by Delia James
“That smells great. What is it?” I said as I opened the door.
“Monday night casserole.” She set it down on the table and peeled back the foil to reveal a steaming dish of au gratin potatoes and ham. “I figured since things have calmed down, we could finally get around to doing the neighbor and housewarming thing.”
“How do you know I’m staying?” I opened the cabinets and brought out a couple of dishes. “I don’t even know if I’m staying.”
Martine looked at Val and shook her head. “Get used to it. She’s a little slow like this.”
“Hey!” I snapped. Alistair opened one lazy blue eye and huffed.
“I know you’re staying,” said Martine, “because this time things are different. Finally,” she added.
I laughed. Two murders and a magical heritage waiting for me, not to mention a house and . . . Alistair.
“Maybe they’re too different.” I handed Martine a serving spoon so she could dish out layers of cheesy potato goodness. I inhaled the scent of too much Gruyère and just enough pepper. “Maybe I want normal.”
“Have you ever wanted normal?” asked Val. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
I frowned. Clearly, Val and Martine had been gossiping way too much. My glower, however, had no visible effect.
“Maybe I’ve always wanted normal,” I mumbled around my mouthful. “Maybe I’ve just been lousy at finding it.”
“You keep talking.” Martine pointed her fork at me. “But all I hear is blah, blah, blah.”
“Maybe it gets boring after this. Maybe I’ve used up all the mystery at once.”
“You honestly think there’s any chance of that?” She sliced open a layer of potatoes with the side of her fork and pushed them apart, critically examining cheese, onion and ham.
“Maybe you should join the coven, Martine,” said Julia. “You seem to be very comfortable around magic and mystery.”
“Not me.” Martine waved her fork. “My grandmother did a divining for me back when I was a teenager. Said I should save my energies for other things. Always listen to your grandma.”
“Thus endeth the lesson?”
“Not a chance, Anna Britton.” Martine shook her head. “Your lessons are just getting started.”
Alistair opened the other eye. “Meow,” he agreed.
And who was I to argue with that kind of logic?
About the Author
Born in California and raised in Michigan, Delia James writes her tales of magic, cats and mystery from her hundred-year-old bungalow home in Ann Arbor. When not writing, she hikes, swims, gardens, cooks, reads and raises her rapidly growing son.
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