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Contrary to popular belief, witches can’t usually see ghosts. Just imagine if they could. They’d never get anything done.
Or take showers, for Merlin’s sake.
There are exceptions, however, if you recall the infamous tale of Betty Barmichael, a most persistent ghost who made herself a great nuisance in the town of Crescent Hollow. Of course, she was a witch herself—if only a mediocre one. But, as the story goes, she was quite put out when they served deviled eggs at her wake. So she haunted her coven sisters for making the atrocious things, the town egg farmer for having the audacity to own chickens, and the grocery store for selling the eggs and Miracle Whip. Everyone in the town’s witch community agreed it was the Miracle Whip that put her over the edge. In the end, she was cast out by a simple apology incantation and a promise to bake fresh rosemary bread on the anniversary of her death for the next seven years.
Then there were the few months that Silas Jones, when he was a teenager, claimed he could “see dead people.” Coincidentally, he got straight A’s on all his warlock tests that semester, which was not normal for him. So, it would seem it all worked out in his favor.
But in general, one can still say that apparitions from beyond the veil are as common as getting struck by lightning under a full, strawberry moon.
Willow Ravensong would have been perfectly content to keep it that way. She didn’t care much for magic or divination, spells or sigil work. In fact, she was exceedingly lousy at everything witchy. She wasn’t like her mother or two sisters, who seemed to excel at it all.
Her mother, Esme, candle shop owner, purveyor of magical herbs and spices, and dealer of potions witches would line around the block for was practically a legend in Crescent Hollow. Her sister, Bliss, who, with the goldenest of golden locks, could charm any warlock into gifting her gemstone jewelry (or, from that one guy—a convertible Audi S5 with red leather seats). And her other sister, Ivy, a stunning beauty with jet black hair and magical prowess dripping from her perfectly polished fingertips. She was aloof and poised, the very picture of elegance.
The Ravensong women were all celebrated among wizardkind in the small town of Crescent Hollow. All except Willow. She was so well known for her blunders, witches would give her a wide berth when passing her on the street for fear of residual bad luck, or getting their eyebrows singed off.
“Really,” thought Willow whenever this happened, “it was only thatonetime. And they grew back.”
Nevertheless, she did come from pedigree wizard heritage, which was probably why she wasn’t shunned altogether. Still, she would have given anything to leave it all behind. To do something mundane with her life, like those girls on the TV shows she liked, where their biggest problems were love triangles or money woes.
Those girls seemed to drink a lot of coffee, eat nothing but pizza, and spend their time reading classic (non-magical) literature.
She’d infinitely preferred to read about rakish men in waistcoats and cravats and women in empire gowns with genteel manners than even look at another grimoire.
She once read a book about a young woman who owned a bookshop and fell in love with the local weirdo with dark hair that would swoop over his forehead in the most disheveled and beautiful way. They would leave fun notes in all the books and go on scavenger hunts. That sounded nice to Willow.
So it seemed almost serendipitous when a real estate listing for a little storefront in the town of Mysthaven came across her lap—and even better, it was just within her budget.
She decided, after the third time she saw the flier, that it must have been fate. Even though she was more of scientific mind—incidentally frowned upon as a person of wizard blood.
Her real estate agent, Astrid, described the place as quaint with old town charm—which Willow later discovered meant creaky and in need of repairs. But it had good bones, and was situated across from town square, however small that was. Blink and you’d miss it.
The little property Willow now owned (the signing of the deed had been her biggest accomplishment so far) had been vacant for some time, but before that, it had been a sports bar. Before that, a record store. And originally, it was a saloon called Moonstone Spirits and Brew. Something about that name appealed to Willow, probably the nostalgia of it since she loved anything prior to the twentieth century. So, she adopted it in a way, giving her establishment the name Moonstone Spirits and Books. After all, there was no harm in serving libations for book buying customers.
Everything was falling into place rather nicely. Even Kyle, her contractor (a forty-something man with a penchant for flannel and backwards baseball hats), was quick with renovations.
He had a team of four men, and Zephyr, Willow’s friendly Bombay cat, took to every one of them, winding between their legs, soliciting a scratch behind the ears when the men were on break. Most of the workers obliged, and Willow thought how nice it was to acquaint herself with fellow cat lovers.
But one of the men, a strikingly handsome guy with a handlebar mustache (probably one of those hipsters), only glared at the cat. And when Willow hazarded a reassuring smile his way, he scowled and walked away.
“Dog people,” scoffed Willow with a derisive snort.
Or maybe he was allergic. She decided she’d give him the benefit of the doubt until she had more information.
But there was a strange pull she felt whenever he was present. The way her tummy swooped and the fine hair on her arms danced with static electricity. The way his biceps filled out the sleeves of his linen button-down shirt, and the way his dapper wool vest stretched across his torso with a single gold chain draping from the pocket. Certainly an unusual way to dress for someone installing bookshelves. But who was Willow to judge?
Her cheeks pinked the couple of times he caught her staring, the way he leaned against a wall with his arms crossed. The casual elegance. And oh, such soulful eyes—a luminescent green like the glass of a beer bottle held up against the sun.
He was simply the most attractive specimen of a man she’d ever seen. Too bad he was a sourpuss.
* * *
On the final day of renovations, when Willow was set to move into the small apartment above the shop, she made a point to bring home baked goods as her humble offering of gratitude for Kyle and his men.
Baking was the one thing she did well, as long as it didn’t involve magic. Her mother’s kitchen was hardly used for things like that. Esme was good with herbs and potions, but that was about as domestic as she got. Meals were almost always brought about by magic, and now Esme and Willow’s two sisters would miss her browned butter snickerdoodle cookies and salted caramel apple tarts.
When Willow arrived at the shop, having an overly full bladder after a two-hour drive, she made a beeline for the ladies room. But there stood the green-eyed man, taking up the entire door frame that led to the back hallway where the restrooms were. Willow stopped abruptly in front of him, hoping he’d slide out of the way. But not only did he stay put, he glowered at her, tilting his head to the side like she was the oddest and most aggravating person he’d ever met and must be studied.
Fighting back a curse (and her bladder) Willow sucked in a breath and said, “Excuse me, please.”
