Page 50 of Impractical Magic

“What a kiss-ass!” hooted Belinda.

“Not at all. I’m just suggesting we put our pitchforks away for the moment.”

Conrad nodded. “That’s very wise, Aphra, thank you.”

“You dare speak of wisdom, you fetus?!” Louise sneered at Aphra. “Does your pathetic little shop remain untouched by the eldritch forces that now run rampant through our streets? Or have you, too, borne witness to the unraveling of all that we hold dear?”

“Well, Louise, as a matter of fact, we’ve had our share of trouble today, too. Fabrics changing colors, some of my best wool turned back into a sheep, and some of the knitting needles have become polyamorous. But all of this is fixable.”

“I’m sorry,” Conrad said. “Your needles have what?!”

“Oh, it’s . . . not worth a fuss, really, we should move on . . .” But when Aphra looked around the room, it was clear no one in the crowd was looking to move anywhere that didn’t involve an explanation. “All right . . . I sell knitting needles, which usually come in pairs. Overnight, the needles seem to have collectively decided they want to see other people. As it were. Many of the pairs have swapped, and there was a somewhat dramatic throuple with a quilting needle . . . Anyway, okay, yes—things are a bit chaotic at the store. But I wanted to say that we should focus less on blame and more on how we can move forward.”

“Move forward?” Conrad cried. “With a town full of unpaired knitting needles?”

She shrugged. “Maybe the needles are happier this way, I don’t know. Honestly, Conrad, the magic issues are a minor inconvenience in the long run.”

“Says you,” hollered Belinda Chatterjee. “You try going on holiday with no luggage!”

A man in a cheap suit stood to be heard. “Harold Fleming, accountant. Can we please discuss the flamingo droppings? They’re all over my yard.”

“Absolutely no one wants to hear about your droppings, Harold,” shouted Louise.

“I got a pile of flamingo shit the size of a Hyundai!”

The hall erupted, everyone shouting over each other about their own magical mishaps. Conrad pounded away with his gavel, trying helplessly to restore order. His protests were drowned out by the cacophony of complaints.

Finally, Mama Melrose stood up and let out a piercing whistle that sliced through the noise. The crowd fell silent as she fixed Harold with a steely gaze.

“Harold Fleming, if you think your flamingo droppings are our most pressing issue, you are sorely mistaken. Oak Haven has far greater problems than the state of your yard.”

Harold wilted under Mama Melrose’s glare; with a mumbled apology, he melted back into his seat. The room fell into a tense silence as the gravity of the situation settled over them.

“My friends,” Mama Melrose began, her voice resolute. “We are all facing challenges caused by this surge of anarchic magic in our town. But pointing fingers and dwelling on our individual troubles won’t solve anything. We need to come together, share information, and work as a community to restore balance to Oak Haven.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd . . . although, beneath the positive noises, it was also possible to hear Louise Demain muttering, “Naturally, that is exactly what the Melroses would say . . .”

“Investigative teams will be organized to look into each of these incidents,” Mama Melrose declared. “And all your concerns will be addressed in due course. We will all need to work together to bring order back to Oak Haven. The town has faced far worse. And we will face this too—as a family. Even if some members of that family—” she lifted an eyebrow in Louise’s direction “—need reminding what that means.”

The energy in the room shifted. The group frustration remained, but now it was laced with a touch of stubborn Oak Haven resilience. As the meeting broke into smaller discussions, Scarlett finally was able to exhale.

Conrad leapt off the platform and went to check on his precious transcript. His moan of existential despair stopped everyone in their tracks.

“Whatever is wrong with you, Conrad?” asked Mama Melrose.

Conrad held up the transcript for everyone to see. It consisted of seven pages of single-spaced ha ha ha ha no transcript for you ha ha ha ha no transcript for you ha ha ha ha . . . The magic that controlled the transcription machine was, it seemed, just as chaotic as magic everywhere else.

Scarlett muttered, “I guess all work and no play makes Conrad a dull boy.”

“Scarlett!” called Mama Melrose. She stepped off the platform and pushed through the crowd toward her daughter. “I’m pleased to see you.” But before she could make her way across the room, a figure emerged to cut off Mama’s approach.

“Miss Melrose, a word, if you please,” puffed Harold Fleming. His cheeks were flushed with a mix of anger and exertion. “The droppings . . . it’s quite bad. Truly very bad. And given your . . . connection . . . to this whole situation, it seems you owe me some assistance. Don’t you think? Why don’t you come with me and I can show you what—”

Just then an angel arrived in the form of Aphra Pierre, who stepped between Scarlett and Harold. “Sorry, Harry. Scarlett’s not available right now. Please leave a message with the Flamingo Task Force, and they’ll get in touch.” She steered Scarlett toward the exit, ignoring Harold’s spluttering protests.

Once outside, Scarlett finally managed a shaky laugh. “Oy, with the flamingos already.”

“It’s great to see you, Scar.” Aphra wrapped her arm around Scarlett’s and led her away from the town hall. “What do you say to a stiff cup of tea?”