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And so it goes.

My magic is supposed to manifest when I’m a teenager. Twenty years later, I’m still waiting.

Meanwhile, Melida grows into a ridiculously talented Witch.

I love my sister. Really, I do. I mean, we’re not close. But still. She’s my sister.

It’s just, there’s a special kind of torture involved in watching your younger sister effortlessly become everything you were raised to believe you’re supposed to be.

The final nail lands three weeks ago.

Mom calls me into her office, folds her hands across her enormous mahogany desk, and announces that leadership of the Coven—and all the magical stores that come with it—will pass to Melida.

Not me.

I smile. I congratulate my sister. Then I go home, eat half a cheesecake, and pretend I don’t care.

That works about as well as my broomstick.

Which brings me to the second bombshell.

Apparently, my mother has a sister, too. A secret one.

“Wait.” I stare at Mom across that same desk. “I thought all the Ramos women had one daughter. Except you, obviously.”

Mom’s mouth tightens. She has that look.

The one mothers get when they’re about to reveal some deeply buried family secret and somehow expect you not to completely lose your shit over it.

“Well, the fact is I had a sister.”

I blink.

“You had a sister?”

“Yes.”

“As in my aunt?”

“That is generally how sisters work, Belinda.”

I narrow my eyes. Sarcasm is supposed to be my coping mechanism.

“Her name was Margarita. She left when we were teenagers and moved to Texas.”

“Texas.”

“Yes.”

“And no one thought to mention Aunt Margarita at any point during my thirty-eight years of life?”

Mom ignores that. Instead, she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a thick envelope.

“She died last month.”

All the smart-ass remarks disappear.

“Oh.”