Page 14 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter thirteen

I thought I had the situation in hand, but five seconds later, and all three boys were shoving each other again.

Shit.

“STOP IT THIS INSTANT!” I yell over them, using a bit of sparking silver magic to catch their attention.

“There now, I don’t know what’s come over you five, but that is quite enough of that,” I tell them sternly.

Agatha is just staring with a shocked expression on her face. I know how she hates confrontations, so I am more than happy to step up here.

“Uh, what, why are we fighting?” Matthew asks suddenly, and he is scratching his head like he just forgot what he was saying and doing.

I take a step closer and squint as I take in his appearance. I had already noticed his pallor, but there must be more to it than that.

Something is off.

Come to think of it, something seems wrong with every single one of these boys.

“Did you guys all eat the same thing at lunch today?” I ask.

“I had a taco,” Matthew replies.

“Nah, I ate pizza rolls,” Brian, his best bud answers.

I go down the list, asking all five the same question. But it seems like I’m wrong.

They all ate something different for lunch.

But now they look like they’re about to be sick.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a calm, authoritative tone.

“Let’s all focus on making sure you three are healthy, and then we can talk about the ball. Agatha, can you help them to the nurse’s office?”

She nods, giving me a knowing look as I step back, my mind already racing.

Because something is definitely not right, and I have a sinking feeling it has everything to do with magic.

“So strange,” I mutter as I watch them turn down the hall.

Illness, magical or not, is not my specialty. Agatha is making sure the three boys are being seen in the infirmary, and that’s good enough for me.

I make a mental note to follow up on them later.

After the great Influenza epidemic of 1857, the Academy has very strict rules when it comes to the potential outbreaks of any kind.

Fifteen minutes later, Agatha rejoins me, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow as we wrestle the last of the decorations onto the now overflowing cart of things we are gathering for the big event.

“Hey, did you hear about Principal Tremayne’s new rule?” she asks casually as we wheel our enormous collection towards the ballroom.

I work hard— so hard —to pretend hearing his name doesn’t affect me.

Like, at all.

It’s been days since our interaction in his office, and things have been silent on that front.

No smoldering glances. No growly declarations.

No sudden interruptions to discuss matters privately , like some smexy office romance.

But Goddess, do I miss him.

The doubts have been relentless, dogging me day and night.

What if I was right all along?

What if he’s already over whatever had made him think I was his?

What if it wasn’t real—none of it?

Not the attraction.

Not the ridiculous, heart-stopping claims that I’m his mate.

I repeat, what if none of it was real?

And doesn’t that just suck harder than a vampire at a plasma drive?

“What rule?” I ask, trying for casual, though my voice comes out just a little too high-pitched.

“Oh, well, if you showed up to assembly you’d know,” Agatha says, her tone laced with mock-disapproval.

I ignore it.

No way was I about to sit through an assembly with him on stage, looking all broad-shouldered and commanding, pretending I’m not dying inside.

We stop at the ballroom and pop open the crates.

The first thing I notice?

Dust.

So. Much. Dust.

It clings to everything like it’s part of some ancient curse.

Inside?

Stained-with-time crepe paper decorations, a couple of cracked disco balls, and—oh, hello—life-size cutouts of the former principal and his secretary.

Why? Who knows.

I keep digging, pushing past the creepy cardboard figures, and finally unearth a few strands of twinkle lights and some duct tape.

That’s it. That’s all we’ve got.

“What the heck? This stuff is ancient,” I manage to say, just before a round of uncontrollable sneezing overtakes me.

Dust flies everywhere, and I bend over, clutching my stomach.

“Holy heck,” I mutter between sneezes, blinking away tears. “Thank the Goddess I do my Kegels daily.”

Agatha is laughing so hard she’s doubled over, but eventually, she straightens and waves a hand at the mess.

“Oh my Goddess! Maybe we should just scrap all of this and order something from Congo?”

Congo, the magical world’s answer to Amazon, is both brilliant and terrifying.

It’s not a bad idea, but the school’s budget is, well, laughable at best.

I shake my head.

“I mean, I guess, but it’s so expensive. And you know how the Academy operates. Shoestring budget, duct-tape solutions—literally.”

I wave a roll of duct tape at her for emphasis.

Agatha groans, throwing her hands in the air.

“Ugh! Why can’t we just conjure what we want with our magic?” she yells, mostly to the room.

We both know why.

Magic used for personal gain ends badly.

Always. It’s one of the first lessons we learn as Supes—never mess with the balance.

“Don’t worry,” I say, trying to sound optimistic as I toss the duct tape into the maybe salvageable pile.

“Maybe we can do some kind of fundraiser to pay for new decorations?”

Agatha lights up, her eyes sparkling with sudden inspiration.

“That’s it! Excellent idea!”

I blink, caught off guard by her enthusiasm. “Uh, thanks?”

“What about that glass shoe theory you’re always talking about?” she continues, practically bouncing on her heels.

I gape at her. “What? You mean my college thesis? Morals and Magic: The Glass Slipper Theory ?”

“Yeah! That one! You could totally use it for the fundraiser!”

I narrow my eyes, trying to follow her logic.

“Aggie, the point of that theory is to prove the utter lack of morals and ethics in people trying on a shoe they know isn’t theirs—and the people peddling the shoe, knowing it doesn’t belong to any one of them.”

She waves me off. “Details.”

“It’s not just details,” I insist, warming to the topic despite myself.

“It’s about the societal pressure we put on people, even magical people, to conform and behave a certain way—even when it’s clearly wrong! The shoe is a metaphor for?—”

Agatha groans, holding up a hand. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re passionate about the whole shoe thing.”

“It’s only the theory I have based my entire life’s work on. Just a work in progress ,” I mutter, crossing my arms.

“Maybe so,” she says with a grin, “but you’re definitely going to have a magic shoe game to raise funds. It’s happening.”

I stare at her, horrified. “I don’t even know what that would look like!”

“Don’t worry,” she says, winking. “We’ll figure it out. And you can use it as an excuse to talk to you know who .”

“Voldemort?”

“No!” she shouts.

Oh, Goddess.

I really, really hope she doesn’t mean Wulfy.

“Yeah! You know the one. Now, what if you sell tickets for people to take chances on trying on an actual glass slipper at the ball? The Witch or Warlock whose foot fits inside the slipper is the winner! Fifty bucks a pop should finance all the necessary decorations. We just front the funds!”

“Who is going to pay fifty bucks a pop to try on some weird shoe, Agatha?”

“Everyone, my friend. Everyone will want to try it! Especially when they learn the shoe will not only fit the most ethical and moral person in the whole Academy, but it will also set them on their path to obtain their heart’s desire! Just one step in the glass shoe will get you on your way! ”

My eyebrows nearly hit the roof.

I mean, it’s crazy.

It’s insane.

But it’s also very cool.

The curious little Witch inside of me is truly keen to see who might be tempted.

“Can we do that, though? Magic a pair of shoes?” I wonder.

“Of course we can. We just need a little help,” she says, whipping out a card I recognize as belonging to the town’s Witch Trifecta.

Calling the mayor and her besties is more than a little nerve-wracking, but if it will pay for the supplies for the school dance, I am down to try.

Besides, I have a feeling it might solve one or two little mysteries I’ve been working on.