Page 16 of Impractical Magic

“Del doesn’t want us to use magic,” Scarlett reminded her.

“Oh bah, I can turn the lights out, surely. Sleep well, Scarlett. I’m so happy you’re home with us.”

“I’m happy to be with you—not sure about the home part.”

After a long moment, Luna said, “You know, I’m just thinking . . . Perhaps I’ll ask Nate out for coffee, myself.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes. “Give me a break.”

“But if you aren’t interested, why not?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“He seems lonely,” Luna teased. “Sexy and lonely, quite a combination.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Hmm, yes, I can picture us now, strolling down the street, arm in arm, me and my handyman . . .”

“You’re a jerk, Luna.”

In their quiet, dark bedroom, that treasury of all their childhood secrets, Luna giggled. “Love you too, Scar.”

Chapter 6: Truth and Consequences

When Scarlett opened her eyes, the midday sun was streaming in the window and Luna’s bed was already made. Scarlett hoisted herself up, rubbing her eyes. She had overslept. And there would be consequences.

“Shit.”

She pulled on her fuzzy robe and wandered downstairs, hoping to find coffee. But the dining room had been cleared and all of Zahir’s scrumptious breakfast offerings long put away. The only soul in the place was that magician, Maximillian the Magnificent. He sat by the window, at a table covered with books. He had a thick hardcover on his lap, and he would intently study a passage, then close his eyes. His lips would move, seemingly repeating what he’d just read. Then he’d look down at the page and begin the process again. Scarlett paused to watch him awhile. There was something hypnotic about it: read, close eyes, repeat the words; read, close eyes, repeat the words.

Zahir came bustling in from the kitchen, dropped off a gravy-smothered plate at Max’s table, and headed back to his post.

Scarlett stopped him midway. “Hey,” she whispered. “What’s he doing?”

“No clue.” Zahir sounded annoyed. “All I know is, he claims to be Canadian this morning, so he insisted I make him poutine.”

“Oh yeah? If I claim to be a cop, can I get some coffee and a donut?”

“Absolutely not—I’m too busy with lunch prep. You want breakfast? Get up at breakfast time.” And with that, Zahir was gone.

Since Max had paused his ritual to shovel some cheese curds down his gullet, Scarlett moseyed over to his table. “Morning, Mr. Magnificent. What’s all the studying for? You taking night classes or something?”

He peered up at her with oddly cold eyes and tapped on the book he’d been reading: Essential Facts About World War II. “Tell me, witch: by what year had the entirety of Emperor Hirohito’s army surrendered to the Allies?”

“Uh. Well . . . let me think . . . the war ended in 1945, right? So. Around then?”

Max made a buzzing sound. “Wrong! The entire army had not fully surrendered until the final soldier, Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda, gave himself up in 1974.”

“Wow, impressive. You know your wars, huh?”

“I know all aboot it,” said the magician, Canadianishly. “I know a whole lot of things, witch. And do you know how I know? Because we magicians? We study. We learn. We aren’t like your kind, who sit around burning sage and waiting for the Muse to strike.”

Offended, Scarlett made a face. “Sir, that’s not at all how witchcraft works. I don’t know where you get your information, but we aren’t just some—”

“For example,” he said, interrupting, “here is a fascinating tidbit that I just learned: Adolf Hitler had a nephew, William Patrick Hitler, who served in the U.S. Navy.”

Scarlett couldn’t help but laugh at that. “C’mon, there was a Bill Hitler?!”