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Suddenly everyone grew quiet. Something in the air had changed, and we all felt it. The world seemed to shimmer. The sky above the cypress trees began to ripple, then a rip in the airerupted, showering the lawn in a cascade of gold glitter, rainbow confetti, and about a hundred pairs of metallic sunglasses. A motorcycle with a sidecar studded with rhinestones and blaring the theme from “Miami Vice,” shot out of the rift. Four Nosferatu lookalikes were crammed in the sidecar. And driving the bike was Baba Yaga, herself.

She wore a pink leather catsuit, fingerless gloves, and shoulder pads so severe they could have doubled as weaponry. Her hair was teased into a frosted explosion of 80s volume, and her eyes were shielded by diamond-studded Wayfarers. She threw both arms wide as the bike crashed through the line of garden gnomes, scattering them like bowling pins. The minions toppled out of the sidecar, spinning over the lawn like a breakdance circle in the grass, each moving with an angular, unnatural grace.

Baba Yaga dismounted as the motorcycle slid into the bayou, the music dying gurgling, watery death. She clapped her hands as if that was exactly the entrance she’d intended. We all remained silent, stunned. Even the critters of the bayou fell mute, seemingly as shocked as we were.

Baba Yaga scanned the porch, then pointed directly at me. “There she is!” Her voice could have shattered glassware. “The most important witch of the decade! The hope for the future!” She began to walk toward me, somehow making the act of walking feel like a royal procession, every step sequined and deliberate.

I tried to think of something to say, but Baba Yaga’s presence always made my brain seize up. She had a way of making everyone feel like they were being graded.

She stopped in front of me, snapped her sunglasses off with a whip-like flick, and gave me a once-over. “You look… radiant. Like a mortician on vacation, but radiant.”

I stood and curtsied, which I regretted instantly, but she seemed to approve. “Thank you. Welcome to our home.”

“I couldn’t miss this celebration” Baba Yaga declared, then pulled me into a hard, perfumed hug that left my nose full of Chanel No. 5 and Aqua Net. She released me, then gestured for Etienne to come over.

“This,” she said, making a grand sweeping motion, “is the man. The Rougarou Prince who had the foresight to see the importance of a truce between the witches and the Rougarous,” She sized up Etienne, who had the good grace to look a little intimidated. “You keep her happy. If you don’t, I’ll turn you into a poodle.”

He bowed slightly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The crowd, which had started to unfreeze, murmured approval and a few nervous laughs.

Baba Yaga turned to the assembled witches, Rougarous, and miscellaneous magicals. “Everyone! This is a most sacred union. And now, a new child to unite our people forever! May this baby have the strength of the Rougarou, the wit of the witch, and the charisma of—” she paused, then raised a single manicured eyebrow— “well, myself, obviously.”

Iris and Violet started a slow clap, and even the Dubois brothers barked approval. Baba Yaga held her arms wide, and everyone surged in for a group hug that was more awkward than spiritual, but it did the trick. Suddenly, we were one big, slightly dysfunctional family.

Then Baba Yaga broke the huddle, turned on her spiky heel, and took a out held package from one of her bobbling minions. “A gift!” she bellowed. “For the baby.”

I accepted it with a bow. The wrapping was silver lamé and tied with VHS tape. I peeled it open to reveal a set of miniature leg warmers in neon colors, a pacifier shaped like a microphone, and a tiny “Members Only” jacket.

“It’s for a girl or a boy,” she said. “Gender is so last century.”

I nearly choked up. “Thank you. This is amazing.”

She nodded, deeply satisfied. Then she spotted the garden gnomes, which were still spread all over the yard.

Baba Yaga’s smile vanished. “Who brought those?”

Everyone shrugged, except Jocko, who pointed at the nearest gnome and said, “They brought themselves.”

Baba Yaga snapped her fingers and three minions immediately tackled the the lone, still standing gnome, wrestling it to the ground, which seemed like an unnecessary and ridiculous show of force since it was an inanimate object.

“This is not good,” the bedazzled head witch said. “Not good at all.”

She knelt by the gnome, examining it with professional detachment. “These are surveillance gnomes. They scout for witches, but they never come on their own. They are being controlled. Someone wants to keep an eye on you.”

She looked at me, then at Etienne. “Be careful. There’s trouble brewing.”

Etienne nodded, all humor vanishing from his face. “Is there something we should do?”

Baba Yaga thought for a moment, then barked, “Gather all the gnomes. Now.”

The minions swept through the yard, collecting every last gnome and tossing them into a pile.

“That’s right,” Jocko cheered, waving his mimosa wildly.

When the last gnome was accounted for, Baba Yaga produced a tube of glitter glue, a bag of rock salt, and a bottle of Old Spice.

“Stand back,” she said to her minions. The rest of us were already keeping our distance.