I rinsed mud from her arms, legs, and cheeks while she spun in circles. I managed to clean most of her before her teeth began chattering, at which point I wrapped her in one of Conrad’s old towels from the mudroom and ushered her inside.
“Cold,” she announced, though she was grinning.
“That happens when one becomes an ecosystem.”
“Worth it,” she chattered.
I helped her change into warm leggings and an oversized sweatshirt with a faded school logo. Her curls were damp and unruly, and she looked thoroughly pleased with herself. It only made me admire her more.
Once she was settled at the kitchen island with socks on and a blanket over her shoulders, I gave her a conspiratorial look. “Would you like to learn how to cook a real potion?”
Her eyes widened. “A real one?”
“Yes. A delicious one.”
“Does Daddy know?” she asked.
“Your father need not be troubled by every culinary development.”
Billie whispered, “That means no.”
“It means wash your hands.”
She scrambled to obey.
I went outside to the not-quite-hearse and opened the rear compartment. The casket rested beneath its velvet cover, entirely ordinary in its own morbid way. Around it, however, I kept an assortment of items intended to create narrative confusion should anyone manage to see past the tinted glass.
Crystals. Old books. Bundles of dried herbs. A theatrical skull purchased in 1983. Three cloaks. A small, cast-iron cauldron.
Magical communities survived through misdirection. If someone spotted a casket in the back of my car, it was cause for concern. If someone spotted a casket, a cauldron, crystals, and a skull, they usually concluded I was committed to a Halloween aesthetic and didn’t ask questions.
Humans were wonderfully incurious if they thought they knew the answer.
I brought the cauldron inside and set it on the stove.
Billie stared at it with open reverence. “Is that where witches make frogs?”
“Only irresponsible witches.”
“Are you an irresponsible witch?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you a responsible witch?”
“Why don’t you pull your stool over here so you can help me with the potion?”
That distracted her.
We began with beef because a potion that fed children required substance. I chopped vegetables while Billie stood on her stoolbeside me, wearing a black sheet from the linen closet tied around her shoulders. I had one draped around me too, because she insisted all serious potion work required uniforms.
“Do we cackle?” she asked.
“Only when we stir.”
She nodded solemnly. “Good rule.”
We browned the beef in batches, and I taught her how patience gave flavor time to develop. We added onions, carrots, celery, garlic, herbs, broth, and a spoonful of tomato paste. Then came the roux, which Billie misunderstood with great confidence.
