Chapter 16
“I feel like I maybe fucked something up.”
Those were never words you wanted to hear from a witch, and Gwyn frowned as she looked up from behind the counter at Something Wicked.
It was a gray and drizzly afternoon, the kind of weather that tended to keep people inside and out of shops, so Gwyn had agreed to let Sam, Cait, and Parker work on their spellcraft in the storage room.
Clearly not one of her best ideas given the look on Parker’s face right now as they peeped out from behind the curtain.
Sighing, Gwyn walked around the counter. “Vivi only left this morning,” she said, “and if y’all have created some magical disaster in the less than twelve hours she’s been gone, I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”
“They’re being dramatic!” Cait called from the storage room, and when Gwyn pulled back the curtain, she saw the other two witches sitting on the floor, surrounded by pieces of parchment, some bags of loose herbs, and a heap of wax pieces. In the center, there was a small cauldron perched over a pinkish flame, the milky contents inside bubbling.
“Okay, when I said you could work back here, I didn’t know you were doing candles,” Gwyn said, crossing her arms over her chest as Sam and Cait flashed each other slightly guilty looks.
“Well,” Sam said, “we thought if we told you, you’d say no. And this is the best place to work on witchy stuff!”
Gwyn couldn’t disagree with her there. She’d always loved the back room of Something Wicked. They might call it “storage,” but it was actually a magical space, cozy and lush with velvet curtains and flickering sconces on the wall, thick carpets underfoot. A light enchantment kept customers from ever wandering back into it, and Vivi, Gwyn, and Elaine all took turns magically redecorating it to their tastes. Right now, it was still in Vivi mode, but Gwyn had added a few touches of her own. A hanging plant in one corner, a window just to the left where it always appeared to be raining.
So she couldn’t blame the Baby Witches for wanting to hang out in here. And as someone who had lived most of her life asking forgiveness rather than permission, Gwyn figured this was karma.
“What exactly seems fucked up?” she asked, sitting down in their circle.
Parker handed her a candle, the wax still lumpy and a little warm in her hand. “It just feels wrong,” they said, flicking their dark hair out of their eyes. “I was trying to give it a calming enchantment, you know. So when it’s lit, you feel all Zen. But I’m not feeling it.”
Gwyn wasn’t, either, and she closed her eyes, trying to get a sense of what was going on with the candle.
When she’d gotten back from Vivi’s last night, she’d damn near exhausted herself trying out her magic. She’d used it to brew a pot of tea, she’d flicked her fingers and turned all the lights in the cabin on, then off again. She’d even given Sir Purrcival bright purple claws and a pretty striped bow perched between his ears. (He was still wearing it. When she’d tried to magick it away, he’d howled, “Pretty! Preeeetttty!” at her until the bow was restored.)
Whatever that little blip had been with the crystal, it was clearly just that—a fluke, a weird little moment—but there was still a little flicker of worry in the back of her mind as she summoned up her magic.
But it was working now, that familiar warmth spreading through her, and after a second, she smiled.
Opening her eyes, Gwyn handed the candle back to Parker. “Nothing wrong with the actual enchantment. It’s there.”
Parker breathed a sigh of relief, then frowned at the candle in their hand. “Then why—”
“It’s just ugly,” she told them. “That’s what you’re feeling. Your spellwork is good, your actual candle crafting is shit.”
Cait hooted at that. “Tell ’em, Glinda!”
Parker scowled, flipping Cait off. “Okay, I’m sorry that I didn’t excel in arts and crafts at summer camp or whatever, but you heard Gwyn. The spell was good, and that’s all that matters.”
“Not exactly,” Gwyn said, rising to her feet. “It’s all the parts of a spell working together. Yes, the magic part was well done, but if no one wants to buy that candle, or they think it kind of looks like a melting penis, then the spell can’t really do its job.”
Parker still looked unhappy, but after a second, they nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”
“You should totally be teaching at the college, Gwyn,” Sam said, her eyes practically shining behind her glasses. “You’re way better at this stuff than our actual Ritual Candle Making teacher.”
“Is it still Professor McNeil?” Gwyn asked. She remembered that class and the frankly terrifying woman who had taught it. She’d passed, of course, but by the skin of her teeth.
The three witches all gave the same glum nods, and Gwyn laughed, patting Sam’s shoulder. “You’ll survive, promise. And Penhaven already claimed one of the Jones witches. It can’t have another one.”
“Still,” Cait said, picking up another handful of wax chunks and tossing them into the cauldron. “Thank you, Glinda.”
Gwyn smiled back at her, and okay, maybe she did feel a little warm and fuzzy at the thought of teaching these kids. Didn’t mean she wanted to work at the college, but she had to admit, it was nice, sharing her knowledge, seeing the admiration in their faces.
She should have them come by and work on their spells more often.
The wax roiled in the cauldron, a fat bubble bursting on the surface and splattering onto the carpet with a faint sizzle that made Cait shriek as Parker scooted back, and Sam leaned away, upsetting a bowl of herbs, little bits of green flying everywhere.
Okay, so maybe they needed to find a new place to practice magic.
From out front, Gwyn heard the raven over the door caw and turned back to the witches with a pointed finger. “If you burn my store down while I’m out there, I will turn you all into newts.”
“That’s not really a thing,” Parker said, and Gwyn narrowed her eyes at them.
“Do you want to test that theory?”
“We don’t,” all three said in unison, and Gwyn gave a firm nod. “Good.”
It really was hard work being a matriarch.
Swishing back the curtain, Gwyn stepped out into the store.
“Gwyn!”
Gwyn hadn’t seen Morgan Howell in ten years, but she recognized her instantly. Her hair was shorter, cut in a sleek bob, and she was wearing an outfit that looked simple but probably cost more than the mortgage on the cabin.
She also had maybe the best red lipstick Gwyn had ever seen, which automatically raised her even more points in Gwyn’s eyes.
“Morgan!” she said, stepping forward and into the other woman’s hug. “What brings you back to Graves Glen?”
It wasn’t unusual, seeing witches who once went to the college. Not many stayed in Graves Glen, but they usually made their way back at some point if only to visit.
Gwyn assumed that’s what Morgan was doing, so she was surprised when Morgan replied, “It was time for a change of pace.”
She pulled back, still holding Gwyn’s shoulders. “I heard you were still running this store, and I had to come pick something up for myself.”
Gwyn laughed, nodding at the shelf Morgan was standing next to.
“You did not strike me as a glow-in-the-dark-stickers-on-the-ceiling kind of gal, but I do love being surprised.”
Glancing over, Morgan picked up one of the packets. Her nails were the same deep red as her lips, and on her finger a cabochon emerald ring set in antique gold caught the light.
“Are these big sellers?” she asked, and Gwyn nodded.
“Trust me, cheap plastic stuff keeps the lights on every year. Stars, pumpkins, little cauldrons . . . ”
Morgan watched her for a moment, her dark eyes thoughtful. “And this is all that’s in the store? These kinds of . . . trinkets?”
Gwyn wasn’t nuts about that word or the way Morgan said it, but defending a blinking pumpkin that had BOO! written on it was not exactly the hill she wanted to die on.
“Yup,” she replied, keeping her tone cheerful. “Too dangerous to sell the real stuff. We get too many tourists, and there’s already such strong magic in the town. Not worth the risk.”
Morgan raised her eyebrows, a corner of her mouth kicking up. “I don’t know. The best magic is always a little risky, right?”
Now Gwyn’s eyebrows went up. Was Morgan flirting with her? Because that was the kind of sexy-but-dangerous line someone usually delivered before moving in a little closer, eyes dropping to lips and all that.
But Morgan was staring straight into her eyes, and Gwyn made herself laugh as she said, “Why does that sound like the opening pitch for some kind of magic-based multilevel marketing scheme?”
Morgan smiled, but her eyes never left Gwyn’s. “I’m serious!” she said. “Don’t you ever do anything a little heavier than this? I remember you being wildly talented. That leaf in Dr. Arbuthnot’s class! It took me ten years before I could do a transformation spell like that, and even then, it wasn’t nearly as impressive as yours.”
Gwyn liked flattery as much as the next gal, but there was something a little avid in Morgan’s gaze she didn’t like, something that made her uneasy.
“What can I say, I peaked early,” she said, then gestured to the street outside. “Now I use my talents on things like town planning committees.”
Morgan took in the fluttering banner proclaiming the Graves Glen Gathering, coming soon, and drummed her nails on the shelf in front of her. “I forgot about all of the festivals and parties and things the town does.”
She turned back to Gwyn and flashed a bright smile. “Maybe I can help.”
“Sure,” Gwyn said, wondering yet again why these faint alarm bells seemed to be ringing in her head. “I know Jane—that’s our mayor—can always use extra hands.”
Morgan nodded at that and then, after a second, picked up several packs of the stars. “And you know what, maybe I am a glow-in-the-dark-stickers-on-the-ceiling kind of gal,” she said. “Only one way to find out.”
“Solid choice. I’d suggest seeing if you’re also a papier-mâché-witch’s-hat kind of gal, but baby steps.”
They made their way over to the register, and as Gwyn rang up Morgan’s purchases, Morgan leaned on the counter, her sandalwood perfume filling the air. “I actually had an ulterior motive for coming in here today,” she said, then reached into her bag, pulling out an envelope.
Gwyn’s name was written in curling letters across the front, and as she took it, Morgan’s fingers brushed hers briefly. “I’m throwing a little get-together at my house this Friday. A sort of housewarming thing. I’d love it if you could come.”
Gwyn studied the envelope, her eyebrows shooting up at the heavy wax seal on the back. “I take it this is a wine and fancy dresses kind of party rather than a backyard barbecue,” she said, and Morgan laughed.
“It’s over the top, I know, but c’est moi.”
“No, it’s great,” Gwyn said. “I’d love to come.”
“Excellent!” Morgan replied, taking her bag of stick-on stars from Gwyn. “Then I’ll see you Friday.”
She paused for a moment, her brow wrinkling as she sniffed the air. “Is . . . someone’s hair on fire?”
“ThankyoufortheinviteenjoyyourstickersseeyouFriday!” Gwyn all but shouted as she dashed out from behind the counter and threw open the storage room curtain.
Sam, Cait, and Parker were all standing right there near the doorway, looking sheepish, and Cait was holding the end of her braid. Smoke still coiled about the candle Parker was clutching, and Sam whispered, “I don’t even know what a newt is. It’s a lizard, right? I really don’t want to be a lizard.”
Glaring at the three of them, Gwyn hissed, “What did I say about not burning things?”
“We’re sorry!” Cait said. “But . . . ohmigod, did Morgan Howell just invite you to her house?”
All three of them were watching her with expectant faces, and Gwyn wrinkled her nose. “Why did you say her name like that? Like she’s a movie star or one of those people that makes the little videos you keep sending me?”
“Morgan Howell is better than any movie star or influencer,” Parker said. “She’s, like . . . the coolest witch ever.”
“The other day,” Sam rushed in, “she came into the Coffee Cauldron, and I asked her what lipstick she wears, and it’s not even a brand you can buy. Someone makes it just for her.”
“A friend of mine said that he heard that when she was living in London, her coven actually got kicked out of the country because they were doing magic that was way too hard-core,” Cait said, her eyes bright. “We’re talking necromancy, curse work, love spells . . . ”
“I knew they were real,” Gwyn muttered, and when Cait just blinked at her, she shook her head.
“I knew Morgan in college, and she was a good witch, but she wasn’t that good. And honestly, none of that stuff is anything you should be admiring. It’s dangerous.”
Sam, Cait, and Parker all tried to look properly chastised, but Gwyn wasn’t fooled.
“I’m serious,” she added. “All three of you were around last year when that curse Vivi and I did went so haywire. We’re lucky we were able to fix it, and it took every bit of magic we had. The three of you are just dazzled by admittedly excellent makeup and a very cool wardrobe.”
Gwyn didn’t add that she was maybe just the teeniest bit jealous of how starstruck her Baby Witches seemed over Morgan. Hadn’t they just been giving her the glowy faces and hero worship eyes a few minutes ago?
“Are you gonna go to her party?” Sam asked, and Gwyn looked back over her shoulder toward the store, thinking of that heavy invitation sitting on the counter. She’d always liked Morgan, but she had to admit, there was something weird about her suddenly showing up. Why come back to Graves Glen now?
And with Vivi and Elaine out of town, if there was Witchy Fuckery afoot, it was up to her to get to the bottom of it.
“Oh, yeah,” she told the witches. “I’m going.”