Page 7 of Impractical Magic

Deep down, Scarlett knew that if Del was saying something was wrong, then it probably was. But she’d been away so long, spent so much time resisting her powers and pretending to be like everyone else . . . Finding herself among her own witchy kind, the urge to connect with that side of herself suddenly became irresistible. “C’mon, let me do this—consider it a homecoming gift from me to you.”

Nate shook his head. “Your sister forbids it.”

“In that case, I really want to do it.”

“Scarlett, please don’t . . .”

“I can move this piano better than you can, Nate.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.

“No, you—dammit, Scarlett, I’m not doing a duet with you. Cut it out.”

“Watch me.” She focused her energy on the piano and gave a graceful flick of her wrist.

“Scarlett, don’t—”

The air turned somehow electric, and the piano shuddered. It raised six inches off the floor and hovered there as if awaiting further instruction. “Told you,” she said smugly. “Everything’s fine.”

Everything was not fine. All eighty-eight keys lifted off the keyboard and soared around the lobby like a white-and-black snake. The keys played a quick rendition of “Für Elise” and then dropped to the floor like ivory-and-ebony raindrops. The rest of the piano heaved itself four feet higher in the air and then smashed itself to pieces on the floor.

Scarlett’s jaw dropped open. My God, she thought, I forgot how much I fucking hate it when Delilah is right.

“Nice work, Scar.” Nate sighed. “Welcome home.”

Chapter 3: It’s Going to be a Bumpy Night

The tuneful crash brought Delilah and Luna racing in from the kitchen.

Luna gasped. “The piano!”

“Seriously, Scarlett?” Delilah said angrily. “You’ve been here five minutes!”

“Oi, wot’s all this bloomin’ hubbub, then, eh?” An improbably tall, alarmingly thin man peered down from the first-floor landing. He wore a fuzzy hotel bathrobe, accessorized with an oversized top hat and a droopy mustache. His theatrical Cockney accent was only slightly more believable than Dick Van Dyke’s. “Wot’s ’appened to the peace and quiet of me ’ome away from ’ome?”

“It’s okay, Max,” Nate called out reassuringly. “Nothing to worry about, just a little . . . piano apocalypse. Everything’s under control.”

“It don’t sound ’ardly controlled, now do it?!” said the mustached man.

“Just a little mishap. We’re fine; you can go back to your room.”

“All right then, I’m off,” he huffed, “but if I’da wanted to stay at bleedin’ Fawlty Towers, I wouldda bloody done it, right! You lot best sort it out, sharpish.”

“Who the hell was that?” Scarlett asked.

“That’s Max,” replied Luna. “He’s very sweet.”

“Sweet is not the word I’d use,” Delilah said. “He goes by Maximillian the Magnificent. He’s been staying here the past few months.”

“Months?” repeated Scarlett. “Since when does the inn have guests who stay for months?”

“Uhh, I dunno, Scar,” Delilah said sarcastically. “Since we started having hardly any guests at all? Somewhere around there, I guess?”