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Her first day in the twenty-first century had taught her that tourists enjoyed the witch act, but she was surprised to find out that in this era, witches were viewed as fascinating and delightfully quirky.

She was told that on the last day of October, many people would even dress up as witches.

It was a refreshing contrast to the olden days, when she sometimes felt like a latrine—essential but better kept behind closed doors.

Even Penny-Pincher was popular with the groups, though she was now known as Penny.

The simplified name was catchier and didn’t prompt the tourists to harass Thorn with questions about how a frog could have financial issues.

Below Penny’s heavy-duty terrarium was a sign that read: COINS FOR CRICKETS FOR CROAKS .

For only a dollar, tourists could feed Penny a few dried crickets.

Thorn poured the rest of the lemonade into a pitcher and set it on the table next to more empty silver goblets.

“Self-serve bat-wing juice!” she shouted.

With that, her official part of the tour was done.

She could finally resume her own business.

Performing was actually quite fun, but only as a condiment.

And three sessions per day, four days a week teetered dangerously into main course territory.

“Last week, she spent all day hunkered at that same table and scribbling a recipe,” said a tourist who had also been on one of last week’s tours. Like the previous time, he wore a striped black-and-white T-shirt. But today, Zebra brought a companion. “Looks like she has the ingredients now.”

On the table, Thorn had indeed laid out everything she had gathered to ensnare a man. The tourists crowded in a semicircle on the other side.

“Is that a furry rat?” Zebra’s companion reached for the foot of squirrel.

Thorn tapped the incoming hand, much more gently than she would have liked, with the wand Meg had bought her from a costume shop. The only witches Thorn knew who used wands were a couple of warlocks whose magic was party-trick level.

Nevertheless, modern people seemed to enjoy the optics of a wand, and it was convenient as a pointer. She aimed hers at one of five DO NOT DISTURB THE WITCH signs displayed throughout the cottage. This one warned, YOU’LL BE TURNED INTO A FROG .

“Thorn, you’re just what I expected,” another tourist said.

Thorn sighed. The signs were ineffective, but only because the Historical Society had heavily edited her original wording.

The frog sign had said, YOUR CROTCH WILL BE INFESTED BY THE FLEAS OF A MAD CAMEL .

She jabbed her wand at the equally ineffective sign that threatened: YOU’LL ALWAYS HAVE A ROCK IN YOUR SHOE .

As expected, the twentysomething woman standing before Thorn did not fear rocks in her shoes.

In fact, this tourist seemed downright pleased about it.

The woman held up her cell phone, which was opened to an app called Snapster.

On Covenstead’s account, there was a photograph of Thorn stirring a cauldron.

The caption read, Bat-wing juice, anyone?

Join us on the Covenstead Witchy Tour! Meet our resident witch, Thorn Scarhart.

A little girl escaped her mother’s supervision and ran over to stare, not at the cell phone, but at the tourist holding it. “You’re…”

“That actress on TV? Sorry, I’m not. My name’s Lily.”

The girl didn’t hide her disappointment.

Lily laughed. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

Thorn gasped. Rose had been ten when she died.

“Is something the matter, Thorn?” Lily asked.

Thorn made a grunting sound and scribbled nonsense in her spell book. Her mind must’ve made the tenuous connection because she’d just found out Rose’s grave was gone.

“The witch is busy. Let’s go look at those.” Lily guided the girl toward the shelves of potions.

Thorn pressed her pen down so hard that the paper tore.

It was a brand-new spell book Meg had given her, made of thicker paper than her old one, which the Historical Society had put behind a glass case for preservation.

She took a deep breath and pushed the spell book to one side of the table.

Preparing the ingredients for her Youth potion should calm her down.

Thorn reminded herself that there was no need for her to feel this wretched.

After all, she wasn’t the one who had killed Rose. That was the black panther.

She concentrated on plucking every fourth leaf of the clover she had gathered.

She didn’t look up when a busybody tourist opened the fridge, nor when a cat-smoocher yelped after Bandit swatted at them, and not even when a klutz fumbled and smashed an empty flask.

She had gotten much better at ignoring the tourists.

It was the same way she kept herself from being overwhelmed by all this modernity—electricity, internet, flushing toilets, and public displays of affection—by zoning in on magic.

It was the same way she had kept herself whole after Rose died, after Mother died, after Thomas dumped her.

But Thorn had been so safe in that cocoon she’d built around herself that she didn’t see, or didn’t want to see, the time passing by until she was thirty-nine. So now, if she didn’t do something very quickly—within two months, in fact—she’d be forty and alone. And then probably alone forever.

She plucked the last of the fourth clover leaves. The Youth potion was almost ready to brew. Only one ingredient was missing. And she’d probably have to step out of the park and brave the cars on that large road to get it.

“Thank you for joining me and the Historical Society on the Covenstead Witchy Tour,” Payton said. He hadn’t gotten to appealing to the tourists to tell their friends and families about the tour when they heard the front door click shut, followed by the brand-new pet door swinging.

“Come on, Bandit,” the witch said as her familiar caught up to her in the park. “Let’s go collect a soul.”