Page 79 of Potion Sickness

“I think it’s possible,” Annabel says. “But I’m not sure Tiffany has the skill. She’s great with adjusting minor things. Changing faces. But a whole person is different. That’s big magic, and she’d have to hold it for hours, live, on something that moves.”

“On something fourteen inches tall,” Hannah says.

“It’s worth a shot,” Gabe says, clearly eager for any way out. “We might as well ask.”

“We need to ask Damien, too,” Annabel says. “You can’t wear a man’s face without his permission.”

“Then we ask him,” I say.

“I’m sure he’d rather his face go on without him than not at all,” Hannah says.

“Marigold,” Englebert says, joining the conversation, exhibiting an impressive amount of restraint in that he’s suppressing his obvious glee. “Get your keys. I’ll ask Mr. Carter for permission myself. And telephone the salon on the way. Tell Tiffany Reagan she has an audition.”

* * *

“No,” Tiffany says, mid-blowout on a woman I don’t recognize, as soon as we step through the door. She points a round brush at me across the salon.

“Whatever it is, Mari Wardwell, I can see it on your face. You’ve got your notepad out. You only bring the notepad when somebody’s in trouble. I’ve confessed to my crime. I’ve turned my thrice. I’ve paid Annabel’s consulting fee, which was fair but not nothing. I have been a model citizen. Ask anyone.”

“Tiffany—”

“I didn’t touch the props table. I haven’t even been near the props table. Dana has made sure of that. I’ve been carrying my witch costume back and forth every single day so nobody can say anything was ever left unattended. Do you know what it does to chiffon, living in a garment bag? It can’t breathe.”

“Tiffany.”

“And if this is about Damien, I already told you, I gave the man a perm in 2019 when he came to visit for the holidays and we have not exchanged more than pleasantries since, and, for what it’s worth, the perm was excellent⁠—”

“Tiffany,” Annabel says, coming in behind me with Englebert at her heel, “we’re here to hire you.”

“Sandra, honey, we’re done, you look wonderful, it’s on the house,” Tiffany says to the woman in the chair. She walks Sandra to the door, flips the sign to CLOSED behind her, and turns around with her arms folded. “Hire me for what?”

“A role,” Englebert says.

He’s taken the sink behind the shampoo chair as a throne.

“Did something happen to Pru?”

“No,” Englebert says. “Prudence is fine. We’ve come to offer you a new role.”

“But I’m Third Witch. I don’t know any other parts. I already have a part.”

“You have a part,” Englebert says. “I am offering you a role. I am asking you to perform the largest working of your family’s craft attempted in recent memory, live, before a sold-out house, for two and a half hours without intermission, and not one member of the audience may ever know it occurred.”

Tiffany looks at me. “What is he talking about?”

“Gabe can’t do the part,” I say. “I mean, he physically can. But he can’t. You’ve seen it.”

“There’s no need to be polite about it,” Englebert says.

“Gabe is awful, that’s true,” she says. “But I don’t know his part. I can’t⁠—”

“You can’t,” I say. “But Englebert can.”

“What do you mean? Englebert is— I don’t see—” She gets there mid-sentence. Her arms come unfolded. “You want a glamour.”

“We want Damien Carter,” I say, “walking out of that castle tonight.”

“Damien Carter. Except he’s a cat.”