by Skylar Finn
“Thank goddesses for that,” said Minerva with a shudder. “Mother, how long have you known about this?”
“Since I met her,” Aurora said with a shrug.
“And you didn’t tell me?” My mother shot her a wounded look.
“I figured you’d realize it soon enough for yourself,” she said innocently, cutting into her lemon tart.
“Wait, what’s going on?” I cut in. “Why is this a thing?”
“Sam, this is a big deal,” said Tamsin, her dark eyes round and serious. “We all do different things, right? But you—you can do all the things.”
I remembered the inside of Coco’s office, my first day at work: “Do you know why I hired you, Sam?” she asked.
“Why?” I said hesitantly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Maybe I was the only one who had applied.
“Out of the seventy-five resumes I read, all these girls had maybe one hard skill apiece,” she said. I was so distracted, hung up on the fact that I beat out seventy-four other people for the job, that I almost didn’t hear what she said next.
“You?” she said to me. “You can do all the things.”
In the present, at the dinner table, Minerva closed her eyes. “Tamsin,” she said. “Please don’t be so vague. Goddesses, maybe I should have sent you to regular school so you might have learned to articulate yourself better.”
“Like a Jack of all trades?” I asked, struggling to find a point of reference I could understand.
My grandmother sighed. I learned momentarily it was because she was thinking of my father. Of my world, and a thing I could understand.
“Look at it this way,” she said seriously, regarding me regally from the head of the table. “You went to school for what, business?”
“International Relations, Mobile App Development, Cloud Technologies, Social Media Marketing, and Communications,” I recited automatically. They all looked at me like I had grown six heads. “I mean, I went to school for like, six years. But, you know. I got a lot out of it.”
Tamsin looked repulsed. “Didn’t you study anything fun?”
“I spent a semester in Switzerland,” I said. “That was fun.”
“Never mind,” Aurora said impatiently. “Okay, Sam, let’s say there was a person at your school who became a surgeon, a lawyer, a writer, and a politician. And they were exceptional at all these things. Whether they wanted to write the Great American Novel or run for political office, they were not only able to do any of it, but could potentially actually do all of it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “No one can do all of those things. People are good at one thing or they’re good at another. We sometimes do things we don’t particularly like, but that doesn’t mean we can’t become good at them.”
“Yeah, I mean, did you actually enjoy—what is it, cloud technologies? Or any of that junk?” asked Tamsin. “Because I don’t understand how you could.”
Minerva shushed her again. “What if you could, though? Do everything?” she asked. “Can you imagine what kind of power you could have? What kind of influence?”
“Like, what if you could not only become a winning Formula One driver, but also build your own race car and fix it if it broke?” asked Tamsin.
“Or write a movie, film it, direct it, star in it, and watch it, simultaneously?” asked Minerva.
“If you could become not only the tree, but its roots and branches as well?” asked my mother.
This last thing was too much. Any time they started talking about fire borne of ash and branches of the tree, I got a little uncomfortable.
“Okay, okay,” I said waving my hands in front of me to get them to stop. “It’s weird. I get it. It’s unusual, maybe in a good way. But why?”
My grandmother was shaking her head. “It’s better that she was away,” she said to my mother, who looked stricken.
“Don’t look at me that way,” said Aurora irritably. “For her own good, not yours. Imagine having access to that kind of power. Do you think we could have controlled her? We can barely control Tamsin as it is.”
“Hey!” said Tamsin indignantly. “I can hear you. I’m sitting right here, you know.”
My mother rubbed the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. “I realize that, Mother. I mean, I realize that now.”
“What exactly are you saying I can do?” I asked.
“Nothing, for now,” said Aurora. “I mean, look at you, girl. You can’t even brew a pot of tea. But if you stayed here, and developed your craft…” She trailed off and again gazed out the door to the night outside.
“What?” I asked, excited. “What could I do?”
My mother finished the sentence for her. She looked at me steadily from across the table. Her eyes were filled with hope and sadness, fear and longing.
“There’s no telling what you might do,” she said.
9
Sneaking Out
Tamsin caught my arm just before I left, carrying a Tupperware container of leftovers to bring back for Cameron.
“Can you sneak out and meet me after you get back to your place?”
“Sneak out?” I stared at her. “I’m thirty years old.”
She blushed. “I keep forgetting. Sorry, it’s just that there’s no one magical my age in town and I’ve never really been out of town? So when you came, it was like, ‘oh, someone not super old-fashioned and into hiding out in a huge old house in the middle of nowhere all the time.’ I just meant, like, can you meet me later?”
I looked at her sympathetically. I’d been thinking how hard it was for me, growing up with no magic; I hadn’t thought what it would be like to be surrounded by nothing but magic on all sides. It wasn’t like she got to go to high school and have friends her own age.
“Will you by any chance be sneaking out?” I asked her, raising an eyebrow. She hedged a bit before answering, which was all the answer I needed.
“Well, technically yes, but it’s not like I don’t do it every other night of the week—which means obviously, it’s like, known that I’m sneaking out. We just have an understanding that I’ll never get into trouble or get caught.”
“Why don’t you just go out, then?” I asked. “Why sneak out at all?” We were standing outside next to Les’s car, our breath making white clouds in the air.
“They don’t actually want me to go,” said Tamsin, sounding frustrated. “But they also don’t feel right about placing restrictions on my life. They don’t trust the townspeople or non-magic people in general, and they think if anyone finds out we’re witches, something bad will happen. But it’s like, no one would ever believe that, anyway.”
“Do they think you’ll tell someone?” I asked.
“No way!” Tamsin exclaimed, looking appalled. “I would never tell anyone outside the family about our craft. They know I’m too smart to get caught. They just worry, like any family would.”
“Why don’t you just tell them you’re going to hang out with me?” I said reasonably. “I’m sure that would be fine. That way, they’ll know that we’re together.”
“Good idea!” she said. “I never thought of that.”
“Where do you want to meet, exactly?”
“This place called the Olde Crowe,” she said. “It’s at the corner of Main, across the street from the pizza place.”
“What is that, like a coffee shop or something?”
“Sort of,” she said brightly. “Okay, see you later!”
I snorted as I watched her hurry inside. For someone capable of casting enchantments, she was a terrible liar.
I went back to the house to change. My coat still smelled like Marlboro Reds and tequila. The whole house was dark and I assumed Margo had gone to bed. I’d have to save the branding lecture for tomorrow.
I washed my face and re-applied my make-up. I sprayed some perfume on my coat. It was the only one I brought and I was certain there were no dry cleaners open, assuming there even were any.
“Order, routine, perfection,” I recited to myself.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped at the sound and turned. Cameron stood in the doorway.
“It’s just something I say when I get ready,” I said. I felt guilty. Maybe it was a spell? I was always able to tame my flyaways with nothing more than my hand. I always just thought my palms were really well-moisturized, but maybe there was more to it than that.
“Order, routine, perfection,” he said. “I like that. Can I help you?”
He came in without waiting for me to answer and deftly finished touching up my make-up. He turned to my open suitcase on the bed and rifled through my clothing.
“Ick,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Was there a fire sale at L.L. Bean?”
“I was packing for the woods,” I said, injured. “It’s cold.”
“That’s for sure,” he said with a shudder. “Hold on. It’s a lucky thing you’re small.”
He came back toting a peacock-colored dress and tights. The dress’s fabric was like Tamsin’s tattoo and seemed to shimmer in the light to the point of movement.
“Wow,” I said, admiring it, twisting the fabric between my finger and thumb. It was silky soft and felt like falling water. “This is really cool. Did you design it?”
“Yes,” he said. “A Cameron Goddard original. Just wait till I get done with this job.” He glanced around, his expression guilty, then lowered his voice. “Don’t tell Margo I said that. Whatever you do. But with the connections I make being part of her entourage, I can finally make it in fashion.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, holding the dress up to admire. It looked otherworldly.
“Darling,” he said, “It’s positively enchanting.”
The Olde Crowe was a bar. If it served coffee, it was nowhere to be seen.
I opened the door cautiously and glanced around. Small towns usually register the presence of outsiders with…not hostility, exactly, but it’s also very noticeable that the regulars in a place are checking you out: assessing you and your out-of-towner status.
But this was a Monday night, and it seemed pretty dead. There were a couple of guys in flannel shirts shooting pool and two girls who looked like recent college grads, giggling at the end of the bar. They’d glance up every few minutes at something behind the pillar I couldn’t see before returning to their whisper-giggle summit. Tamsin obviously hadn’t “snuck out” yet, so I went over to the bar to get a drink while I waited for her.
The bartender appeared in front of me so suddenly I was startled. I felt irritated at the way everything in this town seemed to loom up out of nowhere.
“Hi, I’m Peter,” he said. “What can I get for you?”
In my defense, it was impossible not to notice how good-looking Peter was. He was tall and broad-shouldered with unforgivably chiseled features—it was unfair, really— a truly spectacular man bun, and small, round tortoiseshell glasses. I wondered if his glasses were real. I noticed glasses-wearing was sometimes an affectation of extremely good-looking men, as if to say, “And I’m also college-educated.”
Of course, in my mind, someone being good-looking was synonymous with somebody being a lying sociopath, so I was both unimpressed and immediately on guard.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Malbec? Or pinot noir.”
“I’ll just get a beer,” I said, my eyes roving over the taps behind him.
“Any particular one?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I guess?”
It had been all of ten seconds and I already wanted to slap him.
“I’m deciding,” I snapped. “Is that okay with you? Peter?”
Peter smiled slowly. I knew then that he was so used to attention that he loved it when women were mean to him.
“That’s okay with me,” he said, unnecessarily wiping down his already-clean bar like look how beautiful my muscular arms are. I glared fixedly at my own reflection in the mirror behind him. “You just let me know when you’re ready and I’ll get you whatever you want.”
“I’ll do that.” My arms were crossed in the universal sign for I don’t like you go away. He went over to the giggling girls, still smiling.
I’ll get you whatever you want. He was laying it on so thick. His tips were probably ridiculous.
“Sam?”
Tamsin appeared so suddenly behind me that I jumped. I turned, still slightly annoyed from my brief exchange with Peter the Bartender.
“Why does everyone and everything in this town sneak up on me?” I demanded.
“Maybe you’re oblivious,” she suggested. “Did you order a drink?”
“Not yet,” I said. “This bartender is giving me trouble.”
“Peter?” Her eyes widened. “Isn’t he the best?”
“It’s debatable,” I said.
There was an eruption of high, feminine laughter from the opposite end of the bar. I rolled my eyes. Peter swooped back over to us.
“Hey, Tamsin,” he said, giving her an easy smile. “Break out of the cuckoo clock?”
“As per usual,” she said. “Can I have an amaretto sour?”
“Amaretto sour?” I said to Tamsin. “Who taught you how to drink?”
“My mom,” she said.
“Coming right up,” Peter said. Of course he was the type of person who served minors.
“Did something crawl into your weird old car and bite you on the way here?” asked Tamsin. “You sound irritated.”
“Peter,” I said, narrowing my eyes at his broad back, which tapered to a narrow waist in his perfectly faded jeans.
“Is Peter being devilish?” she asked with a little wink. “That must mean he likes you.”
“Here’s your amaretto sour,” he said, putting the glass in front of Tamsin. I eyed it disapprovingly without saying anything. Not because I cared all that much if she drank it (assuming she was flying home rather than driving), but more just to spite Peter, whom I already loathed.
“Did you decide on a beer?” He smiled pleasantly at me in a way that seemed designed to annoy.
“No,” I said, turning away obstinately.
Peter laughed with what sounded like genuine delight, and I made a mental note to be friendlier to him so he would no longer have anything to smile about.
“She’ll take a Rolling Rock,” said Tamsin. He went to the cooler at the end of the bar where the bottled beer lived. She smiled at me, shaking her head. “You’re just making him like you more,” she said. “Peter loves it when girls are mean to him.” I knew it.
She looked at me more closely, leaning forward. She felt the fabric of my sleeve, running her finger and thumb over it as I had earlier.
“Sam,” she said slowly. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s a Cameron Goddard original,” I said.
“Who’s Cameron Goddard?” she asked.
“He’s Margo’s stylist,” I said as Peter placed a green bottle of beer in front of me on the bar. He made a big production of straightening the napkin first before setting the bottle on top.
“Would this by any chance be Margo Metal we’re speaking of?” he asked.
“I was speaking of her,” I said. “I don’t know about you.”
“I knew you were one of those music people,” he said. “You have that out-of-towner look.”
“Careful, Peter,” said Tamsin with a mischievous grin. “She bites.”
“I hope so,” he said, staring meaningfully into my eyes.
“Stop trying to Gosling me,” I said. “No one’s buying your soulful bartender act. Get us some peanuts or go away.” My resolution to be nicer and therefore less appealing was already fading.
“I’m actually a journalist,” he confided. “This is just my night job.”
“What kind of journalist?” I said, immediately brushing the chip off my shoulder. Now I would have to network with him, especially if he was a music journalist. I couldn’t afford to lose an opportunity for press for Margo due to my own trust issues.
“An investigative journalist,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, losing interest again.
“I report breaking stories,” he said, sounding insulted. “For the Mount Hazel Gazette.”
“He’s also a barista,” put in Tamsin.
“I wear many hats,” he said.
“The Mount Hazel Gazette?” I asked, confused. “That free thing with all the ads in it?” I’d seen the local newspaper when I was out looking for Margo’s latte and newt eyes. It looked more like something that would report on the annual carnival than hard-hitting cover-ups.
“They’re letting me branch out,” he said defensively. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Martha Hope. This could get picked up by a bigger syndicate, like the Inquirer.”
“If you want to write about murder and stuff, why don’t you just get a job there?” I asked.
“First of all, one does not just ‘get a job’ at the Inquirer,” he said. “It’s a little bit harder than that. Second of all, what makes you think it was a murder?”
I realized my slip too late. Tamsin gave my ankle a little kick under the bar, and it occurred to me then why the coven was so secretive. It was hard to remember not to talk about things I already knew. Or maybe it was just hard for me, having never had a secret to keep.
I shrugged. “Have you ever heard a case of a missing girl happily resolved?”
“True,” he said staring at me levelly. “What did you say your name was again?”
“This is my cousin, Sam,” said Tamsin.
“I didn’t know you had a cousin,” said Peter.
“It’s a recent development,” said Tamsin.
I finished my beer and nudged her with my knee. “Are you done? I have to be in bed soon.”
“Bed?” Tamsin stared at me like I was crazy. “It’s eleven o’clock! Are you crazy? We have the entire night ahead of us.”
“You do, maybe,” I said. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“Sam, seriously?” she whined. “Come on! How can you be so boring?”
“I bet you’re anything but,” said Peter, hitting me with his Gosling stare.