The Only Purple House in Town (Fix-It Witches, #4)(80)

Gone, just like she’d asked. Ordered? Yeah, more like ordered.

Now she had no clue how to pass this inspection, but she had to start somewhere. The next day, she stumbled out of her sad lady lair and found boxes of alarms, detectors, and fire extinguishers piled up at the foot of the attic steps. Eli must have bought them before taking off, before the breakup.

Is that even the right word?

She couldn’t obsess, not now. Gathering her resolve as she gathered the packages, she hauled them to Henry Dale, who was sipping a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. “You said you could install these?”

“I’ll take care of it.” The old man scrutinized her from head to toe. “Did you know that Eli left? He said he had to see his grandmother—that it was urgent and he didn’t know when he’d be back.”

She tried to keep her expression neutral. “He told me yesterday. In other news, I can’t afford the major cost associated with such a big spell. And I guess the coven isn’t enthusiastic about a payment plan. We’re back to square one.”

The older man patted her shoulder with a deadpan expression. “If all else fails, I’ll marry you. But we’re not sharing a room or a bed.”

Startled to her soul, Iris cracked up laughing. “You’ve made my day, seriously.”

“I live to entertain,” he said in that same droll tone.

Though she still hurt, at least she wasn’t alone. Eli might be. She recalled what he’d said about wanting to live as a hawk—was any of that even true? Still, part of her hoped that Eli had, indeed, gone to seek comfort with his grandma. No, I won’t waste my mental energy on him. Who is he again?

Iris tuned back in to find Henry Dale was in the middle of an update. “I’m working on the gingerbread issue, but I’ll have to pause to install the alarms. Just so you know.”

“I appreciate everything you do,” she said.

“What about me?” Rowan asked.

“I appreciate you as well,” Iris said.

“Me too,” Henry Dale added.

Rowan had a sketch pad tucked under their arm, and they seemed a bit subdued, likely because of Eli’s sudden departure. But they’d get used to the new dynamic soon enough; everyone would. And Iris would act like she was fine until her heart stopped feeling like somebody had yanked it from her chest and stepped on it.

To avoid further conversation, she smiled and left the kitchen, heading to the foyer. She stopped to grab a jacket, then stepped outside, shivering at the icy touch of the wind. Eli helped fix this porch. He sanded these boards. Applied the weatherproofing and the stain.

OMG, stop, you’re doing it again.

Zipping her hoodie, she went down the steps, now firm and sturdy, thanks to Eli and Henry Dale. As for Violet Gables, the house was like an aging actress with her makeup smeared. Iris could picture what it would look like if it was glorious, riotously purple—no, violet, just gleaming with color—but she didn’t have the magic to make it happen.

Yet that didn’t stop her from focusing all her anger, all her despair on the house. Iris closed her eyes and locked onto the word violet. V I O L E T. The letters danced in her head, spinning into flowers. Oh, African violets, how pretty, with their dainty little petals, and she fell into a field of them.

House.

Field.

Violet.

Violet Gables.

There was a snap or a spark, and she felt the world as she never had before. There were connections everywhere, and it seemed impossible that she’d never sensed them. Power surged through her as if she’d grabbed on to an electrical line. She felt like a dolphin skimming along the waves, singing with every other dolphin in existence. And in that dazzling brightness, she heard whispers and the lightest touch.

Ah. Yes. There you are, precious blossom.

Not her thought—someone else’s—but then they vanished in the swirling stream. The universe in her head receded, leaving her dazed and disconnected. When she opened her eyes, she stumbled backward and fell down, gaping at what she saw. The stately old matron, this Victorian oddity, was festooned in violets, a field of them growing sideways, impossibly, all over the house. No soil. No explanation, just…violets. They rioted with life and color—magical, beautiful, and incomprehensible.

She sat in the yard, staring up at the miracle that had appeared…like a sign, almost. When she’d nearly given in to despair, the world rose up to meet her, and it was as if the house crooned, “Yes, this is right. I’m beautiful again.”

“I really am fae,” Iris whispered.

Instinctively, she knew. She didn’t need a spell or other casters. Witches use magic. The fae are magic. That wisdom felt very old, and it tasted true on her tongue, a thing where she didn’t understand the knowing, but the fact remained. This is my home, my land, and I have power here. Another truth, indisputable. Her environment would bend to her will.

Mira pulled into the driveway as Iris gazed fondly at the miracle she’d wrought. The witch gaped at the house, glancing from it to Iris and back again. “Uh, something you’d like to tell me?”

“I don’t need a spell,” Iris said.

The woman eyed her warily. “I can see that. Your power’s awakened then?”

“Seems so.”

Another sidelong look from Mira. “What can you do?”