I sighed and shoved the last bite of the last slice of pumpkin pie in my mouth, chewing the creamy filling slowly and savoring the warmth of home I’d added, the feeling of rightness I needed with all the website stress still circulating.
I could make more pumpkin pie for the contest. After all, my family loved my variations on it, with the intense spices, custard filling, and warm, happy emotions.
But that was too cliché. Right?
Or there was a classic apple. Soft, chewy apple, crunchy caramelized top, flaky crust.
But what about the magic to put in it?
I sighed again and rinsed my plate to put it in the dishwasher.
Something crashed in the basement, and I heard the angry yowl of Nutmeg seconds before she came stampeding up the stairs and darting into the bedroom, still yowling.
“Meg?” I called softly, abandoning my musings in the kitchen.
I followed her into the bedroom, but she was gone, hidden away somewhere I’d never been able to find. She’d be back, but not until she was good and ready.
That left the basement. What had she found down there? Hopefully there wasn’t another issue with the furnace. They were calling for record lows the next few days.
I slowly approached, my socked feet silent on the floorboards. The cellar knob was cold to the touch, and the lights were off downstairs, leaving dimly lit darkness yawning up at me. I flipped the switch inside the door, throwing the creaky old steps into bright light, and made my way carefully down.
The basement was mostly unfinished; it had a cold concrete floor, cracked of course, unfinished cinderblock walls, and only one fogged-over half window up near the top, facing out behind the house and toward the woods. Below the window was where I’d placed the washer and dryer, somewhere there’d be a little bit of sunshine, along with a folding table, shelves of cleaning supplies, and a worn yellow rug to keep my feet from freezing on laundry day. The only other things down here were my shelves full of preserves and produce that I temporarily stored in the cold and dark, including an absurd number of apples to get me through the next week’s orders.
Nothing greeted my eye in the laundry, so I turned to face the old metal shelves lining the opposite wall, behind the steps. I yanked the chain to the single bare bulb, banishing the last of the cellar’s shadows and exposing a broken jar in a puddle of applesauce and...blueberries?
I stepped closer, careful to avoid the broken glass. The blueberries definitely weren’t mine, since I didn’t have any left this late in the season (even the ones from the children’s pie were gone, eaten with milk and a spoonful of sugar as my breakfast). And they definitely hadn’t just fallen there by chance.
They were laid out in the shape of a pie. A pie made of blueberries.
That creepy laughter, same as I’d heard in city hall, echoed in the corners of the cellar, but when I spun in place looking for its source, I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
My heart thudded and blood rushed in my ears. Someone obviously wanted me to make blueberry pie. Could it be the children again? But why? And how did they get in my house?
Sighing, I scooped up the blueberries and fetched a dustpan for the broken glass.
***
“No,” Maple said, pushing the plate away without even taking a bite. “Everyone else is doing pumpkin. I don’t care that you infused it with childhood holidays. It won’t win.”
I sighed and pulled the plate back, lifting the fork to my own mouth instead. The pumpkin burst on my tongue, just as always, and I was flooded with memories of trick-or-treating on a dark October night, of caramel apples, of hay rides in the country and bright, warm bonfires.
But she was right. It was too much.
I needed something unexpected. Something more universal. Something bold.
Too bad I was terrible at bold.
I pulled out a scrap of paper and began jotting a new recipe for apple pie. Then, Maple by my side and rolling out pie dough, we experimented with something like thirty different versions of the recipe. It was a lot to waste on test ingredients, but hopefully I would make up the money with new sales by the end of the Harvest Festival.
Seven
Classic Apple with America’s Favorite Pastimes
One day.
One day to make the perfect pie.
One day until this amazing opportunity...or failure.
Yesterday, we had narrowed the potential apple pies down to ten, and today I would choose the winner. Which meant ten more pies to bake today, then the final choice to bake tomorrow. That way it’d be fresh out of the oven—the best time to eat a pie.
I woke bright and early. As soon as I finished the day’s orders, I dashed for the grocery store, since we’d used up all my apples yesterday. The park was still a flurry of activity, preparing for the opening night of the Harvest Festival a mere ten hours away. And once again, that little circle of Fae, including the children, watched me rush by.
I snatched a cart from the cart return, clattering the metal against the corral and wincing at the resulting screech, as did several other nearby people. But I had no time to spare. I had no idea how many attempts I’d need in order to perfect one of these recipes before tomorrow.
I beelined for the produce section and began selecting several varieties of apples, hoping I could carry them all home. By the time I’d finished, I had at least thirty pounds of apples in my cart, shining in the fluorescent lights of the store with every shade of red, yellow, and even a little green.
As I turned toward the checkout line, a box fell in the aisle next to me, and I thought I saw movement ahead.
“Did she get them?” I heard.
“No,” came the reply, the voice full of disgust. “She has apples!”
And then the voices descended into speech that was too fast and too foreign for me to recognize. Bumps spread over my arms, and I shuddered. It sounded like the children again, but what would they care about me buying apples? And why would they be following me?
I doubled my pace and rang up my purchases as quickly as possible, waiting impatiently for the bagger to finish loading all of the produce in multiple brown bags. Then I grabbed as many as I could...but I had miscalculated. I hadn’t thought this far ahead.
“Reese!” came another voice behind me, one layered in a delectable British accent. “Good to see you again. Can I lend you a hand?”
I turned, arms full, and nearly lost the top few apples out of the bag. Emmett approached, catching the one runaway before it hit the ground. My heart lurched in my chest as I caught sight of those amazingly yellow eyes again.
Down, girl.
“Wow, that’s a lot of apples,” he said, eyes on the other two bags.
I felt myself flush and shifted the bags in my arms. They crinkled stiffly. “I’d love a hand, actually. I didn’t think I’d be buying quite so many, or I’d have made delivery arrangements.”
He adjusted his glasses, the same perfectly-unbent ones he’d been wearing at city hall, except in silver instead of brass. He picked the other two bags up from the bagging area and followed me straight out the door and back to the bakery, the Fae circle staring. And I could’ve sworn those children elbowed each other, back in the park as if they hadn’t been following me through the grocery store.
Maybe I was losing it.
“So, apples?” he said conversationally.
I felt the flush creeping back into my face, streaking my hair. It was rather a lot of apples. “Yeah. I’m still trying to perfect my recipe for tomorrow’s competition.”
His boot hit an acorn, and it skittered across the sidewalk. “I suppose apple is a sturdy autumn flavor.”
Was that wrinkle in his nose disgust? What did he have against apples?
I shrugged, nearly losing another loose apple from one of the bags. “Well, it’s typically either apple or pumpkin. I’m a little worried everyone will be doing one or the other, but I’m not sure what else to do. Besides...” I trailed off, catching myself bef
ore sharing my troubles.
I needed to get out more. Otherwise, apparently, I just couldn’t stop talking to people I barely knew.
He quirked an eyebrow at me, the nose wrinkle gone. “‘Besides’ what?”
I sighed, but the pressure of holding in all my troubles was becoming unbearable. “I’ve been having a lot of issues at the house. And it’s been such a distraction. On the one hand, it almost seems like the house itself is trying to get me to work on my recipe more, but on the other, it’s just killing my ability to think clearly.”
He frowned, and my stomach somersaulted. He was so adorable. “What kind of problems?”
If my hands had been free, I would have waved one casually. “Oh, the usual. My website went down, so I’m losing sales, which could mean I can’t pay my bill next week, which will give me fines I can’t pay and the possibility of the bank repossessing my house. And a creepy message on my window that might mean I have a stalker. The furnace broke and my hob woke me up extra early to deal with it. And I keep thinking I’m hearing someone tell me I should be baking!” I laughed nervously, unsure why I was telling him all this and more than a little embarrassed as soon as all the words were out. I usually only ranted like this to Maple. And if not Maple, then my mom. My heart was pounding, but this time it was anxiety over the possibility of losing everything. My hair streaked gray.
He nodded slowly, as if he understood. But how could he?
“I’m sorry to hear about all your trouble, Reese.”
“Me, too,” I said, laughing again awkwardly.
We made it to my block in silence, and then I continued, sharing what I’d been afraid to admit to myself the past few days. Now that I’d started, I just couldn’t seem to stop. “Maybe...maybe it’s trying to tell me something. Like I shouldn’t have the bakery. Like it was all just one big mistake.”
He looked up at me sharply. “Oh, no. I don’t think that’s it at all!”
I looked back at him, confused. “Then what?”
“Maybe...It could just be the...the universe...trying to tell you to try something new. To focus on this competition. Maybe there’s a special opportunity for you. And maybe you can try something bold.”
Warmth grew in my belly at the concern I heard in his voice. I’d only ever heard that tone from Maple or my parents.
I shrugged, but maybe he was right. Or maybe I was. It was difficult to say for sure. I’d never been the bold type; the bravest thing I’d ever done was open the bakery, and some part of me definitely felt like all these issues were a sign that it had been a mistake.
I glanced at Emmett again. If I were the bold type, though, I’d work up the nerve to ask him out for coffee. Then maybe Mom would stop hounding me about Magical Connections.
We continued down the block, and I tried to change the subject to something less humiliating, though my hair didn’t let me hide my feelings.
“So when did you come to Cider Hollow?” I said.
He shifted the bag. “Just at the beginning of the month. I’d always wanted to see the famous New England autumn, and my parents are crazy about the season, so they sent me along.”
“Your parents? Where are they?”
“Back in Britain, but they will be coming for the Harvest Ball.”
“Oh.” My mind drifted to my own parents, and I wondered what it must be like to have them so far away, to not be able to call whenever I needed them. “Is it hard being here alone?”
He chuckled. “I’ve been much too busy to worry about that. And I have plenty of support here.”
His eyes flashed with that sunflower yellow, and I wondered again if he was Fae, and if so, full-blooded or half-Fae like Maple. But I’d learned years ago from my friend that it wasn’t polite to ask.
While I tried to think up something else to say, we climbed the steps to my house. I balanced one bag on my hip and set the other on the porch while I juggled the keys and got the door open with all its locks.
“So you work out of your home?” he asked, looking around the entry of the cottage.
I could imagine how he saw it. Thea always kept it pristine, so the dark wood floor and banister on the stairs would be shining and glossy, the carpet runners fresh and clean and bright Boho against the age and character of the cottage, the crystal chandelier perfectly polished.
“Yes,” I said, pride blossoming in my chest. “I just started it full-time, though.”
“Oh? What prompted the change?”
I led him into the kitchen, and we set our bags on the peninsula. I hesitated for a moment, but he seemed genuinely interested, and he’d shown nothing but kindness even after all my ranting.
“Well...” How did I put this? “Baking is kind of my thing. I always loved it, and I learned most of it from my grandmother, so it’s got sentimental value, too.”
“And you wanted this to be your profession?”
I nodded, my mind drifting to those moments of flow when everything was going smoothly and the scents of fresh ingredients filled the air. “This is what I was meant to do. I know that more than anything. Preparing the best crusts, finding the freshest ingredients, coming up with twists on recipes no one has ever done before...there’s nothing else like it in the world. My grandmother was the same way.”
“She must have been a lovely woman.” He rounded the peninsula and examined my shelf of potions as we talked, one finger up to the bottles, reading the labels.
“She was.” I smiled. “I even named the bakery after her.”
“Oh? How so?”
“My mother always used to call my baking days with her our ‘pie-jinks,’ because we always got into trouble with them. She taught me how to make the potions that go into the pies, and sometimes we’d save a little extra to mess with my grandfather or parents. They were fun days for everyone. So I named it Pie-Jinks.”
He laughed at that. He actually laughed.
No one ever laughed at this story.
I felt myself warming even more to him, and kept talking, though the smile faded as I spoke. “I just hope I can keep it running. That’s why the contest is so important. Without that money, I might lose it all.”
He turned back to face me, caring in his eyes, and I flushed under the attention. Blueberry, rhubarb, and custard, those eyes were something!
“I’d best let you get to it, then,” he said, extending a hand toward me.
I shook it, opening my mouth to ask him about that cup of coffee...but then my eyes fell on the bags of apples.
He was right. I had to get focused!
“Thank you,” I said instead, “for all your help. I couldn’t have gotten all this home without you!”
He grasped my hand between both of his, and it disappeared between them. “It was my pleasure, Reese. It was wonderful getting to know you, and I look forward to seeing what you make for the competition.”
I walked him to the door, his hand still holding mine. My heart did a little happy dance in my chest.
What was wrong with me?
We reached the door, and he finally released my hand, shooting me a stunning smile. All my bravery gone, I merely waved as he walked back toward town.
Resigned, I turned back to the overflowing bags and began to unpack and clean the fruit. I had a lot of work to do if I was going to be ready in time.
I just couldn’t stop thinking about Emmett, though.
I spent the first half of the morning cutting up mountains of apples, my mind on our conversation and his bright smile and his sparkling sunflower eyes. I was completely on autopilot, not noticing anything around me, barely paying attention to the cutting board in front of me.
“Ow!” I dropped the ceramic knife and jumped back from the cutting board as bright red welled up on my finger. I shoved it in my mouth, tasting the coppery blood as my hair streaked white with pain.
Served me right for daydreaming while working with sharp objects.
“Why are you using apples, human?”
I froze, fi
nger still in my mouth, and looked around the kitchen. Nutmeg raised her head from where she was curled on a kitchen chair, blinking in a nap haze.
“Mrowr?”
Her eyes suddenly widened, and her gaze darted to the corner near the living room, fixing on something I couldn’t see. I took a step around the peninsula, freezing again as laughter bubbled through the room, from nowhere and everywhere.
Interlude III
I couldn’t help the smile on my face, much as I tried to wipe it away before I got back. I didn’t want to explain to Hannah, not unless I was sure. But the smile had a life of its own, like the trees and vines and flowers of autumn. Maybe those frosted sprites were right.
There was something about this Reese woman. And she was definitely more than human. Perhaps some kind of witch.
I just wished the sprites weren’t causing her so much trouble that she was doubting herself this way, questioning her bakery. From everything I’d heard, she was the best baker in town. I couldn’t wait to try her entry in the contest.
But freeze it all, what was I to do now? I’d let the sprites loose, and now I had no way to contact them, let alone track them down. It could take days, especially if they’d hidden themselves as well as they always did here.
Oh, Reese. What had I done, releasing them on her like that?
I took my glasses off and folded them absently, my mind traveling to her laugh, the sparkle in her eye. She was as beautiful as any Fae woman back home, maybe even moreso, with hair the color of autumn-gold stalks of wheat (except when her emotions got the better of her) and eyes the color of the last green leaves of summer. And as a witch of some measurable power, she would be an asset to the Court. I was sure even my parents couldn’t argue with that.
But she was still a human, despite it all. I’d be defying conventions, risking my reputation among my people.
But it would be worth the risk, I was sure.
Could a human do the same? Maybe the competition was the best way to know. To see if she could stand out, be bold, shake the typical and make something that no one in the Autumn Court had ever tasted before.
Seasons of Magic Volume 1 Page 10