“Who would even attend church here?” I asked. Other than Daniel, the fallen angel, I couldn’t think of anyone who fit the bill.
“You’d be surprised, dear,” Edgar said. “It’s a social hub. Doesn’t seem to matter what your origin is.”
“And this is your social hub,” I said, gesturing to the golf course.
Demetrius smiled. “One of a few.”
I didn’t ask about the others. From his wolfish expression, I had the feeling they weren’t places I’d care to frequent.
“Well, thank you for taking the time to answer my questions,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Let us know if we can help with anything,” Samson said. “His house is probably overwhelming for you.” He hesitated. “If you decide not to keep the disco ball, send me a message and I’ll take it off your hands.”
“Sure.”
Demetrius escorted me back to the clubhouse, where the manager offered to drive me home in one of the magic golf carts. I was relieved he didn’t offer Patrick’s services again.
Sedgwick followed overhead as we rode across town in the darkness. He seemed more animated than usual.
Can we do this again tomorrow night? he asked excitedly. The golf course was full of rodents.
Ugh. Thanks for the tip.
I arrived home to see the fey lanterns bursting with light.
“Who did that?” I asked Sedgwick as I walked up the porch steps.
I bet they’re on a timer.
I still had so much to learn, but I was too tired to learn anything else tonight. I dragged myself upstairs and fell blissfully into a deep sleep.
Although I was groggy the next morning, I was curious to discover what the Basic Skills class entailed. Judging by the name, it seemed to be tailor-made for me since I didn’t have the first clue about being a witch.
The best thing about the class so far was that Lady Weatherby would not be teaching it. Instead, an elderly man stood at the front of the class, wearing a midnight blue pointy hat and a matching cloak. The only thing missing from his wizardly appearance was a white beard. He had the sage expression down pat, though.
“I am Professor Holmes,” he said. His announcement was clearly directed at me, since the other witches had been attending his class for the better part of a year.
“Emma Hart,” I said.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Miss Hart. It isn’t every day we receive a witch from the human world.”
“It isn’t any day,” Laurel said under her breath.
“Enlighten us, Miss Hart. What can you tell us about your background? I understand you’ve chosen an owl as your familiar. How interesting.” He peered at me over his wire-framed glasses.
“I didn’t exactly choose Sedgwick,” I said. “It just sort of happened.”
“And yet there is a black cat living on the premises.”
“Magpie? He was Gareth’s cat and he isn’t black. He’s more…follically challenged.” And in need of a personality transplant.
“And you have limited memories of your mother?” he queried.
Despite the barrage of questions, I never once felt uncomfortable. Professor Holmes had a way of making me feel at ease. I briefly wondered whether he was using some sort of spell on me.
“Nothing to suggest she was a witch,” I said. My memories of her were fragmented. A fuzzy moment at a birthday party. A voice without words. When I was very small, she’d hug me to her chest and hum, and the vibrations would soothe me. That I remembered very well. And her smell. If I smelled anything remotely similar, it acted like a time machine, transporting me straight back to early childhood. I missed her so much, yet I barely knew her.
“And how did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She drowned,” I said. It suddenly occurred to me, sitting in the middle of the classroom, why I may have been discouraged from spending time near bodies of water. Of course, one could argue it was a self-fulfilling prophecy—that if no one taught me to swim, I’d be more likely to drown. In any case, water made me anxious and it wasn’t far-fetched to think my mother’s death played a role in fueling my negative feelings.
“Murder?” he asked softly.
“No,” I replied, aghast. “It was ruled accidental.”
He tapped the end of his wand against the table in an absent-minded gesture. “You do realize that witches cannot swim, Miss Hart.”
“Like physically can’t swim?”
He nodded. “Anyone who knows anything about witches knows that much.”
“Spell’s bells,” Begonia cried. “Maybe your mother was murdered.”
“Or maybe she didn’t know she was a witch,” I said. Otherwise, she would have told me. Left me a clue of some kind. At the very least, she would have confided in my father. They loved each other. She would have trusted him.
“And your father,” Professor Holmes continued. “What do you know of him? I understand he was called Barron Hart.”
“Yes. He was a history teacher.”
“Not his profession,” Professor Holmes said. “The man himself. What was he like?”
“I don’t think he was a wizard, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It isn’t. We know he wasn’t one of us.”
“Oh.” I shrugged helplessly. “He did his best after my mother died. I remember difficult days. Days he gave up and laid on the couch.” Those were the days I made us breakfast and learned how to brew coffee. I was only seven. It amazed me now, to think about what I was capable of at such a young age.
“And then he died as well,” Professor Holmes said.
“Yes.” I could feel the girls staring at me. I guess they hadn’t been privy to the details. “It was a car accident. The roads were icy and he hit a tree.” My throat tightened. I didn’t often talk about the past. My grandparents didn’t like to speak of it, so I’d learned to keep the memories at a safe distance.
Professor Holmes considered me. “We’re glad to have you, Miss Hart. Now is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
“Like what?”
“About being a witch, of course. This is Basic Skills class, after all.” He rubbed his hands together. “Owls, broomsticks, pointy black hats. You ask the question and I will endeavor to answer it.”
Naturally, my mind went completely blank. “Are there any foods I should avoid? Do witches have allergies or an intolerance of any kind?”
“Ah, good question. No tomatoes.”
Tomatoes? “That’s it?”
“Go easy on the dairy.”
I heard murmurs of assent around me.
“I love a treat at Icebergs,” Laurel said, “but I can only have the small cone.”
Sophie’s hand flew to her stomach. “I can’t have any. It makes me nauseous.”
Suddenly my own experiences with milk and butter made sense. “Will I really use a cauldron?”
“Oh, indeed,” he said. “We’ll do a little cauldron work in this very class, in fact.”
“I’m not a very good cook,” I admitted. “Does that mean I’m not going to do well with a cauldron?”
“Nonsense,” Professor Holmes said. “A cauldron is entirely different from a pot on a stovetop. You mustn’t think of it that way.”
It was nice to feel encouraged for a change. Lady Weatherby’s stern expression tended to undermine any ounce of confidence I dared to feel.
“Can witches and wizards get married?” I asked. I had no idea where that question came from.
“Yes, although many choose not to.”
“Why?”
He blinked. “Because we live such long lives, of course. It’s difficult to think about tethering oneself to another for such an extended period of time. Almost unnatural.”
“You don’t think love is everlasting?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that.” He frowned. “Although I suppose that is the implication.”
“Are you married?” I asked.
“
No, no.”
“Lady Weatherby?”
“Gray ghosts, no!” He chuckled. “Not to suggest she isn’t a very attractive lady, of course.”
“She just scares half the males of Spellbound to death,” Laurel whispered.
“Only half?” Professor Holmes said, smiling.
“What about children?” I asked.
“If we didn’t have children, these fine young witches wouldn’t be with us now.”
“Are all your fathers wizards?” I asked. “Is that how it works?”
“No,” Professor Holmes said. “You only need one parent to get the gene. Witch or wizard, it matters not.”
I debated whether to ask my next question. “What about mixed marriages? Say I wanted to marry a troll. Could we have children?”
“I wouldn’t have thought Wayne Stone was your type,” he teased. “Nonetheless, interbreeding is possible.”
Begonia nudged me gently in the ribs. “Any particular suitor in mind?”
“Just thinking ahead,” I said vaguely.
“All right then. Question time is over for today. Let’s get on with the lesson.” He winked at me. “But we can do this at the beginning of each Basic Skills class, Miss Hart, until you begin to feel more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Professor Holmes. I appreciate it.”
“Not at all. We’re your coven now and we look after our own, no matter what your origin is.”
I wasn’t convinced that everyone in the coven felt the same way, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“Now can anyone tell me the reason cauldrons are made from cast iron?”
Millie’s hand shot into the air and I listened intently, trying to absorb every detail of my new life.
I walked out of class between Millie and Sophie to see Daniel lingering outside. His moody expression brightened when he saw me.
“Hello there. I was hoping I’d run into you,” he said.
I could practically feel Millie and Sophie bursting with excitement next to me.
“Do you have time for a walk?” he asked.
“I do.” I said goodbye to the other girls and joined Daniel on the cobblestone. “Anywhere in mind?”
“In fact, there is.” We crossed the road and walked a few blocks past Trinkets, the gift store, Broomstix, and a few other places before he stopped in front of The Mad Potter.
“Would you like to go in?” he asked.
“For what?"
"I thought you'd like to choose a piece of pottery for your new house," he said. “Make it feel more like your own.”
That was very sweet of him. "Yes, I would love to."
There didn't seem to be anyone actually working in the pottery store. Everywhere I turned I saw clay pots, clay bowls, and clay jugs. None of them with decoration.
"Does anyone work here?" I asked.
Daniel chuckled. "I guess this is all new to you." He folded his arms expectantly. "What's your favorite color?"
"Blue," I said. "A soft blue, though."
"What about a complementary color?"
I mulled it over. “Blue and yellow always look nice together."
Daniel rubbed his hands together. "Then blue and yellow it is." He moved closer to the nearest clay pot. "Blue and yellow, please. Something with a little style."
"No stripes," I added quickly. I wasn't a fan of stripes. Not in clothes because they made me look too wide and not on items because it reminded me of a circus tent and I hated the circus.
I watched in amazement as paintbrushes swirled around the pot, dipping in and out of pods of paint.
"It's magic," I whispered.
"Of course it is," Daniel said. "What else?"
As amazed as I was by the whole thing, part of me was still unsettled by the experience. No one seemed in control of anything. So much was left to magic. It just didn't jive with my lawyer brain.
I continued to observe the magic pottery in action. Once the paint colors had been applied, the pot danced over to the heated kiln. Five minutes later, my pot was set on a shelf to cool.
"How do we pay?" I asked Daniel.
"The potter owes me one," Daniel said.
I looked around the empty shop. "What potter?"
Daniel patted me on the shoulder. "He doesn't need to be here in order for him to exist."
I had to imagine there was quite a lot of crime in this town, considering no one was present in their shops. No wonder they needed a public defender so desperately.
"Thank you, Daniel. I really appreciate it. This pot will definitely brighten my dark space."
Daniel smiled. "Gareth was a particularly broody vampire. I think it had something to do with his job."
"You mean the job I inherited?" That didn't make me feel good.
Daniel seemed to realize his mistake. "I'm sure it will be different for you. You seem much more upbeat."
"Well, it probably helps that I'm not a vampire."
"The rest of the vampires in town are a lively bunch." He shot me a look. "Does that surprise you?"
"No, what surprises me is that I am in a town full of vampires. And trolls. And an angel just bought me a pot."
He chuckled again. "I guess it will take some getting used to."
Once the pot had cooled, we left the shop and headed toward my new office.
“How did things go with Mumford?” Daniel asked.
“He wasn’t feeling well, but we’re meeting again as soon as he’s able. The judge is willing to extend the trial date. Althea is taking care of the paperwork. She’s very good.”
“He’s an interesting character," Daniel said. "I do feel sorry for him, though. It's been tough on him. First being accused, and now losing his attorney right before the trial."
"Do you think Gareth's murder has anything to do with the trial?" I asked.
"What? You think the thief felt threatened by Gareth and killed him?” Daniel looked thoughtful. "I suppose it's possible. But given that we don't know who the murderer is and we have no suspects for the theft apart from Mumford, I think it will be tough to figure out."
Things that were tough to figure out never stopped me from trying. I wasn't about to change just because my environment did. Mumford needed my help, and that was what I was good at in the human world. I was never very good at helping myself, so I made it my mission to be helpful in the lives of others.
"So why don’t people seem to like Mumford?"
“Because he’s a goblin. I think that's one of the reasons he became a suspect. Townsfolk don't tend to like goblins for historic reasons.”
"That is so racist. You can't decide someone is a suspect purely on the basis that they're a goblin.” A statement I absolutely never made in the human world.
“I think it was also the gemstone found in his pocket.”
Right. There was that pesky bit of hard evidence.
“To be fair, goblins are ill-tempered and known thieves. They have a long history of hoarding treasure.“
“Like dragons,” I said.
He laughed. “That’s a good one, Emma. Everybody knows there’s no such thing as dragons.”
Seriously? Spellbound had a yeti but a dragon was out of the question? I smacked my forehead.
“I guess it's time I take a closer look at the file,” I said, as we arrived in front of my office door. "Thank you, Daniel. For the pot. It was sweet of you.”
"It was the least I can do," Daniel said. "I still feel responsible for you getting stuck here."
“Please don’t blame yourself. You didn’t know I’d be able to see you.”
“And I certainly never expected you to try and save me.” He gave me a wistful look and my heart melted.
“Now that I’m here, at least I’ll be able to make myself useful,” I said. If I didn't stay busy, I would just start feeling sorry for myself. And that didn't benefit anybody, including me. "See you around, Daniel."
Chapter Eight
After reading through Gareth’s case notes and talking w
ith Althea, I decided to head over to the church and see if I could speak with Myra. If she knew about the petition Gareth was intending to file, maybe she got angry and decided to do something about it.
Up close, the church was stunning.
I’d always been interested in architecture in a superficial sense. There’d been a pretty church in the town where I grew up. Although my grandparents weren’t devout, we attended mass on special occasions like Easter and Christmas. I loved seeing the church decorated for Christmas with its display of candles and wreaths. I remembered asking them once if my mother’s parents had been Christian, and Gran had nearly bitten my head off. I never asked again.
The Spellbound church was Romanesque, made of gray stone with rounded arches and one large tower.
I passed through the entryway and the interior took my breath away. Angels carved from stone. Arched stained glass windows depicting stories from the Bible. Hand carved wooden pews. Religious or not, who wouldn’t want to spend time in here?
I took my time walking down the aisle, trying to capture every detail in my mind. Weddings here had to be nothing short of magnificent. For a brief moment, I indulged in the fantasy that I was a bride walking down the aisle to my beloved. I hadn’t been the type of little girl who dreamed of a fancy wedding, but I was willing to cater to my inner princess every once in a blue moon.
I was just hitting my stride when a small voice called out to me—
“Can I help you?”
I stopped, mid-wedding march and whirled around. A short, stout woman with a round face stood behind me.
“Hello,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m looking for Myra.”
“You found her,” she said. Her white hair was thick and wavy and she wore a plain green dress with black, buckled loafers. Even without the conical hat, Myra was clearly a gnome.
“I’m Emma Hart,” I said, and my voice echoed in the empty church.
Myra quickly shushed me. “This is a place of worship. Not a playhouse.”
I cleared my throat and spoke in a lower tone. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Gareth in private.”
“Follow me.” She walked to the altar and took a left turn to a wooden stall. She opened the door and gestured for me to go inside.
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