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SEVEN

So many eligible men looking for love. And they were all contained in one palm-sized gadget.

It had been a month since Thorn discovered dating apps, and she was still just as amazed.

Perhaps the spirits had pitied her and screwed up her True Love potion to send her to an era where her chances of finding a man were better. Electric kettles were just a bonus.

“This is much more efficient than Madam Maude’s Big Book of Marriageable Ladies and Gentlemen,” Thorn muttered as she wedged her foot firmly in the tree fork.

She fished out the cell phone Meg had given her and opened the Darling app.

Two weeks ago, she had stopped trying to understand the complex science and math behind modern technology and simply accepted all the newfangled inventions as the work of wiser witches.

Since then, she’d had a much smoother time adjusting to this era.

She resumed swiping right until she came to a man who stated in his profile that he hated tea. There, for the first time, she swiped left. But immediately after the tea-hater’s profile disappeared, she questioned if she was really in a position to reject anyone, even a man with such a fatal flaw.

You only need one man , Bandit said. He was draped over the bough of the tree like a wet blanket, even though he was supposed to be helping her gather ingredients.

“Yes, but to find that one man, I have to go through a number of men. I could be lucky and find true love in my first match on this app, but I’ve been told that modern courtship is like Roman gladiators.

Most people have to go on multiple ‘dates’ with multiple matches to find the one via a process of elimination.

Sometimes, they date several people at the same time, until exclusivity is established! ”

How outrageous.

“I thought so, too, at first. Back in our day, if I so much as cast my gaze upon two men, I’d be labeled a lascivious harlot. But modern courtship favors efficiency, which is fine by me.”

Cats through the ages have always been efficient in that regard. What I meant was that human mating ritual is outrageously exhausting.

“I don’t make the rules.” Rummaging in her pocket, Thorn exchanged the phone for her dagger and sliced off the foot of squirrel growing on the tree.

The fern was an ingredient for Youth potion, which she urgently needed in order to procure a profile picture enticing enough for prospects to swipe right.

So far, the placeholder photograph of Bandit lying on his side on the velvet couch had failed to seduce anyone.

After Meg introduced her to the Darling app, Thorn had spent a week brainstorming for a way to brew another batch of New-and-Improved True Love potion in the absence of a feather of vampire parrot.

But no substitute ingredient came close.

Then Meg had whipped out her cell phone and snapped a photograph.

The result was more horrifying than if Thorn had sat for an oil painting for a drunk chimp.

The photograph showed every single line, bump, and blemish on her face that she hadn’t even known existed.

Meg had shown her the edit and filter functions, but when Thorn looked into the mirror, she was still the same original her.

“If a man expects a gorgeous woman with a blemish-free and taut visage,” Thorn had said to Meg, “when I show up, I’ll seem even more haggard than I actually am. And the man will feel so deceived he won’t ask me out on another of these modern dates to see if we’re compatible.”

But the manipulation of the photograph had inspired Thorn to concoct a Youth potion that could actually turn back time on her flesh.

If it worked, all she needed to do was drink a vial every week, and she would remain fifteen years younger on the outside.

She had then worked feverishly to compose the recipe.

At first, she was worried it would take too long to get right.

After all, Mother had been working on the Forever True Love potion for nine years at the time of her death.

As the days went by, Thorn grew more and more worried that she’d be fifty-four by the time the Youth potion was done, and it would only turn her back to thirty-nine.

But she’d put together a recipe in three weeks.

After all, over the years, several customers had inquired if Thorn sold something to reverse aging.

And since her hair had started turning gray strand by strand a year ago, she had herself occasionally wished to turn back time.

Her mind must have subconsciously started working toward a solution.

Whatever the case, she finished her recipe two days ago, and since then, she’d been scouring the park for ingredients.

She hadn’t ventured onto the road that separated the park from the town.

From the edge of the park, she could see that much of the town was made up of three-, four-, and five-story buildings surrounding those big glass monstrosities.

She was curious, but cars were much faster than horse carts, and so far she hadn’t needed to take the risk.

Thorn grabbed a couple more feet of squirrel. “This dating process could last years before marriage happens. It’s horrifying. But Meg and Greg were betrothed within two weeks of meeting. There’s a chance I might turn forty as a Mrs.”

You’re not about to turn forty. You’re now three hundred and—

“I’m the only one who can tell the mad warlock about your craving for the bait.”

Meow.

For the next ten minutes, Bandit didn’t even utter a single snide remark as Thorn gathered her feet of squirrel. The reusable shopping bag hanging from her shoulder was swollen with ingredients when her phone beeped. Meg had set it up to remind her: “Covenstead Witchy Tour in twenty minutes!”

“We don’t want to be late, Bandit,” she called out as she was halfway down the tree. But as she looked up toward the cat, she caught a familiar sight. Her heart skipped a beat. “The fir tree.”

One month. That was how long she hadn’t visited Rose’s grave.

It hadn’t even crossed her mind. It was true that she’d accidentally catapulted herself forward three centuries, and that despite the fabulousness that was the electric kettle, there were some difficulties adjusting to this new world.

She was, after all, an old witch who couldn’t even keep up with fashion.

But still, those weren’t good excuses for forgetting Rose’s grave.

She held on to her hat and hurried toward the fir tree. Bandit trotted silently behind her. Cheeky as he was, he knew what was important to his witch, even though he’d come to her long after the incident that changed everything.

There it was. The fir tree by the river. It was taller but otherwise unchanged by time. But Rose’s grave was gone. Where it once stood was now a white pavilion, dazzling against the background of water and beautiful houses along the opposite bank. Thorn thought she might puke.

Even though the memory had faded, Thorn could recall Rose lying in a freshly dug grave, her hands clasped together at her chest. Even through this haze, Thorn could still vividly see the way Rose’s eyes, green and empty, stared back at her.

Maintaining the cairn was the most that Thorn could do for Rose, and now there was nothing. After the first wave of haplessness washed over her, she braced for another. But instead, what came over her was a sense of relief. Maybe thirty years was enough.

Right after having the thought, Thorn felt guilty.

A series of smacking and slurping sounds distracted her. She walked toward their source, only to find two young people sitting on a bench in the pavilion who were definitely not admiring the view of the water.

“What are you staring at?” the man asked when he finally managed to tear his lips from the woman’s.

“Kissing,” Thorn murmured absentmindedly. Sure, she had been kissed before, but she had never seen people doing this in public . It was equally sweet, gross, and intriguing.

The man got to his feet. “Is there something wrong with you?”

“Why, yes, many things are wrong with me.” Then she realized that wasn’t what he meant.

You’re going to be late, witch.

Thorn immediately turned and left the lovers to suck each other’s faces in peace.

Bandit was already a hundred paces ahead. The tourists loved giving him head and butt scratches.

Though Thorn’s heart still ached about Rose’s grave, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight. At least Bandit was happy in this century.

And she would be, too, once she got herself a man.

“Bat-wing juice, anyone?” asked today’s tour guide, Payton.

Meg led the tours only on Saturdays. On other days, she had a full-time job as a banker, and she moonlit as a driver, chef, maid, and general butler for her seven-year-old daughter. The Historical Society was purely a hobby, albeit one that seemed like quite a lot of work.

“Do not crowd the witch, or warts will sprout on you,” Thorn warned as the tourists gathered around the cauldron hanging from the tripod stand. The velvet rope dividers had been removed because Meg thought that a more intimate experience would draw more people.

Thorn waved her new ladle around like a baton to get the tourists to back up, but she didn’t hit anyone. It would probably be too intimate an experience if her ladle made contact with one of their skulls.

There were thirteen tourists, up from last week’s average of ten per session. Once they took their places a respectful distance from Thorn, she gave the yellow brew before her five cursory stirs before ladling it out. Every one of the guests sipped from their silver goblets with glee.

“Oooh, lemon,” they’d say as their faces scrunched up. Thorn had been adding less and less sugar to Meg’s lemonade recipe just to see how much a face could crumple upon itself. If she had to be a dancing monkey, she’d at least enjoy the peanuts thrown at her.