But, I reminded myself firmly, this was part of the price I’d agreed to pay for my new life. My real life, with my real job, real college degree, and unfortunately extremely real assload of student debt. This was the trade-off that I chose—the loss of magic, in return for a life that I could mold into a shape that actually fit.
“You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid,” my mother said, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms over her slim middle. I sank down into one of the wooden chairs by the breakfast table, Jasper sprawling out next to me on the travertine tiles, and made an apologetic face in response, as if I hadn’t timed my arrival precisely to avoid an hour of mandatory social entrapment with my parents before I had a chance to decompress.
“And your dad’s gone back to the shop for a few hours to get the ledgers in order,” she added. “The Samhain bedlam seems to set in earlier each bloody year. We’re swimming in tourists already, and you know what that does to your poor father’s peace of mind.”
“I can imagine,” I said, wincing in sympathy. “Think of all the strangers he has to talk to, the utter horror of it all.”
Thistle Grove kicked into high gear every spooky season, starting the beginning of October and sometimes lasting well into mid-November. It was a Halloween destination the rest of the year as well—though of course the tourists had no idea just how deep, and very real, the town’s “mythical” magic ran—but quiet enough to be less of a nightmare for my introverted father.
“But if you’re hungry, I could make you a sandwich?” my mother offered, wilting a little when I shook my head. “A bit of tea, then? I could use a cup myself.”
I’d been driving for hours, and would much rather take a steaming shower and dive directly into bed before facing any further scenes from the prodigal-daughter-returneth playbook. But she looked so hopeful at the prospect of sharing a cup of tea with me that I couldn’t bring myself to say no.
“Tea would be wonderful, thanks,” I relented. “And could I have some water for Jasper?”
“Of course. What a terribly polite fellow he’s been, too.” She squinted at him thoughtfully, cocking her head to the side. “Are you quite sure he isn’t a familiar?”
“Stone-cold certain, Mom.”
I watched as she moved purposefully around the kitchen, all deft hands and competence, her periwinkle cardigan swirling around her, glossy dark braid swishing over her shoulder. When she set my favorite old mug, oversized and painted with a gold foil dragonfly, in front of me, she tapped the side lightly with an index finger to cool it to the perfect temperature. It was a little Harlow party trick, a pretty lackluster one as affinities went. My mother, Cecily Fletcher Harlow, hadn’t been born a Harlow, of course; but marrying into a founding family was kind of like marrying into royalty. Only instead of a lifetime of fascinators, anemic finger sandwiches, and wearing nude pantyhose in public, you got to become a witch yourself.
“So, darling,” she began, wrapping long fingers around her own mug as she sat down across from me. “Tell me how you’ve been.”
“Really good,” I replied, relaxing a little as the rooibos steeped into my chest and loosened some of the underlying tightness. I’d forgotten how medicinal my mother’s brews could be. “I, um, even got promoted a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to mention anything until the ink was dry, but yeah. Officially creative director at Enchantify now.”
“My goodness, that’s wonderful!” She beamed at me, though I could see the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes as she registered that this was the belated first she’d heard of my good news. “Congratulations, sweet. What a coup for you.”
“Great timing, too. Gave me some leverage for requesting such a long sabbatical.”
“And such a treat for us, more than one whole month with you! To be frank, I rather doubted you’d be able to come at all.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, a little taken aback by such uncharacteristic bluntness. We weren’t usually like that with each other, the Harlows. Not insular elitists like the Blackmoores, chaotically codependent like the Avramovs, or nearly empathically linked like the Thorns. We preferred to give the difficult stuff a wide berth, leave each other abundant room to breathe.
Maybe too much room, sometimes.
“？‘And the Harlow scion shall serve as Gauntlet Arbiter,’ remember?” I said with forced levity. “Kind of hard to duck a centuries-old magical obligation. Could I really have been sure I wouldn’t have turned into a hedgehog for flouting ye ways of old?”