The man sitting on the sofa across from me stood up and said, “She’s really into that book.”
As he headed to the counter, I tipped my head to the side to see the spine of the vintage book Harper held. Witches: A Crafted History. It was yellowed with age.
There was a whole stack of books on the floor next to the couch, each and every one the same color yellow, and all were about witchcraft.
Harper turned a page, and I peered over the top of the book. “Boo!”
She jumped, sending the book flying. It landed with a thump near Pie, and he let out a loud meow and hopped onto a nearby bookshelf.
Harper clutched her heart. “A hello would have sufficed.”
“I think not,” I said, retrieving the book. “You were in another world.”
“I was reading,” Harper said. “That’s what books do. They take you somewhere else.”
I flipped through the pages. It seemed to be a history of the village. “Where did you get this?” It definitely wasn’t a book she sold here in the shop.
“Basement,” she said. “There are hundreds of books down there about witchcraft. One of them is bound to mention something about the Elder.”
So that was what this was all about. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I motioned to the pile on the floor. “Did any of these mention her?”
“Well, no, but I’m optimistic.”
That made one of us.
“That book,” she said quietly, motioning to the book in my hands, “is different. I think it was written by a Crafter.”
“Who?”
“There’s no author listed, which is unusual in itself, and”—she dropped her voice even lower—“it lists some magical abilities in here. Witches who can disappear, witches who can heal. No Craft is mentioned by exact name, but the person who wrote this definitely knew what he was talking about.”
That was very interesting. “But no mention of the Elder.”
“Not yet.” She lifted an eyebrow at me. “I was only halfway through before I was so rudely interrupted.”
Marcus came up behind the couch and put his arm on Harper’s shoulder. She glanced up at him, and smiled a smile I rarely saw from her. Pure joy.
Oh yes, I definitely thought Harper had weddings on her mind.
“Coffee, Darcy?” Marcus asked, adjusting his eyeglasses as happiness radiated from his light green eyes.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m not staying. I was just dropping off one of these flyers.”
Harper took one out of my hands. “Another victim of the supposed petnapper?”
“You heard about that?” I asked.
“Everyone’s been talking about it,” Marcus said.
“I don’t believe for a second that there’s a petnapper on the loose,” Harper said.
“Why not?” I straightened the rest of the papers. “Seems logical to me.”
“Not a single person’s tried to take Pie,” she said, matter-of-factly.
I looked at the cat. He was still on top of one of the bookcases. Folded like a pretzel, he had one leg in the air as he cleaned his underside. “Yes, well, maybe he’s just too . . .”
Harper narrowed her eyes at me.
“Protected,” I finished.
Marcus laughed and headed back to the counter to help a customer.
“He’s hardly ever alone,” I added quickly.
“That must be it,” Harper said, nodding. “Any news on Natasha?”
“Not really. Nick’s searching Baz’s house right now.”
The bell jangled, and we looked up to see Starla walking in, Twink under one arm. Starla’s hair was full and fluffy—and all one color. A sunny blond.
“I feel so much better.” She plopped down next to me and set Twink on the floor. He bounded over to the bookcase to see if Pie would come down to play with him.
Pie continued his bath.
“Now I just need that stripe never to come back. I hate lying to Vince,” Starla said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if . . .” She trailed off, then sent a bashful look at Harper and me. “Well, you know.”
I nodded. A marriage between a mortal and Crafter was a tenuous endeavor.
“No,” Harper said, a sneaky smile on her face. “What?”
Starla knew Harper was only teasing, so she shook her head and blushed more deeply. “Just be glad you’re not in my shoes, Harper. You’re lucky Marcus is one of us.”
“I’m lucky to have Marcus,” she agreed, looking over her shoulder at him, “but if he wasn’t . . . one of us . . . I’d give up my powers to tell him the truth.”
Starla said in hushed tones, “That’s because you don’t even want your powers. I do. But I don’t want to live a lie, either. I’m not good at lying. Case in point, you should have seen me trying to explain my hair. I spun this elaborate tale about trying to color my roots. . . . I don’t think he bought a word of it. And if my hair explanation wasn’t enough to arouse suspicions”—she leaned forward—“the picture sure did.”
“Picture?” Harper asked.
“I suggested we have our picture taken, since my hair was already messed up, and it was a lovely shot of Vince and a bright starburst. Then he insisted on taking it over and over, and”—she took a deep breath—“I might have to memory-cleanse him.”
“This was last night?” I asked, my mind whirling.
“Yeah. Why?” she asked.
We all spoke quietly so as to not be overheard by mortals. “Because I took a picture of myself this morning to see if the spell still worked. It did.”
Starla glanced at Harper. “How about you? Did you try a picture?”
She nodded. “Starburst city.”
They both looked at me, but I had no answers. “I don’t understand.”
“I do,” Harper said. “You’re still under the spell, Darcy.”
“Why me and not both o— Wait a sec.”
“What?” Starla asked.
I looked at her. “Yesterday, I asked you to check your camera for anything unusual about Evan or Ve at the Extravaganza. . . .”
“Right,” Starla said. “And I found nothing odd. Just their usual starbursts. Oh.”
“What am I missing?” Harper asked.
Starla said in a whisper, “If Ve had cast the Lunumbra spell on herself so she could be photographed at the Extravaganza, her image should have been on my camera. Yet it wasn’t.”
I thought of all the photos taken that showed visible Wishcrafters, and there was one constant.
Me.
I took out my phone and waved Marcus over. “Will you please take a shot of us?”
Starla went to stand up, and I grabbed her arm.
She said, “Darcy, I just had my hair—”
Marcus took the picture.
“—done,” Starla finished, sitting back down. She let out a sigh. “It has a stripe again, doesn’t it?”
Harper nodded.
Starla slumped back, let out a whimper.
I looked at the camera. Harper had her tongue stuck out, I was in profile as I reached for Starla, and she was only photographed from waist down.
But all three of us were clearly visible.
“Harper,” I said, “do me a favor and go stand over by Pie.”
Without even a peep of protest, she crossed the room and scooped up Pie. I snapped the picture and looked at it. Harper was there, but her image was washed out, white around its edges.
“Now by the kids’ area,” I instructed. The kids’ section was a good twenty feet away.
She trotted over. I snapped the picture and showed Starla.
“A starburst,” she said in awe.
“There must be a radius on the witch who’s under the spell. The spell affects all the Wishcrafters within that radius. I’m tha
t witch.”
Harper sat back down and looked at the pictures. “Aunt Ve cast the spell only on you,” she said. “Why?”
Starla said, “I don’t understand.”
“Me neither,” I said, glancing again at the pictures.
I was sure there was a simple explanation, but for the life of me, I couldn’t come up with one.
Chapter Eighteen
Missy wagged her stubby tail as I walked through the side gate at As You Wish, and I set my bag down on the grass to give her a proper hello.
From his cage, Archie was regaling a group of tourist with the “I’ll never go hungry again” monologue from Gone with the Wind. In Scarlett’s voice, of course.
“‘ . . . they’re not going to lick me! I’m going to live through this, and when it’s all over, I’ll never be hungry again . . .’”
He paused for dramatic effect, then finished the rest of the scene. When he was done, the tourists clapped and whistled. “Bravo, bravo! Encore!”
In Rhett’s voice, he said, “‘No, I’m through with everything here. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere there isn’t something left in life of charm and grace.’”
With that, he took a bow, and the tourists applauded a moment more before wandering off. I carried Missy over to the fence that separated the yards and kept my back to the village green so no one could see me carrying on a conversation with Archie. “Do you ever think it crosses the tourists’ minds that you’re not an average bird?”
He scooted along his perch, closer to me. “I’d be highly insulted if not considered an above average bird at the very least. Which is why, after all, someone tried to steal me, lest you forget.”
Out here in the sunlight, I noticed some of Missy’s fur was darkening with age on the top of her head, creating brunette half-moons that curved around her ears. It only added to her adorability. “How could I when you remind me every time I see you?”
He blinked. “I choose believe that is a rhetorical question.”
“So, you think it was a tourist who tried to steal you?”
He craned his neck and peered at me. “Do you know something I do not?”
“Not necessarily. It simply seems odd that no one saw what happened to you. There’s not been a single witness to step forward.”
“Perhaps that is because my abduction is not receiving the investigation it deserves,” he said snidely.
“Or perhaps it is because magic was involved.”
“No,” he said. “I think not.”
“Yes,” I countered. “It’s possible.”
“Noooo.”
“Yessss.”
“No Crafter would be foolish enough to make such an attempt,” he said crisply. “All know who I am. Who I represent.”
The Elder. Yes, everyone knew that, and going against the Elder was grounds for being banned from the Craft, but still . . .
“There are certain lines Crafters do not cross,” he continued. “I am one of them.”
He sounded so certain, yet no one had witnessed anyone snatching him. No one at all. “Where is the bag that you were stuffed into? Do the police have it?”
Fanning his face with his wing, he said, “Do not remind me of that claustrophobic mothball-scented pillowcase.”
“It was a pillowcase?”
“I do not know,” he squawked. “I did not linger to examine the precise textile into which I had been forcefully propelled. It merely seems the class of conveyance into which a mortal would stuff a precious commodity such as myself. Like I was a piece of stale Halloween candy! For shame! Shaaaaame.”
He started mumbling about Necco Wafers and Tootsie Rolls. I needed to cut him off before he started on a full-blown tangent about what he considered to be decent candy. “What kind of material was the bag made of?”
Feathers flew. “The torture! Have you no mercy, Darcy Merriweather? I’m molting again! I’ll be as bald as Demi Moore in G.I. Jane by suppertime, mark my words.”
“But still just as pretty as she was in the movie.”
He tipped his head side to side, as if considering. “This is true. Prettier, even. Bald wasn’t her best look. Speaking of hair—”
I held up a finger. “Hold that thought. Let me just check if Higgins is around and wants a snack.”
His beak snapped closed. “Never mind.”
“Listen,” I said. “I was just asking about the bag because there’s a chance fingerprints could be found on the offensive textile, thus leading the police straight to your birdnapper.”
“Thus?” he repeated, blinking.
“I threw that in for you. Thought you’d like it.”
“I approve. I also approve of the notion of the thief who captured me being stuffed inside a jail cell, as I was stuffed—”
I coughed loudly.
He fluffed his feathers for a moment before he said, “Yes. Well. I have no idea where the accursed pillowcase is at the moment, but the last I saw of it was in the woods behind the Wisp, near the pond.”
I knew the spot. “I’ll ask Nick if one of his officers picked it up after taking Terry’s report, and I’ll keep you informed.”
Haughtily, he said, “‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Perhaps I give a small damn,” he amended. “Minuscule.” He paused. “Inform me the moment you know.” With that, he flew out of his cage and into Terry’s house through a special Archie-sized door flap.
As I headed into As You Wish, I thought of what Archie said about a Crafter not being so foolish as to try to steal him.
I agreed.
Which told me one thing for certain. If it turned out that a Crafter was involved, that person wasn’t the least bit foolish.
No.
That witch was desperate.
* * *
“Darcy, is that you?” Ve called out as soon as I stepped into the mudroom. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
A small dog came running toward me, and it took me a moment to realize it was Audrey Pupburn.
I set the bag from the Furry Toadstool on a bench and set Missy on the floor. The two dogs started sniffing each other in the way of hellos. “It’s me. Who’s we?” Please not Baz, please not Baz.
“Vivienne’s here about that spell. We’re in the family room.”
The spell. The one that had been cast only upon me.
Tilda and Titania eyed me from the stop of the back stairway as I passed through the kitchen, and the two dogs followed me down the hall toward the family room. I found Ve sitting on one sofa, Vivienne on the other. A plate of scones sat on the coffee table as well as a coffee tray.
“Oh my,” Vivienne said when she saw my hair.
“The streak is certainly more pronounced in Darcy’s hair, the silver against the black,” Ve said, sipping from mug that had “There’s a chance this is vodka” written on its side. “It’s hardly noticeable in mine.”
I sat in a wingback chair and decided to wait to see if Ve would explain why I seemed to be the only one under the spell before I outright accused her of anything.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Titania creeping down the hallway. I lowered my hand next to my chair and rubbed my fingers together. She ran over to them, giving them a sniff. In a blink, she hopped onto my lap.
“She’s taken a liking to you,” Vivienne said.
I ran a hand down Titania’s back. “The feeling’s mutual.” As Titania head-butted my chin and started purring, I noticed Vivienne was yet another who looked as though she hadn’t slept well. In fact, I was pretty sure she was wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday at the Extravaganza. Which made me wonder if she’d slept at all. “Thanks for coming over so soon.”
“When Ve explained what was happening, I came immediately. It’s an easy
fix.”
“It is?” I asked.
Standing, she came over to the chair. “I just need a strand of your hair.” She plucked.
I yelped. “Hey!”
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s easier not to warn people. Do you have a candle I can borrow, Ve?”
Ve set her mug on the table. “Certainly.”
A few minutes later, my strand of hair had gone up in flames, and the hair on my head was back to its natural color.
“I’ll need to re-create the spell to fix its flaw,” Vivienne said, “but I have to wait until a black moon.”
“Black moon?” I asked.
“There are several definitions, the most common being when there are two new moons within a calendar month,” Vivienne said as Ve topped off her coffee. “I need ample darkness in a lunar month to counterbalance your starburst.”
Mimi was going to love hearing all this.
Vivienne said, “The spell is all about dark versus light. Opposites. Which is probably why your hair turned silver, and Starla’s had a brunette streak. Light and dark,” she reiterated.
Magic would never, ever, cease to amaze me.
“Unfortunately, the black moon I need to permanently correct the spell won’t happen again for a couple of months.”
“Months?” Ve said, eyes wide.
Vivienne blew on her coffee, then took a sip. “As I said, that black moon is rare. Until then, the spell will need to be cast while burning a strand of hair from the witch who’s using the spell. It will prevent the streak from occurring.”
“How long does this current spell last from the time it is cast?” I asked, fact-gathering.
Ve fidgeted on the couch, fussing with the buttons on her tunic top.
“Twelve hours,” Vivienne said.
Titania had flopped down next to me on the chair and stretched out to nap. Missy and Audrey were playing tug-of-war with a chew toy. And my mind was spinning.
Twelve hours. That meant that Ve had probably only cast the spell on herself once—to test it—and on me at least three times now.
She caught me looking at her, and she reached for a scone and took a big bite. “Delicious,” she murmured around falling crumbs. “That Evan sure can bake.”
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