“She’s not lying,” I shoot back, feeling defensive for my new friend. Ivy rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Besides, fairy dust is real.”
“Really?” Kim’s eyes glow with wonder, as do Charlie’s.
“Yeah, but it’s dangerous, or it must be, since my mom won’t stock it anymore,” I say.
Rose nods. “It’s true. It’s been known to—” But before she can finish, her phone starts going nuts, lighting up with a furious feed of messages. She excuses herself to take a quick call in a separate corner of the store, then returns in a huff to grab her bag. “Sorry to be dramatic, but I have to run. Apparently Jane’s parents talked to mine, and everything is blowing up at the farm.” She heaves the heavy sigh of someone who has dealt with unnecessary drama for years. “It was nice meeting you all. Amber, we’ll talk soon?”
Ivy swings around, eyes blazing. “Wait, you can’t just drop that information and leave!”
I wave Rose away. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this mess; you handle yours.”
The fairy dashes for the door as Ivy looks at me like I’ve just committed one of the seven deadly sins. “How could you let her go?”
“Calm down, it’s fine. She’s not dropping off the face of the earth, we’ll see her again and—”
“But when?” There’s a hunger in Ivy’s eyes that has nothing to do with the treats surrounding us. The mere suggestion of a siren cure has her all riled up, and I’m honestly surprised she isn’t standing on the table, demanding we continue the discussion on restoring her powers. Even the possibility of her regaining siren strength doesn’t sit well with me; I can’t forget how she tortured me for years, threw herself at my boyfriend just for spite, and abused magic in the stupidest ways possible, AND YET—what she did for her sister was truly noble; few mystically inclined creatures would be willing to completely give up their gifts like that.
“Soon, okay?” I try to reassure her. “I’m not gonna let Rose slip away; I need to stay in touch with her just as much as you do.”
Ivy mumbles something to herself, slouching down in the booth.
“Well, I don’t know about you all, but man, this sure has been a day!” Charlie says, loosening his tie.
“Yeah, there’s no way I could’ve predicted any of this,” Amani adds.
“And poor Jane! She seems so sweet and has had it so rough,” Kim sympathizes.
“Yeah . . .” Being trapped in an environment where no one understands you is certainly not great and something I know all too well. But whereas my turf was the shop and all of Chicago, Jane’s been swirling around the same little fishpond her whole life, having to stare at the faces she either matched or set a match to, day in and day out. To hear Rose tell it, Jane’s parents tried to make her stop matchmaking altogether, not unlike how Amani’s folks wanted to snuff out her fortune-telling. Because they didn’t understand it, because it was different from what they knew. Even if I struggled when I was very young (and boy, did I struggle), my mom didn’t take a hacksaw to my self-esteem just because I wasn’t a witch. She may not have been #TeamMatchmaker4Life, but she didn’t throw me down a well of shame either. Suddenly, my mom and her coven friends look like total saints.
And if thinking about all the therapy that little girl will need isn’t enough, that nugget Rose dropped about fairy dust being a crazy deus ex machina has my head spinning. Could this be the answer I’ve been looking for? Sprinkle a little golden sparkle on myself and make my visions crystal clear? It sounds a lot nicer than working with Roscoe and his collection of magical nightmares, though if this is really true, I wonder why Mom never suggested it, seeing as how I know for sure that we used to sell it at Windy City Magic. It requires more research, so I guess I better put on my Giles tweed and head to my favorite supernatural library: the Sand-family grimoire col-lection.
Later that evening, I’m lying on the floor of Mom’s office, piles of pillows under piles of books. I’ve lit every candle in the room, because supernatural snooping just seems more magical under candlelight, you know? I also have a bowl of hand-dipped chocolate-covered cherries, since I need to get in my fruit quota for the day.
I will never grow tired of looking through these grimoires. Even if their witchy stories and secrets don’t necessarily pertain to me, I love the delicate parchment pages, and the inky drawings and loopy handwriting they hold. These tactile truths make me feel connected to something bigger than myself, and I like being part of the narrative, no matter how peripherally. Maybe someday I’ll pass down my recipe book to a bright-eyed kiddo who will look at it with the same kind of wonder.
Mom sits on a rocker in the corner, hair braided into a high bun, a few gray strands cascading down her temples as she pores over the book in her lap. I told her all about Rose and how Ivy was practically foaming at the mouth to get her hands on some fairy medicine, figuring I’d slowly lead up to how I was drooling too.
“I will say that, of all the magical creatures, sirens are the most evasive,” Mom huffs. “Because of the power they wield, most won’t even reveal their heritage, and when they do, they are stingy with the details.”
“I guess that makes sense. I mean, it’d be pretty scandalous if a world leader came out and said, ‘Ha-ha! I tricked you all into putting me into a position of power! Suck it!’”
“Amber, don’t say ‘suck it,’” Mom sighs.
“Sorry.”
“But yes, that’s the general idea.”
Which could be why I haven’t found anything pertaining to sirens here, though to be fair, my witchy ancestors spent 99 percent of the time writing about themselves, seeing as how these are their diaries. There’s the occasional spell mentioning banishing trolls or how to successfully replicate a vampire’s agelessness, but nothing about sirens. Not to mention that sirens and witches have some sort of weird rivalry, made even more apparent by that creepo nix who terrorized Iris earlier in the year. I can still picture him, sitting in a pile of trash and resentment, going on and on about how all witches are the worst. Yuck.
After a few more minutes of unproductive page flipping, I ask, “Mom, do you think Ivy is okay without her magic? She seems . . . not herself.”
Her forehead crinkles. “I can’t definitively say. You know as well as I do how integral our magic is to us. It’s a part of us, as essential as the blood in our veins. Think of Amani when she suppressed her precognition compared to now; she’s living a fuller, more honest life, opening her eyes and heart to people and things like never before.
“And then there’s Bob, who’s had such a difficult rehabilitation, or even myself; abusing magic takes so much out of you. It’s all about balance. Ivy’s now missing a key component of her essence. That cannot be easy. But is she okay? I’m not sure.” Yet the way her eyes cloud over as she turns the pages of her grimoire makes me think she knows more than she’s letting on.
“Mom, what are you not telling me?”
She closes her book, folding her hands on top. Could it be she may actually tell me on the first ask? “This fairy you met? I’m worried she may have given you all false hope. She’s right that fairy dust opens up many magical doors, but it’s extremely volatile and not a simple solution to any problem.”
“Why?” I press.
“Fairy dust works on wishes. Hold it in your hand, ask for what you desire, and it will make it so. Only, not always in the way you’d expect. You have to be very specific with the way you word your wish. If there is even a sliver of ambiguity, the dust will settle in the wiggle room. A member of Dawning Day used fairy dust once to wish for longer hair—a silly request, seeing as how she could’ve brewed herself a potion, but she thought fairy hair would be shinier.” Mom rolls her eyes. “She wasn’t wrong, but the hair grew from every inch of her body, and no matter how often she cuts it, it keeps growing back thicker and stronger. Had she wished for longer hair on the top of her head, she may have been okay. But since she didn’t add that detail, she’s basically a woolly mammoth now and she never l
eaves her house.”
I try not to laugh, picturing Cousin Itt attending a coven meeting. “Why didn’t she just use more dust to reverse it?”
Mom has no patience for this foolishness. “Because then she’d get sucked into a vicious, never-ending cycle. Every wish comes with a price: a consequence of equal magnitude to the wish itself. It’s impossible to know what the aftermath will be. Sometimes it’s minor, but often, the fallout is atrocious. Years ago, I made the mistake of selling fairy dust to a few of our supernatural regulars. I never had it out on the shelves for tourists to purchase, but I thought those who requested it could handle the side effects. Unfortunately, I was wrong, and stopped offering after too many customers literally fell apart.” She tries to blink away the memories of mutant clients. “I don’t even keep it in my private stash anymore. The risk is not worth the wish.”
“What happened to the Wookiee witch?” I ask. “What was her consequence?”
“Her teeth fell out,” she reveals flatly, my stomach dropping. “One body part for another.”
“Oh my Gods!” My tongue runs over my pearly whites, comforted by their slick presence. No teeth? Never eating chocolate-caramel-covered pretzels again? THE HORROR! “So basically, fairy dust is not an option?”
Mom rocks in her chair, debating if she should say more. “Well, if you can find a fairy willing to grant your wish, then the consequence is waived. They are the only ones who can harness its magic without worry. Since fairies are responsible for harvesting the dust, they’ve built up an immunity to any negative repercussions.”
Talk about burying the lede! “But we know a fairy! I’m sure she’d want to help!”
Mom tilts her head at that perfect “Oh, child, if only you knew” angle. “Don’t be so sure. Fairies are very private and don’t like flaunting their magic. Most fairies I know are very hesitant about granting wishes. Other magical creatures have abused fairy dust for years, causing a lot of mistrust. Why do you think they always hide their wings?”
Stupid me: I always assumed it was to avoid questions from boring old humans. I think of poor Rose pulling at her jacket. I don’t know her that well, and while she may tout a tough aesthetic, her efforts to help her cousin paint her in a philanthropic light. “Even if we couldn’t find a fairy to help us, could the dust by itself restore Ivy’s powers?”
Mom thinks for a second. “Yes, but again, it’s not a guarantee. And the consequence could be way worse than losing her powers in the first place,” she warns, her gaze disappearing to a seemingly scary place. “Amber . . . I don’t want you getting any ideas, okay? Not for Ivy, and not for yourself. I know you’re worried about your matchmaking, but I’m still doing research. Please don’t do something you’ll be sure to regret.”
Great. Well, this has been illuminating in the worst possible way. I guess that means using fairy dust for myself is also out of the question, so I’ll need to befriend Rose, which for a normal person wouldn’t be too hard, but since I’ve only made about three friends my entire life, I have quite a challenge ahead of me. Insert exasperated sigh here.
My eyes are tired from reading about stewing frogs and cauldron restoration, so I kiss Mom on the cheek and head back to my room, where my phone is waiting with a stream of texts from Charlie.
Hey girl hey
Thinking bout u
WOMAN I MISS YOU WHERE ARE YOU
I snort. I think it’s hilarious when he randomly drops “woman” like he’s some tough guy and not a total teddy bear.
Sorry! I was researching whether fairy dust is the answer to everyone’s prayers
FINALLY GEEZ
Jk hi
So what’s the scoop
It could save us all while also destroying us
Oh. Cool?
Not really. Magic is so annoying
You know what?
What
I keep thinking about that kiss from earlier
What kiss
jk yes it was good
very good
I’d even upgrade to great
Same
Can I take you on a fancy date plz?
Sure. Is cake involved?
Obvs
I love you
I love you too
CHARLIE’S NOT THE ONLY one blowing up my phone. Ivy has been texting me nonstop, saying that she needs to talk to me ASAP. I told her to meet me at Windy City Magic, but honestly, all this wilting-siren, closeted-matchmaker stuff is dragging me down. I know I started my summer by almost entering a black magic contract with a West Loop weirdo, but that was to alleviate my worries so I could enjoy my break in peace. All year I’ve been busting my butt, working three different jobs and solving these endless romantic mysteries (a genre I somehow invented), and I don’t want to be anti, but I’ve kind of had enough? College and adult life is waiting for me in three short months, and what I really want to do is watch trash TV with my best friend and make out with my boyfriend without these ginormous magical struggles constantly weighing me down. . . . Is that so much to ask? I want everyone to be safe and happy, but I also want Amber to be happy, and I’m having trouble finding that balance.
Especially because thanks to Matchmaking Magic! the demand for all things love is hot, hot, hot, and I’ve been forced to reopen my matchmaking table, accuracy be damned. It seems like all of Chicago has been stung by the love bug, and with summer tourist season in full swing, the masses are headed straight for us.
Mom is thrilled by the extra business, and has been hard at work creating new love-themed charms, spells, and tokens for customers to add on to their matchmaking experience. She’s set up a display to the right of my station with things like first-kiss mints (improves both your and your date’s breath), shots of bravery (little vials that give you the courage to talk to your crush), and enchanted quill feathers (to help you write an epic love letter to that special someone). Normally, I would not approve of such obvious cash grabs, but all these magical items do work, so it’s not like anyone is getting ripped off. I’ve had to cut back my barely existent hours at the Black Phoenix and MarshmElla’s just to help meet demand. I have never, EVER been this popular, though I know it’s my services the masses desire, not my sparkling personality. Which I’ve been told by more than one less-than-satisfied customer.
“I thought you would be, like, sweet or something?” says a college-age girl sitting across from me. Even though I just spent the past ten minutes mapping out her happily-ever-after, my delivery doesn’t seem to meet her standards. “You’re kind of grouchy for a person who talks about love all day.”
I close my eyes, breathing in deeply through my nose. I’ve been matchmaking for about six hours straight, and I’m on the verge. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Madame L’Amour is always so bubbly.” The girl beams. Ha, if she only knew the scowly, pierced fairy hiding under all that stage makeup. “I just love how upbeat and positive she is! Did you see the episode where she matched that eighty-year-old woman to her high school sweetheart? She’s the one who inspired me to come here today.”
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth. I didn’t see the episode, but I try to think of little Jane envisioning that match, and her faraway happiness gives me a sliver of strength. “Bob, is her sketch complete?”
I look at my accomplice, Bob, who is putting the finishing touches on this girl’s described match. He turns to me slowly, dark circles under his droopy eyes. A quick glance at his sketch pad proves this is not his best work. Though what he’s drawn technically resembles a human male, I’m pretty sure I could’ve created a similar end result, and I can’t draw for crap. He gives me a miserable smile as he shakes out his drawing hand. We’ve always offered sketches as an additional service, but now that Matchmaking Magic! has made renderings part of the expected package, they are more popular than ever. He’s just as exhausted by all this as I am.
“Yes, Madame Sand,” he moans (ugh, yes—apparently now I have to be Madame Sand, a right that use
d to be reserved for established witches like my mom). I snatch it from his hand and pass it to my patron, wanting to be rid of her. All I want to do is go home, take off my pants, and drown myself in a vat of cookie dough. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for spreading love around the world, but I’m not even sure if that’s what I’m doing. Every single session today has suffered by some kind of interference, whether it be visions that play on rewind, are rendered like pencil drawings, or cut out after seconds.
The girl leaves, terrible drawing in hand, and I survey the line behind her: five more to go. Mom’s been good about cutting off the crowds before I stab someone, but this afternoon her judgment is off. I give her big homeless-kitten eyes as she walks past, but she just shakes her head before diving back into her own sea of customer demands. The worker bees of Windy City Magic look pretty dang pathetic, except for Kim; her post at the register is filled with sunshine and rainbows. How she can swipe credit cards all day long with the same sunny disposition is beyond me. We’ve never hired a non-magical employee before, but maybe her ability to stay positive after hours of retail servitude is her supernatural quirk.
She bounds over to me between patrons, passing me a granola bar. While not exactly a sumptuous dessert, it does have chocolate chips, and I appreciate the gesture.
“How’s it going?” she asks, jangling the collection of witchy charms she wears on her arms while working.
“Besides wanting to hang up my Cupid’s arrows forever, great!” I whine.
“Aww, you’ve had a lot of people to deal with today,” Kim sympathizes. She pats my shoulder like I’m a sad puppy, which I am. “Any interesting matches, though?”
There’s been so many pairs that it’s hard to keep them straight. “Well, earlier this morning an elf man was matched with a giant woman—Giant with a capital G, mind you—and the visual of that combination always just makes me smile.” If it’s even true, I think to myself, since the vision played out like a Pixar animation.
The Fairest Kind of Love Page 6