“Okay, so, I saw Iris’s match,” I start slowly. They’re both breathless, hanging on my every word. “And she has long strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes…”
Iris’s face lights up. “That sounds like Brooke.”
“Hold on,” Ivy interjects. “Anyone can have strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes.” She turns to me, nostrils flared. “Didn’t you get a name or something? Social security number?”
“That’s not really how it works….”
“Are you serious? What good are you?” Ivy stomps around the room like a toddler mid-meltdown.
Sigh. “If you have a picture of Brooke, I can confirm whether that’s who I saw.”
Iris pulls out her phone, where the girl in my vision lives as her wallpaper.
“Yup, that’s your match. Congratulations.”
Iris squeals and gives me a squeeze. I guess since I validated her love, we’re best friends again. “Thank you so much! You know, you look vaguely familiar to me. Have we met before?”
Not wanting to get sentimental in front of Ivy, I say, “Maybe. I was a freshman when you were a senior.”
“Of course. I’m sure we crossed paths. And I’m so glad we did today!” She skips off into the other room, presumably to tell her girlfriend they’ve been officially sanctioned by a bona fide matchmaker, leaving me with Ivy, who’s digging her claws into her sides in a murderous rage.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going, then.” I stand to leave, but Ivy grabs my wrist.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Her voice has dropped an octave, effectively dropping my stomach.
“Yeah, I confirmed a couple in love. Clearly, I deserve to be punished.”
Ivy shoves her gorgeously scary face in mine. “You saw her, then? Brooke? Notice anything peculiar, or is everything you see covered in candy hearts?”
“Well, it was one of my more narrowly focused visions….”
She shakes her head in disgust. “Brooke’s a mermaid!”
Whoa. That explains all the H2O. “Okay…Neat?”
“No! God! How do you think the two of them will spend their life together, huh?”
“I don’t know. Buy a house with a pool?”
She pinches my wrist tighter. “Dammit, Amber, stop joking around. Because of our siren heritage, Iris has the option to live in the sea. But she’d have to renounce her family and surrender her magic to do so. We would never see her again, and she’d be giving up everything.”
The pieces start to fall into place. “You mean…she’d be pulling a reverse Little Mermaid?”
Ivy groans. “Essentially, yes.”
“Wow, that’s…intense.” I’d hate to admit I ever see anything eye to eye with Ivy, but that is definitely a huge sacrifice. To give up a central part of your being for another person (or, in this case, merperson) is no small gesture. There’s no turning back once you’ve sprouted scales.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “How is she going to pull this off? She can’t just manipulate herself to grow a tail, can she?”
“Do you hear yourself?” Ivy yells. “Of course she can’t. She needs the help of a witch.”
I try to keep up, even though this whole thing is crazy. “Has she seen my mom?”
“She has, actually, but your mom turned her down. Said she wouldn’t do it…something about mystical limitations.”
That sounds like her. “Well, you should be fine, then. I don’t know any other witch who’d be powerful enough to pull off a transformation like that. That is some straight-up ‘wielding the magic of the ancients’ if I ever heard of it.”
“Yeah, well, Iris said she found someone who doesn’t give a crap about the Fates and will do it for the right price.”
Now, that is not something any witch worth her salt would say. Witches aren’t—or shouldn’t—be swayed by money like mortals. They’re generally guided by a higher power. So any Wiccan willing to perform a spell unsanctioned by the Fates is not someone you want to mess with. “Who is this witch?”
Ivy slumps back on the chaise, defeated. “I don’t know. She said her name is Victoria.”
GREAT. GREAT. I’ve somehow found myself tangled up with a siren, a mermaid, and a homicidal wicked witch who has made it clear on more than one occasion that she is definitely NOT Team Sand. Way to go, Amber! Why don’t I just arm-wrestle a dragon and piss off a necromancer while I’m at it?
“Can you believe all this?” I say to Ella as we prep her bakery’s kitchen for a fresh round of pies. She ties her apron in place, though I don’t know why she bothers, since half the ingredients will end up on her person regardless. Ella’s not supernatural, but we’ve known each other so long, I can trust her with weird stories that border on insane.
“You know what I wonder,” she starts, rolling out dough for the crust. Her hands (and somehow, her back) are already covered in flour. “How did Iris and Brooke even meet? It’s not like you can pick up a mermaid at Starbucks.”
“I know! Is there a dating site for the aquatically bent?”
“Maybe Iris was scuba diving and their eyes met across a school of fish.” We both laugh as I stir the lemon custard filling.
Ella pops three crusts in the oven, setting the timer. I love being here. The anticipation of pulling out something scrumptious in less than an hour fills me with childlike glee. You’d think I’d be used to it at this point, but I still bounce like a five-year-old on Christmas morning when a treat is ready to go. Being in this kitchen, digging through Ella’s endless supplies, working with professional-grade tools: Heaven. Pure heaven. She’s taught me her secrets for making macaroons and why it’s best to use room-temperature ingredients. I’ve learned how to weigh (not measure!) flour, flambé fruits, and whip sugar into something lighter than air. Everything I need is here, everything I want. This is the real magic.
“You have to admit,” Ella continues, “it’s really romantic.”
“Living underwater does not sound romantic. It sounds…cold.” I wipe the prep table clean, getting ready to start on a large batch of chocolate oatmeal raisin cookies.
“No, I mean, the gesture. Risking it all for love.” She washes her hands, then tousles her blond waves for any stowaway ingredients. “Imagine if Charlie did something like that for you.”
“I prefer him to be landlocked, thanks.”
Ella twists her hair in a high bun, shaking her head. “Joke all you want, but I know he’d melt your heart down to butter if he made a life-altering surrender to be with you.”
“Yeah…” I trail off, knowing full well he already does a pretty great job of turning me to mush whenever he’s around. I grow more attached to his goofy comebacks and never-ending collection of tie clips every day. And unbeknownst to him, he may already be sacrificing something to be with me: love with his true match, Kim.
But this is my happy place, so I push the thought away, squeezing cookie dough with more force than needed. After this, I’ll be responsible for prepping the next day’s early morning treats. Recently, Ella introduced a full line of breakfast pastries, including chocolate hazelnut croissants, raspberry cream Danishes, and homemade Pop-Tarts. My personal favorite is the cinnamon sugar churro donuts that are so light and fluffy, they’re like a cloud dissolving in your mouth. Pair that with her side of mocha dipping sauce, and I’m a goner. DEAD. Now that MarshmElla’s offers breakfast, there’s really no reason to eat anywhere else.
I slip into a happy trance of sucrose and sauces, and get home smelling like butter and cream, which is quite possibly the best scent on earth. (Other than bacon. Obviously.) I always bring something sweet home for Mom so she’s continually reminded of how beneficial it is to have her daughter take a break from magic and dabble in desserts.
“Hey, Mom.” I peek into her office, where she’s sitting on a floor pillow, poring over a grimoire. “Want a midnight snack?”
At the sound of “snack,” she perks up, snapping out of her trance. “What did you bring me?”
“A caramel pretzel puff,” I say, presenting the salty-sweet mound on a napkin.
Mom brews a desire potion that puts people into temporary states of hypnosis, but I’d say this treat accomplishes a similar effect. Her eyes widen, and while no actual drool emerges, the way her lips are moving, it’s clear saliva production is up. Sugar: nature’s ultimate magic weapon. “Thanks, hon.”
I place the puff by her knee, taking a quick peek at the grimoire. This isn’t one of her personal tomes; the handwriting is too loose and swoopy. Mom’s script is so precise, you’d think she’s still going after that elusive A in Penmanship. This writing looks more like Grandma Edith’s. Witches are all about sharing their secrets….Well, as long they are magical secrets. Meticulous grimoires are kept to track the mythological journey of a Wicca. Spell successes and failures are documented so that the next era of witches can build upon those of the past. We have several generations of Sands’ grimoires on our shelves, and even though I’m not technically a witch, someday they’ll be passed to me. If I happen to birth magically inclined offspring, these books will give them incredible insight into the supernatural world, whereas my biggest gain will be creating a cool-looking library.
“What are you reading about?” I ask, pulling up a pillow. “More on Grandma Edith’s time living with the nudists?”
Mom chuckles, mouth full of caramel. “Actually, I was looking for her spell for hair-growing tonic. I’ve had several requests at the shop, and I seem to remember her befriending a werewolf with alopecia.”
I try to picture a bald werewolf and envision a hairless cat. “She really knew some interesting characters, didn’t she?” I say. The events of the day gurgle inside me, and I know there’s no point in trying to keep them down. “Speaking of which, guess what I got myself into today?” I quickly recount the early details of Chicago’s newest hit soap opera, The Siren and the Mermaid.
Mom leans back. She looks uncomfortable, and she shifts around on her pillow. “Yes. Iris did come to me. But that was a while ago.”
“And you didn’t jump at the chance to send a siren back to the sea?”
She hesitates, chewing her treat much longer than necessary. “It would take exhaustive resources, and ultimately, the fallout with the Fates would be tremendous. They’re not fond of witches acting like Gods.”
Ah, the Fates. Unwilling to help yet pissed when others step up. Such a delightful bunch.
“But…you could do it, right? If the Fates weren’t such controlling jerks?”
She tilts her head, looking upward for an answer. “Theoretically, yes. I could perform such a spell. But I still wouldn’t. Think of all the princes transformed into frogs over the years. Do you know what happened to those witches and sorcerers?”
“Okay, so you don’t want to be smote from on high. But if you could do it, could another powerful yet mentally deranged witch pull it off too?” I cross my fingers, hoping the answer is no.
Mom raises a brow. “I suppose…? But only someone with no regard for mystilogical boundaries.”
Dammit. “Yeah, well, apparently Iris has hooked up with just such a person.”
“Who?” Yet as soon as the question leaves her lips, she narrows down the field to one horrible option. “Victoria.”
“Ding, ding! I’d give you a prize, but you already ate the caramel puff.”
“It was delicious, by the way.”
“Thank you! I made it myself.”
“But Victoria—this is a problem.” Her eyes grow cloudy with concern.
“I was kind of surprised to hear she’s still around after you showed her what’s up a couple months ago.” The image of Mom going Dark Willow and turning a spell meant to attack me back around on that hag remains firmly in my top-five favorite visuals, just behind Charlie’s first attempt at making crème brûlée and almost setting his sleeve on fire with the torch. Adorable.
“Unfortunately not. Victoria is a plague not easily erased.”
Sensing an opportunity, I ask, “Well, how did you get rid of her before?”
“Before?”
“You know, when you knew her earlier in life, during a mysterious time that you’ve inexplicably chosen to keep secret from me? Back then.”
Mom rubs her hands over her face, letting her fingers rest at her temples. “It’s too late to be getting into this, Amber.”
Evaded again! “Okay. I mean, I know you have some alleged skeletons in your closet or whatever, but revealing this admittedly scintillating information is actually pertinent to the scenario at hand.”
“You know,” she says, squinting with suspicion, “I find your involvement here confusing. Isn’t Iris’s sister the girl you punched in the face? Why help her?”
Number one all-time favorite visual. With a bullet. No regrets. “Yeah, so?”
Her eyes bore into me, practically forcing me to spill.
“Okay, fine!” I throw my hands up, guilty. “Maybe Ivy paid me an obscene amount of money to help Iris. And Iris is actually a decent person, who may or may not have been nice to me in the past. This mermaid is her match, and the two of them look insanely happy; I want them to be together. But using Victoria as a stop on the path to true love? I can’t just stand idly by.”
“Well, that is noble. Sort of.” She thinks for a minute, flipping a page in the grimoire back and forth. “I know that any warnings I give regarding dealing with dangerous witches will be disregarded, so let me cut to the chase by offering my help.”
“Aww, thanks, Mom.”
“It seems like Iris is determined to make this happen, regardless of the consequences. So we’ll need to find out when exactly she’s making this commitment.”
Something catches her attention, a memory perhaps, and her expression fades to somber. Her forehead is heavy, creased with anguish, her focus lost in subconscious. “Iris is taking a big chance, letting herself be overtaken by love. I don’t know if she realizes what she’s getting herself into.”
“HOW’S this?” Amani asks, straight-backed, pinkie out, sipping daintily from a teacup. She’s discovered a coffee shop in our neighborhood that serves high tea on Sundays, and while I personally think tea tastes like liquid dirt, tea parties usually come with an assortment of sweets, so I opted in.
“Wonderful, darling,” I say, copying her posture. I pretend to sip, then quickly abandon my cup for a pink-frosted petit four instead. Amani grabs a yellow one but adds a chili-powder jelly bean to the top before popping it in her mouth.
“I feel so fancy,” she announces, fluffing out the skirt of her dress. In addition to a taffeta petticoat, she’s also wearing a white satin headband in her shiny brown waves, along with lace fingerless gloves.
“You definitely look the part.” In my effort to be fancy, I wore jeans without holes.
“Thanks. It’s fun to dress up sometimes.” As if she isn’t always walking around like a dress pattern from the 1950s. Out of nowhere, she cocks her head to the side, brows furrowed, distracted by a vision. “Someone’s about to make a mess.”
Sure enough, seconds later we hear a crash in the back of the room.
“Rest in peace, fragile porcelain,” I say. We both raise our non-broken cups in solemn salute. “That was pretty seamless, by the way. Your vision came in and out without much disruption.”
She blushes and smiles down at the table. “Yeah, I still can’t always control what I see and when, but I’m definitely trying to limit the whole poltergeist face whenever I can. Not sure that will leave the best impression around campus next year.”
At this, I occupy my mouth with a cranberry-orange scone. Nothing is official yet, but since Amani is still unsure of her future path, she decided to apply to state schools, where she can explore her academic options without spending a ton of money. Her parents have six kids to put through college, and she’s very conscious of this burden. I always support her 100 percent, but most state schools are located far from Chicago in the cornfields of Illinois, and I’m already (selfis
hly) missing her.
“You’re probably right,” I finally add. “Though it would be an interesting way for you to make a name for yourself.”
“Ha, true. I can haunt the dorms or something.” She takes a bite of a cucumber sandwich. “I applied to U of I and Illinois State.”
I nod, trying not to mentally calculate the distance of these schools. “Good, good. Classic choices.”
“How’s your application going?”
“Oh, you know, patiently waiting to be released from the confines of my drawer.”
“They’ll accept you. Obviously.”
“Is that an official premonition?”
“You know what I mean.”
Our pact, while frayed around the edges, is always annoyingly upheld at the most inconvenient times.
“Has Charlie applied?” she asks.
“Yeah. He’s already been accepted at Notre Dame, his dad’s alma mater. But he’s hoping to hear back from Northwestern.”
“That’d be good. Then he’d be close to the city.”
“It’s definitely the preferable scenario.” And I can’t stop myself from smiling, because having Charlie be only a short “L” train ride away means we wouldn’t have to become one of those doomed high school couples that tries to hold on to the past even through they’re screaming into the future. We won’t be in the same zip code, but we won’t require airfare to see each other. I could jump on the Purple Line after pulling out a fresh batch of cookies and be sharing them with him once they’ve cooled. It would be perfect, if only the Fates would allow it.
“Well, I think I’m done with tea,” Amani decides, tossing her napkin on the table. “This was fun, though. It’s nice that your mom has been easing up on your shop schedule.”
“Yeah, I think she’s trying to prepare herself for when I’m at school. I mean, I’ll obviously still work there, but my hours will be more sporadic. Bob’s gonna have to fill in the gaps.”
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 4
