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Dust plumes as she drops the top onto a shelf.
The container is empty. At the bottom, there’s another note in the High Witch’s neigh indecipherable handwriting.
Lent . . . to?
But the rest is blank. Brynn leans over and squints at the awful handwriting.
“This is impossible,” she says with a grunt. I snatch the paper from her hands and hold it up to the weak fluorescents, hoping that it’ll give away more clues.
But when I raise it to the light, hidden text peeks through the thin page.
I add my own curse.
“We have to visit the Crone Coronada.”
Whenever someone says they have to visit the Crone Coronada, everyone in the conversation shudders.
The crotchety woman is easily the oldest person I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s her preference for mismatched patterns and colors and pungent incense, but I always seem to have a headache after I’ve been to see her.
If the High Witch lent our only charged moonstones to her, then it should be as simple as asking for them back.
Should be. Hilarious.
Brynn insisted on driving. She’s got this aggressive, demanding tone that I like despite myself.
Or maybe I’m just desperate to get laid.
Fucking Valentine’s Day convincing me I need to fornicate. This is societal conditioning at its worst.
Admittedly, I get the sense I’d enjoy screwing around with Brynn every other day of the year, but that’s beside the point.
The Coronada’s shop on the edge of the city is as stereotypically witchy as she can make it. Between the boarded-up windows, random menacing gargoyles, and overgrown plants, it has the aura of a place that is uninhabited and forbidden in the moonlight.
She waxes poetic to anyone who will listen to explain her genius marketing by making the non-magical population “feel the experience.” I’ve always thought she simply wanted an excuse to avoid dusting an entire shop’s worth of compacted tchotchkes.
The bell on the door jangles and the musty air has a pungent hit of burning sandalwood and roses.
Fantastic. The Coronada’s embracing the “holiday” spirit. Granted, she is a businesswoman, so I suppose I should have expected that.
“Come in, girls,” the Coronada says, her voice craggy. “Come tell me what an old witch can do to assist on this lovely eve.”
I’m busy rolling my eyes when Brynn reaches for me. She continues her habit of dragging me by the hand through the shop. It isn’t that large, but it’s still disconcerting to have someone lead me around. As if she senses my discomfort, she braids our fingers together and her thumb massages mine.
We pass glass shelves covered in all manner of vials, bottles, books, and figurines. Three different incense burners scattered through the shop convert the pleasant woody half of the aroma into overwhelming.
In the corner, the Coronada stirs a bubbling cauldron tinted with swirls of bubblegum pink and lavender. Today’s caftan is a mind-bending combination of chartreuse cartoon hearts being stabbed by bloody daggers.
“Yes, what can I—” She cuts off her words and jettisons the comically large wooden spoon in the cauldron. “Ah. What has Miri sent me today?”
Brynn and I exchange a glance. She squeezes my palm.
“We’re here to retrieve the moonstones lent to you,” she says.
Smart. Not attributing it to the High Witch but also making it clear what we need without saying why.
But the Crone Coronada is unimpressed. Her eyes tighten as she tilts her head.
“Your mistress told me I could keep them until the summer. The festival is tomorrow. Has something happened?”
