat.

And, okay. It’s Halloween. I guess he can be my familiar, too.

“Not at all. He’s such a good boy.”

Bonnie sniffs. “I’d hardly agree with that.”

“What’s the matter?” I grin at her, gesturing to her sorceress dress and the witch hat. “I thought witches love cats.”

“Not his kind.”

Oh. Okay. Fair enough. Between Hocus Pocus and Sabrina the Teenage Witch, I guess pop culture told me that black cats and witches go hand in hand, but a middle-aged woman who sells trinkets to tourists might be superstitious enough to want to avoid such a glorious creature as my Mr. Whiskers.

Leaving the conversation at that, I thank Bonnie for the palm reading before drifting away from her stand. It’s getting close to the time when the grand marshal of the Fall Festival—Mayor Pete Lomard, same as last year—will judge the entries to the Pie Bake-Off and announce the winner.

There are twelve different pies for him to sample. I join the gathered crowd in front of the entry table, watching as he makes his way down the line. Someone has already cut a slice of each pie, laying them out on twelve separate paper plates. Mayor Pete bops down the line with his fork and a grin, taking a bite from every entry.

I see him go back to mine for a second nibble. He also samples two other pies again before putting his tasting fork in the pocket of his black-and-orange striped button-down shirt and scrutinizing the table.

While he tasted the pies, one of the festival organizers set up the Shadowvale podium, complete with a portable microphone. Mayor Pete stands behind it, and my heart starts thudding away in my chest, waiting for the results.

“Is this thing on… yes. Okay. Well, we’ve had some wonderful pies this year. Everyone, let’s have a round of applause for all of the entries.”

I join the crowd in clapping.

Mayor Pete beams out at us. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but in the end, there was a clear winner. And the winner of the Harvest Pie Bake-Off this year is the pumpkin pie entered by the Artful Oven Bake Shoppe. Cindy? Where are you? Come collect your orange ribbon!”

My stomach drops in disappointment. I have to work to keep my smile on my face so that no one around me thinks that I’m a sore loser.

But I lost. Damn it. I really thought my cherry pie had what it took to go all the way. Guess not.

Because Cindy won.

She gives the crowd a princess wave as she makes her way to the podium. Mayor Pete passes her the orange ribbon with a hearty congratulations while cheerfully telling Cindy that was the best pumpkin pie he’d ever had.

She receives a smattering of applause before the gathered crowd disperses, moving on to the next attraction at the festival. Bobbing for apples is up next, as well as a pumpkin carving contest.

I wait until I trust myself to sound sincere before approaching her near the entry table.

“Cindy. Congratulations.”

She looks down at me. I’m a respectable five-four in my sneakers, but in her heels, Cindy is a good six inches taller than I am.

“Thank you, Kate. You, too. You were solid competition this year. Your pie looked divine. That lattice must’ve been tricky, too. It was almost perfect. I was quite impressed.”

I have to grit my teeth to keep from having a retort to her sugary sweet critique. Almost perfect? My lattice was perfect, and perfectly golden brown and glazed, too.