Page 6 of Spell Ya Later

My. Apartment.

A place that ismine. I wander to the window, looking out on the sleepy small town that I’ve called home for so long. It’s only a new perspective, but my hands are trembling with excitement. This is exactly what I’m meant to be doing.

Running to the bedroom, I flop on the familiar floral bedspread and can’t hide my beaming grin. This may be the best night’s rest I’ve had in years.

Chapter 3

The Cat’s Cradle

The shop calls much stronger this morning. It’s a gentle caress on my skin, crawling up my arms and leaving the little hairs standing on end. After sucking down a delicious cup of coffee, I walk down the back stairs.

My hand lingers on the door. I may have moved out last night, but this right here—this is the true point of no return. There’s still the slim possibility that, if I turned around now and begged for days, my mother would forgive me. But, if I go inside...my relationship with her will never be the same.

Deep breath in.

Screw it.

I open the door and step in. A sense of calm, of relaxation, immediately takes me over. That, and the smell of burning incense.

“Good morning, sweetheart!” Grandma chirps from her chair. The stairs seem to have dropped me right into her curtained-off office, if you could call it that. It’s more like a private garden room—complete with hanging potted plants and ivy twisting around the windowsills—with the biggest armchair I’ve ever seen in my life. I actually have to look for her in the mass of cushions.

“Good morning, Grandma,” I reply, closing the door behind me.

“You’re exactly on time. I love a punctual woman,” she teases, standing from that absolute cushion monstrosity. “Let me give you a reminder tour?”

A reminder tour?

Before I can question it, she takes my hand in hers, the almost twenty bracelets around her wrist jangling. With a wave, the curtain blocking off the room pulls away and I’m hit with memories I didn’t even know I had. I’m left barely standing, my legs wobbling beneath me. I remember running between the bookshelves with Laura, giggling and making a mess. I remember creating little ‘potions’ in the largest cauldron we could carry, throwing in whatever we thought looked good. Daddy caught us right before we lit the entire building on fire.

Dad.How could I have forgotten him?

“Steady on your feet, my dear,” Grandma says, wrapping her thin arm around my waist. “Memories can bowl you right over if you let them.”

“I just...Why didn’t I remember?” I ask, blinking a tear out of my eyes. The weird fog. Anytime I tried to imagine this shop, I’d get stopped by some veil. I just accepted it as another thing that didn’t make sense, but something caused it.

“It was a decision made by your mother, and that’s all I’ll say about that.”

I snort. Of course it was my mother. Who else but her? What else has she stolen from me? Stealing my life, my future, my decisions wasn’t enough, apparently. She had to steal my memories of the one person who actually loved me? She’ll be lucky if she ever sees my face again.

Grandma places a cool hand on my arm. It’s like I’m burning from the inside out with white-hot rage. “The past can’t be changed. Instead, let’s reacquaint ourselves.”

I nod, stepping with her further into the space.

It’s exactly the same as my new memories suggest. Clean, but weathered in a comforting way. The smell of old book pages, leather spines, incense, and herbs permeate the very walls. It’s like Grandma intensified—I love it.

“Over here are the books. Spellcasting, potion-making, gardening, the history of our line. Everything is here.” Grandma has wrapped her arm around mine as she points.

“The history of our line?” My interest is immediately piqued. I know almost nothing about the Pruitt line.

“I figured you might be interested in that. You can peruse these books as much or as little as you desire. If you have any questions, I’ll answer what I can.” She pulls me further along the shelves. “Ingredients are over here, but I would prefer you ask me before taking anything. More often than not, I’ll give you ingredients from my own garden. This stock is for customers—plus, mine are better.”

“Keeping the good stuff for yourself? I approve.” I brush my fingers along a long ivy plant.

She lightly slaps my arm as we halt in front of the counter. It’s glass, with all manner of crystals and jewelry on display inside. An ancient cash register sits on top. “Don’t sass your Grandma. Now, this is you.”

“I’m not a counter.”

“You’re also not funny, sweetheart.”