My mom continued. “Maybe you two should get back together again—”
Poppy’s cough turned into full-blown pneumonia.
“Men,” I said, with a hard look at Poppy, “are a fun distraction. Like Oreo cookies. They’re good, but you can’t plan your life around them.”
“Life without Oreos wouldn’t be as sweet, Zelda,” Mom countered.
“Oh, look at the time!” I glanced at my watch-less wrist, then moved to give her a hug. “I have to go out.”
Mom shied away, causing Jester to flip right-side-up in surprise. “I think I’m a little under the weather,” she said. “Wouldn’t want you to catch anything.”
“Oh.” I lowered my arms, backed away. This reunion had been six kinds of awkward already. “Well. Make yourself at home. Rest in my room. There’s food in the fridge if you want it. Unless you’d rather Poppy set you up at witch headquarters…”
“I’d rather stay with you,” she said quickly. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I’ll see you later.” I gave her a wave instead of a hug.
Jester bolted off the couch and down the hall, thinking I’d thrown something fun, and Georgiana ambled after him.
I sighed. “Could you get them a treat, Poppy?”
“Treat time!” Poppy called to the dogs.
I turned back to Mom. She had always been petite, but she looked smaller than I remembered. When did that happen? She was always so sure of herself, especially when she was disapproving of my life choices, or of magic in general.
I didn’t say any of that, though.
I just told her I loved her, and left.
When the vines overgrew the buildings in Gramercy Park, the media called itan unusual climatological event.
I called it a pain in the butt, because the only way to make the new growth retreat was to communicate with each plant, personally, and ask it to go back to where it came from. And of course Berron and I were the only two beings who could do this job—Berron, because it was his type of magic and the rest of the Gentry didn’t dig running around Manhattan—and me, because I could copy his magic.
But before I could lay hands on the plants, I had to lay hands on him.
Professionally speaking.
Except I was at Gramercy Square, and he wasn’t. No sign of the tall Gentry prince.Where are you?I texted.
Union Square Greenmarket, he replied.
“Union Square! That’s three blocks from where you’re supposed to be,” I said aloud, looking at my phone with annoyance that Berron, unfortunately, couldn’t see.
There’s a new bread vendor, he added.
“You think you can soothe me with bread?” I scoffed to myself.
He could, and he knew it. Damn him.
I punched in a reply—Fine, I’m coming—shoved my phone in my pocket, and walked.
My breath puffed out in clouds in the cold air. November could get cold in Florida, sure, but it was nothing like the consistent chill of an NYC autumn, the kind that climbed up from the concrete sidewalks. I’d had to re-learn how to layer to stay warm: good socks, Doc Martens, jeans, a thermal undershirt, black turtleneck, and a hip-length navy peacoat. A fuzzy ski hat with pom-pom topper—a gift from Poppy, who made them in her spare time—kept the heat in like a pot lid.
By the time I reached Union Square, the walk had made me even warmer than I needed to be, so I stripped off the hat and unbuttoned my coat.
As annoyed as I’d been at having to walk three blocks out of the way, it all faded away as soon as I entered the farmers market.
Pop-up tents on all sides. Stacks of purple, orange, and white carrots four feet high. Fresh-cut flower bouquets, studded with pine cones, wrapped in brown paper, and spilling out of buckets and baskets. Jugs of freshly-pressed apple cider. Piles of winter squash: green, white, yellow, and gold.
