Page 50 of Tracking Snow

"Well, slap my ass and call me honest," the queen declares. "She's won again."

Half the room cheers, the other half boos.

Ariel accepts the box of Magic Morsels with a little bow on it as her prize.

The woman in the gold romper mutters darkly as Ariel rolls past her with the box of treats balanced in her lap and an angelic smile on her face.

By the time Ariel reaches our table, two extra drink vouchers have appeared in the tidy pile of prizes beside her. They rest on a twenty-five-dollar gift card to The Magic Bean, a glittery pumpkin carriage keychain, and a dildo so large and realistic it looks more like a medical emergency with veins than a sex toy.

I stare at the vouchers.

Then at Ariel.

Behind her, the woman in the gold romper is lifting her drink and bingo cards, shuffling through her purse, searching while her friend does the same.

Ariel blinks up at me. "What?"

"Nothing."

Ariel immediately holds the Magic Morsels out to me. They are the Grandma's Embrace Brownies. "For you. I don't like these ones."

I eye the box as my throat tightens.

Because I know she loves them.

I take the box. "I accept your pity carbs."

She smiles at me, bright and smug. "Isn't this better than staying home?"

I don't answer.

The queen calls out, "N, thirty-eight. N as in no, I will not call him back after that performance."

The room howls.

As Ariel continues to mark her card, I look down at mine and realize I've missed the last four numbers.

Again.

The club is too loud, too bright, too full of sequins and sweat and sugar-rimmed glasses for my mood. Which basically matches the sour scowl of gold romper chick, who is now openly fighting with her friend, presumably over some missing drink vouchers.

I wave over the waitress and order another round for us, sneaking an arm past Ariel to snag the two tickets. Ariel simply pats my head, her eyes still trained on her bingo card.

Then I tear open the Magic Morsel wrapper and take a bite.

Chocolate, rich and fudgy, melts over my tongue. The magic follows a second later, warm and soft, spreading through my chest like someone wrapped a blanket around the part of me that still hurts.

For one dangerous second, I almost let myself lean into it.

But the blanket tightens until it cuts off my breath. The magic presses against my ribs like it's trying to fuse with bone, and I feel the lie of it. This warmth belongs to someone else's spell, someone else's grandmother, stitched onto me like a second skin that will never learn my shape.

The little pulse of borrowed power settles beneath my sternum.

The empty place in me strains toward it, hungry, stupid, desperate.

Of course it does.

But the magic is already making my chest hurt because it isn't mine. It never is. It’s nothing more than a hug made of sugar and magic that will leave as soon as my body burns through it, and I'll be standing here hollow again, tasting ash where the chocolate was.