Page 84 of Halloween Town

Poppy shoved her paper bat under one arm and dug around in her pocket for a five. She slapped it into Hadley’s hand with a scowl. “It’s freakin’ daylight robbery!”

Wren handed over her five, also unimpressed. “My godmother and I will be having a ripping-us-off talk later,” she said.

“I’m sure she’s quaking in her boots,” Hadley cheekily replied. She lifted her chin, and Wren and Poppy both turned to look. Poppy blinked, then shook her head. She was a very creative person, and routinely made her own Halloween costumes—though given the Thom situation, she hadn’t been in the mood to dress up tonight—but Luna had turned it into … well, not art. Maybe a toddler’s finger painting? H-Town’s mayor had dyed her hair various hues of neon: pink, green, and yellow, and was carrying a flashing LED broomstick. A black cape covered her from head to toe, its hem dragging on the grass and dirt. Stopping to talk to a couple, she opened her coat wide and Poppy squinted to read the text on her shirt…

Wickedly Good at Trouble.

Well, at least that wasn’t false advertising.

But the most outlandish piece of Luna’s costume was her massively oversized witch’s hat, with its tall cone decorated with fairy lights. The extra-wide brim had Luna constantly twisting to keep from banging someone in the face.

“What the hell is she wearing?” Wren asked, caught between laughter and horror.

“Did she lose a bet?” Poppy sniggered, dropping her head as Luna’s attention zeroed in on them. “Oh, God, she’s seen us. What if she asks us what we think of her outfit?”

“Whatever you do, don’t be like Jasper, who said she looked ridiculous. She cursed him on the spot,” Hadley informed them. “She even mumbled something incomprehensible and spellish.”

“Jasper will be fine because Luna doesn’t actually know any spells. And even if she did, there’s nothing to worry about because casting spells is bullshit.”

“Wren, you are such a cynic,” Hadley murmured, disappointed.

Wren bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, I try.”

Poppy agreed with Hadley but couldn’t take her side because Luna was barreling down on them. She stopped a yard away, spun around to show off her outfit, and knocked a teenager with the brim of her hat.

“Serves you right,” Luna told her, scowling. “Why aren’t you in costume, Lisa-Jane?”

Lisa-Jane, terrified, scuttled off without replying, and Luna pointed her broomstick, now flashing green—it was yellow before—at Wren, then Poppy. “And what reason do you two have for not wearing costumes?” she demanded.

“Ah, that would be because I am a grown-up and don’t see the need to play dress-up anymore,” Wren told her godmother. Ooh, fighting talk, Wren.

Luna didn’t say anything but turned her eyes on Poppy, who shuffled from foot to foot, then sighed. “I wasn’t feeling it, Lune,” she said, hoping that honesty would save her.

“You two are such a disappointment to me,” Luna muttered, and slung an arm around Hadley’s thin shoulders. “I’m going to pour my energy into mentoring Hadley; she will take over from me someday.”

Hadley clapped her hands, delighted. “Yay, I’ll get to boss Poppy and Wren around, and Dad and Thom.”

“You do that already,” Wren pointed out.

“I know, but it’d be nice to make it official.”

Luna patted her shoulder. “I think you should fine them ten dollars each for not making an effort, Hadley dear.”

Someone called out to Luna, and she sailed off. Hadley-dear grinned and held out her hand for more money. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Poppy muttered, handing over another ten.

On the other side of the bonfire, Luna climbed up onto the tiniest of stages, just large enough for her to stand, and took the microphone offered to her. Then she plastered her hand onto her hat, bending its rim to keep the wind from blowing it away and causing a death-by-witch-hat homicide.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, tourists and residents, believers and non-believers,”—she looked to where they were standing and scowled at Wren—“welcome to my favorite event, the Bonfire of the Bewitched.”

Poppy dug her elbow into Wren’s ribs. “She’s gunning for you,” she murmured.

“She’s never going to make me a believer,” Wren stated, pushing her elbow away. “You all can keep your woo-woo shit.”

Poppy, having successfully poked her friend, smiled and glanced across the crowd to look for Thom. She found him within a few seconds—like she was the pigeon and he her homing signal—and her breath hitched when she realized he was looking right back at her. Instead of looking away, their eyes stayed locked, and Poppy fought the urge to run to him and fling herself into his arms. She missed him, more than she’d believed possible. She wanted to wake up next to him, to fall asleep with him, to drink coffee on the porch with him, to talk to him about big things and small.

He’d always been her person, the one soul in the world she felt completely accepted by and at ease with. He, simply, got her.

He looked tired and thinner than usual. In his hand, he held a paper bat, and she wondered if her name was written on the paper. If it was, she assumed he’d toss it into the bonfire as a regret. Because she doubted she could be a wish.