Page 15 of Spellwright

7 silvers

Mara Lee

A spell to hang pictures straight

4 coppers

John Reid

A spell to tame an unruly cowlick

3 coppers

Elizabeth C.

A spell to dam any tears from falling

1 secret

The space behind the counter was narrow, so Penbrook stood rather close to Fia as they hunched over the ledger. Closer than she’d let almost anyone come to her recently. She felt the warmth lift up from his body like a comforting swirl of steam from a cup of tea. Felt the brush of his arm against her own and realized his sure-to-be-uncomfortable suit was, in fact, rather soft.

When he spoke, his breath brushed her ear. “One secret?”

It almost sounded like he was asking to hear her own.

Fia shut the book and quickly stepped out from behind the counter, away from the soapy scent of him. Away from his warmth, which she absolutely shouldn’t have wanted to lean toward. “Sometimes a secret is all someone can afford.”

“I see.” And he might have asked more, except something behind Fia caught his interest. “Who’s this?”

Fia glanced back. Seemingly out of nowhere, Finnick had jumped onto the counter. Despite all his fluff, he wove between a collection of glass-bottled serums, tail in the air, snowshoe paws padding daintily.

“You know you’re not allowed up here. Get down,” she said without any force, and when the cat only blinked at her, she grabbed him around the middle and set him on the floor. Unruffled, he licked one paw. “This is Finnick.”

“What a dignified creature.” Penbrook bent down to the level of the cat, and the little beast nosed right into his offered hand.

Because of course he would.

“I think he likes me.” And Penbrook sounded entirely too pleased.

“He likes everyone,” Fia lied.

Penbrook didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth quirked as though he saw right through her. “And how did the good boy come by his name?”

Fia hadn’t expected to witness the fancy Madbury tolerating a cat, let alone contentedly chin-scratching Finnick and calling him a good boy. Still, his question kept her from softening the way she otherwise might have done.

“My mother named him.” Fia didn’t elaborate. Didn’t tell him how she used to pout over her finicky magic. How one day her mother had brought home an orange floof of a kitten, naming him Finnick so that Fia might love something just as finicky as she was.

She waited until Finnick finished his inspection of the Madbury, then huffily continued her circle of the shop. “Let me show you the rest. Spells aren’t the only things for sale here.” She gestured at the table that displayed an assortment of candles and potions and powders: Fitzgerald’s Tell No Lies Tonic; Portia’s Perfect Pout Lip Balm; and the set of Inspiration Candles in scents of lavender fields, dark vanilla, and moonglow expanse.

“Dahl’s Love Drops,” Penbrook remarked without expression.

Fia touched one of the pretty rose-tinted bottles. A charm dangled from its neck, etched with overlapping hearts. “They’re very popular, and supposedly taste like lemon tarts sweetened with love.”

“Supposedly?” He snorted. “You’ve never tried them?”

“I’m not looking for love,” Fia said quickly, and it almost sounded like the truth, even if it wasn’t. But she certainly wasn’t going to voice her never-spoken wish to the Madbury. She protected her heart just as the librarians protected the archives, keeping it gargoyle guarded. Anyway, she’d always imagined love as some unnameable thing that would one day, maybe, find her. No spells required.

“Hmm” was all Penbrook said, trailing Fia as she walked over to the tall shelves on the far wall of the room.