Page 33 of Vengefully Matched

“Magic isn’t working,” she said, eyes dark. Frantic. “And if this is how I go—”

“Wait,” Agatha said, because perhaps this was going too far.

“No, if this is how I go, I want to do something before I die.” She looked so determined, her face pale against the crimson red of her lipstick.

“I—” Agatha was about to explain, but before she could, Hart’s hands were on her face, and for a moment, she shut her eyes, waiting for their lips to make contact.

She was so eager, in fact, that she forgot the next, and most important, step of her prank. Her reverie, however, was interrupted by Hart’s earsplitting scream.

“What the fuck?” Agatha opened her eyes, and Hart was staring, mouth open.

Agatha hadn’t magicked the moose out of existence, so the illusion had wandered into the actual car, and she had been too busy closing her eyes and hoping to be kissed to notice.

The moose illusion now greeted them with the visible innards of a phantom moose that didn’t exist outside of Agatha’s magic, but was anatomically accurate nonetheless.

Holding back the desire to retch, she gestured for the magic to dissipate, and watched Hart slow her breath to normal.

“You,” she said, when she had recovered. “You.” Realization dawned on her. “I almost… Damn, Agatha, that was a nasty prank.”

“Sorry,” said Agatha, wiping her mouth, and wondering what a normal mouth was even supposed to feel like. “I would have…” she added quickly, at the horrified look on Priscilla’s face. “In your defense, it’s normal to look for one last hurrah if you think you might die.”

“I apologize. You said no kissing.” They hadn’t even kissed, Agatha thought, and goddess, that made her a little bit miserable.

Agatha shook her head. “You didn’t even make contact. Call it even. Let’s just do this.”

Hart nodded, staring straight at the road, and turning back in the direction of their destination. She looked stricken, so as they turned on the road to Havenwall, Agatha forced herself to be honest, for just a minute.

“I bet it would have been a good kiss.”

“Yeah?”

Her face softened, and they pulled into the lot.

“Come on,” she said, not wanting to overthink anything else between them.

The lettering for Crystal Balls to the Wall was new, in a font that looked like an odd blend of modern and flourishing. Agatha had to admit that the name felt a bit off for the place.

Agatha leaned closer and saw from the sun-dappled boards of the trailer that this was a new sign, and the previous one was not quite so large. Behind the words in the middle were darker patches of wood peeking out from behind one of the As and the O, as though this had been a recent adjustment.

“Welcome, ladies,” said a raspy but not altogether unpleasant voice, and Agatha jumped. She hadn’t heard the door open, a feat given the well-loved exterior of the shop, but perhaps Connie had oiled the hinges well.

“Come in,” she said, gesturing.

Through the door, the double-wide trailer was sectioned off with curtains on each side, and then corresponding blinds that matched and gave the illusion of a cozy fortune-telling booth in the middle of what almost definitely was also Connie Witherspoon’s home.

“Connie,” said Hart, holding up a palm. “Good to see you. This is Agatha Vanderbilt Voisin, Witchery Council president.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” said Connie matter-of-factly, turning toward one of the curtains. “Can I offer you some tea?”

“Oh, no thank you,” said Agatha, and Hart shook her head.

“Very well,” said Connie, gesturing to a comfortable-looking upholstered bench across from a small round table that she must use for all sorts of things. “Have a seat, then.”

“Connie, I’ve figured out how to prevent your episodes.”

“You mean my obscenely crazy outbursts in public? Shoot. I’d do about anything.”

“Two and a half hours of actual fortune-telling a week should do it.”