Page 26 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)

Twenty-Six

Ghosts are like Labrador retrievers and become destructive when bored. Keep them entertained by infusing your life with plenty of drama, romance, and depression for them to enjoy, or they’ll start breaking things.

Legends and Superstitions, Expanded, Tempest Family Grimoire

I tail the agent of chaos outside into late-September sunshine. “What do you think you are doing?” I shout.

His grin is fiendish. “Taking a walk. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“You can’t swipe another person’s library books. That’s criminal.”

He waves his stack in a taunt, stride quickening. “Got ’em for the next three weeks. Six, if I renew. Forever, if I decide to be dastardly; and I do so love to be dastardly.”

Curses. “Why do you need books on mice?”

“Because you do, gorgeous. If I cannot get your attention the normal way, I will get it the annoying way. There are many paths to success!”

I throw up my arms. I do not understand this man. I need to inspect him with a microscope, reference books, and PPE clothing. He is practically a wildlife specimen—I’ve never met anybody like him, and damn if that doesn’t make him all the more fascinating to me. I am hereby charging the lizard hemisphere of my brain with treason. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you,” I insist. “It’s just that I was reading. And when I am reading, I am not hearing. I am not noticing anything else.”

He cuts down an alley toward The Magick Happens. Over the stone wall of our courtyard, I can see that the green “pumpkins” on Romina’s roof have vanished. I strongly suspect Romina has learned they were indeed round zucchini, and destroyed the evidence rather than risk me gloating.

“I’ll give them back if you include me in whatever it is you’re doing,” he says, stopping short. I bump into him.

My braid is a mess, my resting murder face glassy with sweat. There are burs all over my shirt. But strangely, I do not feel at all awkward; Morgan is looking down at me with dancing eyes and a crooked smile, as if this is a most exciting turn of events, as if I am the unpredictable half of our duo and he would rather love to examine me under a microscope, as well.

I drop my gaze, glowering at his mouth. Sweet, wanton treason is spreading from one half of my brain to the other like dye in water. It is getting my reproductive system involved. This is seditious conspiracy. “You are despicable.”

He bends his knees to meet my eyes again. “Is that a yes?”

I square my shoulders. “I’m searching for information on mice, so that I may learn anything there is to potentially know about the mouseplant.”

Morgan arches an eyebrow. “The what, now?”

I explain what I saw in the woods. (Or near the woods—I haven’t breached it by myself, as the forest is treacherous to navigate alone, and I am not about to become a bray.)

“Where’re all your books on plants, then?” he wants to know. “You said the paranimal had leaves coming out of it, but your only focus here seems to be mice.”

I slap my own forehead. “See, this is why you need to be a more dependable investigative partner. For some reason, you’re able to think of things that I don’t.”

“For some reason?” he repeats. “Mildly offensive.” But he doesn’t look upset. He’s teetering on the balls of his feet, an electrical scribble of anticipation. “Do you know who does own plenty of books on plants?”

“Romina! Morgan, you’re a genius.” I high-five him.

His cheeks bloom with color, and he smiles at his shoes.

We confiscate Romina’s books (she only owns eleven of them and they’re all about plants and the language of flowers), then spread our findings across the kitchen table up in the apartment. Morgan pores over my notes while I sketch the paranimal. I have to draw what the leaves looked like before I start researching pictures of leaves, or else they’ll all meld together and I won’t remember what’s what. “Mouseplant is a terrible name,” he comments. “It has no pizzazz.”

“It’s like houseplant , but with a mouse. Puns are whimsical.”

“You must consider the dignity of the animal, Zelda.” His face is grave. “A wee mouse with leaves poking out requires a stately name, so that all the bigger woodland paranimals will pay it its due respect.” He thinks. “Leaf Erikson. Stuart Laurel.”

“No. You got to pick the name for the gingersnappus. I’m picking for the mouseplant.”

“The word. Mouseplant. Doesn’t have. Pizzazz. ”

“Oh, like you’re the gatekeeper of pizzazz,” I hiss. “This is the stupidest conversation I have ever been a part of. I cannot believe I ever thought you were a smooth talker.”

“Your conversation with Bob about pickleball was far stupider. And I am smooth, when I apply myself.”

“I like it better when you don’t,” I rejoin, not really meaning to. He glances at me in surprise but doesn’t say anything. Morgan is lost in thought as he removes his vintage varsity football letterman jacket, which distracts me for two reasons. The second reason is that his name isn’t Tony (which is embroidered in gold on the front), he didn’t attend Lyons Township High School in La Grange, Illinois, and to my knowledge, he has never played football competitively, let alone been a member of the 1989 state championship-winning team.

The first reason is that his plain white undershirt is a thin, almost see-through fabric, and that is doing magnificent things for me. I flip an internal notepad to a fresh page. Morgan Angelopoulos. Thirty-two years old. Species: Some type of fairy. Eyes: Like shining black tunnels. Hair: Don’t get me started. Chest: Appears to be quite nice. Definitely requires more thorough study.

“What do you think?” Morgan’s asking me now. Ah, so it appears he hasn’t been silent for the duration of my ogling after all.

I blink. “I like it.”

“Really? I thought you were going to say no.”

“Wait. What?”

We stare each other down, but I win (of course) because he doesn’t have the patience to survive staring contests. “About adopting a gang of ginger cats and attaching tiny cameras to their collars. See if they’ll lead us to the witch.”

Dear god. “That sounds expensive. What we need is…” My eyes zero in on a refrigerator magnet. Have Broom, Will Travel . “A formal expedition.”

Morgan cocks his head. “A day trip?”

“Days,” I correct. I can see myself in vibrant color: trekking through the woods with our briefcase of notes and the slapdash map Dottie drew. Discovering the spectacular. “Romina’s got a tent we can borrow.”

His eyes widen as if he can envision something spectacular, too.

We flurry for pens and paper.

Words gobble up the page. Can opener. Hand sanitizer. Hairbrush. Glasses. I won’t want to bother with contact lenses when I’m out in the field. Purifying water bottle.

“We’ll need enough food for three days,” I estimate.

“Then we should pack enough to last us five. Falling Rock Forest is vast and tricky to pin down.” He’s right—map out a trail and it will vanish, two new trails forming in its stead. We could wander the same area for hours and not realize we’re still standing exactly where we started.

Compass. Extra socks. Pocketknife. First-aid kit. On and on we go, giddy and dreaming, the list of supplies growing extensive. We don’t want to forget anything, because then we’d have to make a trip back home, and for some reason, that would break us out of our investigative haze. Once we enter the woods, we’re not coming out of them until we’ve met the legend herself.

“Three days is enough time to find her,” we repeat, fast-walking around the room, bumping into furniture, not paying enough attention to our surroundings. At some point, I must have grabbed a suitcase, because I glance down to see myself stuffing a can of soup into it. Morgan adds marshmallows.

“This is fantastic,” he mutters frenetically. “You are amazing, Zelda Tempest. Amazing. Nobody else alive would be willing to do this with me. You’re not only willing , you’re just as enthusiastic!” He mangles a box of Cheerios as he stuffs it in.

“I know what you mean.” I should be more alarmed by this. Surely, if Morgan is enthused by an idea, then the idea is not sound. But I have already run away with visions of witches and paranimals. I haven’t been this happy since April, when I got carried away amending an essay for Aisling’s history homework and scored 110 percent out of 100.

Morgan’s sifting through Luna’s recipe box. “Where are all the food recipes? Look.” He flips a notecard from the box around so that I can read it.

Make Your Wish

1 fresh bay leaf, unbroken

1 teaspoon dried lovage

2 drops bergamot oil

⒈／⒉ teaspoon dried black walnut

A four-by-four-inch square of mulberry paper

1 yellow candle

1 small bottle or jar

1 cork

(Ideally, perform on the full moon, but can also be performed on any Thursday.)

Write your ambition on the paper, fold it up an odd-numbered amount of times, and drop it into the bottle with all ingredients. Fill with rainwater. Cork, and seal with drops of candle wax. Suggestion: use a candle scented like rum, honeycrisp apple, and sparkling ginger.

“Have you ever tried making something like this?” he inquires.

I shake my head. “Although I guess I could. Couldn’t I? Since it turns out I’m a witch.” I join him, perusing recipes for Emotional Healing, Shrinking Debt, and even an Antidote to Being in the Right Place at the Wrong Time. What I find most intriguing is that there is nothing in the box pertaining to love magic. Odd, since Luna’s occupation centers on that branch of spellwork.

“You have to experiment with potions,” Morgan tells me, pulling items from cupboards. “It’s a waste of witchery if you don’t!”

He has a point. I scrutinize a jar filled with viscous red liquid. “What’s this for?” But the label tells us exactly what it’s for: For Lucid Dreaming .

“Oooohh,” we murmur in tandem.

I’ve never searched this cupboard before, as it’s laden with Luna’s witchy fixings. Now that I have become a witch myself, however, perhaps I should have a closer look.

There are neat, orderly rows of colorful bottles, some corked, some stored in repurposed marinara jars. None of the actual ingredients are listed, only the potions’ purposes. For Ant Control. For Purification. For Twice the Tomatoes. It becomes evident that Luna’s hidden the good ones in the back: behind boring potions dedicated to controlling soil alkalinity and getting stubborn wrinkles out of clothes, we hit upon a jackpot.

For Mischief, For Mayhem, For Wednesdays, For Windfalls.

There’s a thump on the stairs, and we devolve into frenzy, whispering at each other to hurry, to be quiet, putting it all back. Then, once we realize it was only Snapdragon rolling down the stairs in pen form, we lug it all back out and start spilling potions into measuring spoons.

“We need a cauldron,” Morgan says. I point to another of Luna’s kitschy signs: Crockpots Are Just Electric Cauldrons. “Bingo! I’ll plug it in right away.”

“We’re going to cook mischief and mayhem in a six-quart slow cooker.” I cackle, dashing a spoonful of For Wednesdays in with half a bottle of For Saturdays . Can you use them only on Wednesdays and Saturdays? Or does the potion make any day become Wednesday or Saturday? We are about to find out!

Morgan adds For Rain . I sprinkle in For Dry Skies . The smells vary, but they bend toward acrid. “This is so much fun!” I exclaim. “Why isn’t Luna doing this all the time? I’ve never seen her use this stuff.”

“Luna is a square,” Morgan informs me sagely. “She doesn’t have the oomph to do what we’re doing.”

He is so right. “I feel like a scientist. This is so much better than working from a recipe.”

“Why work from a recipe when you can make your own?”

It’s hard telling when a potion is finished cooking, but our concoction makes the journey from smelling like frog spawn and being an oily brown porridge half-burnt to the ceramic to smelling, somehow, like tiramisu. My mouth waters.

“Makes no sense,” I remark, sniffing the mixture once Morgan’s ladled it into an empty vial. It’s paled to a lovely golden hue. “We didn’t add any tiramisu-ish ingredients.”

“Makes no sense at all!” Morgan is gleeful. “Hm. Got some on my arm, and it is unexpectedly cold. It’s like liquid nitrogen.”

“Which also makes no sense.”

His smile is radiant. “I know!” He does a double take, inspecting his arm. “Wait a minute. I had a scratch here, I swear. Got it from Forte. But now the scratch is gone. Do you think this stuff might’ve healed me?”

I can’t respond, because I’ve just spotted a bottle of Never Ever and that is the worst label Luna could have possibly given it. The temptation is irresistible. I tip some into the Crock-Pot.

“That smells delectable,” Morgan says, leaning in. I lean in, too. We’re shoulder to shoulder, and our eyes meet, glimmering with mischief and mayhem and—

The Crock-Pot explodes.

Or rather, once I’ve smeared purple goop out of my eyes, I can see that the Crock-Pot itself is still intact, but all the potion has fountained out of it, all over the walls, fridge, and floor. “Are you all right?” Morgan gasps through his laughter.

“Neither of us is all right. Luna’s gonna melt us into candle wax and use the magic to seal our ghosts in the underworld.” But I’m laughing, too. “You’re a bad influence.”

“Me!” he cries. “I was following your lead.”

“Luna’s not going to believe that. You’re in so much trouble.”

“No, I think you are.” Morgan uses a kitchen towel to gingerly wipe potion off my chin, and the action fills my vision with him, makes it impossible not to dwell on how close he’s standing, how delectable he smells. He’s right. I am in trouble.

“I think this is the most I’ve ever seen your eyes look like that,” he says quietly, stroking the cloth across my cheek.

I resist the urge to cover my eyes with my hands. “Like what?”

“Like joy.” His features are pensive. “I’m sorry about how I acted when you visited my apartment. It’s no excuse, but I’ve been…well, it’s…I’ve never—I mean, I’ve pretended to be, but wasn’t really, and now I don’t even know how to…” He gives a weak half laugh, looking to the ceiling for answers. “I very much don’t know how to.”

He’s lost me. “Don’t know how to what?”

“Mm” is all he replies, his voice deep. I can feel that my face is clean, but he doesn’t step away, doesn’t drop his hand. When I continue to stare questioningly at him, he winks. “We need to raid the cupboards more often, you and I.”

“Oh. My. God.”

We spring apart at the sound of Luna’s voice, as if we’ve been caught misbehaving—and then I quickly remember the state of the kitchen. My sister’s enormous blue eyes pan from the purple gloop on the walls to Romina’s books on the table, our paranimal scribblings, a hastily half-packed suitcase. One of us emptied a canister of peanuts in there. “What the hell is going on?”