Climbing out of her car, she zipped up her loose jacket and headed for the five-foot-tall wooden sign that stood to the left of the path. She stood before it, shielding her eyes from the sun peeking over the top of the sign’s peaked roof, and studied the map.
Sorrel Garden was spoon-shaped, wide at the top and thin at the end, reminiscent of a flower petal. Parking Lot D, where she was now, was positioned at the topmost part of the petal, and Parking Lot A was down near the garden’s thin base.
Sorrel, explained the block of informative text to the right of the garden’s map explained, was an edible weed. This garden—Marbleglen’s southwest garden, of which there were four total—was primarily home to edible plants. Amber peered around the side of the map and down the cement path that snaked past the towering evergreen trees before it disappeared into the sea of green.
Forward, her magic said.
Edgar was in so much trouble.
Giving the hem of her jacket a little yank and blowing out a breath that came out in a muted burst of steam despite the bright sunlight, she started down the cement path.
Welcome to Sorrel Garden! The words were etched into the arch of the metallic sign above her, twisting metal vines and leaves wrapped around the sign’s poles.
It was chillier in the garden, the sun only reaching past the tall tree-fence in patches. As she walked, she found herself paying less attention to the tug in her stomach and more to the expansive sea of green all around her. While there were a variety of trees here, the true stars of the garden were the smaller shrubs and bushes that completely covered the ground on either side of the path she walked down. There were a few flowers dotted here and there, but they were smaller than anything she’d expect to see in a typical garden full of the bright, wide heads of tulips, roses, and irises.
Amber didn’t know much about plants. What she did know was thanks mostly to Aunt Gretchen, a master kitchen witch. Her aunt would love Sorrel Garden. Amber wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think about her aunt right now.
The flowers here were delicate things—purple and white and yellow, and no bigger than her palm. Amber found herself wanting to return here in summer, when the wild brambles of berry bushes farther into the garden would ripen, adding reds and blues to the color palate, and when the shrubbery covering the ground would be full and lush.
After rounding a slight bend in the cement pathway, she spotted a few topiaries stippled amongst the greenery. To the right was a four-foot tall butterfly, its green wings outstretched and decorated with swirling patterns of yellow and dark brown. To the left, closer to the edge of the path, were four foot-long topiary bunnies forming a semi-circle around a plant she didn’t recognize, but one she guessed would be leafy and wide in summer.
As she got closer, a jolt from her magic told her this was where the cache was hidden. Squatting before the topiary bunnies, she glanced left and right. No one was coming from the direction she’d been, and though she did see someone on the path to her left, she was so far down that she was nothing more than a speck in the distance.
Blowing out a steadying breath, she poked around near the bunnies, their little wire skeletons not offering much give to her probing fingers. Where was this thing? What if it was something truly tiny, like a seed?
Could she legally disown Edgar? She would consult a lawyer once she was safely back in Edgehill … assuming she didn’t give an unsuspecting non-witch a heart attack when she finally found the cache item and a guestbook materialized out of thin air.
She wondered if there could possibly be a cloaking spell on the item. It was in a public place, after all. What would stop a bored kid, wandering the gardens with his parents, from finding the object amongst one of the bunnies’ paws and making off with it?
Knowing whatever spell was keeping the item hidden had to be a relatively simple one that could be kept active by ambient magic—which had to be abundant here, given all the plants—she crafted a simple reveal spell in her head. Glancing both ways again to confirm she was still alone, she conducted the spell.
She bit down on her bottom lip, gaze roving over the family of four topiary bunnies, the small plant in front of them, and the sea of green stretching out behind the bunnies in three directions. She was just about to try the spell again when a small wooden rabbit appeared between the paws of its much bigger topiary counterpart behind it. The item sat on its hind legs with its front paws held close to its chest, and its ears stuck up at attention. Tentatively, she grabbed it. The wood was a bit denser than she’d expected, the color a warm caramel brown. It fit easily in the palm of her hand. Though a good deal of the etching was worn away now, she could still see the marks of its fur, the lines marking the inside rim of its ears, and the detailed painting of its alert and bright eyes.
Moments later, she yelped. She’d been perched on the balls of her feet, but now found herself on her butt. A small red book lay on the cement path before her feet. The excited thrill that went through her at actually finding the item made her jealous of all the witch kids who got to do this growing up. Snatching up the three-inch-tall book—careful not to drop the wooden rabbit—she opened it. A small golfer pencil almost fell out, but she caught it before that hit the ground too.
There were five entries here. Her brow furrowed more and more with each line she read.
S. Ricinus. Cache Creator. September 23rd.
V. White. Cheers from England! Brilliant cache location. April 18th.
S. Ricinus. Cache maintenance. June 1st.
K. Rivers. Hello from North Carolina! Beautiful spot. April 30th.
S. Ricinus. Cache maintenance. June 1st.
Amber blinked rapidly several times. None of the words in front of her changed. “S. Ricinus,” since he or she had not only created the cache but had been back to check on it multiple times, was possibly local. The Floral Frenzy Festival, over the last few years anyway, happened sometime between late-April and mid-May. Did “S. Ricinus” come by on the first of June to check on the cache once the flood of flower festival attendees had left? Sure, there was another upswell in summer, but perhaps the first was early enough into the season that it was slower here and he or she could more easily get to their cache without worry of being seen.
Then Amber realized two things in rapid succession.
One: Edgar hadn’t sent her here after all.
Two: there was a witch in Marbleglen.
Chapter 4
The cement was cold, and a small rock dug into her ankle, yet Amber couldn’t get herself to stand up. Couldn’t get herself to look away from the five lines of text and the realization that there was at least one other witch in the area aside from herself and Edgar.
I have to find this person …
As she worked through the best way to find S. Ricinus, she picked up the tiny golfer pencil and quickly added her name to the sixth line. It was such a small way to insert herself into this existing-below-the-surface magical world she knew so little about, but it felt good for some reason.
I’m here, the act said.
A. Blackwood. April 16th.
And then an idea hit her. Shooting another quick glance left and right, she determined the person to her left was still far enough away. With the wooden rabbit clutched in one hand, she set the book on her knee. Using her free hand, she touched the tip of three fingers to each of the S. Ricinus lines; perhaps some of the person’s energy was trapped in the penciled words.
She hoped a simple locator spell, similar to the one she used on the PI, Alan Peterson’s, business card, would make a dot pop up on her map—even though the map was currently stuffed into her purse in the car. She had no idea what the range was on spells like this, but she figured it was her best bet. Putting the cache item back in its original place would make the guestbook disappear, but what would happen if she tried to remove either item from the cache site? Would it break the weak spells keeping it in place? No point in ruining the Magic Cache fun for the next person just because she was
losing her cookies over another witch being nearby.
The moment she’d conducted the locator spell, though, she heard a muted pop, the guestbook vanished off her knee and the wooden rabbit grew hot in her hand. She yelped and dropped it. With a soft clatter, it hit cotton-tail-first on the cement and then lay on its side. The tips of its ears were charred black. The small rabbit looked quite aggrieved.
“Well, that’s not good,” she muttered to herself. “Sorry, little guy.”
Panic made her palms sweat and her heart thrum, like a kid who had just broken her mother’s favorite vase and now needed a plan to hide the evidence.
Tentatively, she picked the wooden rabbit up again, thankfully cool once more, and got to her feet so she could reach the spot where the item’s original hiding place had been. Except placing it before the topiary bunny didn’t trigger the cloaking spell.
Glancing to her left, she saw a man with a camera strapped around his neck moving closer. Close enough that she could tell he was watching her. Namely in a “What in the world is that weird lady doing?” kind of way.
Amber grabbed the semi-charred wooden rabbit and quickly headed back the way she’d come. She felt guilty taking the cache item with her, but she’d already messed up the magic here somehow, so the least she could do was try to find S. Ricinus, apologize profusely, and return the rabbit.
Once she got back to the car—a fine sheen of sweat dotting her forehead and dampening the back of her shirt—she hurriedly pulled her purse out of its hiding place in the back seat. She grabbed her map of Edgehill, hoping a dot would be hovering near the small sliver of Marbleglen included to the north. Miraculously, there was a dot there, but it sat in the white space at the top of the map. It moved back and forth across an inch distance. If Amber didn’t know any better, she’d have said the dot was pacing.
Tossing the map onto the passenger seat with her purse, she fished her phone out of the cup holder in the center console and looked up the nearest visitor center. She quickly found one in Parking Lot A, at the bottom of the spoon-shaped Sorrel Garden.
As she drove to the visitor center—the wall of Italian blue cypress lining the edge of the garden the entire way—she wondered what she’d do if she was able to track down S. Ricinus. The idea of meeting other witches was so novel to her, she didn’t even know where to begin. Aside from her family, the only other witch she’d ever met had been a cursed Penhallow.
And he’d tried to kill her.
Once she was sure she knew where she was going, she called Edgar.
“Don’t tell me you’ve given up already,” he said by way of greeting.
“I found a cache,” she said. “It wasn’t yours. There’s a witch in Marbleglen.”
“You’re kidding!” Edgar said. “I didn’t even think to look for any there.”
She walked him through the events of her morning. “Do you know any Ricinus witch families?”
Edgar was quiet a moment, and she could picture his dark bushy brows crammed together on his forehead. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Aunt G might know.”
“I’m not speaking to her right now,” Amber blurted.
“Why?”
Jack’s smiling face appeared in her mind.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” she said. “Just wanted you to know your cache will have to wait.” She ended the call before he could reply.
Parking Lot A was nearly full. Amber supposed that was because it was close to the center of town. The visitor center was little more than a glorified kiosk, but the woman behind the counter was cheery and happily passed over a map of Marbleglen when Amber asked for one. The woman also gave her a brochure that detailed the four gardens of Marbleglen, and suggested which ones were best to visit this time of year.
Once back in her car, currently wedged between two SUVs, Amber first laid out her map of Edgehill, where the dot still paced, and then spread out the map of Marbleglen above it, lining them up as best she could. The town had been designed to resemble a flower from the air. There was a town center that was arranged in a circle, and from there, four spoon-shaped gardens radiated out from it, like a four-petaled flower.
Amber watched as the pacing dot at the top of the Edgehill map gave a little quiver and then darted from one sheet to the other. It moved away from the southwest Sorrel Garden and toward the east. It stopped at a house halfway between Sorrel and the southeastern Lilac Garden.
An excited trill fluttered in her stomach. That little dot represented another witch.
Before she could convince herself not to, she started up her dusty rental car and headed for the home of S. Ricinus.
The house was on Amaryllis Way, halfway up a block that was just as picturesque and peaceful as the rest of Marbleglen. Houses in this neighborhood sat facing a center grassy island that ran down the middle of the street. A couple sat on a blanket in this cultivated meadow while their baby attempted to crawl toward a stuffed animal a foot away.
Amber pulled up outside of 93 Amaryllis, parked at the curb, and then … just sat there. She leaned over the center console to peer out at the one-story cerulean cottage. Boxes full of plants that were just beginning to flower hung under the four windows, and a wreath made of twisted strands of wood framed the small latticework spyhole in the middle of the door. The property was surrounded by a low wooden fence, the front of which was ringed with well-tended hedges. Beyond it was a variety of garden boxes and potted plants. To the left, four white Adirondack chairs sat around a fire pit covered by a dome-shaped cage. And, in the right-hand corner, a middle-aged man wearing thick gray gloves, khakis, and a ratty T-shirt was busy at work filling a wheelbarrow.
S. Ricinus. Or at least someone who knew the person, if the dot on her map was to be believed.
Amber got out of the car and immediately stuck her hand in her pocket to make sure the small, charred wooden rabbit was still there. It felt strange being here, but the rabbit would at least be a conversation starter.
She had just reached the semi-ajar gate when the man looked up from his trek across the garden. He was a perfectly normal looking middle-aged man. His short brown hair had started to gray at the temples, and faint wrinkles lined his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. He held the handles of the wheelbarrow that was now full of fresh soil.
“Hi, sir,” she said, waving awkwardly. She inched past the gate; the rabbit was gripped so tightly in her hand that it started to hurt. “My name is—”
“A. Blackwood?” he asked, setting the wheelbarrow down.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she took the rabbit out of her pocket and held it out to him, closing the distance between them as she did so.
He pulled off one of his dirty gloves and tucked it under an arm, then took the rabbit from her. “Well, that’s a shame,” he said. “My grandfather made this.”
Amber winced. “I’m really sorry. I—”
The man held up a hand, then scanned the quiet street behind her. The baby playing in the grass let out a high peal of laughter.
Apparently deeming the coast clear, he placed the rabbit flat in his open palm, muttered a quick incantation, and then swiped his still-gloved palm over the other. The rabbit was instantly restored to its former glory. “You thirsty?” he asked.
Before Amber could reply, he turned in on his heel and headed for the front door. She still stood there, open-mouthed, when he looked over his shoulder at her from the doorway. “I’ve got fresh lemonade.”
At a loss, she followed him in.
The house was small—maybe four rooms in all. He led her through the small living room and into the kitchen. It was a cramped space that felt even smaller thanks to all the dark colors. The cabinets were unfinished wood, the accents dark green. A wooden table took up most of the space in the room and was piled high with dried plants and flowers, piles of thin wooden pieces, and what looked like wreaths in various stages of completion. Even more plants hung from the ceiling—she supposed to help them dry.
&nbs
p; While it felt like the kitchen of a crafter, it also felt like the kitchen of a witch.
“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting company. I make wreaths.”
She stood awkwardly in the doorway as he cleared a small corner of the table for them, then gestured for her to sit in one of the worn chairs. As she slipped into one, she said, “My apartment looks like this, too. Well, sort of. I make toys—magically animated ones. Though no one knows they’re magic. I have bits of plastic, pots of paint, and spells everywhere.”
It felt strangely exhilarating to talk freely about her magic with a total stranger.
The man placed two glasses of lemonade on the table, then sat gingerly in the chair diagonally from her. He dropped his pair of dirty gloves on the table. “So did you just come by to return the cache item?”
His tone implied he knew she was here for more than that; she appreciated that he was giving her an out if she wanted it.
“I’m Simon, by the way,” he said.
“Amber.” She ran a finger down the light sheen of condensation on her glass. “So this might sound a little strange, but I only learned about Magic Cache about a week ago. I was wondering if you could tell me why the guest book vanished?”
He stared at her a beat, gaze roving her face. “I’m guessing you conducted a spell on the book or the item for some reason.”
“Locator spell.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “The magic on cache items is so weak, any spell you conduct on them that’s stronger than a basic cloaking spell is more or less going to short circuit the whole thing. Your locator spell overloaded it and negated all the spells. It’s tradition to place a boomerang spell on guest books so they’re sent back to the cache creator if the guest log or item is damaged or removed.”
Amber winced. “I really am sorry.”
“No harm done.” With a snap of his fingers, the small, familiar red book landed on the table with a muted thud. He set the restored wooden rabbit on top of it.
Pawsitively Swindled Page 4