“Anyway, how areyouholding up? Do you need a cup of tea? With all the unexpected guests today, I didn’t even think to ask you!”
“You’re the empathic witch. You’re supposed to tellmeif I need some.”
Violet laughs again, and damn if I’m not getting hooked on putting that sparkle in her eyes. “Doesn’t work like that exactly.”
“Howdoesit work? Can you sense what I’m feeling right now? What I’m thinking about?”
“It’s… complicated. Thinking, no. I can’t read minds. Feeling… Sort of? I get impressions of people’s emotions and intentions. General things, like fear or happiness or deceit. The stronger they’re feeling the emotion, the easier it is for me to sense it. But let’s take the fear thing, for example. It’s not like I can tellwhatthe person is afraid of. Or with deception, I don’t know whether they’re about to lie tomeor someone else, or maybe just feeling guilty about something they’ve lied about in the past.”
“Still, you must have some kind of deeper inkling beyond the vague generalities. I’ve seen you make a different brew for everyone who’s come in today.”
“Sure. I always try to sense what a customer needs—what will help them at that particular moment, or bring a smile to their face if I’m picking up on stress or sadness. If it’s an obvious physical ailment, like a cold or a cough, I focus on that. Most of the time I’m just offering a cheerful pick-me-up. A little warmth on an otherwise cold day, you know?”
“Wayward Bay is lucky to have you looking out for them.”
“Mayor Singh tells me the same thing. I’m just waiting for the rest of the town to get the memo.”
“They will. We’re going to make sure of that, yes?”
Violet tucks a loose curl behind her ear and nods.
“So tell me,” I say. “What does the Devilmostneed at this particular moment?”
She scrutinizes my face, that tiny wrinkle forming between her eyebrows—her contemplative face, I’m coming to learn.
“You’re lonely,” she whispers, and we both gasp, as if the revelation is as shocking for her to discover as it is for me to realize how transparent I am.
“Oh, goddess.” She covers her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. I’m probably way off base. It’s… not always a perfect science.”
Sounds pretty damned perfect to me.In fact, it feels like an accusation. A knife pressed too closely to the tender heart behind the bone, and I recoil, shuffling my paper open, scanning the headlines for an escape from this conversation.
“I quite enjoyed the cup you made on our first morning together,” I say brusquely, not meeting her eyes. “Perhaps another of those, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“That was my Welcome to Wayward Bay brew—with a few minor customizations.”
“Sounds delightful. I’ll take a double.”
“Devlin?”
“Hmm?”
She’s quiet for so long, I’m certain she’s shuffled off to make the tea. But when I glance up again, I find her still standing there, just watching me. Calm and sweet and sincere.
“I just wanted to say… thank you.” She offers that cute shrug. “I know youhaveto help me in order to break the spell, but still. I appreciate you being so chill about the whole thing. I’m… working on another plan to set you free.”
“Wehavea plan, mushroom. Wrangle up some business, make some money, save the shop—Bob’s your uncle, we’re on our way.”
“Adifferentplan. You’ll see.” She tries to wink at me, fails miserably, laughs again, and then she’s off.
It doesn’t take long for her to brew the tea, but before she can deliver it, the next wave of customers sweeps in. I’m contemplating getting up and retrieving it from the counter myself when someoneelsedoes the honors instead, delivering it to me with a dark, foreboding glare, no extra charge.
“How’s it hangin’, Horns?” the woman says.
Olivy.
I fold up my newspaper and sigh. “Has anyone ever told you, you’re a bit spooky?”
“I don’t know,Satan. Has anyone ever told you that?” She sets the cup and saucer on the table, then sits across from me, uninvited.
