After a tense moment of silence between us, I meet her eyes again. “Luce, I swear . . .” I warn her, and she throws her hands in the air.
“Look, I know I’m not exactly employee of the month, but I wouldneverpull something like that.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her, and she softens, conceding a hair. “Fine, I would never pull something like that on a tourist—and especially not this close to Halloween. Magic always acts a little nutty this time of year, and I’m not about to risk that shit becoming permanent.”
I sigh through my nose, turning my attention back to the book lying open on the counter.
Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I believe her. Lucy might be a bit of a wild card, but I’ve always been able to tell when she’s lying. The horrified look on her face last night when I brought the gibberish-speaking girl into the shop was completely genuine. But no matter how I rack my brain, I can’t think of another explanation.
Unless . . .
As if she can read my mind, Lucy worries at her lip before asking, “You don’t think something’s wrong with . . . thebook. . . do you?”
I shake my head, but I’m not sure if I’m answering her question or so utterly lost for an explanation that I can’t find the words. The air between us and the book is thick with tension, as if it’s luring us in like bait on a hook we know we shouldn’t bite.
“I can’t figure out how that’s even possible. It’s abook. It can’t change its own spells”—I pause, briefly meeting her concerned gaze—“right?”
Lucy’s lips press into a thin line and she leans a hip against the counter as black and purple nails click against the granite with thought.
“I mean . . . it did come from Grandma.”
“I know it did, but it didn’t just come from her.” I wave a hand at the yellowed pages for emphasis. “It’s been passed down for generations. Grandma wasn’t afraid to mess with magic, butI can’t imagine her ruining something like our family book for a few laughs beyond the grave.” I glance around the shop as if something else could possibly explain last night’s charm gone wrong.
“All the ingredients are good, right?”
Lucy gestures at the line of spices and toppings before letting her hand fall against her hip. “It’s all fresh.”
“And you had full consent?”
“The girls came in and asked for the Witch’s Market special, which we agreed would be our Cast-A-Wish Latte. They both ordered caramel macchiatos and asked for their friendship to withstand going to different colleges or whatever. So, I thought an open communication spell with an emphasis on friendship would be what they needed. They’d have some good talks over the course of the festival and then make an effort to stay in touch going forward. That’s as close to consent as you can get in this business. Plus, you and I both know that lack of consent would backfire on me, not them. And I’m the one speaking perfect English.”
Everything she’s telling me matches what the girls told me last night, once we got them all calmed down. After we reversed everything and compensated each of them with a free book and a promise of free lanterns at the Enchanted Lantern Walk tonight, of course. If they don’t go tell the entire world about what happened, I’ll be amazed; I can only hope no one believes them, and that it fades away before the rumor of actual witchcraft catches fire.
“Maybe it wasn’t the drinks. Maybe the festival did something. Was anything weird at the market?” I can feel Lucy grasping at straws, and I wish I had something better to offer her.
I shake my head and proceed to run through the entire night, right down to the strange flutters of magic.
“And . . . that happened while you were talking to Oliver? About what?”
I look away, trying and failing to hide the heat rising to my cheeks at the memory of my conversation with him last night.
We have love here in Ashwood Haven.
I don’t doubt it.
My stomach flips all over again, his deep voice so clear in my head that it sends shivers over my skin. I pull the sleeves of my long-sleeve shirt down over my hands, the roll hem stretching between my anxious fingertips.
“We were just talking about travel.”
Lucy’s entire face screws up into a skeptical recoil. “Travel? You’ve never traveled more than a few hours from here.”
I shrug, using my thumbnail to pick at an invisible spot on the counter. “I could travel.”
The red-haired barista looks unconvinced. “To where? Across the county line?”
“You know what?” I counter, meeting her challenge head-on to avoid furthering this conversation as much as possible. “My desire to or not to travel is not the focus here.I’mnot the one who practically hexed someone last night.”
“You sure about that?” she mutters under her breath.
