by Bailey Cates
A sudden flash filled the room with impossible brightness, a cosmic flashbulb overexposing the world, temporarily blinding me despite my hands over my eyes. I felt my own power surge in response, light meeting light . . .
Only the mulicolored flash was already gone, and Cookie was lying on her back by the couch, legs akimbo, eyes closed.
“Cookie!” I scrambled across the floor toward her, scattering broken glass.
Mungo skipped nimbly between the sharp shards and reached her first. He immediately started licking her face and pushing at her with his nose. By the time I navigated around the furniture to her side, her eyelids fluttered open.
“Cookie.” I shook her. “Are you okay? What happened?”
She began to sit up, and I pulled on her arm to help. Her eyes were wide, and her breath came in little pants. She blinked and rubbed her face. “Why is my skin wet?”
“Mungo slobber,” I said. “Sorry.”
He nosed her leg. She looked down at him as if she didn’t recognize him. Then suddenly she snorted out a giggle.
I stared at her. “Cookie?”
She giggled again, covering her mouth with her hand to stop herself. Her green eyes danced behind her long lashes.
She’s hysterical.
“I’m going to get you a paper bag to breathe into,” I said, standing and shaking glass out of my robe. “You’re about to hyperventilate.”
Her hand dropped, and she pushed herself to her feet. “No, I won’t.” She grabbed my arm. “I think it worked. I felt something . . . pop. You know?”
I shook my head. “All I saw was a flash of colors, and then you were unconscious.” I’d certainly felt the burst of some kind of force, but it had happened so quickly, I didn’t know what to make of it.
She waved her hand as if the backlash from a spell knocking her out cold was of no consequence. “No worries. I’m a bit tired, but nothing more. Oh, Katie! I think it really worked! I succeeded in performing a voodoo spell.” She stretched toward the ceiling like a contented cat. “I feel like I’ve come back home, in a way, after turning my back on my childhood beliefs and practices. And I was able to honor the memory of my father, as well.” Her arms dropped, and she gave me a dazzling smile. “I believe you will find the gris gris now. So, tell me: Where do you keep your broom?”
I stopped her as she turned toward the kitchen. “Cookie, you broke the box your father gave you,” I said. “That was a huge sacrifice.”
Tears gleamed for a split second before she blinked them away. “It was necessary, and I’m glad I did it. He would have been glad, as well. Now, even better than a regular broom would be a besom.”
She seemed so happy that I let it go, but I tucked away the weight of what she had done to think about later. “In the gazebo,” I said. “I keep my ceremonial broom out there.”
Almost skipping, Cookie opened the French doors and went out back to retrieve the rough besom made of oat straw tied around a handle of polished oak.
“Well, Mungo. What do you think? Was that crazy business just now a success?”
Yip!
* * *
It was nearly one a.m. when Cookie left, with a spring in her step, to roust her husband out of bed and explain some things to him once and for all. We’d cleaned up all the broken glass that we could with the rough broom, then with the vacuum and microfiber cloths. Still, I knew I’d be finding sharp bits and pieces of red, blue, and green for weeks.
“You be careful,” I admonished Mungo, worried about his tender paw pads. It was a miracle that none of us had suffered so much as a scratch from Cookie’s breaking spell.
Had it broken another spell hiding the gris gris? Maybe. Cookie certainly seemed to think so. I considered trying to use Lucy’s dowsing rod right away, but I didn’t have a map of the city at home, and my injured shoulder was beginning to growl at me for not babying it enough.
So, I texted Declan that I was thinking of him, knowing that at that hour, he would either be on a call or asleep in his bunk. Then I took a pill, and Mungo and I went to bed.
At four-thirty, I was wide awake again, staring at the ceiling and wishing the tumble of thoughts in my brain would settle. Images pelted across my mental movie screen: desperate Dawn, comatose Dawn, her frightened mother, Poppa Jack in the witch’s garden, dragonflies. Franklin Taite, fierce, balding, and determined to fight evil until he was no longer able. Oscar’s bright smile, flashing brown eyes, and air of disapproval. Connell’s brogue, fire licking at my feet, Declan’s oceanic gaze enveloping me, calming me. His quiet snores, the half smile, and gentle hands. Mungo barking, Lucy’s worried frown, Steve looking away as I tried to catch his attention. Then faster and faster: Mambo Jeni shouting at her son, Samantha smirking, Marie LaFevre pointing to the door, Cecelia riding away on her bike, snakeskin and poppets, Eulora stroking a stuffed hedgehog, Quinn holding up his hand to fend off the very idea of magic, Tanna’s sharp gaze through the stairwell window at the hospital . . .
“That’s enough!” I said, sitting up in bed. Mungo cracked an eyelid, unimpressed with my theatrics.
He changed his mind when he found himself bundled into the passenger side of the Bug and zooming toward the Honeybee. If I couldn’t go for a run to clear my head, at least I could cook.
Chapter 22
“What on earth are you doing here? Katie!” Lucy stood with her hands on her hips, doing her best to glare at me. It was after six a.m., and the sky in the window behind her was beginning to brighten. Shreds of seashell-peach clouds hovered low on the horizon.
I held up my hands. “I couldn’t stay home one second longer. I’m feeling pretty good, too. Please let me work, Aunt Lucy?” I put some extra whine in the last sentence for effect.
At least Iris laughed. “Glad to see you’re much healthier than advertised.”
“Oh, this little thing?” I said, pointing at where an edge of gauze showed beneath my T-shirt sleeve.
“Let me see your shoulder,” Lucy demanded without so much as a smile. She hustled me into the restroom, where she carefully peeled back the layers of gauze covering the stitches. “Well!” she said after careful inspection. “I must say, you have remarkable powers of recovery.”
I smiled at her.
A sudden grin split her face. “Why, Katie Lightfoot! Did you heal yourself?”
Craning my head to try to see the stitches, I said, “Not intentionally. It was probably the special tea you made me. Plus, you know how magic tends to energize me, and Cookie came over—”
“What?” she interrupted.
“Um, yeah.” As she put a new, smaller bandage on my cut from the Honeybee first-aid kit, I told her about the hex breaking and the glass and my worries about Cookie and Oscar’s marriage.
“Well!” she said as she finished. “That is something! Did you bring the dowsing rod? We can try to find the talisman with it again.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said. “It’s in my car.”
She frowned, then shrugged. “As safe a place as any, I suppose.”
Opening the restroom door, I said, “I thought maybe we could try after work again? Or even just you and me in the office—if we can get away.”
We rounded the corner into the kitchen to find Iris almost in tears.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, wishing the bakery could be one place to escape drama.
She held up a small white disk and let it drop on the counter. It landed with a thunk and broke into several pieces. “The prep work is done for the day’s baking, and the ovens are full, so I thought I’d try to surprise you.”
Lucy and I peered at the pieces. “With . . . ?” I asked.
Iris sniffled.
“Meringue!” my aunt guessed.
Iris nodded. “Sort of. I’m trying to make macarons. I’ve been thinking about them ever since you made those coconut macar
oon thumbprint cookies.”
I felt my face clear. “Ah. Well, let’s make them together, then.” I looked at Lucy. “Today’s special is oatmeal lace cookies, right? We can offer macarons as another, as long as they last. What flavor were you thinking, Iris?”
“Chocolate!”
“Okay, then. Chocolate, it is. Maybe with a bit of espresso and a hint of cinnamon?”
Our protégée’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “Yum!”
“First you need to grind some almonds.”
“You said something about almonds the other day,” Iris said, her tears forgotten. “I remember now.”
“Many grocery stores sell preground almond meal, but we don’t have any right now,” I said. “So we’ll grind up our own, and then toast it just long enough to dry it out and intensify the flavor. And we’ll start with a French macaron meringue—it’s easier and faster than the Italian version.”
We set to grinding and roasting blanched almonds from the pantry, and whipping egg whites with lemon juice and a pinch of salt. Then I showed Iris how to fold in a combination of the cooled almond meal, confectioner’s sugar, cinnamon, and powdered espresso while Lucy removed a batch of fig muffins—now a regular item on the Honeybee menu—from one of the ovens and put baking sheets in to preheat to 340 degrees.
“See, this batter forms a thick ribbon, much denser than the fluffy egg whites for traditional meringue. That’s what gives the cookie outsides of the macaron their tender chewiness. And see the pretty speckles from the cinnamon and espresso?”
Iris nodded, as attentive as any pastry student I’d gone to school with. “Lucy said cinnamon draws love, happiness, and money.”
Glancing at my aunt, who looked pleased as punch, I said, “That’s right. And what about chocolate?”
“Oooh,” Iris said, her eyes bright. “Chocolate has magical properties?”
Lucy laughed. “Good heavens, girl! What do you think?”
“It makes me happy, I can tell you that,” she said.
“Chocolate creates serious feelings of euphoria, for sure,” I said. “That’s plain old science, I’m afraid. In culinary school we learned cocoa contains phenylethylamine, a chemical that reduces your appetite, makes you feel lovey-dovey—your brain makes the same stuff when you fall head over heels—and, like you said, makes you happy.”
Lucy’s expression held amused delight.
I shrugged. “Most people don’t realize how much chemistry you learn in culinary school. Another food that has even more phenylethylamine than chocolate? Cheese.”
“I’ll have to tell Patsy,” Iris said, referring to her stepmother, who owned the cheese shop down the block.
“I don’t know about cheese,” Lucy said, “But it certainly explains why chocolate is associated with romance and . . . you know,” she finished, her cheeks turning pink.
“You mean sex?” Iris said, oblivious of my aunt’s discomfort.
I suppressed a laugh. “Back to the job at hand. Load some of the batter into this pastry bag, and I’ll show you how to pipe out the cookies.”
Ben showed up with several boxes from the bulk grocery then, and as he and Lucy opened the Honeybee and greeted customers, I directed Iris as she slowly and carefully formed uniform disks of succulent, gooey meringue on silicone baking sheets. When one was full, it went right on top of one of the preheated sheets in the oven, a simple method that prevented burning and encouraged even cooking.
As each pan came out of the oven, we let the cookies cool for a few minutes and then transferred them to a rack. In between batches, we mixed a simple chocolate ganache, adding more espresso powder and cinnamon.
“Now we fill,” I said. “First, you have to make a little indentation in the bottom of each cookie with your thumb, so it will hold more of the filling.” I gently pushed into the center of a meringue cookie to show her.
Iris did a little two-step before settling in to work. I began to realize that move of hers was a sign of joy.
“So these are kinda-sorta thumbprint cookies, too!” she said, bending over and making a careful dent in one of the cookies.
“Ha! I guess you’re right.” I began piping ganache onto cookies and sandwiching them together, watching her out of the corner of my eye. “And you know what else? You’re a natural at this. Whatever you decide to focus on at SCAD, I guarantee you that baking is one art form you’ll excel at.”
She answered with another two-step and a happy grin.
* * *
Making macarons with Iris—and sampling plenty of them as we worked—helped settle my thoughts. However, it didn’t help me make sense of all the pieces of information I had. Part of the problem was that I didn’t even know how many of the pieces even fit into the puzzle. And I felt sure there were still a few missing.
At least that night we’d have a better idea of where the talisman might be. And this time, I had a feeling Cookie wouldn’t be kept from joining us.
Just to make sure, I called her first of the spellbook-club members. Her phone rang five times before going to voice mail. I looked at my watch, suddenly panicked that I’d called too early—it had certainly happened before. But the morning rush had come and gone, and it was well after nine thirty.
On the other hand, Cookie had had a late night, and not everyone could get by on just a few hours’ sleep, like me. I left a quick voice mail asking her to call me when she got a chance, and hung up.
Declan answered my next call, and we chatted for a while. He actually sounded worse off than I did, after being out all night checking for the source of carbon monoxide leaking into an entire apartment building. The residents had to be evacuated, and the fire crew not only had to track down the source of a poisonous gas, but also had to mollify a crowd of extremely cranky people who’d been rousted out of their beds in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he still insisted on talking about my evening and how well I’d slept. When I told him about Cookie breaking the hex on the talisman, he grew quiet.
“Deck? This is good news. We have to be close to finding out who has the gris gris. That means we’re close to finding Franklin’s killer, and, hopefully, bringing Dawn out of her coma.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s what I’m worried about. If you track it down—or if you track someone down—I want you to get ahold of me right away. And Peter Quinn. And Ben, of course.”
All men. I smiled to myself. Well, as they say down here: Bless his heart.
Before returning to the front, I checked in with Candler Hospital. They wouldn’t tell me more than that Eulora Scanlon and Dawn Taite were both still there, but that was enough.
Back out front, I found Bianca and Jaida sitting at one of the tables, leisurely flipping through sections of the Savannah Morning News. How long had it been since I’d simply sat down and read the paper? Things were fairly slow, so I grabbed a hazelnut biscotti and a cup of coffee and joined them.
“Hey, you two! Perfect timing.” I sank into a chair.
“Katie! We wanted to see for ourselves how you’re doing after that awful fire,” Bianca said, setting aside the financial section.
Jaida examined my face, and then her attention flicked to my shoulder. “You had to get stitches in your arm?”
I nodded and grinned. “A baker’s dozen.”
Bianca rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”
Jaida shook her head. “She’s obviously fine, Bianca.” She sat back. “Is our timing perfect because you can take a break? Or . . . ?”
“Ah. The break is good—don’t get me wrong—but Lucy and I were going to call and see if you two could come here after hours.”
“For, er, book-club business?” Jaida asked, surveying nearby tables to see if anyone was listening.
“Indeed. The same as the other night. Bianca, is this enough notice for you to get a babysitter for Colette?”
&n
bsp; Her gaze slid away from mine.
“You know,” I said, sitting back and regarding her through the steam drifting from my mug. “We haven’t seen you as much as usual the past few days.”
She looked up with a troubled expression and bit her lip.
Jaida’s gaze sharpened. “Did you really have to stay home with Colette when we last gathered?”
“Yes!” Bianca said.
“You don’t like that the spellbook club is involved in this voodoo business, though. Am I right?”
Bianca gave a slow shrug. “I’m sorry. It just makes me uncomfortable.”
I set down my coffee. “You’ve never made a secret that you disapprove of Cookie’s approach to magic, and we understand. But I’ve learned so much about voodoo that I never knew before. I think you might find some of it interesting.”
Bianca’s jaw set. Jaida shot me a look.
I lifted my palms. “Or not. It’s entirely your choice. And if you don’t want to come tonight, that’s okay, too. I’m going to try Lucy’s dowsing rod again.” I directed my next words to Jaida. “Cookie is sure that last night she broke the hex that was hiding the gris gris.” I didn’t elaborate on the broken glass we’d had to clean up.
Interest sparked behind Jaida’s eyes. “Well, count me in. Can I bring Anubis?”
“Of course!”
Bianca sighed. “I’ll come, too.”
I grinned and stood. “Thanks. Cookie should be calling me back soon, and I’m pretty sure Mimsey will be able to join us. So we should have the whole gang.”
* * *
“Katie Lightfoot, as I live and breathe! What on earth are you doing at work today?” Mrs. Standish stood at the counter. Her hair was wrapped in a white turban that went nicely with her zebra-print caftan. Skipper Dean was nowhere to be seen.
I glanced down at Lucy’s abbreviated bandage. It didn’t show at all under the sleeve of my T-shirt. “Why, Mrs. Standish. I work almost every day except a few Sundays.”
