Page 31 of Minnie

“I didn’t mean you,” I tell the raven.

We head inside the library and find Violet the librarian—the real one, not my fated mate in disguise—behind the desk, scanning books into the computer. I know for a fact it’s her, since there’s no fiery pink magic connecting us. That and she’s acting very Violet—hard at work as always.

She could really use another assistant. Namely, me.

I can’t help feeling nervous—and bracing myself for rejection—which is how I end up sounding Formula M bored when I ask, “Does the library have any job openings?”

Violet shakes her head. “I keep trying to push for another part-timer, but no luck.”

I shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though my heart sinks. But there have to be other jobs out there, right?

Violet leans over the counter and peers down at Natty. “Why, hello there, Nate the Great. Are you returning some books today?”

“Yes!” He reaches inside the colorful Spell Library Children’s bag, which we keep in his wagon to safely store all his books, and pulls them out one by one. He balances on his tiptoes to hand them to Violet, nearly falling each time. “All done.”

Violet makes a show of examining the books and smiles. “Thank you for taking such good care of these, Natty.”

The boy beams.

She scans each one into her computer, and Natty yells ‘beep,’ the sound echoing through the library. I used to shush him when we first started coming here, but it turns out that real libraries are loud, unlike the magical pay-per-use library my mother used to drag me to when I was young. It was an old, stuffy building where the silence was so poignant you could hear a pin drop, and apparently the exception to the rule.

To quote Violet, “Real libraries are alive.”

And real librarians don’t glare at you and announce that ‘children should be seen and not heard.’

Violet helps Natty pick out some picture books, signs them out, and gives him some coloring sheets from the tray on her desk. I snap one to a clipboard I always keep handy, help Natty open his pencil case full of crayons, and pull his wagon back down the ramp to the sidewalk.

Time to find a job.

I don’t have many job requirements, but I also don’t have many skills, so I head for O’Malley’s.

It’s a bit of a walk, so Natty finishes coloring a parrot, moves on to the raven, and falls fast asleep by the time we get to the pub.

I tug his wagon inside—which isn’t an easy feat—and make a beeline for Charlie, who owns the place.

She glances up at me and quickly twirls in the opposite direction while carrying a giant tray of cheese fries oozing molten yellow goodness.

At first, I think she’s intentionally avoiding me—not that I’d blame her, since there are some not-so-nice-but-well-deserved rumors about me circulating around town—but she sets the tray down on the bar and grabs a towel. Then she slides through the rowdy crowd that’s busy watching videos of people making fools of themselves and heads toward me.

Don’t get nervous, I remind myself. If I do, it’ll trigger Formula M, and ruin any chance I have of getting this job. I need to make a good impression, but that’s about as likely as negotiating peace between feuding forest creatures. Spoiler alert: I tried that once at the academy, and the squirrels ate my homework while the skunks left a ‘fragrant FU’ in my dorm room.

There’s no chance in hell I’m getting this job!

Formula M sends a wave of calm coursing through me and I examine my nails.

“Hi, Charlie,” I say politely. Or try to, anyway. Instead of friendly, I end up sounding like she’s the last person I want to see, and I wish I was anywhere but here.

She pastes on a polite smile, glances down at her arm, and wipes off the bacon bits stuck to it. “Hello. Forgive the melting cheese in my hair. It’s been one of those days. My hostess is at a retreat to realign her energy, whatever that means.”

She glances down at Natty and immediately frowns at the sleeping boy. She even lets out a visible shiver, but I realize she’s not looking at him, but at the coloring sheet on his lap.

“Not a fan of birds?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Not all birds. Just ravens. They’re too smart for their own good.”

I want to tell her not all ravens are the same, and while some are definitely too smart for their own good, others are kind-hearted and perch on your windowsill for a late-night chat.

I open my mouth… and let out a yawn. Admitting I talk to birds is a no-no for Formula M.