Page 10 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)

Ten

Two drops of frankincense oil on your doorstep will keep enemies at bay.

Spells, Charms, and Rituals, Tempest Family Grimoire

After I describe what I thought I saw to Morgan, coral antlers and all, I feel so absurd about the whole thing that I go back to The Magick Happens and begin researching tardigrades and TrES-2b, the darkest known exoplanet, to calm myself down. Sensible activities for a sensible woman, who is not so given over to flights of fancy that she thinks an antlered dog might be loping around town.

Soon enough, Morgan pops in and, ignoring my presence entirely, begins his usual work routine—a process I used to think was captivating but am now peeved by. Everything this man does peeves me lately.

He switches on his computer, then pops behind the counter where I’m sitting to pour himself some coffee, as he cannot possibly write until he has a liter of caffeine in his system. But then he spots a stray pen that needs a cap, so he goes hunting for it, and then he sees a candle out of place, so he has to scout where it goes; but before he can do so, he sees the other half of the muffin he misplaced earlier. By the time he’s finished pouring his coffee, it’s been fifteen minutes since he started. Then he does something truly chilling—

Morgan starts reading Calling the Spirits: A History of Seances but gets sidetracked after five pages. When he comes back, he picks up the wrong book: Ghosts: A Natural History: 500 Years of Searching for Proof , and starts reading that , opening it to page five. He does not look at all confused or surprised by the mix-up; he simply continues on with it, muttering a great deal of “Hmmm” and “Ahhh.”

“You say something to me?” he asks Trevor when he runs out of delays.

“No.”

“Thought I heard my name.” He traipses back to his desk, types a sentence, frowns at it with his head tilted sideways, then quickly hammers out a paragraph. Minimizes the document, scrolls the Internet for a minute, right-clicking every headline he sees into a new tab until his browser is fighting for its life. His attention jumps to the busy street beyond the window, fingers drumming in tune with music. He gets out of his chair, freezes, then sits back down. Writes another sentence. Just when it looks as if he’s found his groove, the door chimes to announce that a customer has entered and Morgan rolls his chair across the room, lassoing them into a debate about whether Tasmanian devils really have gone extinct or if they’ve just gotten uncommonly good at hiding.

“You look like you want to do a murder,” Trevor tells me.

“That’s just her face,” Luna says merrily. “It’s ‘resting murder face.’?”

“Tasmanian devils aren’t extinct,” I grumble under my breath, marinating in that dig about the witch’s hat. Now he’s got me second-guessing my choice of author photo.

Luna leans closer. “Huh?”

I pick leaves off the counter, sweeping them into a trash can. “Nothing.”

Morgan tips up his chin imperiously, withdrawing a violin from a desk drawer. Saws at the strings with his bow, producing a terrible racket.

“Come, quick!” Romina shouts from out back.

We dash into the courtyard behind the shop. It’s a beautiful brick-walled square with aboveground planters teeming with flowers of all sizes and colors, Romina’s pet silkie chickens, gnarled trees, and the carriage house where Romina lives. If The Magick Happens is a three-layer cake, then the carriage house is a strawberry with a whipped cream swirl on top, garnishing the plate. It’s picture-book adorable, swarmed with ivy, and…

“Pumpkins?”

I touch one of the green globes on a thick vine that scales the side of the cottage. From where I’m standing, twenty other baby pumpkins are visible, climbing their way up to Romina’s roof. “Odd place to put a pumpkin patch.”

“I just planted this all a couple of weeks ago,” Romina insists. “I think I must have enchanted the seeds somehow, for it to grow this quickly. And look at how full the garden is! My flowers grew back abnormally fast after cutting them down to use for Kristin’s wedding and the May Day crowns.”

Luna gasps. “You’re right. I swear, there’s twice the number of flowers now.”

“It’s been raining a lot,” I remind them. “That probably sped up growth.”

They look at me like I’ve suggested we dress like clowns and play Twister.

“Zelda,” Luna says piteously. “It’s magic. Just look at all these pumpkins.”

The two of them discuss illogical theories. Before I can water down their enthusiasm by pointing out alternatives, Trevor goes, “Psst!” and waves me back inside.

He points across Candleland, where the top of somebody’s head moves on the other side of a shelf of dragon egg candles (melt them down and find a wee silver dragon inside). “It’s that dude again,” he whispers.

“What dude?”

My confusion morphs into pleasant surprise when a familiar figure emerges, book in hand: J. A. Howley’s latest, Under the Second Moon . We hosted the author recently for their book tour and still have a few signed copies.

He smiles when he sees me, gray eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

Warm pressure expands in my chest. “Dylan.”

“I don’t want to wait a whole year for another auction,” he says. “Can I take you on a date?”

I’m so traumatized after last night that I don’t want to go on any dates for a good while, but Dylan is a nice, normal man. And I doubt he cares that I’m not a witch. “Yes.” I tune out the earsplitting noises Morgan is creating with his violin. “That sounds lovely.”

He discards the book on a random candle display, which admittedly makes me twitchy. “Are you free this Friday night?”

“Yes,” I say, before remembering that I’m scheduled to run the night market that night. “Sorry, no, I can’t. How about Saturday?”

His smile turns wistful. “I’ll be out of town. Next Friday, perhaps?”

I don’t consult my schedule, worried he’ll change his mind. “Absolutely.”

We exchange numbers, then chat for a bit about J. A. Howley before he apologizes for having to cut this short, as he has to get back to work (he’s a bank teller, and this is his lunch break). I wave goodbye, following him to the door.

Morgan’s violin screeches obnoxiously. I wince. “Can you please play that less badly?”

He holds my eyes as his bow dances the foxtrot over strings in the worst rendition of “Come On Eileen” imaginable. I cannot believe I ever fantasized about kissing this man.

—

That evening, I’m snuggled with Aisling and Luna on their living room couch, squeezed between eight (eight!) throw pillows, watching a movie. Luna’s apartment is a love letter to maximalism. In this bite-sized space, she’s stuffed a peacock-blue sofa, plush violet rug, three ottomans, and numerous cat trees. Posters of blown-up vintage tarot cards—XVIII La Lune hangs above the television, gazing down upon us all. An apothecary cabinet whose drawers won’t shut because they’re so full of dried herbs; royal blue silks draped from hooks in ceiling corners, glittering with moons and stars; a tapestry of various fungi; and tree branches. Tree branches absolutely everywhere. She’s got them plaited so that they appear to be growing along the walls, over doorways and the glass bead curtains that scatter sunset across the paint.

One look at Luna’s place makes my attic look like a wasteland. Romina’s house is much more serene, with plenty of plants and a color scheme designed to make you feel like everything is going to be okay. The little garden elf is sitting in Luna’s kitchen right this minute, table spread with witchy paraphernalia.

She’s taken a journal and attempted to age it with water spots and burnt corners, undoubtedly going for a “has been sitting on a bookshelf for over a hundred years” effect, copying down information from notes of varying origin. Spells. Hexes. Lists of herbs and flowers and their purposes. Ghost stories Grandma told us. The mechanics of candle magic, mixing and matching scents to inspire particular outcomes. Local folklore and superstitions.

“What exactly are you doing?” I ask.

She flips the journal so that I can see its cover, embossed with the words Tempest Family Grimoire. Contributions by Luna, Zelda, and Romina Tempest .

“Ha! What am I supposed to contribute to this, exactly?”

“I predict you’ll end up writing over half of this grimoire,” Luna intones.

“Oh, honey. No. You’re not brainwashing me.”

She narrows her eyes, jabbing one finger in my direction. “You’re a witch, Zelda Margaret,” she says firmly.

“If I were a witch, don’t you think I would know it?”

“You used to know it. Then you un-knew it.”

Good lord, the people in my life. I seize a bookmark from the coffee table and aim it back at her as if it’s a magic wand. “Ooga booga boo, turn Luna into a shoe.”

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” Ash warns. “Never know what’ll happen.”

“Actually, I know exactly what will happen. Nothing.” I brandish it at Snapdragon next. “Abracadabra, turn this cat into a capybara.”

“Stop that!” Luna shouts, being perfectly serious. “You might hurt him.”

Romina shakes her head at me, tutting.

“Oh come on .” I stare, half-amused and half-exasperated with their sour expressions. “I’m your sister , I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m not going to risk our business failing. Stop lying to me and admit you’re making it all up.”

Luna pauses the movie.

“Zelda,” Romina says primly. “You are starting to piss me off.”

Luna holds out her arms. “We’re not going to let this become an argument. Zelda has her feelings about magic, and we have ours. It’s okay to disagree.”

Ash hmph s, her face dark.

“If magic were real,” I can’t help saying, “everyone would know about it. Scientists would have found ten thousand ways to bind it to chemicals, to medicine, added it to every step of our daily lives. Billionaires’ companies would be exploiting it for profit. It would absolutely be common knowledge.”

“It is common knowledge!” Romina exclaims. “Everyone’s heard about witchcraft! The fact that it isn’t taken seriously by absolutely everybody doesn’t mean it isn’t credible.”

“And ghosts are real, too,” Ash adds, crossing her arms.

“Aisling, it isn’t anything personal.” I try for a joke, to lighten the room. “I need for ghosts to not be real. I make a lot of stupid faces at myself in the bathroom mirror when no one’s around and I can’t handle the thought of being watched by some dude who bit it in the fifties.”

“He bit it in the 1860s,” Ash replies. “He also takes offense to the suggestion that he follows anyone into the bathroom. Samuel has better manners than that.”

“Where is he now?” Luna wants to know. “I told you he has to stay downstairs unless expressly invited up.”

“He was invited. By Grandma. They’re having ghost tea over there.” She points at the wall. “Oh right, you can’t see it. There are ghost rooms here, from where the building used to have an addition. It caught fire in the early 1900s, so you can’t see the parlor. It’s divine , though. Drapey curtains, a big silver harp, a mirror that reflects the faces of anyone who’s ever looked in it.”

Good grief. It’s three against one, and I am not going to win this. I lug a gallon of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer and slap it onto the counter to soften up, Luna expertly deescalates by changing the subject, and I return to the couch with a neutral smile pasted on my face.

Underneath it, my every molecule itches. It feels like they’re in on a con together, a secret, and I’m the odd one out. I love them fiercely—I always will.

But I’ll never trust them completely until they admit they’re faking it.