Witches of The Wood

by Skylar Finn

  “This is true,” he agreed. “Come out and let me see when you’re ready.”

  I exited the dressing room and did a little twirl. The fabric no longer shifted, the colors mutable as a chameleon, as they once had when Cameron lived in the manor and became infected by the magic there. But it gave me the same feeling that I was in a fairy tale, like I’d been given the perfect dress.

  He nodded, pinching the silvery fabric between his finger and thumb. “Let me find you some shoes.” He rummaged under the counter and emerged with a reasonably low pair of wedges that I could walk in without breaking my ankle.

  “This is perfect,” I said. “Thank you again.”

  He winked at me. “Thank me later,” he said. And it was with this mysterious instruction that he sent me out into the night.

  I was a little apprehensive about meeting Tamsin in the city for the first time. I didn’t know how wild she’d get. I’d been back to Mount Hazel several times to visit my family and help Tamsin with her college applications. She applied to several art schools in the city and was optimistic about her chances, on the basis of her portfolio—which was impressive, to say the least. Almost…magically so.

  My mother, Minerva, and Aurora had brought me behind the curtain in the shop. They taught me different things I could do to control my powers and to use them only subtly and when I needed them.

  “Witches often get addicted to their own powers,” my mother explained. “It makes them lazy, sometimes even dangerous. They rely on magic for everything, even things you should accomplish with good old-fashioned elbow grease.”

  “Except cleaning, of course,” said my grandmother disdainfully. “No one should ever have to accomplish that by hand.”

  Weekends in the country at the cuckoo clock house were peaceful, the days filled with sunlight through the windows and the chirping of birds. The one person I hadn’t seen was Peter. Tamsin badgered me about it incessantly every time I visited, but I dodged her constant inquiries and attempts to drag me out for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Was I seeing Peter? Were we talking on the phone? Social media? Email? Was he visiting me in the city? Why didn’t I want to go see him? Why wouldn’t I tell her anything?

  As difficult as it was to withstand Tamsin’s constant third degree in regards to the state of my love life, it was more difficult to pick up the phone and just talk to him. I felt like we forged an oddly intense connection for two people that had just met, but I didn’t know if it would withstand the distance between the city and Mount Hazel.

  Yes, he’d made the vague allusion that he might move. Tamsin, true to her word, was certainly clamoring to get out of the house and strike out on her own. But saying you’ll do something and actually doing it are two different things. It didn’t mean, as he said, that he was doing it for me. It didn’t mean that, given a change of venue, we’d still be compatible.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” yelled Tamsin when I voiced such concerns. “You know that you’re meant for each other! Why can’t you just pick up your stupid phone and text him?”

  I thought her notion of people being meant for each other was a bit of a fairy tale ending. My parents hadn’t spoken for decades. Les might be reformed, and Bridget better off for it, but every other woman he’d dated had not-so-coincidentally sworn off men, temporarily at least. Would it really be such a terrible thing if I was one of them? It’s not like Peter called me, either.

  “Maybe,” said Tamsin sagely, “he’s trying to get his life together. I don’t know if you realize this, Sam, but you’re definitely no ordinary girl. Maybe he’s waiting till he’s not doing a series of meaningless and dead-end jobs he doesn’t enjoy, living in the town he was born in. Maybe you should woman up and give him a reason to move on.”

  That was a couple of months ago. Tonight was the first night she’d visit me here in the city, and I was excited, but also relatively certain she’d try to run amok. Knowing Tamsin as I did, I knew I would be hard-pressed to stop her.

  I walked into 30th Street Station and scanned the crowd. I was early and didn’t think Tamsin’s train had arrived yet, so I waited next to the Angel of Resurrection statue. My phone went off. It was Tamsin.

  Any minute now, her text said. Pulling into the station.

  I stood up and looked around the packed lobby, filled with Friday afternoon commuters. Tamsin was short, and I assumed she was lost somewhere in the crowd. Probably struggling with a suitcase she’d later reveal had enough clothing to last her several months rather than days.

  The crowd parted. Peter emerged, striding across the station toward me. He was clutching a bouquet of daisies with a sheepish smile on his face.

  “I heard it was your half-birthday,” he said, coming to a halt in front of me. “So we pulled sort of a, what do you call it? A switcheroo, as I believe it’s colloquially known.”

  I imagined the secret communiques that had gone into this plan: Tamsin and Peter. Tamsin and Cameron. It was like the opposite of my birthday, when Coco had sneakily set me up with Les, thinking she was doing me a favor.

  Peter was starting to look worried, like maybe I was mad they’d tricked me. I smiled. He looked relieved. He handed me the flowers and I took them.

  “I’m from out of town,” he said. “Do you know any place a guy can get a drink?”

  “I think I know one,” I said.