Page 47

“My eyes aren’t green,” he said, perplexed. “They’re brown.”

“And you’re telling me you see yourself with brown eyes when you look in the mirror?” Gladys, the family doctor examined Montgomery with an illumination charm shining in his face. “Hmmm. Fascinating.”

“They’re green, right?” Willow hollered, waving her arms at her mother and sisters. “I’m not crazy. You see it, too?”

After the trip to the cemetery, Willow decided to take Montgomery to Crescent Hollow immediately. She called Esme on the way to update her on the situation—mostly that the ghost haunting her bookshop now had a body—but also the detail about his eyes. She thought they were a wild shade of green when she first saw him as a ghost, and now she was convinced there was something else going on which she needed help figuring out.

If anyone could do it, Gladys could. Also, she was the resident expert on ghosts, having dealt with Betty Barmichael and the Miracle Whip fiasco of 1985.

“I see green,” Ivy stated with authority.

“Me too,” said Bliss while switching her fingernail polish back and forth between glitter and holographic.

“Thank you!” Willow cried. “I was afraid it was me. Like the thing with ‘The Dress’ all over again.”

“It was blue and black,” Ivy proclaimed.

Bliss clicked her tongue. “I saw white and gold.”

“It was blue and black,” said Ivy evenly. “The dress manufacturer confirmed it.”

“Nevertheless,” said Esme. “Everyone agrees, besides Montgomery here, that his eyes are an incandescent shade of green. Am I right?”

All the ladies, including Gladys, agreed emphatically.

“Even when we look at his reflection in the mirror at the same time,” added Willow. “I see green and he sees brown. And I thought the dress was white and gold, by the way.”

“What if we take a picture?” suggested Bliss.

“A photograph?” exclaimed Montgomery. “Of me? By golly.”

“Tone it down, Beaver,” said Willow. “You’re not sitting for DaVinci, just look at Bliss’s phone and smile.”

“Say cheese!” Bliss sang, and snapped a picture of a wholly perplexed Montgomery. But she frowned when she checked her screen and looked up astonished. “You’re not in the picture.”

She turned her phone to show everyone, and there was a photo, but it only showed Gladys, who was sitting directly behind Montgomery from the camera’s vantage point.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Gladys. “You’re not photographable.”

“Like a vampire,” said Ivy.

“He’s not a vampire,” Willow said. “The entire loaf of garlic bread he ate yesterday proves it.”

Esme’s growing concern was evidenced by the edge in her voice. “Gladys, what do you make of all this?”

“Well,” said Gladys. “I’ve seen a lot of odd things but this one takes the cake.”

“I feelsomuch better, thank you,” Montgomery deadpanned.

“Do you mind if I examine you closer, dear?” Gladys asked him.

“That’s why I’m here, I suppose,” Montgomery replied.

Gladys wasn’t an ordinary doctor. Technically, she wasn’t a doctor at all. But tell that to her, and you might find your foot where your ear should be. At almost two-hundred years old, Gladys was not only respected, she was an icon. With a shock of white hair and flowing robes, her style was legendary. And although she didn’t have an advanced degree, she was the best witch doctor Crescent Hollow had ever known. Even the non-magical humans called for her to administer naturopathic remedies.

But for witches (and now ghosts apparently) she didn’t hold back. She reached into her carpet bag and took out a stethoscope.

“I’m going to listen to your heart, young man,” she said. Then, she threw the stethoscope aside and took another tool from her bag. It was the shape of a loaf of sourdough bread with a leather string attached.