Category:

I lit a match and tossed it in. As the flame burned, I picked up the bowl and made my way out of the work room. I expected to be ambushed by the broom—not ideal when I was holding a live flame—but it was oscillating in the corner by the cauldrons.

I walked up and down the aisles, letting the limpia cleanse the bad energy left behind by the burglary. The walk was meditative in itself, as I basked in the comfort of familiar surroundings.

Chanterelle Cottage was not just my job—it was my birthplace and my lifelong home. The walnut floors were scratched and stained with generations' worth of use. Overhead, dried herbs and various wards and blessings hung from the exposed wood beams. The shelves and bins were haphazardly packed with the tools and ingredients of our trade, as well as items meant to make magic more accessible to mundane folk.

We sold a little bit of everything here, not least of all the spellwork that couldn't be captured in jars or tea bags. We specialized in small cures, good-luck charms, and blessing crops. The sort of little things that made a big difference in a town like Owl's Hollow. We usually left the flashy work like telekinesis, transmutation, and summoning to magecraft firms, which were overpriced and overrated but better suited to ostentatious displays of magic.

Thinking about mages was darkening my mood again. I didn't want to ruin the limpia before it was even finished, so instead I did my best to calm myself by envisioning a pure, bright light expanding to fill the shop and our home. As the light grew, so did my sense of peace, until at last the foreboding was edged out by a deep sense of serenity.

As the fire burned out, I heard voices and footsteps coming down the stairs. I set the bowl on the front counter. It must be almost time to open, so I would have to tidy up later.

"Morning!" Mim was the definition of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She had curled her honey-blond hair like a forties pinup star today, and her floral sheath dress hugged her thick curves. Her daisy earrings were truly enormous.

Behind her, Mama made a vague grunting noise that was the night-owl version of "Good morning." Her jaw cracked with a yawn, and she clutched her travel mug of coffee like a lifeline. She was dressed more formally than usual, presumably for their appointment at the bank. But that is not to say she was particularly formal. Her dark jeans were rip-free, and her black shirt was only one size too big. In the past few years, streaks of silver had appeared in her dark brown hair, which she enjoyed calling evidence of her advanced and superior wisdom, even though she was only two years older than Mim.

"Tonight," I said, in lieu of a greeting, "we are having s'mores, and I'm using that broom as kindling." I jerked my thumb toward my nemesis, which was wobbling around uselessly by the wand display.

"What has Broomhilde ever done to you?" Mim asked.

On cue, the thrashing handle knocked several wands to the floor.

"Don't be jealous, Charlie," said Mama. "You're still our favorite child."

"I'm your only child." I stole a sip of her coffee. "And I'm not jealous of a broom."

"Speaking of," said Mim, as she went to scoop up the wands and redirect the broom that I guessed we were calling Broomhilde now. I didn't like that it had a name. You can't throw things with names onto a bonfire. "Tandy DiAngelo has been wanting to take a look at it, so she might stop by today."

"And if she does, you should tell her to kick rocks," Mama said.

"No." Mim shook a wand scoldingly at Mama. "I told her it was fine."

"She just wants to try to make a better version that she can brag about," Mama muttered. She was not normally opposed to sharing spellwork—the witch community of Owl's Hollow was small and tight-knit. But Tandy was an exception.

"She can try," Mim said mildly. She was clearly not concerned about being bested by Tandy, a suburban socialite who specialized mostly in crystals and curating her Instagram aesthetic.

I didn't like Tandy all that much either, but her nosiness served a useful purpose in the local witch community, keeping everyone apprised of everyone else's business, discouraging anyone from dabbling in magic outside their ability. The last thing we needed was another incident like the time in Los Angeles when a witch attempting a nose job on a prominent actress accidentally switched the woman's mouth and eyes. Or the time in D.C. when a coven's spell gone haywire turned all the cherry blossoms Day-Glo orange. Both times mages had been hired to fix the spells—and you can bet they made a big fucking deal about it in the press. A publicity nightmare for those of us witches just trying to make a humble living. There aren't any central governing bodies for witches like the Mage Institute, which has its perks but also its downfalls. Not every witch is as responsible with their magic as they ought to be. And that's how you end up with Day-Glo cherry blossoms and nose jobs from hell.

"I'll let her have a look," I said, and in response to the face Mama pulled, I added, "and I'll make sure Broomhilde smacks her in the ass on the way out."