Page 17 of Impractical Magic

“It’s no joke, eh? He even won a medal.”

Mama Melrose leaned into the dining room. “Scarlett, stop bothering our guests. I need to speak to you.”

Oof, Scarlett thought. This should be fun. “Okay, Max, gotta go. Enjoy your studies.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Max with a baffling degree of menace. “I absolutely love trivia.”

***

Behind the inn’s reservation desk is a discreet door that leads to a small, low-ceilinged office—Mama’s domain. Mostly the office was for bookkeeping and inn management, but it was also where she’d summon the girls for a stern talking-to when they misbehaved. Crowding the walls were framed paintings, tintypes, and photographs of many generations of Melroses. Whenever Scarlett received a summons—which was often, because of the three sisters, she was always the one misbehaving—she’d stare up at all those images and feel the weight of hundreds of years of disapproval.

She numbly followed her mother into the office now. As far as she could tell, nothing had changed in ten years. The ancestors looked just as disapproving as ever.

Mama assumed her position behind the desk, folded her hands, and gazed at her middle daughter. “I assume you know why I’ve asked you here.”

Scarlett sighed. This was classic Kelly Melrose: she’d wait, letting her guest squirm under her penetrating gaze, until the accused offered up a whole variety of reasons why they deserved to be in the hot seat. The worst part was, Mama rarely let the guilty party know whether or not she had confessed to the correct crime.

Scarlett sat up straight, trying to fight off the sensation of being twelve years old again. I’m an adult now, she reminded herself. I am perfectly capable of having an adult conversation with my mother. “This is about me accidentally destroying the piano, for which I apologize,” she said firmly. “I suppose I’m just out of practice.”

“No,” her mother replied.

Scarlett tilted her head, confused. “No, it’s not about the piano?”

“No, you’re not out of practice.”

“Of course I am. It’s been ten years since I’ve—”

“Balderdash,” said her mother. “You have been using magic whether you knew it or not.”

Scarlett stared at her mother. “Absolutely not. This one time, I accidentally locked myself out of my apartment, and sure, I could have cast a spell to open the lock, but did I? No, I didn’t. I sat in my hallway for four hours waiting for the locksmith.”

“Oh well, congratulations—you sat in a hallway for no reason. What exactly did you prove, by doing that?”

Scarlett threw up her hands. “It’s not about proving anything! You don’t know everything, Mama. I’m sorry, but you don’t. You haven’t seen me in ten years.”

“And I am to blame for that?”

“No, of course not. I’m just saying.”

Mama leaned forward, a knowing look in her eye. “There are a fair number of rude people in San Francisco, right?”

“What?! Why are you bringing up San Francisco?”

“Just answer the question.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes. “There’s rude people everywhere . . . even in Oak Haven. Heck, even in this very room.”

Her mother ignored the obvious attempt at provocation. “When you find yourself in a restaurant, and some moron is at the table next to you, babbling on his cellular phone about the latest start-ups, or kale futures, or whatever nonsense . . . what happens?”

“What do you even mean? Nothing happens.”

“Think,” Mama insisted, her gaze intense. “What happens, Scarlett?”

“Well . . . I guess . . . now that you mention it . . . I guess sometimes his uh, phone will . . .”

“Explode,” Mama said, a note of triumph in her voice.

“God, no!”