Page 2 of A Witch in Notting Hill

Willow

A dmittedly, I was spoiled. Or at least I had been, where travel was concerned.

Between TSA PreCheck, Global Entry, and a manager who handled most of the logistics, travel was easier for me than most. And it wasn’t that I took it for granted—trust me, I knew how good I had it—but there was nothing that could have prepared me for traveling with a cat for the first time.

Especially a cat who used to be a person.

A very bossy, detail-oriented, type A person.

I scrambled to get her registered as an emotional support animal on the ride f to the airport, paid the exorbitant fee for same-day approval, and tried hard not to panic about how ill-prepared I was for a last-minute trip to London.

This wasn’t about me; it was about turning Vera back into a person.

So if I had to wear the same outfit for however long it took, so be it.

I’d foregone my security team in favor of Vera’s privacy, though upon arrival at the airport, I wasn’t so sure it had been the best idea.

No one knew she was a cat, and I wasn’t exactly keen on tipping off the whole team, so I hadn’t done more than send an email from her account saying she was going on a silent retreat in the UK on short notice and not to reach out until she returned, but the teeming crowds at the terminal made me wish I wasn’t alone.

Armed with a baseball hat, the largest sunglasses I could find, and my unassuming gray sweat set, I grabbed my tote and Vera in the cat carrier—the nicest one I could find on the way there—and made my way to security.

The heat in LA was becoming unbearable, and since it was the height of summer, it was no surprise everyone was racing to leave the city.

Families and older couples and glamorous twentysomethings waited in security lines, checking and rechecking their bags for passports, wallets, designer sunglasses, heaps of technology, and beauty products poised to set off the security scanners.

And I stood paralyzed in the doorway, barely far enough into the airport to stop triggering the doors’ automatic sensor.

Before she was a cat, Vera used to assuage so many of my fears.

That was one of the myriad reasons she was such a good manager.

She helped me navigate crowds, helped me manage my fear of flying, helped me still my racing heart rate as we went through TSA because I did not, in fact, accidentally somehow have a weapon in my bag.

Only now, when I looked at her spark

ling yellow-green eyes peering back at me through the mesh of her carrier, I felt more anxious than ever. I’m so sorry , I mouthed for what must have been the billionth time in the last two hours. I’m going to get you out of this.

She nodded sagely, which I took as a sign she understood me. A small victory in the depths of this mess I’d created.

I had no idea what I was doing, but just that gentle nod strengthened my resolve.

If there was ever a time to beat my anxiety, it was now.

I took a deep breath and slipped into the PreCheck line, my boarding pass pulled up on my phone and my passport in my hand long before anyone would ask for either.

The quicker I could make it through, the better.

Especially if the TSA agents didn’t say anything about who I was as they scanned my documents.

I shuffled up to the kiosk when it was my turn, sliding my passport through the opening in the plexiglass and hovering my boarding pass over the electronic scanner. Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything.

“And for the cat, ma’am?”

This was... not what I expected him to say.

“For the cat?” I repeated. “I, um, oh, here,” I said, pulling up the last-minute Emotional Support Animal certificate in my email. Was this what he meant?

“Her veterinary documents,” he prompted, sounding so bored I wondered how he was even awake.

“Veterinary documents?” Apparently my confusion had rendered me unable to do anything but repeat his every word.

“Vaccination records, etcetera,” he droned, waving his hand like he couldn’t even be bothered to finish his sentence.

How could I not have thought of this? Surely I didn’t have veterinary documents, since Vera had never been to the vet, since she wasn’t even a real cat. Except in the eyes of this TSA agent, she was as real as could be, and I was standing there like an idiot, unmoving.

“Ma’am, if you don’t have the documentation, please step to the side,” he said with a sigh. “One of our agents will sort it out with you. Next.” He was already waving the family behind us up to the kiosk, and they were jostling me and Vera out of the way before we could even figure out where to go.

“Shit,” I whispered, trying to ignore the disapproving look in Vera’s eyes. At that moment, I was glad she was a cat. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle the wrath of human Vera at my having made such an idiotic mistake.

“Right this way, please,” another agent was saying, guiding me roughly by the elbow out of the PreCheck line and to a small room behind the ropes. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked once we were uncomfortably seated on plastic chairs under fluorescent lights that rivaled the sun.

As I explained my dilemma, letting her hear my voice quivering in the hope of garnering some sympathy, her face remained stone-cold.

She nodded but said nothing. By the time I finished my sob story about needing to get to my sick grandmother in London and being unable to travel without my emotional support cat (semantics, creative liberties, whatever), I thought her eyes might have softened.

Or, at the very least, she was no longer frowning.

With a heaving sigh, she jiggled the mouse on a desktop computer and said, “Let me see what I can do.”

After a few excruciating minutes of clicking around and mumbling to herself, she clapped her hands together.

“Well, then,” she said. “All settled. You’ll just need to remove your hat and sunglasses for the photo for your temporary permit.

Once it’s printed, you’re free to go. And I trust you won’t make this mistake again. ”

“No, ma’am,” I said, eagerly removing my disguise for the photo and not even bothering to care about her scolding. I was so relieved to be able to travel with Vera, I forgot anything else that might have mattered.

Like putting my disguise back on when I returned to the security line with my permit in hand.

The whispers started low, like always, before gaining traction and snowballing into shouts of my name and camera clicks.

“Is that Willow James?”

“Willow!”

“Miss James, can we have a photo?”

“I wonder where she’s going.”

“Where’s her security?”

“When did she get a cat?”

“Do you think she’s going to a new film site?”

“Willow!”

With nowhere to hide and my anxiety knotting itself in the base of my throat, I turned back to the TSA agent, relieved she was still standing in the doorway of the small room we’d been in only seconds before.

She heaved yet another frustrated sigh and swung her arm wide, motioning for me to come back in.

This was going to be harder than I thought. And if I couldn’t even manage the airport, how the hell was I going to manage London?

Before I could overthink it, I heard my grandmother’s voice in the back of my mind: Don’t be afraid to use your gift, Wills.

If only she were here. And if only I was half as confident in what I could actually do. But I knew I’d be letting her down if I didn’t try, and even though I rarely used magic in public, especially after I’d been recognized, I didn’t have much of a choice.

“Thank you,” I said to the agent as I slipped back into the room.

She tutted under her breath and shook her head but said nothing.

“If I could just have a minute to collect myself, maybe come up with a plan to avoid the crowd, I’ll be out of your hair.

I promise.” I looked around the room, trying to clock anything that might be useful to me: desktop computer, ancient printer, stained wall calendar, stapler, file cabinet, a wilted fern. Bingo.

“In private, please,” I added, my pleading genuine. At this she scoffed, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I definitely caught an eye roll, but still, she said nothing. An angel.

The second she closed the door behind her, I unzipped Vera’s carrier and stared directly into her gorgeous feline face.

“I’m going to do it,” I whispered. “I’m going to try to use magic to get us out of this.

Just this one time, I swear. Once we’re in London I’m going to be better about hiding and I won’t get us into a mess like this.

” She narrowed her eyes. “I know, I know, it was a mistake to do this without security. But I did that for your benefit, too, remember? So now we have to make do.” She made a small sound, which I took as permission.

“Right,” I continued, reaching for the fern.

I rubbed its waxy leaves between my fingers, trying to remember how my grandmother taught me to channel the earth, to breathe with the pattern of the veins, to turn faces toward the sun.

“If I can get everyone to just face the sunset long enough for me to get through security,” I mumbled to Vera, trying to remember exactly how my grandmother had done it all those years ago.

Ivy, my sister, had broken her leg playing in the yard, and my grandmother hadn’t wanted me to see her pain. Before I knew it, I was watching the setting sun streak across the sky and counting its colors while she was carrying Ivy inside, and I was none the wiser. Just a kid enamored by the sunset.

I let the memory well in the front of my mind, sharp and rich and palpable.

I closed my eyes, smelling the wet grass, listening to the chirping crickets that signaled the start of summer, feeling the warm New York breeze on my skin.

Come on. My grandmother materialized in my memory, pressing her hands into the earth for a prolonged moment just before she scooped Ivy into her arms and I lost sight of them both.

I squeezed the leaves of the fern tighter between my fingers, watching the memory like it was an old movie.

As it flicked across the backs of my eyelids, I felt the familiar hum of electricity in my fingertips.

Come on. I saw her yard, the swings still in motion, the faded fence, the tomato plant.

Pins and needles moved from my fingers to my toes, then my chest, then the tip of my tongue.

Then the door flung open.

And all eyes were on the sky.

“Holy shit,” I whispered to Vera. “I’ve done it.” Her eyebrows were raised, like, We better get the hell out of here before the spell short-circuits and we’re both cats , and she was right. I grabbed the carrier and raced out the door, holding my breath as I slipped into the line.

I shuffled forward, with every step braced for the inevitable failure. Back through the ropes, back to the TSA agent—with the proper paperwork this time—back to praying he didn’t say anything out loud when he scanned my ID, and wanting to kiss him when he was kind enough not to.

By the time I made it through the body scanner and had my hands “randomly” dusted for bomb residue (probably on account of the suspicious cat, who was glaring pointedly at every person we passed), I exhaled for what felt like the first time since I touched the fern.

And all at once, all eyes were focused on me again.

If I was going to change Vera back, I was going to have to get a lot better at this.