“Coming right up.”
“Lou used to make me a combo sometimes,” she ventures. “Anger with a shot of sadness. Can you do something like that?”
“First you wanna be mad, now you wanna cry, too?” I raise an eyebrow. “And you want it all in one drink? You’re a difficult customer, you know that?” I let the corner of my mouth twitch up so she’ll know I don’t mean it in a bad way. I’m already assembling the ingredients, lining them up on the counter like an expert mixologist.
Her face relaxes, and she smiles.
When she smiles, her eyes turn into sparkling half-suns, with lashes like rays of pure joy. For a second I forget what I’m doing. My hands freeze where they are, and I can’t move.
Her smile falters. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat and keep working. “Wanna tell me why you need to be sad and mad?”
“We’re bordering on Dr. Seuss territory here,” she quips. “I have to be mad, so I will not be bad, and when I am sad, I do not get so mad. I used to love that stupid tongue-twister book of his—”
“Fox in Socks.”
“Yes! I found a copy in a thrift store and I kept it in my treasure spot so my mother wouldn’t…” Her voice fades and a haunted bitterness creeps into her eyes. “Never mind.”
I drizzle flavoring into the coffee, then pass my hand over it twice, once clockwise, and once counterclockwise. I take a few grains of pink sea salt in my palm and hold them up to my lips, letting my breath warm them. Then I sprinkle them into the mug.
“Nowhere but Crescent Cove would it be okay to breathe on someone else’s drink ingredients,” says the woman.
“True.” I grab the little tin of chili pepper and shake out a few flakes. “I didn’t get a name for your order.”
“Marlowe,” she replies.
“Marlowe.” I like the warmth of her name and the way it makes my tongue curl in my mouth. “I’m Rick. Short for Maverick.”
“LikeTop Gun.”
“Yeah. My dad was a fan.”
“The new movie was even better than the old one,” she says.
“Nothing beats the classic, but it wasn’t bad.”
“Not bad?” She seats herself on a stool and plants both hands on the bar top, looking at me earnestly. “The new one moved along so much faster, the dialogue was better, the conflict was more intense, and everything was just more interesting. The old one was soslow.”
“And things need to be fast?”
“Yes.” She’s watching me carefully, grooves forming between her brows. “That’s not how Lou made it.”
“This will do the trick.”
“But it’s notthe same.” She shifts restlessly on the stool, then stands up again. Like her body is possessed by a demon of perpetual motion. “I need it to be as close tothe sameas supernaturally possible. I thought you said you knew how Lou made these.”
“I do. This way is better.”
“Different is never better.”
“It can be, if you give it a chance.” I clasp my palm over the mug, then lift my hand slowly. A ball of orange fire flickers between the coffee’s surface and my cupped palm—only for a second. It doesn’t burn me, just stings abit. It’s a sign that I’ve brewed a successful Wild Eye potion.
“Now for that shot of Tristesse.” I take the vial of siren’s tears from its cubby and squeeze two of them into the drink. A swirl of charmed cream, a few drops of honey, and it’s done.
Any human could put together the same ingredients I just used, but the end result would simply be an odd mixture with no special power. The magic lies with the maker. Creating an emotive potion takes knowledge, a specific order of preparation, certain motions and quantities, and a strong measure of intent.
I press a lid onto the cup. “Your drink, Ms. Marlowe.”
