Page 34 of Spell Ya Later

Homeis the cottagecore house of most wannabe-fairies’ dreams. I expect a bunch of forest animals to be cleaning around the next corner. The wallpaper is a floral pattern on a green that matches the front door. The furniture is cozy, a mix of creams, browns, and wood. I look for the stereotypical knitting basket and find Rosie sleeping on it.

“I expect you both to assist me in preparing dinner—and tea afterward,” Grandma says as she walks into the equally floral kitchen.

“Are you going to teach us how to do it magically?” Laura asks, getting into Grandma’s personal space.

Grandma grins, rolling up the sleeves of her flowing dress. “It’s the only way to cook, darlings. I will not, however, incur the wrath of your mother any more than I already have today, so Laura, you’re only allowed to watch.”

The pout is almost legendary. Laura doesn’t fight it verbally, however—she simply walks over to the table and sits in one of the antique wood chairs. That same look is on her face from earlier. I wanted to call it jealousy, but it isn’t that. At least not completely.

Grandma motions me over to stand before what would seem to be an ordinary cookbook if not for the warm, shimmery undulations of power leaking from it. It laps at my skin like a gentle breeze. It draws me closer.

My hand, almost of its own accord, reaches forward. The leather warms underneath my fingers as I stroke the cover. It’s similar toHousehold Spells, but older. Worn. Beloved.

Grandma smiles fondly, warmth in her gaze. “My grandmother gave me this book when I was around your age, Hazel. She and her mother wrote it together as she grew up. It has been added to by my mother and by myself, and your mother as well. It is time it sees additions from the next generation.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I whisper.

She nods. “No one does at first. That’s why you have me to guide you.”

I stand at her side as the sound of Laura chopping vegetables floats over us.

The chicken rests in a deep roasting pan, surrounded by potatoes and broth. With a wink, Grandma lifts her hands and rhythmically moves them over the bird.

Nothing happens. Is she just messing with me? She has to be.

Wait. No. The bird is shining? With each wave of her hands, a new layer of magic coats the meal. I didn’t realize I couldseemagic, but there it is. It’s an iridescent shine, a little thicker than air. You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking.

Another flick of her fingers and the vegetables fly in front of my face and into the roasting pan. Herbs fly in from the other direction. She murmurs a few words, and everything glows with an earthy warmth. A sunshine warmth that reminds me of a summer day. A crackle disturbs the air and the glow fades.

She nods and places the pan in the preheated oven.

“And I’ll be able to do that?” I ask in awe. The way she was so casual...It’s strange watching someone use magic as if it were part of their very essence, while I’ve been kept from it.

Grandma nods. “You will soon find that magic is as easy as breathing. You canbothembrace this part of you, if you so choose.”

Laura plays with a lock of her hair, refusing to meet Grandma’s eye. “I’ll go set the table.”

My eyebrows raise as she leaves the room. She’s never seemed so young; even when she was a little girl she was always precocious.

“Laura, my dear,” Grandma says, following her. “You said in the car you had questions. I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know that is in my power to share.”

A grin breaks on Laura’s face. “Anything?”

I squeeze her hand as we sit down, happy to see her smiling again. “You’ll regret that, Grandma.”

We sit together around the dinner table as the scent of cooking wafts in. Rosemary, thyme, and sage.

“So, first of all.” Laura’s face is all business. “If there’s a witches’ market, then that means there’s communication between magical beings that doesn’t involve humans. So, cough it up, Grandma. How do you all stay in touch?”

Good question, Laura. Damn.

“Well, we certainly don’t use pigeons. This is the twenty-first century, Laura. We use social media like everyone else.”

“There’s little witchy pockets in our apps?” I ask.

Grandma laughs. Laughs! “Of course not. We have our own apps.”

Laura’s head cocks. “Wait. What?”