Page 1 of Impractical Magic

Chapter 1: Look Homeward, Witch

As her Uber wheezed its way over the hill, Scarlett sat in the back, nervously sipping a coffee she should never have bought at all. She had a knot in her stomach, and the venti cappuccino with double espresso only tied it tighter.

Scarlett peered suspiciously out the window. Down in the valley, Oak Haven hid coyly behind a veil of autumn leaves, which made a patchwork quilt of crimson, amber, and evergreen. But she could still make out the roofs of familiar buildings—the curlicue of smoke from the tea shop chimney, the steeple of the local church. The distant town looked cozy and familiar, but there was a certain tremor in the air—something pricked at the edges of Scarlett’s vision. Has something changed down there? she wondered. Is something wrong? Or does it just seem different because I am?

Scarlett hadn’t intended to return to Oak Haven until she was carried there in a pine box. But her sister Delilah’s voicemail carried her trademark Don’t Question Me tone, all urgency and veiled accusation. Was there a fire at the family inn? Was there a corpse? Several? Delilah didn’t say.

The thought of returning home filled Scarlett with a nausea-inducing blend of gleeful anticipation and overwhelming dread. There was so much wonderful waiting for her down in that valley, and so much awful.

And then there was Nate, who was both.

“Excuse me, miss?” Marty the Uber driver tapped his phone. “My GPS seems to be on the fritz. The address you gave me isn’t registering.”

“Yeah,” Scarlett said resignedly. “That’ll happen. Don’t worry. I know where I’m going, unfortunately.”

“Sorry, what was that last part?”

“Nothing, Marty.” The closer Scarlett got to home, the tighter that knot in her stomach became. This is a mistake, she thought. No matter what Delilah said. I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t have the right. Not after what I did.

But . . . Too late now. “Take the next left.”

As the car approached the town center, Scarlett saw something shocking. Something appalling. Something she’d never seen in Oak Haven and never thought she’d see if she lived a thousand years.

A bright orange sign shaped like a diamond: ROAD WORK AHEAD.

“Road work?!”

“You’re in New England,” mansplained Marty. “There’s always road work due to the harsh weather. It’s just a part of living here.”

“Yeah, I grew up here, I’m familiar with the weather. But road work doesn’t exist in Oak Haven. We fix our roads with magic.”

He laughed. “That sure would be nice, wouldn’t it? Just get Glinda out here to snap her fingers?”

“I’m not joking. I’m a witch, my sisters are witches. All the women in Oak Haven are witches.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Of course you are! I guess even the Yellow Brick Road gets the occasional pothole, huh?”

Whatever, Scarlett thought. It didn’t matter if he believed her—he’d forget the entire conversation in about fifteen minutes. “Just take a right up here.”

In a region known for its crisp autumn air and cozy clapboard houses and pumpkin-spice everything, Oak Haven was by far the crispest, the coziest, the spiciest. The trees didn’t limit themselves to the basic orange, red, and yellow. No. In Oak Haven, trees turned sparkling apricot and twinkling sangria and shimmering bronze. And it wasn’t just about the foliage. The fall days were the perfect mix of warm sun and cool breeze, the evenings just chilly enough to demand a favorite sweater. The storefronts were adorned with wreaths of dried leaves and corn husks, while scarecrows stood vigil at every corner. Scarlett’s hometown boasted more cider-donut vendors per capita than anywhere in the United States. The air smelled vaguely of cloves all the time.

Oak Haven should have topped every leaf peeper’s bucket list. There should’ve been photo spreads in glossy travel magazines and fawning television segments from Oprah Winfrey.

Instead, few tourists made their way to Oak Haven. And those who managed to stumble into it? They experienced a fit of geographical amnesia as soon as they left. Google’s many attempts to map the area invariably failed. Local weather forecasters gave up talking about the village because they could never find it on their maps.

This collective forgetting was no accident. It was a spell. It was the same sort of spell that made the trees so spectacular and the weather so perfect. It was a spell deliberately cast and immaculately maintained by the village’s Elder Council of Witches. A council that Scarlett’s family had led for centuries.

“Wow,” Marty enthused. “This is gorgeous. Look at these cool old houses. Man, how is it I’ve never been here before?”

“You have,” Scarlett said. “You just don’t remember.”

“No way! I’d definitely remember all this.”

“Whatever you say.” There was no arguing with the forgetting.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking . . . how do you know about this place?”

“I grew up here.”