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Most clearly, though, she recalled the spell to sour the sweetest berries. The customer, Abigail A., had come after the shop was closed and Fia was supposed to be in bed, but Fia’d been listening at the door and peeping through the narrow crack, always drawn to spellwriting. And more, always drawn to her mother.

“Your secret first,” Sable had said after bustling the woman over to the counter, where she’d lit a candle, the light of which had glowed golden on their faces in the otherwise darkened shop. It had all seemed so mysterious to Fia at the time, those late-night visits. What kinds of confidences could only be uttered in the shadows?

With her face half hidden behind her hair, Abigail had leaned forward, whispering into her mother’s tilted ear. Fia hadn’t dared crack the door any wider or she would have tumbled into the room, but she’d wanted to hear that secret more than anything. Even if it wasn’t hers to know.

When Abigail had rocked back, Sable had been smiling—the slim, satisfied sort. “Very good. So tell me, what exactly can I do for you?”

“I’d like a spell to sour the sweetest berries,” Abigail A. had said. Abigail Allory, owner of Sugarplum Sweets. “I’d like… to make some very tart tarts, you see.”

“Of course.” And just before Sable had set pen to paper, she’d caught Fia’s eye in the crack of the door and winked.

Fia closed the ledger, keeping the memory of her mother close as the day went on.

The sky grew an angrier shade of gray, the wind storming, thunder rumbling—Penbrook snoring. She spun around, finally laying eyes on him. He’d slumped against one of the cabinets and somehow managed to doze off on his feet. Just as Fia went to wake him, Vernon and Michael Lavender trundled into the otherwise empty shop with a hiss of wind and a scattering of leaves at their heels.

“Stay put,” she whispered to an oblivious Penbrook, trusting he wouldn’t suddenly sink to the floor.

“Fia, dear,” Vernon exclaimed, patting down his wind-wild fluff of white hair. “And Mr. Madbury… I say, is he sleeping?”

“Um—”

“Odd fellow.” Vernon shrugged as if it made no difference to him, his thoughts more focused on the encroaching darkness beyond the window. “Will you look at the weather?”

“I can’t believe you braved this wind,” Fia said, gesturing him and Michael over to the fireplace and the blue chair Skye had long since vacated.

“He insisted,” Michael said with affectionate disapproval and a softer tone, respectful of Penbrook’s slumber.

Careful of his back, Vernon lowered himself down with the help of his cane, grunting a bit as he made himself comfortable. “You need two chairs over here, I think.”

“She didn’t ask for your opinion,” Michael said under his breath.

“Well, I’ve always thought so, but your mother would have had my tongue if I’d suggested it—and you don’t mind my saying it, do you, Fia?” Vernon chuckled.

“No, it’s a good idea.” And she meant it, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before. Maybe because she’d always felt she shouldn’t, she couldn’t, change anything in the spellshop. That she was supposed to do things just as her mother had always done them.

But Fia had hired Penbrook. She’d served tea. If she wanted, she could find another chair to place before the fire. Disarmed, Fia marveled at what else she might do if only she decided it.

“See, Michael?” Vernon tapped his cane. “She thinks it’s a good idea.”

“I never said you didn’t have them from time to time.” Michael grinned.

“Time to time,” Vernon muttered, then returned his attention to Fia. “Anyway, we’re both dying of impatience. I told you to come tell us everything, but you’ve forced us to you instead.” With the fire crackling beside him and a contented sigh, he scooted back in the chair, showing he didn’t really mind the small excursion. “How was the ball?”

“What did you wear?” Michael asked, leaning against the chair, one hand on Vernon’s shoulder. A touch made of habit, the two of them always tipping toward each other like flowers to the sun.

“Who did you dance with?”

“What did you eat?”

“Go on, tell us everything.”

Fia laughed, overwhelmed—and happy. Her mother might not have flooded her with so many questions, but Fia missed sharing things with her, and here the Lavenders were like two doting uncles. “Let’s see…”

And so Fia indulged in the telling, describing her golden gown and the illusioned butterflies she’d worn in her hair, the shoe-stealing trees, and the floor of white grass where she’d danced and danced. Of course, she avoided any mention of the grimoire and her thieving, although she had the feeling they would have delighted in hearing about that too.

“It sounds marvelous.” Vernon glanced up at Michael when her story wound down. “I should have sneaked an invitation for us while I was at it, though I can’t claim to dance the way I used to.”

“You’re still my favorite dancing partner,” Michael said.