Page 12 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)
Twelve
The Bone Dragon: The skeleton of an enormous beast lies buried beneath the trees of Falling Rock Forest. If its horn is dug up and oxygenated, it will return to life and escape, and the entire forest will die, as it grew from the magic that leached from its body. If it ever absorbs its magic back, there will be nothing left of southern Moonville.
Local Legends and Superstitions, Tempest Family Grimoire
The following morning, Romina drags Luna and me out to the courtyard to gaze with wonder at her kingcup flowers, which are in such exuberant bloom that they’re growing straight up the siding of The Magick Happens, a vertical field of yellow flowers. Several seem to be attempting to push open a window on the second floor. “Isn’t it incredible?” Romina gushes.
I shade my eyes with my hand against the sun. “Is that going to damage the brick?”
“First, my garden grows back twice as fast as it ought to,” she tells us, ignoring my question. “Second, the pumpkins swell up basically overnight—”
“I thought you said you planted them a couple weeks ago.”
Her jaw sets. “A couple weeks is practically overnight for the life cycle of pumpkins.”
“This started right after you and Alex said I love you , right?” Luna says, steepling her hands beneath her chin. “I think love magic might be amplifying your powers. You’re a green witch, you’re in love, it all makes sense.”
“Look at this, though.” I show them my phone, pulled up to a picture of round zucchini. “They look like pumpkins and they mature in forty-five days.” I smile, satisfied with the neat bow I’ve tied around this mystery.
Romina makes a face. “They’re pumpkins . Pump. Kins.” She’s dressed like Strawberry Shortcake today (most days, really, with her newly pink hair, but especially today with the big pink hat added) and it’s great fun to see such a withering grimace on a Strawberry Shortcake. I wisely tamp down my laughter, as I loathe the idea of 10TV News using my author’s photo with the witch hat when they report my murder. Body of McArthur-area Winifred Sanderson LARPist used as fertilizer for the garden behind her store. More at eleven!
My sisters exchange a loaded look that conveys the many conversations they’ve had about me, which I was not privy to. “The Internet doesn’t possess all the answers to the mysteries of our beautifully complex universe, which answers only to the stars,” Luna responds, with the wisdom of a fortune cookie that’s accidentally had a second platitude printed over top of the first.
Romina’s not as good-natured about my doubt as Luna is. “Why do you have to whiz in our waffles? How would you feel if, every time you started talking about your beliefs, I came in all ‘ Well, actually, derp a derp a derp a durr! ’?”
“That would be amazing.” I give her a great big smile. “I would love it if you were all derp a derp a derp a durr .”
Romina’s eye spasms.
“All right, all right, let’s calm down.” Luna gathers us up, her bracelets clicking and clacking against each other.
“I love you, don’t be mad at me,” I coo at Romina, patting her arm.
She jerks back. “No! I’m mad at you and I don’t want your pats.”
“Yes, you do.” I sandwich her cheeks between my hands, smushing her face. “Cherish these moments of sisterhood. You’ve been nagging me for years to move back. This is what you wanted. Oof, you’re all full of pollen. Smelling you gives me allergies.”
“When the love magic finally gets you,” she grumbles into my hair, “you’ll have to admit it’s real and then I’m going to gloat so bad. You’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
“Oh, me, too,” Luna agrees. “Zelda, we’re going to make you so miserable.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“But we’re going to make you miserable lovingly .”
—
I thread through the night market later that evening, enjoying how lively it becomes once dusk has settled in. We’ve got booths boasting magics of all sorts: Gilda Halifax is reading palms, her daughter, Millicent, shuffling tarot cards; a fortune-telling automaton designed to resemble Gilda herself is positioned nearby, scaring small children. We’ve got crystals, runes, and scrying services offered by charming, well-polished con artists. My gaze passes over them, observing how their bright, hypnotic eyes seem to suck their audiences in, catching them up in whirlwinds of folly for ten dollars a pop.
With each booth that I pass, I think with a prideful inner voice, You might be able to trick them, but I see clearly .
I hear brisk conversation, laughter, a bit of instrumental music floating from a speaker somewhere. Plum poufs and a station for teas and coffees. Bushra’s “bewitching cupcakes” (the bewitching part being that they’re frosted to look like unicorns, which she has informed me are the top tamale of magical baked goods).
A short, older gentleman with tufty, graying hair materializes in front of me, expression crabby.
Alonzo opened Mozzi’s Pizza decades ago. It’s a long stone building next door, with stained-glass windows and table lamps made from recycled bits of mismatched plastic. Mozzi’s Pizza is dark and cool, with flagstone floors and low ceilings, and when I was young I’d sip tea that I pretended was ale, pretending the restaurant was an old-timey tavern. I was, naturally, a weary mercenary who’d been hired by the crown to assassinate a werewolf but instead decided to double my money by double-crossing the prince. Both the prince and the werewolf were hopelessly in love with me, but really, I had my eye on the butcher’s apprentice.
Anyway.
“Ms. Halifax is taking half my table and won’t stop trying to hold my hand.”
I don’t have to guess which Ms. Halifax he means. Millicent, a quiet woman in her forties, holds everyone around her in contempt and won’t accept payments in cash because “money is contaminated with thousands of bacteria and most bills have traces of cocaine on them.” She isn’t going to be touching anybody’s hands uninvited.
I let out a groan. “Gilda.”
Honestly, running the night market feels more like babysitting than anything else.
Gilda has not only taken over Alonzo’s table; she has also lengthened her own area by docking a card table to her booth, which she did not receive permission to do. Her fake eyelashes are about an inch long and dusted with gold leaf on the ends, but it’s her lipstick that’s the real party: it matches her cloak, lapis-blue lips and crimson liner. I’m reminded of spiritual mediums I’ve seen on television, with garish makeup, teased hair, and booming voices—all part of the diversion while they lie to you. Look at this, not at that!
“I was only having a peek at his life lines!” she insists as soon as I weave into her line of sight. “They were astoundingly long.” She analyzes him in wonder, then turns her focus on me. “Now, while I’ve got you: how do you feel about long-distance dating? Because I’ve got a nephew who invested in Pillow Pets early on, and when I say big money , I mean you’d never have to work again. No more of those grotesque title fonts, designed to look as if they’re dripping blood.”
“Gilda—”
“Michael’s about fifty, but last I saw him thirty years ago he could absolutely pass for twenty, and right now he’s hiding out in Bulgaria to avoid a minor embezzlement thing”—she pinches her thumb and forefinger together—“but his vision board is chock-full of redheads, and I think you two would be sensational together.”
“Actually,” I say, shoving my way into the conversation before she starts filling me in on Michael’s star chart or weighing the likelihood of him stealing my identity, “I’m kind of talking to someone.”
“Really?” She claps in delight. “Who?”
“Remember the auction?”
She gasps. “Morgan Angelopoulos. Of course .” She fans herself dramatically. “Yes, my dear, forget all about Michael—I can’t believe I forgot what I saw in my crystal ball about you and Morgan!” Gilda slaps the tabletop heartily, then taps it twice with a long, glittering nail. Her eyes, a watery blue-violet, bore holes through mine. “You two,” she says mystically, “were written in the stars .”
“Gilda, you are so full of it that it’s a wonder you can get up and walk around,” I say, but my voice brims with affection. “And no, not Morgan . There was a guy who’d meant to show up and bid on my date, but he wasn’t able to get there in time. I’m going out with him next week.”
“Oh.” Her tone flattens. “By all means…” She waves a hand. “Why shouldn’t you entertain the guy who meant to show up ? Very promising start.”
I stroll away. “Good night, Gilda!”
She tuts. “Whenever you get curious to know what I saw in my crystal ball, you know where to find me.”