Page 60 of Impractical Magic

“Del . . .” Lula tutted. “We don’t want to be prejudiced, do we?”

“Well, I’m sorry, but they’re weird. With the outfits and the ‘alakazams!’ or whatever?”

Luna sighed. “So, I guess the answer is yes, we do want to be prejudiced . . .”

Scarlett had to smile at her tender-hearted baby sister. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be an anti-magician. It just struck me as odd, is all. Probably nothing—never mind. Say, what did I miss around here tonight?”

“Well!” Delilah said. “Zahir managed to pull off a steak dinner for the guests. Which went great until the steaks all turned back into several very angry cows—the upshot being, everyone in this hotel is vegetarian now. Then, in Room 206, some of the Gilbert and Sullivan people had their sheet music begin spontaneously performing itself. And the entire inn was treated to a full-volume performance of ‘He’s an Englishman,’ over and over, for . . . what was it, Luna, about two hours? We finally managed to catch the sheet music and throw it in the fire.”

“For he himself has saiiiid it . . .” Scarlett sang.

“He’s making us regreeeet it . . .” Delilah sang back. “He’d better shut up sooooon, or I’ll send him to the moooon.”

Scarlett applauded. “Good improv!”

“Improv? Hardly, I had two goddamn hours to think about it.”

The inn’s entrance bell jangled and the heavy oak door swung open, revealing Polly, her face contorted with a mix of fury and weariness. Her arms were full of hastily packed luggage, precious belongings tossed in shopping bags. Violet trailed behind unhelpfully, hooded sweatshirt pulled low over her face. Just a sullen shadow, her eyes glued to her phone.

Polly’s gaze landed on Scarlett with the force of an Arctic blast. She dumped her bags on the floor with a thud. “Well, well, well . . . look what the kraken dragged in.”

“Hah,” Scarlett said awkwardly. “Haaah . . . very good. Listen, Polly, again, I’m so sorry about the bookstore—”

Polly cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Save it.” She directed her attention to the front desk. “Delilah, this is hardly how I expected my evening to go. And I truly am sorry to impose . . . but I’m afraid we are in need of a place to stay.”

“Of course,” Luna said. “Whatever we can do to help—you don’t even need to ask.”

Polly nodded, a flicker of warmth softening the harsh lines of her face. “Thank you both. It’s just that the EMS team placed powerful wards all around the bookstore, plus there’s all the smoke damage . . .” She glanced quickly at Scarlett, then back to Delilah. “Since Violet and I reside above the shop, well . . . we’re essentially homeless. I hope you have a vacancy?”

“For you, always!” Luna stepped forward, throwing her arms around Polly for a supportive squeeze. “Don’t give it another thought. We have a lovely suite overlooking the back garden that will be perfect for you and Violet. Let’s get you settled right away.” Luna scooped up an armload of Polly’s luggage and headed upstairs without waiting for a reply.

***

Scarlett knew that, out of all the Melrose sisters, Polly would least appreciate any help from her. So, with that in mind, Scarlett made her way up to bed. It had been quite the clusterfuck of a day. But despite it all, the thing she couldn’t get out of her head was the hurt expression on Nate’s face, right before he stormed off and left her standing alone by the burning bookstore.

Everything I said came out totally wrong. What had happened between us didn’t mean nothing. It meant . . .

Scarlett sighed. She didn’t know what it meant. Because if meant something, that suggested she was supposed to do something about it. But what could she possibly do? Stay in Oak Haven to be with him? That was impossible. After everything she’d done, starting with her monumental screw-up ten years ago, and compounded by even more mistakes now? It simply couldn’t be—she didn’t deserve this place, or him.

On her way to bed, she passed the third floor and paused on the stairs—did she hear a party at the end of the hall? She made her way discreetly down the hall and listened. Music was coming from behind Maximillian’s door—something swanky and nostalgic by Dean Martin. Scarlett could hear muffled conversation. Ice cubes rattling in drinks.

A little after-hours gathering, chez Maximillian the Magnificent, Scarlett thought. What are you up to, Max?

Chapter 23: Funkytown

Sunlight streamed through the windows of the Stargazer Inn dining room, illuminating the remains of a hearty breakfast buffet. A few guests from the Gilbert and Sullivan Society lingered over their eggs and nursed their coffees, their conversations punctuated by the occasional shift in the room’s decor. The dining room shimmered and warped, transforming momentarily into Studio 54—Donna Summer blaring, a dizzying swirl of flashing lights all around. A moment later, the room morphed into a Hawaiian luau, with a roasted pig on a spit and hula dancers swaying. Then, with a final flicker, it settled back into its familiar New England charm, although a faint scent of coconut oil lingered in the air. The guests had all gotten used to these changes—their conversations barely missed a beat as the room bounced from a fabulous disco to Waikiki Beach and then back to the familiar paneling and floral wallpaper.

Scarlett came downstairs, bleary-eyed but determined not to miss another breakfast. She spotted her mother, Luna, and Delilah at a table, surrounded by the remnants of their meals. Before joining them, she headed for the buffet, piling her plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and a mountain of fruit. Scarlett plunked down at the family table, allowing the scent of coffee and the gentle hum of conversation to wash over her.

“Good morning, Scarlett.” Her mother was occupied with the morning paper and didn’t look up.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Luna chirped. “Welcome to the land of the living.”

Delilah wasted no time on pleasantries. “Luna managed a rough translation of a page from the Myrmex Arcana. Seems these red flies have a somewhat biblical origin.”

Curious, Scarlett leaned in. “Tell me.”

“According to the book,” Luna explained, “the dragonflies date back to Ancient Egypt. Remember all the insect plagues in the Book of Exodus? Gnats, flies, locusts? Myrmex Arcana speculates that our flies may have been created in response, conjured by Jannes and Jambres, two sorcerers employed by the Pharaoh. But it seems their plan backfired. Their flies render all magic unpredictable and surreal—”