The Unfortunate Side Effects of Heartbreak and Magic(2)

“Rule number six,” Sadie groaned. One of the more unfortunate rules her grandmother had pressed into her since childhood. Seven bad omens in a row meant a nightmare was around the corner. And she’d just reached bad omen number four.

Sadie had learned the rules of Revelare magic while growing up at her grandmother’s feet, her grubby little toddler hands searching for earthworms as Gigi explained why mustard seed helped people talk about their feelings and how star anise could bond two people together. The sweet tang of tangerine rinds scented the air as her little fingernails were perpetually stained orange.

And always, Gigi warned her how their creations would speak to them. If you were in love, things tended to turn out too sweet. If dinner was bland, you needed some adventure. And if you burned a dessert—well, something wicked this way comes.

Sadie listened to those lessons among the bitter rutabagas and wild, climbing sweet peas, drinking in every word, and letting them take root in her heart. She grew up comfortable with the knowledge that she was strange, weaving the magic around her like ribbons on a maypole.

Now, she made her living from selling that strange. A little dash of dreams in the batter and a small drop of hope in the dough. The magic had been in her veins for so long, sometimes she forgot who she was without it. Like layers of phyllo dough, they were nearly impossible to separate.

Gigi had arrived and was in the front, “pottering about” as she called it. Sadie could hear the crinkle of plastic wrap being taken off pitchers. The clink of jars bumping into each other. The common little noises that turned the café into a symphony. The cookies, perfectly spiced this time, were fresh out of the oven for the early customers, the sweet scent beckoning them in like a childhood memory. Mason jars filled with fresh lavender and wild buttercups dotted the tables, and the pot of crystalized ginger sugar was turned just so toward the pitcher of hazelnut-infused cream.

The glass case brimmed with orange-essence croissants sprinkled with candied zest, the card in front reading, “Will cause enthusiasm, encouragement, and success.” Its neighbor, the fruit and basil tartlets that glistened like a long-forgotten dream read, “Use for good wishes, love, and serious intent.” And the cinnamon streusel cake that some locals swore would turn your day lucky had a card that simply said, “Stability.” Generations ago, the townsfolk would have rebuked or shunned such blatant displays of magic. Now, even if they didn’t understand it, they welcomed it with relish and a rumbling stomach. It was part of a routine that had woven itself into the DNA of Sadie’s days. And it was about to begin again.

Sadie excelled at routine. The tiny town of Poppy Meadows, much like Sadie herself, ran like clockwork. All up and down Main Street lights were clicking on, tills were being counted, and “Closed” signs were rattling against the glass as they itched to be flipped. She settled into the rhythm, her shoulders relaxing as she scanned the wooden walkway connecting the hodge-podge of brick-front buildings. Her eyes traveled to the end of the street, where a nineteenth-century, steepled white church stood. Its stained-glass windows, which local legend claimed caught prayers in the wind, were casting jewels of light on the sidewalk, when a figure caught her eye. No. It couldn’t be—

“Sweetheart,” Gigi hollered in her foghorn voice.

“Coming!” Sadie called quickly, stomach churning as she shook herself out of the past and pushed through the double doors into the kitchen. Absolutely not. It was impossible. And much like everything else in her life, she shut the door on the thought. The possibility of who it might be. She’d trained herself to take every thought captive, shoving them away where they were safe in darkness. Otherwise, they’d spiral out of control into full-blown anxiety. It didn’t always work. Even now the tightness was squeezing her chest again.

“Sugar, if you don’t move this honking bag of flour, one of us is going to trip and break our neck.” With Gigi, someone was always going to break something, get a “crick,” or “ruin their lovely hands.”

“Maybe some necks deserve to be broken, Gigi,” Sadie answered sweetly, hoisting the twenty-five-pound bag of flour and settling it against her hip.

“Stop that or I’ll pop you one. I know when you’re talking about Seth. You get that mean little gleam in your eye.”

Before Sadie could answer, she tripped on the rubber mat that lined the floor and watched, as though in slow motion, as the flour cascaded against the ground and billowed into a cloud of white.

A mess in the kitchen was bad omen number five.

“You little pissant!” Gigi laughed with her deep smoker’s rumble. Gigi—a nickname that made her grandmother sound much more French and much less feisty than she actually was—shook her head. Her short hair was a cotton-candy puff, perfectly curled as always and a peculiar shade just between rust and copper.

“I know, I know. ‘Disaster follows me around like stupidity follows a drunk,’” Sadie quoted, gritting her teeth as she secured the top of the flour.

“Says who?” Gigi demanded, rounding on Sadie with a hand on her hip and a look that threatened trouble.

Sadie shrugged.

“That brother of yours isn’t too old to have his mouth washed out with soap.” Gigi sighed.

“But he’d have to actually be here in order for you to do that.” Her voice went flat as oat cakes as she absentmindedly smoothed her apron.