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I gave her a twirl, risking that the fringe might knock over the umbrella stand. “It’s vintage. Goth-lite for Sunday brunch.”

“I love it. Is Etienne back yet?”

“Nope. Still out with the kids.”

Tristan greeted his mother with a kiss on her cheek.

She touched her son’s cheek, a constant look of mild concern in her eyes. “How are you both?”

Tristan gave her a reassuring smile, which almost made me feel bad. The poor guy had been possessed by a demon only six months ago, courtesy of Etienne’s deranged ex-wife, and the aftershocks lingered. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“I can’t get it,” Tristan told her, moving to pour two cups of coffee.

“Mom’s not here yet?” Violet asked, accepting the coffee from her husband.

“She’ll be fashionably late. Or she is here and in my garden, inspecting my handiwork.”

My mother was a green witch who took her calling very seriously. She couldn’t pass a garden without stopping to take a look.

Violet snorted.

Another knock sounded at the front door, louder this time, as though the visitor had no fear of waking the dead. Iris’s voice followed, muffled but unmistakable: “I brought mimosas and also something that’s not a mimosa, but is just as dangerous!”

I met her at the door. My second sister was a whirl of lemon-yellow sundress, messy curls, and an aura of barely-suppressed chaos. She carried a carton of eggs under one arm and a suspiciously heavy brown paper bag under the other. Behind her came Marcel, Etienne’s brother, looking as though he’d just rolled out of bed but in a way that still managed to be absurdly attractive. He and Iris had been together less than a year, and sometimes I still couldn’t believe the universe had brought them together. They seemed like an unlikely couple, but they definitely suited each other.

“Hey,,” Iris said, hugging me so tightly she nearly knocked the air from my lungs. “Do you want orange juice or a hair of the dog?”

I hugged her back, then did a double take. “What happened to your wrist?”

Iris shrugged. “I was doing a spell and got bitten by a frog. But you should see the frog.”

“Don’t let her kid you, Marcel said, carrying several bottles of champagne. He gave me a sly smile. “The frog got away. Good morning, Mally.”

Iris nudged him with a shoulder, then assured me, “Only because I let him.”

I smiled back. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

I led them to the kitchen, where the air was already perfumed with coffee and the low hum of conversation.

I was halfway through making more drinks when Iris gasped and pointed at the window above the sink. “Oh my god, how many garden gnomes do you have out there?”

I blinked. “Just the one, I think.” I peered out the window and froze.

Outside, on the side lawn, at least a dozen garden gnomes lined the edge of the bayou’s weedy shoreline like tiny, pointy-hatted sentries. Each one was different: one lounged on a mushroom, another held a lantern, a third was mid-fishing with a line trailing into the birdbath. A few of them had expressions that could charitably be called “mischievous.” One even seemed to be flipping the bird, which was a touch I actually appreciated.

I leaned over the counter to get a better look, certain I hadn’t lost my mind. “I swear those were not there last night.”

Iris giggled. “Did you get gnome-bombed? You know, like when people flock your yard with plastic flamingos, but with gnomes?”

Violet came over and looked. “That’s a lot of gnomes.”

I turned to Thea. “Were there gnomes when you got here?”

I already knew the answer.

She considered. “I only saw the one that we put on the porch. Perhaps they…multiplied?”

“Not funny,” I said, but then started laughing. It was either that or scream.