“At least a few of our ancestors were remarkably talented at predicting death.”
And I was right. “Did they have the ability from the time they were young or did it come on later in life?” I asked, looking for a loophole to crawl through.
“I believe it’s happened both ways,” Morgana said, dashing my hopes.
“But this premonition was very vague,” I pointed out. “For all we know, it wasn’t a premonition at all.” I felt like I was pleading my case before a panel of judges.
“The details may fill in over time,” Bronwen said. “Or they may not.” I was rooting hard for the may not.
“If it doesn’t come to pass this time, can we assume she doesn’t have the ability?”
“That would be nice,” my mother agreed, “but I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
Of course not, why would it be? “I don’t suppose there’s any way to turn off or blunt this particular talent?”
“None I’ve ever heard of,” Bronwen said, “but I’ll ask around.” Ask around? Was there a bartender or a manicurist beyond the veil who knew things? A guy on a street corner who could get you information for a price? Before I could ask what she meant, Morgana said they were being summoned and promptly vanished.
“Don’t forget that punctuality is a sign of respect for your customers,” Bronwen managed to stick in, her voice trailing behind her as she too winked away.
While waiting for customers, I finished paying my bills and caught up on some dusting, trying not to dwell on the havoc my aunt’s nascent ability could cause in our lives. I wasn’t successful until the bells above the door jingled to announce the day’s first customer. The woman looked about thirty, petite and pretty enough to forego makeup and still turn a man’s head. She seemed to be blown into the shop by a cold gust of wind, along with the last of the shriveled oak leaves that skittered across the hardwood floor. She had to put some weight into closing the door behind her. “It’s awful out there,” she said, shuddering in a jacket that was more suited to early September than mid-October.
“Welcome,” I said. “It’s the sun that tricks you into thinking it’s a nice day to be outside. Are you from around here?”
“Sort of.” She extended her hand. “I’m Jane Oliver.”
“Kailyn Wilde,” I replied, briefly taking her hand. It was overly formal for a shopkeeper and a customer, but hey—I’d been taught the customer was generally right.
“I moved to Watkins Glen two years ago. I guess by now I should know what the weather’s like this time of year, but I go from the garage where I live to the garage where I work and hardly ever poke my head outside.”
“What brings you to New Camel today?” I asked.
“Your shop. I’m on a mission to find a good moisturizer and everyone raves about your products.”
“Word of mouth is our best advertisement,” I said. It was nice to hear that a customer made the trip to town specifically to visit Abracadabra. In many instances, my shop was an afterthought, a let’s-peek-into-the-magick-shop, after the tourist had already bought pounds of candy at Lolly’s, skeins of wool at Busy Fingers, or lunch and a shake at The Soda Jerk. My mother had been pragmatic about it. For her, commerce was commerce no matter how it came about. But I got a kick from knowing the shop was the primary reason someone came into our town.
“Let me show you where to find the moisturizers,” I said, leading the way to the second aisle. I pointed out a shelf at eye level. “There are quite a few, so take your time. Feel free to ask questions.”
“Thanks.” Jane sniffed the air. “Where is that incredible smell coming from?” She was doing a pirouette, trying to pinpoint the source. “Do you have a bakery in here too?”
I laughed. “It’s coming from next door. The owner is not only a renowned psychic, but also an incredible pastry chef. You can have a glimpse into your future and then enjoy an authentic English tea.”
“The tea sounds great,” she said, “but I don’t believe in psychics or any of that paranormal stuff. I’m a scientist from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head.”
I tried to keep my smile from wilting and in the politest of tones, I reminded Jane that she was standing in a magick shop.
“I know,” she said. “It’s a cute gimmick.”
I didn’t like it when people shrugged magick off as a children’s game, a trick worthy of snide remarks. I understood that being circumspect was for our protection, maybe even for our survival, but it still chafed.
When Jane came up to the counter a few minutes later, she was holding two jars. “I can’t decide which would be better for me,” she said.
I pointed to the one in her left hand. “That one is better for really dry skin.” Jane charged the purchase and went on her way, blissfully unaware how lucky she was that my family never dabbled in black magick.
Only two more customers stopped in during the morning, locals who needed health-related items. One was desperate for a lip balm that would actually work for her kids, and the other bought my last bottle of cough medicine for her husband, an early victim of the flu. I wasn’t aware I’d run through my entire stock of it, until she pointed it out. The slow morning instantly turned into a boon, giving me time to whip up more of the three different formulas I sold.
It had been a whole lot easier to keep up with demand and still run the front of the shop when my mother and grandmother were alive to share the workload. But I found that if I left the storeroom door open and didn’t listen to music, I could easily hear the chimes marking someone’s arrival. That worked well for simple formulas. The more complicated ones required me to add ingredients at specific intervals in the process or complete the recipe without interruption. I had to leave those for afterhours. It made for longer workdays and a glower of cats unhappy about their delayed dinner hour, but I didn’t collapse from the longer day and they didn’t starve from waiting an extra hour or two to eat. If it wasn’t an elegant solution, it was at least an equitable one.
Fortunately, I had all the ingredients I needed on hand. The basic honey, lemon, coconut oil mixture was number one on the hit parade. It always sold out first. The thyme tea only appealed to those who enjoyed the flavor of the herb, but those who did were rabid in their devotion. The ginger peppermint syrup was favored by people who preferred a little zip to the taste of their medicine. They were all somewhat effective in easing coughs. The game changer was the addition of the spell my mother created decades ago. It drew its strength from the power of three. It required three candles, three oils (myrrh, mint, and sandalwood) and three pieces of quartz. I anointed each of the candles and quartz with each of the three oils. Then I placed a candle and a piece of quartz together at each point of an imaginary triangle with three equal sides. The words of the spell were deceptively simple, but repeating them three times imbued them with power if the practitioner came from the right bloodline.
Magick mend and candle burn
Illness leave and health return.
I printed out the labels and was applying them to the bottles when I checked the time and realized I was late. I ran out of the storeroom, set the I’ll-be-back clock to one-thirty, put it in the window, and bundled myself into my down coat, gloves, and scarf for the two-block walk. No amount of lousy weather was going to discourage me from meeting Travis for lunch. As I hurried to The Soda Jerk, I noticed that most of the shops I passed were decorated for Halloween, their windows filled with images of pumpkins, witches, and skeletons. My family always steered clear of decorating our shop for holidays, believing that true magick isn’t seasonal. Not even at Halloween.
I wasn’t surprised to find The Soda Jerk less than half full. Folks who didn’t need to leave the warmth of their snug homes hunkered down on days as raw as this one.