I’ve never been much of a risk-taker. The thought makes my heart jump like popcorn kernels in hot oil.
When Pen knocks on my door, I literally squeak.
“Stella? You ready? It’s six o’clock and we have a timeline.”
I roll my eyes. The timeline. Six to seven: trick-or-treating; Seven to eight: a ceremonial dinner. Eight to nine: Trick Maisy into going to bed. Nine to ten: sacrifice the mulled wine (a.k.a, drink all of it). Ten to eleven: light the bonfire. Eleven to twelve: perform the releasing ceremony, whatever that means. Midnight: we dance around the bonfire.
It’ll be freaking weird, but it should also be fun.
“I’m on time,” I trill as I open the door. “I just—”
Pen’s dress stuns me speechless. I thought my dress was something. When it comes to showing some skin, Pen’s gets extra credit. I swear, her neckline plunges to damn near her navel.
Pen is long and boney everywhere. She has about as much boob as a Pixie Stick. But what she’s got she works in this black dress. Think Morticia Addams with about two yards less fabric everywhere except the sleeves.
I gape. “Wowza.”
She runs a nervous hand over the skin-tight dress that leaves very little of her silhouette to the imagination.
“Is it too much? Will it freak Livy out?”
“You’re worried about Livy?” I ogle her. “I’m worried about the inhabitants of the cemetery. That dress could raise the dead.”
Her eyes light, and she preens. “That’s the nicest thing you could have said to me.”
I laugh at my friend, and then execute a twirl. “I’m in love with this dress. I can’t believe you made it without even measuring me.”
Pen winks at me. “I have my ways.” Smiling proudly, she gives me an appraising nod. “You look spectacular.”
I finger one of her long wizard sleeves. “How come yours is black, not orange?
“Aren’t you adorable?” she says around a laugh. “C’mon, I have your headdress in the kitchen.”
“H-Headdress?”
But she’s gone before I get an answer. I’m picturing something with horns or antlers as I dash after her, but when we reach the kitchen, I’m relieved to see that three ribboned flower garlands hang from the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Pen snatches up one that’s decorated with quarter-sized silk sunflowers and orange ribbon. With a light touch she settles it on my head, and even though I can barely feel it, I have a sense that I’m twenty percent more enchanted.
“Thank you.”
“Mama, you’re so pretty!” Maisy enters with her little necktie dangling at her collar and her flame wig dragging behind her.
Yeah, I get Mother of the Year for spending more time on my outfit than on the four-year-old’s. Pen and I get her sorted and pop on her wig, and we’re set.
Or so I think.
“Where’s my candy bag?” Maisy wails, panicked.
Yep, Mother of the Year.
We go back to Maisy’s room to hunt for the bag I know I saw two days ago. When we finally unearth it from the mess of Maisy’s closet, it’s ten after six, and I’ve already messed up Pen’s Samhain schedule.
On our way out the door, we detour through the kitchen so I can level with Pen. I’m not shortchanging Maisy’s trick-or-treating time. You’re only four once, and though I may not be Mother of the Year, my girl is going to get the full hour of fun she was promised.
Maisy at my heels, I push through the swinging door with this argument on my lips and stop cold.
Wearing a face that looks like thunder, Lark stands in my kitchen in a sleeveless black tunic that—like Pen’s dress—shows more chest than should be legal. I know I saw him shirtless that night, and it was all things beautiful. But moonlight is so merciful.
