Page 16 of Enchanted Village

“Get outta here!” Mr. Weatherby said, pushing Silas’s shoulder with a surprising amount of strength. “I can handle the cleanup. But first things first . . .”

He pulled a wand from his back pocket and waved it over Silas. Instantly, it was like he’d been doused in a bucket of warm water. When he looked down, his clothes were no longer damp with sweat but as clean as if he’d just washed them. Even his face felt freshly scrubbed, and his hair smelled like cedar and sandalwood.

“First trick of the trade,” Mr. Weatherby said. “Don’t look like a goddamn ragamuffin. Not if you want a girl like that.”

Chapter Eight

Margaret couldn’t get the image of Fox Bar and its glittering sign out of her head, not through lunch, not through final prep, and not even once she’d opened the Toasty Owl and regulars had started pouring in.

Ever since her grandmother had opened the pub, it had stood alone as a watering hole offering. Margaret’s childhood memories were of the Toasty Owl constantly bustling with people; when she was tiny, she remembered coloring by the fireplace while people swapped stories at nearby tables. Once she was older, she was carrying trays and bussing tables as an unofficial server to help her mother and grandmother with the crowd. Through the years, there were the occasional additional employees who’d join for a busy season, but mostly, it was Margaret, her mother, and her grandmother. And always, without question, the room was full.

It wasn’t exactly that Margaret had taken the pub’s steady flow of patrons for granted; she was a shrewd businesswoman and was always studying the books, comparing this year’s sales to last year’s and making sure the pub always stayed in the black. After all, the pub was her responsibility, one she took as seriously as a dragon’s nest. But maybe, if she really considered it, she hadn’t ever truly thought of what might happen if she had competition.

Liza was always pushing her to do some kind of update here or there. After all, Liza’s bookshop was always in what seemed to Margaret like a constant state of sprucing. Furniture was swapped, shelves were repainted, wallpaper went up in the bathroom or the office. And the display, obviously, was constantly in a state of reinvention. Liza was one of those people who saw change as a positive. Even when they were kids, Margaret remembered Liza easily tossing aside a new toy or book for something new. Meanwhile, Margaret had cried when her mother had replaced her broken nightstand with a new one. She’d mourned for a full week.

Besides, what was there really to be improved on? All right, maybe she could’ve done with a slightly bigger bar with more room to move about. It had been fine for a pair of witches; they could wave their wands and have drinks mixing in the air. But Margaret needed counter space, especially with the way the pub was always full. And yes, maybe some new glassware. Not to replace the old glassware—how could she throw out all those memories?—but just to add more so that she wasn’t constantly washing things. Sturdier glasses, too, as these ones tended to break. If Margaret could just wave them back together again, that was one thing. Again, these were things Daphne and Fiona hadn’t had to contend with, but Margaret did.

Still . . . even if she did have the funds or the time for updates like that, would she have actually done it? A chill zipped up her spine at the very thought, as if she were betraying her mother and grandmother somehow. As if she were saying they’d made bad choices. As if she wanted to throw away their memories or forget them entirely.

She shook her head. It wasn’t really worth thinking about. Not really. She had a full house, after all, and no time for slipping into memory and nostalgia.

Margaret glanced around the room, rollicking with a fairly interesting Sunday crowd. Naturally, she spotted her regulars: a group of old wizards who’d been coming to the pub since her grandmother had first opened it, a group of witches who were playing cards in the back, several Emberwind Academy students who had their homework out but ignored on the table. There were also her fellow business owners, stopping by for a drink after a long day: Through the bustle, Margaret spotted Kelly and Thomas, the couple who ran the magical spa down the road, and Priya, the pastry artist at her favorite bakery and coffee shop. Priya, Margaret noticed, seemed to be glancing at Margaret more than usual; it had led Margaret to check on her several times to make sure nothing was wrong, but every time, Priya assured her that all was well.

Then there were those who had just popped in for the night. There was a traveling troupe of magical jugglers in the corner, alternating between levitating and juggling the drinks Margaret had made for them. They were adeptly keeping the liquid from sloshing out, though Margaret had no idea how. A pair of banshees at the back who tried but failed to keep their voices low.

There was also the girl with the pink cloak from earlier. She’d brought a pair of friends who reminded Margaret of birds. Showy, flashy, loud birds. They kept tittering at the edge of the bar, their voices so shrill that Margaret thought maybe they were with the banshees. But no. She saw the shining Emberwind Academy crest—a dragon blowing fire—on one of their cloaks and knew that they were students.

“Busy tonight,” Liza said, appearing beside Margaret with a tray. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and was wearing one of her less showy outfits, one that made it easy for her to wind her way through the crowd. She’d insisted on helping tonight, and even though Margaret had put up a fight, it hadn’t been a particularly strong one.

“Thank you,” Margaret said. “Couldn’t be doing this without you.”

“Nope, you couldn’t,” Liza said with a smile, pulling her wand from her pants pocket before flicking it in the air and summoning all of the empty glasses and plates from the tables to stack neatly on her tray. “I’m sure you’ll find someone soon enough to replace the Goth Twins, though.”

Margaret laughed. “I’m working on it. Hard to match the disdain hiding the apparent love.”

Liza winked. “Until then, this reminds me of the good ol’ days.”

Margaret smiled as Liza spelled the glasses into the sink and then whisked away with the new drinks Margaret had set out on the counter. They had a natural rhythm to their work, which made sense, given that Margaret and Liza had practically grown up in the pub. As teens, Margaret and Liza had regularly worked shifts together, something that only really stopped when Liza opened her bookstore after graduation. It was the reason Margaret knew she couldn’t continue to depend on Liza. This was a one-night thing. She’d find a new employee soon enough.

“Um, excuse me?” one of the girls nearby trilled, holding up an empty mug as she shook out her short, light-brown curls. “Another Fire and Brimstone, please? Virgin?”

She dragged out the word, making one of her companions giggle. The girl with the pink cloak rolled her eyes as if the joke was beneath her.

Margaret resisted the urge to roll her eyes right back. One of the reasons the Toasty Owl had always been so popular was that it catered to magic folk of all ages: Students could come and enjoy mocktails while adults could enjoy state-of-the-art cocktails. Magic was woven into every drink, courtesy of her grandmother’s ingredients. Hot chocolates always stayed warm, no matter how long you drank them, and whipped cream wove through every sip rather than staying at either the top or the bottom of the drink. Drinks like the Fire and Brimstone—which Margaret set to making for the girl—were made with steam that glittered and rose above the beverage to twist into shapes as you drank.

More than anything, though, the drinks were made just so for every person. Margaret had learned long ago how just the right ingredient for the right person made all the difference. She couldn’t explain how she knew, exactly; it was years of watching her grandmother and mother do the same thing over and over. They were never wrong. Which was how she knew to add a dash of cinnamon to the girl’s Fire and Brimstone and an almost imperceptible sprinkle of clove.

She passed the drink to the girl, who took a sip of it and practically purred with delight to the others.

“It’s delicious,” she said, grinning at Margaret. “Holy shit, you guys. And look! The steam’s turning into a dragon!”

At the word dragon, Bernie lifted her head from her bowl. Margaret had completely forgotten to pick up the bed, so she was allowing the calico to use the bowl just for one more night. Just one more. She would remember tomorrow. She would.

But for now, Bernie lazily flicked her tail in the air and yawned, showing off her needle-sharp teeth. The girl who had been oohing over her steam dragon noticed and stiffened. Apparently, she wasn’t a fan of real dragons.

“This is really advanced magic,” the girl said to her friends, watching the steam dragon flap its wings. “Can you even imagine the charms this takes?”

Margaret hid her blush and turned away, busying herself with washing some of the glasses that had already come back. While she appreciated the compliment, she couldn’t truly take credit . . . and she also wouldn’t know what to say if the girl asked any follow-up questions. True, she could fall back on her old standby: She never shared her family secrets. But the secret itself? Shame bubbled up in her at the very thought of these girls finding it out.