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The small bell on the door rings just then, and my mother flits into the shop.
“Morning, girls,” she says as she walks into the back room. I sit up straighter when I see her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fairchild,” Ivy says with a smile.
My mother looks polished as always, her blond hair pulled back into a simple knot, her tanned skin glistening with whatever new makeup she’s trying from Mrs. Rhodes’s skin care shop. Her lips are stained pink, and her blue eyes are rich and vibrant.
Always put together. The perfect new witch.
The floor is wet and littered with seaweed, and my motherlooks down. “Ivy won’t always be here to cover up your failings, Tana. Clean this up,” she says, leaving the room.
I grab a mop from the closet and wipe up the mess, ignoring the sting of my mother’s words. I throw away the bits of seaweed that followed me into the shop and make sure the tile is dry before putting the mop away. Magic is tied to living things, and unfortunately, that doesn’t extend to the floor.
“We almost had her,” I whisper. “Thanks again.”
“Anytime,” Ivy says, taking a sip of her tea. She’s always put together as well, never late for work at her parents’ tea shop, never disheveled or groggy when she arrives. Her brown skin glows without magic, and her dark curls bounce lightly over her shoulders as she moves.
I grab a bunch of dried lavender from a glass jar on the wall and take out a mortar and pestle from the cupboard beneath the island. My dad and I made the work surface from a large piece of driftwood we found on the shore, and I run my hand over the smooth wood grain.
Early morning sun drifts in through the store’s front windows, stretching into the back room and illuminating all the varietals of plants and herbs. Ivy enjoys her tea as I create the base of a bath oil, closing my eyes and picturing how it feels to fall asleep, the heavy calm and gentle sinking of it. I let the feeling tumble into the lavender until the petals are drenched. Practicing magic is my favorite thing to do, and though I’m creating an oil to calm others, it has the same effect on me. This is when I’m happiest, when I feel most at home.
The bell rings again, and I reluctantly open my eyes. I recognize Mrs. Astor’s voice before I even look up, a regular from the mainland who comes to the Witchery for two things: magic and gossip.
“Good morning, Ingrid,” she singsongs to my mother, taking her by the hand, a gesture of friendship my mother likes to remind me is only possible because of the sacrifices made by the generations of witches who came before us.
“How are you, Sheila?”
“I should be asking you the same question,” Mrs. Astor says, giving my mother a significant look. “There are rumors circulating on the mainland, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Oh?” my mother asks, busying herself with some glass bottles on the counter.
I turn my back to the door and try to focus on the lavender.
Ivy nudges my arm and nods toward the woman. “Listen,” she whispers.
“Don’t play coy with me, dear. Something about your daughter and the governor’s son?”
I hold my breath, waiting to hear how my mother will respond. The rumor is true, of course, but timing is everything, as my mother says.
“You know as well as I do that I don’t like to share anything unless it’s settled.”
“Can we expect a…settlementanytime soon?”
My mother pauses. Then, “Yes, I should think so.”
Mrs. Astor lets out a tiny shriek, then congratulates my mother and gushes as she buys two new perfumes.
I quietly shut the door to the back room and rest against it, closing my eyes.
“News travels quickly,” Ivy says.
“News travels as quickly as my mother wants it to,” I correct her.
I just swam, but I want to run from the shop and dive into the sea, silencing Mrs. Astor and my mother and the expectations that weigh on me.
Ivy sips the last of her tea and hands me mine. “You should finish this.”
I take it from her and drink it down.
