“Seems they were suited to each other,” Alder said, and I saw kindness reflected in his dark eyes. Why did I ever think he was creepy?
“They were,” I said. “Thank you for sharing that with me. It means a lot.” It wasn’t often I heard anecdotes about my parents. It was challenging enough to steal glimpses of old photographs in my aunt’s house.
“Your daughter looks like her,” Alder said.
My heart swelled. “You think so?”
“Without a doubt. Neither one of you has the look of a Rose, but that’s not a bad thing. Such exquisite beauty is often a barrier to meaningful relationships.”
Wow. Alder was more insightful than I ever would have guessed.
“Don’t say that in front of Aunt Hyacinth,” I said. “She wants the Rose genes to dominate every generation.”
“I would never dare,” Alder said. “There aren’t many reasons for me to be fearful in this world, but she tops the list.”
“What do you think makes her so intimidating?” I asked. “Is it the One True Witch claim?”
“Hyacinth radiates power,” Alder said. “She wields her magic with the utmost care, however. It is one of the main reasons she is so respected within the coven and the wider community.”
Can I come out now? Raoul asked. This guy seems safe and this bush is tickling my fur.
I laughed. “Sorry, Raoul. You can come out.” I faced Alder. “This is my familiar, Raoul. He’s a rodent bandit. Raoul, this is Alder.”
Alder gave the raccoon a crisp nod. “Your aunt was most distraught over this development.”
“Oh, I’m well aware, thanks,” I said. “You’d have thought I’d done it on purpose, just to mess with her.”
He chuckled, and I realized it was the first time I’d ever heard him laugh. “Hyacinth is not so different from your mother, you know. She guards her heart like a gryphon guards treasure.”
“Wow. You used “Hyacinth” and “heart” in the same breath,” I said. “I don’t hear that every day.”
“If your aunt lacked a heart, she wouldn’t be as careful with her power as she is,” he said. “She protects us all, not simply herself.”
Can we go now? Raoul asked, tugging on my cloak.
You’re scared? I thought you’d spent half your life in the woods.
Not scared, he said. Hungry.
Right. That was more like it. “I should get home before it’s too late,” I said. “Good luck with whatever ritual you’re prepping for.”
“Oh, it’s a simple circumcision,” he replied.
Raoul’s paws dropped to his lower half. Come again?
“The coven performs circumcisions as a ritual?” I queried.
Barbarians, Raoul seethed.
“Not all covens have adopted circumcision as one of its customs, but Silver Moon has.”
“I bet Florian voted against it,” I said.
“It was implemented before he came of age.” Alder began to wipe the paint off his face. “The custom is not for me to judge. I merely perform the ritual.”
“We all have our roles to play, don’t we?” I said. Such was life. The question I still needed to figure out was—what was mine?
15
The Power Puffs sent a message to meet them at twelve o’clock in front of the big purple tent. It was easy to find, with a sign out front declaring that A Tale of Synchronicity started in twenty minutes.
“What’s the show?” I asked.
Sasha blew a breath in disgust. “Mermaid performance. They’re such drama queens. A carnival show is where they belong.”
“There’s a pool in there?” I asked. The tent looked no larger than the office building that housed Vox Populi.
“Not a pool,” Colette replied. “A water feature.”
That sounded intriguing. “Mind if I take a quick look?”
B’linda slapped a gold star in my palm. “Sure. You’re free to go.”
“Really?” I glanced from Puff to Puff. “That’s it? You’re not going to give me a wedgie or anything?”
“What’s a wedgie?” Sasha asked, her lip curled.
“Never mind,” I said.
“You should tell Marley to find a new lunch table,” Colette said. “Our kids aren’t interested in sitting with her anymore.”
I stared at them blankly. “You can’t be serious.” My blood pressure began to rise, and I suddenly worried about keeping my promise to the sheriff.
“We talked it over and agreed it was for the best,” Sasha said.
“You talked it over and…” This was the most ludicrous thing I’d ever heard. I turned to Ivy. Of all the Puffs, she seemed the most sensible. “Et tu, Ivy?”
“I don’t speak German,” Ivy said.
“Why take this out on my daughter?” I asked. “It was an accident that I was solely responsible for. And no harm was done, by the way. We got the gold star.” I waved it at them.
“You ruined my outfit, my hair…You embarrassed me,” Colette sputtered. “I don’t care if you’re a Rose. You’re nothing like them.”
“And neither is your daughter,” B’linda added. “Who knows if she’ll even come into her magic? I bet she doesn’t. I bet she takes after her human father.” She said the word “human” with utter contempt.
“I wish you would reconsider,” I said. Not for myself, but for Marley. She had nothing to do with my screw-up, and now she’d suffer the middle school consequences.
Before they could respond, Holly came marching over to us.
“Feeling proud of yourselves, ladies?” she said, her typically cheerful voice laced with venom.
“What’s this? A sore loser from the Bakewell Tarts?” Colette demanded. “We won. Get over it.”
Holly’s porcelain skin became blotchy with rage. “You didn’t win anything! You’re all vile. Holding a child accountable for her mother’s actions? Dictating who your child can and cannot eat lunch with? You’re going to raise detestable paranormals.”
I gaped at Holly, gobsmacked. I’d never seen her so animated.
“Is something wrong, Holly?” I asked. She was uncharacteristically riled up, especially considering the issue had nothing to do with her.
“I’ll say something’s wrong,” Sasha said. “This nymph has an attitude problem.”
Holly balled her fists. “Say that again and I’ll introduce you to the end of Ember’s wand, by shoving it right up your….”
I grabbed Holly by the shoulders and steered her away from the Power Puffs before any further damage was done. “Holly, calm down. It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” Holly argued. “They’re using kids as weapons. It’s wrong.”
“You’re right, it is,” I said, “but Marley and I can handle it. You go back to being your sweet self and don’t worry about us. What are you doing here anyway?”
“I was supposed to meet Alec at one of the food stalls for lunch,” she said.
“He didn’t show up?”
“He did, but he left before we could eat, so now on top of everything else, I’m famished.”
“Why did he leave before you could eat?” Maybe there was a journalism emergency I needed to know about.
“Because we had a fight,” she said. “But instead of talking it through, he stalked off, like he always does. Trying to talk to him is like talking to a boulder with really great pecs.”
Um, okay. “What did you fight about?” It seemed early in the honeymoon phase for arguments.
“To be honest, I’m not sure. I seem to have said something that bothered him, but he wouldn’t admit it.”
“He can be tough to communicate with,” I said. “My advice is to keep trying until you get through to him, but don’t pester.” Ugh. Now I was giving her advice on how to improve her relationship with Alec? What was wrong with me?
“Thanks,” Holly said. “He does seem pretty fond of you, and he doesn’t like most folks.”
“Like Marley said, he and I are friends.”
And now it seemed that was all we’d ever be. I tried not to feel sad about it, especially in light of the fact that Holly was turning out to be pretty decent. Initially, I’d wondered what Alec saw in her, but I was beginning to understand.
“Do you want to grab food or are you busy?” Holly asked.
I didn’t hesitate. “Sure. I’ll have a quick bite with you, and then I need to meet Bentley. We’re interviewing someone for the paper.” No need to mention her possible connection to the murder.
“You guys are great reporters,” Holly said. “Alec is lucky to have you.”
“And we’re lucky to have him.” Or not have him, as the case may be, but I pushed the thought from my mind and went to enjoy lunch with Holly.
Lizette was a pixie with tangerine-colored hair and matching wings. She seemed to be in nonstop motion, even though she was seated in front of a gilded mirror. Her pixie stylist was equally energetic, fluttering around Lizette’s head at a rapid pace. His fingers moved expertly through her hair, curling and twisting as he went.
“Can I help you?” she asked, catching my eye in the reflection of the mirror.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m doing a run-through for my look for the ball tomorrow night,” Lizette explained. “What do you think? Curls or no curls?”
The stylist turned to examine us. “Blasphemy! You cannot possibly ask their opinions. Look at the pair of them. No fashion sense.”
Bentley and I glanced at each other. Okay, I could understand Bentley’s preppie style might not fit with carnival chic, but what was wrong with my T-shirt and jeans combo? It was perfectly respectable.
Lizette gave me the once-over and her nose wrinkled. “I see what you mean. The hair especially.”
My hand flew to smooth my unruly dark hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?” I felt the Jersey attitude rise within me. I hoped Raoul had our safe word ready because if she kept looking at me with that judgmental expression, thunder was going to roll.
The stylist fluttered over to me. “Where do I begin?” He hovered around me, seeming to scrutinize each and every strand of hair. “You need to condition more. What product do you use?”
“Um, shampoo,” I said.
He cocked his head. “For the love of Minerva, that’s to be expected. I’m talking about styling products.”
“Oh, nothing. I prefer to go natural.”
His deadpan expression told me exactly what he thought of that decision. “You need a smoothing product to help with the frizz.”
“Seriously,” Lizette chimed in. “There’s no excuse. Humidity is non-existent in Starry Hollow.”
Bentley choked back a laugh. “Do you recommend a particular product?” he asked.
“I can suggest several,” the stylist said. “Who’s styling you for the costume ball?”
“Who’s styling me?” I repeated. “Why would anyone style me? It’s not the Oscars.”
“Who’s Oscar?” the stylist asked. He brought his hand to his chest with a flourish. “I, Byron, agree to style you. I can work wonders on a blank canvas like this. I love a challenge.”
I glanced down at my front. I never considered myself to be a blank canvas. A work in progress, maybe.
“You can’t style her,” Lizette said indignantly. She pranced my way like a ballerina with wings. “You’re styling me.”
“Yes, but we’ve established your look,” Byron said. “I’ll have ample time to create another work of art. My muse must not be stifled.”
Lizette seemed to reconsider, seemingly afraid to lose the goodwill of her stylist. “You’re right, as always. She needs the help far more than I do.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
She flashed a sympathetic smile. “I like to do my part for charitable causes. Jacob says I’m an emotional sponge. I soak up empathy for everyone.”
I wondered whether that applied to her boyfriend’s ex-wife. “Jacob, as in the carnival manager?”
Lizette’s delicate features expressed delight. “Yes, have you met him?”
“We interviewed him,” Bentley said. “He seems like a good boss.”
“He’s wonderful,” Lizette said. “It’s still a relatively new relationship, but I have high hopes.” Wasn’t that the common refrain for all new relationships?
Byron grimaced.
“You don’t approve?” I asked.
Byron swatted an imaginary fly. “Lizette can do so much better. Look at her! She’s a star on the rise. He’s merely the staff.”
“He runs a hugely successful carnival,” I said. It wasn’t as though Jacob was scrubbing the carnival toilets for a living.
“He’s the best in the business,” Lizette said. “Everyone wants to work for him.”
“Except his ex-wife,” Bentley said.
Nice segue, I wanted to tell him. Maybe later, if I felt like complimenting him.
Lizette’s face crumpled. “Poor Bianca.”
“Her death is a tragedy,” Byron agreed.
Lizette looked momentarily confused. “Oh, I was thinking of her lack of style, but yes. Her death is terrible, too.” She shook her head. “Hard to believe Jacob was married to her.”
“Because Jacob is a paragon of fashion?” I queried. The leprechaun struck me as someone who wore the same clothes to work that he’d slept in the night before.
“Well, no,” Lizette said, “but he has such a keen eye.”
“Did you have any direct dealings with Bianca?” I asked.
Lizette pursed her lips. “We wisely avoided each other. I know she wasn’t over the divorce and, even though I’m a performer, I loathe drama. Keep the drama on the stage where it belongs, that’s my motto.”
“You knew she harbored feelings for her ex?” I asked.
Lizette returned to her favorite spot in front of the mirror and began fussing with her hair. “She was pretty blatant about it. Begged him for another chance right in front of me at one point.”
Byron sucked in a loud breath. “Are you serious, Lizzie? You never told me that.” Byron looked at us. “She tells me everything.”
Lizette smiled at him. “You’re like the assistant I’ve never made enough money to have.”
“What happened when she asked him for another chance?” Bentley asked. He seemed wrapped up in the emotional story. Some journalist he was.
Lizette turned away from the mirror. “He was very kind. Jacob was incredibly fond of Bianca. I know it pained him to see her distressed.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Honestly, it’s one of the moments that made me like him even more. His humanity.”
“Were you upset with her for pleading with him in front of you?” I asked. “That must’ve been awkward.” Awkward enough to show up in Madame Bovary’s yellow tent and chuck a crystal ball at her head?
“I wasn’t upset for me,” Lizette said. “I was upset for her. The whole thing was mortifying. Bianca had hit an all-time low, I think. Her rating had dropped and she was worried about insurance and her reputation.”
“Where were you when you heard about the murder?” Bentley asked. Finally, a hard-hitting question.
“In a practice session with my team,” Lizette said. “I was there all day. Someone spotted the sheriff and deputy outside Bianca’s tent and told the rest of us.”
That was simple enough to verify. Even without an alibi, I didn’t think Lizette was our culprit. As superficial as she was, Lizette seemed to have had genuine sympathy for Madame Bovary and no real motive. It seemed even self-defense was off the table because the seer was hit in the back of the head and nothing was disturbed in the tent to indicate an altercation. I began to worry that the carnival would leave town—and take any chance of discovering the truth with them. I couldn’t let that happen. Madame Bovary had suffered enough. If there was any way I could help put her soul to rest now, I had to see it through.
16
“Thanks for coming to the cottage to style me,”
I said to Byron. I’d had enough random paranormals in my bedroom at this point that the pixie’s presence seemed completely normal. “I really don't need special treatment, though.”
Byron whirred around me, scrutinizing every hair follicle and pore. “I consider it special treatment for me. It isn't every day I get to create something from nothing. That, my darling, is true art.”
“You act like you pulled me out of the dumpster. I shower daily. I never leave the house without brushing my hair and teeth.”
Byron studied me, seemingly confused. “I’m not talking about your hygiene, I'm talking about your presence. It is lacking when it has the potential to illuminate a room. You have heard the phrase diamond in the rough, yes?”
“Many times,” I replied. Somehow, it seemed more appropriate when the jeweler used it to describe Gemma, his wife. “The thing is, I have a very busy schedule, and my typical day doesn't require high fashion.” I had no desire to be a Power Puff, and not only because they dumped me. There was something satisfying about being effortlessly myself.
“I’m not talking about high fashion,” Byron said. “I want you to find your essence and express it through your appearance.”
That sounded like too much work. “Is there a theme to the ball?” I asked. “You’re not going to make me wear some frilly gown, are you?” I drew the line at a corset. I considered breathing to be a priority.
“You are from the human world you said, yes? The closest equivalent I know of is Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Carnival in Rio.”
I’d never been to either one, but at least I had a better sense of what to expect now. “Okay, but whatever you dress me in has to cover my butt. I've seen pictures from Carnival and I don't have the butt of a twenty-year-old.” Hell, I didn't have the butt of a twenty-year-old when I was twenty.
Byron tittered. “Not to worry. I will cover what is necessary, and leave glimpses for the imagination.”
“Yes, imagination works.” Gawkers would definitely need an imagination if they wanted to envision the body beneath my clothes.
Byron began to style my hair. “You have natural waves. Why do you fight them? You should give in to them. They suit your face.”
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