Prologue

“ O h dear. That’s not a good sign.”

Smoke rose from the cast iron cauldron in a thin tendril, wispy and delicate. Then another wisp and another. Phoebe Dupree eyed the mixture roiling in their great-great-aunt’s cauldron, the one they found hidden in a buried space in their basement a few months ago. The putrid green color was not an attractive look for a love potion.

She quickly consulted their great-great-aunt’s grimoire, that had conveniently been found with the cauldron and other assorted items. “I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that.”

Suddenly, the mixture exploded and the viscous liquid splashed all over them and the surrounding surfaces. Phoebe had just enough time to cover the grimoire and protect the delicate pages before they were ruined forever. Though, based on their lack of success with every single recipe, maybe the grimoire should have been destroyed. Because it certainly couldn’t have been their lack of skill with potions.

Duprees had been known for their renown with potions throughout the centuries, though their great-great-Aunt Hermia had a reputation for messing with darker arts. Tempest, Phoebe’s older sister, discounted that myth. They had to beat the Rathbone warlocks in this year’s BrewFest and regain their family honor. It was insulting that the Rathbones, a family of newcomer warlocks to Grimm Mawr, could beat the Duprees, four years running.

The current generation of Duprees had a reputation to maintain, though they hadn’t had much luck, especially considering their latest failure. Phoebe peered over the rim of the cauldron into the now-stagnant chartreuse colored potion. Still not appetizing at all. Part of potion making including look, taste, smell, and consistency. Her sense of smell was gone after their last fiasco and her taste buds had not yet recovered from the attempt before that.

She picked up the wooden spoon and ladled a spoonful, letting it waterfall back into the liquid below. Not too bad. It was a liquid at least, not like the lumpy oatmeal she feared it would be. In fact, it was far smoother than she expected.

Her older sister, Tempest, stuck her head over the other side, her normally perfect coiffed blond hair in disarray and streaks of black soot on her face from the explosion. But no one could miss the excitement. “We did it! We have our potion!”

“Not if we explode all over the festival. They’ll disqualify us for sure,” Fleur, her youngest sister, retorted.

Tempest snarled at her. “I told you not to use dried rose petals. We need the fresh ones.”

Fleur stamped her foot, her lower lip sticking out. “I needed those roses for my rosewater and my soap. People come for miles around to buy my soap. It’s not my fault we didn’t have any fresh petals ready for today.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes and stepped between her sisters before hexes started to fly. Once they started with that, well, no one would be safe. “Sisters, please. We’ll have fresh petals for the festival. Now, we just need to find out if this works. Who is going to test it?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t have time for anyone tripping over their feet, fancying themselves in love with me,” Tempest snorted.

“It doesn’t work like that. Didn’t you read the book? You fall in love with them,” Fleur sneered. “And I don’t need it. Everyone is already in love with me. I’ll find my own man when I’m ready.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes again. She really didn’t want to drink the potion. It always fell to her. Tempest ordered them around. Fleur flitted off, shirking responsibility. And Phoebe kept them all together. Well, not this time. She was tired of being the one to do the dirty work.

A crash from upstairs penetrated the silencing bubble they had around them. Shit. Saul Grimsbane from Honey Buns Bakery was pissed off again. She should go rescue Maeve Whisper, their assistant. She was probably hiding behind the desk again. Saul terrified her, though everything scared Maeve. Maybe they should brew a courage potion for Maeve.

Fleur's eyes brightened. “Maybe we should give it to Maeve! Just don’t tell her. This way, we know if it works or not.”

“That would be terrible and unethical,” Phoebe said, torn between her loyalty to her employee and her desire to never try another faulty potion.

“Or you take it,” Tempest countered, her shrewd gaze challenging Phoebe.

There was no way Phoebe was taking the potion. Her stomach hadn’t recovered from the last batch. But Maeve. That was a thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maeve saw few people and it could give her confidence, right? “Okay, fine. I’ll slip it in her tea.”

Before she could second-guess herself, Phoebe dipped a flask in the cauldron, taking some of the potion, and hurried up the stairs to rescue poor Maeve.

“And tell us if she can taste anything or smell it!” Tempest called out.