She raises an eyebrow at me as I bend over and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“Here,” Ivy says, shoving the tea in my face. “It’s our Awaken blend.”
“I don’t need your magic,” I say, ignoring the tea. I push my key into the lock and open the door, ducking under a waterfall of lavender wisteria.
“Really? Because you look terrible.”
“How bad?” I ask.
“There’s seaweed in your hair and salt crusted in your eyebrows,” she says.
I grab the tea from her and take a long sip. It feels good as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, its magic working instantly. My mind clears and energy moves through me. I rush into the back room and change out of my wet clothing and into a simple blue dress.
“Sit down,” Ivy says, and I give her a grateful look. Her dark brown eyes glimmer as she moves her hands over my face. I feel the salt lift from my skin and light makeup settle in its place. I don’t have a talent for makeup the way Ivy does; mine usually comes out too dramatic for my mother’s taste, but Ivy gets it perfect every time. As she works, I tame my hair, drying it instantly and letting it fall in loose waves down my back. Ivy holds up a mirror.
My dress brings out the blue of my eyes, and my chestnut hair doesn’t look quite so plain with curls in it. Nothing about my appearance reveals that I was recently in the water, and while my mother will be pleased, I like the way I look when touched by nature and slightly disheveled, a person instead of a painting I’m afraid of messing up.
“Thank you for your help,” I say.
“How was your swim?” she asks.
“Not long enough.”
The small bell on the door rings just then, and my mother flits into the shop.
“Morning, girls,” she says as she walks into the back room. I sit up straighter when I see her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fairchild,” Ivy says with a smile.
My mother looks polished as always, her blond hair pulled back into a simple knot, her tanned skin glistening with whatever new makeup she’s trying from Mrs. Rhodes’s skin care shop. Her lips are stained pink, and her blue eyes are rich and vibrant.
Always put together. The perfect new witch.
The floor is wet and littered with seaweed, and my mother looks down. “Ivy won’t always be here to cover up your failings, Tana. Clean this up,” she says, leaving the room.
I grab a mop from the closet and wipe up the mess, ignoring the sting of my mother’s words. I throw away the bits of seaweed that followed me into the shop and make sure the tile is dry before putting the mop away. Magic is tied to living things, and unfortunately, that doesn’t extend to the floor.
“We almost had her,” I whisper. “Thanks again.”
“Anytime,” Ivy says, taking a sip of her tea. She’s always put together as well, never late for work at her parents’ tea shop, never disheveled or groggy when she arrives. Her brown skin glows without magic, and her dark curls bounce lightly over her shoulders as she moves.
I grab a bunch of dried lavender from a glass jar on the wall and take out a mortar and pestle from the cupboard beneath the island. My dad and I made the work surface from a large piece of driftwood we found on the shore, and I run my hand over the smooth wood grain.
Early morning sun drifts in through the store’s front windows, stretching into the back room and illuminating all the varietals of plants and herbs. Ivy enjoys her tea as I create the base of a bath oil, closing my eyes and picturing how it feels to fall asleep, the heavy calm and gentle sinking of it. I let the feeling tumble into the lavender until the petals are drenched. Practicing magic is my favorite thing to do, and though I’m creating an oil to calm others, it has the same effect on me. This is when I’m happiest, when I feel most at home.
The bell rings again, and I reluctantly open my eyes. I recognize Mrs. Astor’s voice before I even look up, a regular from the mainland who comes to the Witchery for two things: magic and gossip.
“Good morning, Ingrid,” she singsongs to my mother, taking her by the hand, a gesture of friendship my mother likes to remind me is only possible because of the sacrifices made by the generations of witches who came before us.
“How are you, Sheila?”
“I should be asking you the same question,” Mrs. Astor says, giving my mother a significant look. “There are rumors circulating on the mainland, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Oh?” my mother asks, busying herself with some glass bottles on the counter.