They indulge me for three whole seconds before leaping out of my arms and bounding up the back stairs to our apartment, where they’ll hide out until closing time. Sociable cats, they’re not.
With a sense of deep satisfaction, I sweep the Devil’s ashes into the bin and scour the counter with sage-and-lemon-balm cleansing spray. The Devil will return—Gigi’s magic Tarot cards always do—but for now, I’m a witch on a mission.
I may not have a team of sign-hanging, window-washing minions, but Idohave magic. From the well-stocked shelves, I select my ingredients—peppermint leaves, cinnamon, grated orange peel, vanilla bean—and stir them into a cauldron of water charged under a waxing moon. Bringing the mixture to a gentle simmer, I close my eyes and envision the café jam-packed with happy customers.
Then I recite the prosperity spell Gigi taught me nearly two decades ago:
Luck and good fortune, I call upon thee
To bless me with wealth and prosperity
My door is open, the hearth is aglow
My wishes are granted, above and below
The invigorating scent of the brew mingles with the sugary haze of my magic, infusing me with confidence as I continue the morning prep: bakery order from Emmilou’s Sweet-N-Savories arranged in the case. Overstuffed velvet couches freshly fluffed. Fall vibes playlist floating through the speakers. Flames crackling in the stone hearth along the back wall.
And me, tea witch extraordinaire, ready to rock the fuzzy fall socks off anyone who sets foot inside. Not with your garden-variety, ho-hum brews, mind you. I’m talking about the real-deal, perfection-in-a-cup wonderdrinks that taste like liquid happiness and cure just about anything from the common cold to a broken heart. And thanks to my empathic magic, I always know which blend a customer needs.
Out on Main Street, the ancient oak and maple trees are aflame with the reds and golds that make upstate New York so enchanting this time of year, the autumn air sweet with the scent of apples, everything bursting with promise and potential. I couldn’t have asked for a better day to set my intention for success.
So, trusting the magic, I tighten my apron strings, turn on the OPEN sign, and wait.
I continue to wait, even as the customers line up outside Mean Beans an hour before they’re set to open.
I wait some more, spotting a few of my regulars in the crowd.
The minutes pass. The commotion outside grows louder as the chain opens its doors for the inaugural customers. There is much cheering and photo-snapping and free-hat-distributing.
More people arrive by the minute—tourists and residents both.
I give my prosperity cauldron another stir.
Send a quick prayer to the goddess.
And try desperately not to fret as minutes turn to hours and dark clouds gather in the sky and the line outside Mean Beans wraps around the entire freaking block, impervious to the brewing storm.
By lunchtime, even the cats have wandered back downstairs, certain there won’t be a single visitor to disturb them. I’m about ready to call it a day and queue up another Charmed episode when I finally spot a friendly face outside.
A hypochondriac germaphobe with a smile that can light up a room and a laugh that makes even the most brutal town council meetings fun, Mayor Amalie Singh is one of my favorite humans and K&C regulars.
If she bails on me for Mean Beans…
I suck in a steadying breath. Call upon the magic of my prosperity spell, and—
“Hello hellohelloooo!” comes the chipper call and the tinkling of the chimes over my door. “I’ve got a tickle in my throat, Violet. Did my assistant tell you? Was it that obvious in the staff meeting?” She flutters her fingers over her neck and makes a delicate coughing sound. “Oh, no… it’s progressed from a tickle to a scratch. I’m in back-to-back budget meetings for the rest of the month! I can’t afford to be cooped up in the hospital!” She pulls a tissue from her purse and sneezes. “Do you think it’s cancer? Oh, dear. It’s probably cancer.”
“It’s probably seasonal allergies, and I’ve got you covered.”
“Oh, honey. You always do.” Relief floods her energy field as I get to work on her brew, scanning the shelves until I feel the intuitive tug that tells me I’ve got the right blend in mind—green tea, lemon verbena, peppermint leaves, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, fresh grated ginger root, and crushed dried pineapple to sweeten the brew. I’m also adding some essence of blue kyanite to encourage clear communication—that should help with her throat issues.
A pinch of this, a dollop of that, a whispered incantation to lock in the medicinal properties and maximize their potency, and voilà! Behold the marvelous magic of tea.
It is, as my coven sister Olivy says, my witchy zone of genius. And sinceherwitchy zone of genius is dark magic and blood curses, I generally make it a point to agree with her in all matters.
Unfortunately, in a town where the majority of the population doesn’t know magic exists and the equally uninitiated tourists would rather drink the generic sludge from Mean Beans, I fear my witchy zone of genius is cursed to remain an undiscovered gem.
“Are you all right, Violet?” Mayor Singh asks, her own troubles momentarily forgotten. “You seem… out of sorts.”
