Yeah, right. As they said in my hometown of Jarod, Texas, just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.
“Still, it’s worth a shot,” I muttered while sorting through a bag of clothing acquired from a woman whose elderly grandmother had passed. It was a gold mine: designer women’s dresses from the early 1960s that she had sold to me for pennies on the dollar, just to get them out of her closets.
“Did you say something?” Maya asked as she finished ringing up a customer’s purchases. It had been a busy day; the Union Street Spring Celebration and Easter Parade was coming up, and we’d been swamped all afternoon with customers searching for just the right outfit. San Franciscans did like their celebrations.
“Um . . . no, sorry. I was just talking to myself.” Lordy, Lily. Losing track of the conversation was bad enough, but a witch who talked to herself ran the risk of accidentally casting a spell and causing havoc.
“No worries. Hey, Bronwyn just forwarded me another text from your grandmother’s coven. They decided to head to the Monterey Bay Aquarium to see the sea otters, so they won’t be here tonight after all.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” The truth was, I felt of two minds. While I was anxious to see Graciela after so many years, I would be happier if I could get Tristan out of my hair before the coven arrived.
“Speaking of the grandmas . . .” I dialed Calypso Cafaro’s number.
After exchanging pleasantries, she asked, “What do you hear from Graciela?”
“Not a lot, actually. They keep driving through dead zones. They’re in Monterey now, visiting the aquarium. I’m sure they’ll arrive soon. Sorry it’s been so delayed. I hope it’s not driving you crazy, not knowing when to expect them.”
She laughed. “It’s no problem at all. I’m here, tending my gardens. I’ve got cots lined up from back when I had foster kids, and several mattresses and air beds on the floor. They’ll have to share, but we’ll make do. They’re welcome anytime.”
“This really is so generous of you.”
“Are you kidding me? The chance to confer with a coven of botanical geniuses? I’m excited beyond words. Plus, I’m putting them to work: They’re going to do some guest speaking at my classes.”
“Passing on their knowledge to a new generation?”
“Exactly so. And one of these days you promised to teach a few classes with me, too, remember?”
I smiled. “I remember very well. I keep waiting for my life to settle down a bit, but it looks like that’s going to be too long a wait. Maybe I should just jump in—we could do a group event with Graciela’s coven.”
“I can just see it now,” she said with a low chuckle. “They won’t know what hit them!”
Hanging up the phone, I looked around the shop to see what needed my attention.
“Laundry,” I said. “It’s the go-to answer for ‘What’s next?’”
Maya cast a sidelong glance at the clothes I had separated into three piles: repair, machine-wash, hand-wash. “Why is the ‘hand-wash’ pile always, by far, the largest?”
“The wonder of vintage clothing.”
“Want me to start a load of the washables?”
“Good idea. Let’s put a load in, and then close up shop.”
“Don’t you want to try on the wedding dress? It looks a little out of proportion for you, but you’re right—my mom’s a whiz with things like that. She could alter it, no problem.”
I wasn’t sure why I was hesitating. The dress’s vibrations weren’t negative, but they just didn’t feel . . . right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “Selena’s coming by in the morning to try on bridesmaid dresses. Maybe I’ll try it on then. It’s almost six o’clock.”
“Already? I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. That explains why Oscar’s so hungry,” Maya said, feeding Oscar a handful of the Annie’s organic cheese bunny crackers I kept behind the counter for cranky children.
“Oscar’s always hungry,” I said. As I glanced at my pig, I realized he might be able to shed some light on the Tristan Dupree situation.
Maya and I chatted companionably as we tidied up and closed the shop. Then she left to meet some friends at Cha Cha Cha, a Caribbean bar featuring pitchers of sangria, farther down Haight Street. I locked the door behind her, used a candle dressed with olive oil and camphor to cast an extra-strong protection spell as I had promised Sailor I would, then passed through the rear workroom and went up a set of stairs, Oscar’s hooves tapping on the wooden planks as he trailed me. At the top of the stairs I unlocked the door to my second-floor apartment.
As I walked in, the day’s tension and worries lifted from my shoulders. I was home.
This was the first home I had made for myself, and in many ways it was my first real home, a refuge from the world where I felt entirely at ease. A wreath of nettles on the door was pretty, and provided some basic protection. As I walked into the small foyer, I was greeted by the subtle scents of lavender and rosemary, herbs I had grown in my garden, dried, and sewn into soft squares of colored silk. I had hung the fragrant sachets throughout the apartment. A mirror on the wall opposite the front door served double duty: It repelled negative spirits and allowed me to primp briefly before leaving to start my day.
The apartment was not big, but it was more than sufficient for my needs. A small sitting room was furnished with a plump sofa and a comfortable chair, and opened onto the spacious terrace, where I had my garden—essential for a witch who worked with botanicals. My cozy bedroom was painted in soothing shades of white and cream that complemented the handmade quilt, in a wedding ring pattern, on my brass bed.
My favorite room, though, was the kitchen. It was a large, airy space. Sunshine poured in through the large windows, the floor was tiled in an old-fashioned black-and-white checkerboard pattern, and bundles of drying herbs dangled from wooden ceiling beams. A moon chart hung by the counter, on which sat a pot of fresh basil. On a high shelf was my battered red leather-bound Book of Shadows, containing spells and incantations, as well as quotes and newspaper clippings—many of which reminded me of events I would like to forget but knew I must not.
“Oof. That was a loooong day,” said Oscar, sighing wearily, as though he’d spent the day digging ditches in the hot sun instead of snoozing on his silk pillow fifty minutes out of every hour. He perched on the kitchen counter, his snout still covered in orange cracker crumbs. “This ten-to-six business is wearing me out. . . .”
“Is that right?” I said, filling my old copper kettle with water and setting it on the burner. “Napping all day tuckers you out, does it?”
“That’s a ruse,” Oscar said solemnly. “I’m actually fully alert, ready to spring into action. You think it’s that easy?”
I smiled. “Probably not. So tell me: What does a hardworking gobgoyle such as yourself need to revive?”
“A little mac ’n’ cheese couldn’t hurt.”
Oscar remained in pig form only when we were in public. In the privacy of our home, he shifted into his natural self: a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle. It’s hard to imagine quite how such a pairing came together, but as with many things in the supernatural world, it was best not to ask too many questions. Oscar’s hide was gray-green and scaly; he had large hands and taloned feet, big batlike ears, and a longish snout. At full height he didn’t quite reach my waist.
Oscar called himself my familiar and addressed me as “mistress,” but at this point in our relationship he was more like my sidekick. A garrulous, ravenous sidekick who was wise in the ways of the magic folk.
“Mac ’n’ cheese? What a surprise,” I said with a smile, and began to gather the ingredients for Oscar’s favorite meal. Luckily, I had replenished my cheese supply last weekend at the farmers’ market. Oscar adored cheese. And carbs. Mostly in combination. “Oscar, will you start the pasta cooking?”
“Yes, mistress.” He took the large soup pot from the shelf near the stove and went over to the sink to fill it.