2. 2

Mom stood on the sidewalk outside Poppy's and stared up at the stone townhouse. "Oh, my. This is elegant." She leaned in conspiratorially and lowered her voice. "Does your friend come from money?"

"Mom!" I should have remembered that my mother observed signs of social status like some people watch birds. Not with judgment, but with encyclopedic fascination.

"What? There's no shame in it."

"She's from England."

My mother's hand flew to her chest with happy shock, probably from one too many episodes of Masterpiece Theater. "Is she a peer?"

"Please don't ask her that."

Mom lifted her chin. "Do I look like a barbarian?"

"Yes. A tiny Southern librarian-barbarian. Come on, Jester's waiting for us."

My ridiculous miniature poodle had popped up in the window, head cocked and ears perked, alert to my arrival—and the arrival of someone new, whose face probably needed to be kissed. When I opened the door, he rushed us, going up on two legs and bouncing excitedly, tongue flying this way and that.

"Jester! Jester, sit," I said, as he attempted to jump even higher. "Hold on, Mom." I pulled a treat out and waved it at him. "Sit, you idiot."

Jester sat, quivering, eyes shining, tail wagging even when it could only scoot back and forth on the floor.

"Good boy." I tossed him the treat and scooped him up in a practiced motion, hoping he'd calm the heck down. "Say hello to Mom."

Jester craned his neck toward my mom, licking his own nose in an attempt to give her doggy kisses.

She scratched his head. "He's so soft, he doesn't even feel like a dog."

"Well, he thinks he's human, so that makes sense."

A door opened and shut upstairs, followed by the sounds of footsteps and heavy paws on the stairs. Poppy and Georgiana emerged into the living room. "Zelda! You're home early," Poppy said.

"Mom, this is my friend, Poppy, and her Irish wolfhound, Georgiana. Poppy, this is my mom, Effie."

My mom held out her hand. "So nice to meet you, Poppy."

Bright curiosity bloomed on Poppy's face. "Hello!" she said, shaking Mom's hand and then quickly moving back. "Does she—um—know?"

"Oh, right. Mom, Poppy reads minds. If you're within about six feet of her, she can see what you're thinking."

My mother's dazzling smile froze, then faltered. "Does she? How unique!" She clutched her bag and retreated to the couch, where she set the bag aside and began to feel the couch with her hands. "Is this the couch you were talking about sleeping on?"

"The one and only."

"I can't possibly do that to you. You have all that work on you. You simply must get your sleep."

"I'll be fine—"

"No, no, no. I won't impose on your hospitality. I'll find a nice little place to stay nearby."

"Actually," Poppy said, "the LWW has a few rooms open right now. I'm sure I could arrange a complimentary stay."

"The what now?" Mom asked.

"LWW," I said. "League of Women's Welfare. A local charity with a great big beautiful building in the Upper East Side."

"You don't mind hanging out with a lot of witches, do you?" Poppy said.

"Witches?" Mom swallowed. "Do they… read minds, too?" It was one thing to know that magic made Mom uncomfortable. It was another thing to watch it happen in real time. Most of the time we mutually pretended the problem didn't exist.

"Not like me," Poppy replied, breezily. "I can't help it. They have to do it intentionally." She leaned down to Georgiana and gave the Irish wolfhound scritchy-scratchies behind her ears. "Isn't that right, girl?" she said. "I'm a great big mind-reading monster."

Mom shifted, her discomfort at being impolite obviously warring with the desire not to have her mind read.

Poppy looked up. "I'd be happy to talk to Azure."

"She's the boss witch lady," I added.

"Witch Presiding," Poppy said. "I'm sure we could get you a lovely room for your stay."

"Oh, no," my mother said, looking alarmed, "I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble."

Jester jumped on the couch and threw himself across her lap. He did that when people needed comforting. Then he rolled over and showed his belly, hoping for tummy rubs.

"Well, aren't you a demanding boy?" she said.

"Speaking of which," I said, "I'm supposed to meet up with Berron."

"Berron?"

In my mind, I had to run through what she knew and didn't know. About Berron, not much. "He helped me renovate, remember?"

"Oh, yes." She paused. "What is Daniel doing these days? Such a nice boy," she added.

Poppy barely covered a snort-laugh by coughing.

My mom continued. "Maybe you two should get back together again—"

Poppy's cough turned into full-blown pneumonia.

"Men," I said, with a hard look at Poppy, "are a fun distraction. Like Oreo cookies. They're good, but you can't plan your life around them."

"Life without Oreos wouldn't be as sweet, Zelda," Mom countered.

"Oh, look at the time!" I glanced at my watch-less wrist, then moved to give her a hug. "I have to go out."

Mom shied away, causing Jester to flip right-side-up in surprise. "I think I'm a little under the weather," she said. "Wouldn't want you to catch anything."

"Oh." I lowered my arms, backed away. This reunion had been six kinds of awkward already. "Well. Make yourself at home. Rest in my room. There's food in the fridge if you want it. Unless you'd rather Poppy set you up at witch headquarters…"

"I'd rather stay with you," she said quickly. "You're sure you don't mind?"

"Of course not. I'll see you later." I gave her a wave instead of a hug.

Jester bolted off the couch and down the hall, thinking I'd thrown something fun, and Georgiana ambled after him.

I sighed. "Could you get them a treat, Poppy?"

"Treat time!" Poppy called to the dogs.

I turned back to Mom. She had always been petite, but she looked smaller than I remembered. When did that happen? She was always so sure of herself, especially when she was disapproving of my life choices, or of magic in general.

I didn't say any of that, though.

I just told her I loved her, and left.

When the vines overgrew the buildings in Gramercy Park, the media called it an unusual climatological event.

I called it a pain in the butt, because the only way to make the new growth retreat was to communicate with each plant, personally, and ask it to go back to where it came from. And of course Berron and I were the only two beings who could do this job—Berron, because it was his type of magic and the rest of the Gentry didn't dig running around Manhattan—and me, because I could copy his magic.

But before I could lay hands on the plants, I had to lay hands on him.

Professionally speaking.

Except I was at Gramercy Square, and he wasn't. No sign of the tall Gentry prince. Where are you? I texted.

Union Square Greenmarket, he replied.

"Union Square! That's three blocks from where you're supposed to be," I said aloud, looking at my phone with annoyance that Berron, unfortunately, couldn't see.

There's a new bread vendor, he added.

"You think you can soothe me with bread?" I scoffed to myself.

He could, and he knew it. Damn him.

I punched in a reply—Fine, I'm coming—shoved my phone in my pocket, and walked.

My breath puffed out in clouds in the cold air. November could get cold in Florida, sure, but it was nothing like the consistent chill of an NYC autumn, the kind that climbed up from the concrete sidewalks. I'd had to re-learn how to layer to stay warm: good socks, Doc Martens, jeans, a thermal undershirt, black turtleneck, and a hip-length navy peacoat. A fuzzy ski hat with pom-pom topper—a gift from Poppy, who made them in her spare time—kept the heat in like a pot lid.

By the time I reached Union Square, the walk had made me even warmer than I needed to be, so I stripped off the hat and unbuttoned my coat.

As annoyed as I'd been at having to walk three blocks out of the way, it all faded away as soon as I entered the farmers market.

Pop-up tents on all sides. Stacks of purple, orange, and white carrots four feet high. Fresh-cut flower bouquets, studded with pine cones, wrapped in brown paper, and spilling out of buckets and baskets. Jugs of freshly-pressed apple cider. Piles of winter squash: green, white, yellow, and gold.

And then, the bread.

Bread everywhere. Ciabatta and bagels and rustic peasant loaves. Sourdough and buckwheat and pretzel twists. Not to mention sweeter baked goods like pies and lemon-blueberry pound cakes.

I had stopped to look closer—purely business interest—when the scent of forests and rain blended with the almost steamy aroma of freshly-baked bread, and a warm presence loomed behind my shoulder.

"I knew you'd want some," Berron said.

"Yeah, yeah, like it takes a genius to know I love bread." I took my time turning around, only to find him waving a hot soft pretzel at me, studded with gems of salt.

He took a bite and rolled his eyes in a dramatic show of ecstasy, moaning aloud to really drive home the effect.

"Give me that." I seized his wrist and pulled the pretzel closer, pulling Berron closer, too. Gave me a better look at his corduroy blazer, thick multicolored knitted scarf—Poppy again—and the cranberry felt fedora perched at a rakish angle on his dark locks.

He looked good and he knew it.

I tore a hunk of pretzel off with my teeth.

"Like it?"

"Mm," I said, shortly, not willing to show how much I liked it. We walked on, passing the pretzel back and forth.

"They make really good sourdough, too. Hundred-year-old mother."

I laughed. "Older than mine. She showed up today, by the way. Out of nowhere. Said she wanted to ‘visit.'"

"‘Showed up'? As in here?"

"Yes, here. At the shop. She's going to stay with Poppy and me."

"Is she on vacation or something?"

"Oh, no, nothing that normal. She just decided to show up… and here she is."

"I thought you two weren't that close."

"We love each other, but we're just so different." I shook my head, shook away the thoughts. "We should get back to Gramercy Park."

"What's the rush?" He gestured toward the market, a move that seemed to encompass all the baked goods that could be sampled and shared.

"‘What's the rush?'" I punched his arm. "Let's just let those plants overgrow everything. That's not suspicious at all."

Berron shrugged. "So there's plants on the buildings. So what?"

"Green plants halfway to winter draw attention, especially when they're literally climbing the walls. You don't want attention. You want to stay hidden in your nice pocket universe, not have a bunch of maniacs trying to exploit it or take it over or burn it down."

Berron's brow contracted, and his lower lip edged slightly out.

"Why are you pouting?" I said.

" I wish—"

"You wish what?"

"I wish it were different. Everything green in this city is hemmed in. No one grows anything here. When you want real food you have to have it trucked in from hours away."

"What do you want, a farm? The days when Sheep Meadow was actually a meadow filled with sheep are long gone."

Berron stopped at an organic apple-seller. He picked up a large, red apple. "I want to see the tree this came from. I want to lie down under the shade of its branches. I want to drink from the stream that watered it and I want to pick the fruit with my own hands."

The apple-seller came over. "You gonna buy that or are you just gonna wave it around?"

Berron looked annoyed at being interrupted, before reaching into his pocket for cash. He bit into the apple as we walked on, then wordlessly passed it to me.

I took it, bit into the unbitten side. Apple skin snapped crisply beneath my teeth and sweet juice fizzed onto my lips. "You have that," I said. "Just not here." I handed the apple back to him.

"I want both," he said.

We continued walking, leaving the Union Square Greenmarket behind for Park Avenue, where it led north-northeast.

What got me about our impromptu trip to the greenmarket was how very normal it was. He wasn't calling me my Zelda anymore, and he'd stopped proposing to make me his queen. But when he looked at me, sometimes—when he thought I wasn't looking—I still could see that glint in his eye. Veiled, but there all the same. Even over bites of apple he was still doing it.

Could I tell him to stop looking at me that way?

Did I want to?

When we reached Gramercy Park, I surveyed what was left of the work we had done. The vines that had overgrown the buildings had mostly backed down, due to our maintenance and probably due to the cold, as well. But new growth lurked in crevices, green and tentative, waiting for a chance to climb again.

I stopped and leaned against the black rails of the fence surrounding the private park. "Are you ready?"

"Of course." He took his hands out of his jacket pockets and held them out.

I removed my hands from my pockets, and before the cold air could chill them, took Berron's hands in mine. To any outsider we would have looked like a couple. We weren't. We were friends. Friends who had kissed a couple of times, sure. And maybe he had tried to make me his queen, once. But all that had happened when his whole world needed saving.

Everything was resolved, now. This was just… the cleanup. This was business.

Probably should have looked away when the magic started.

Instead, his gaze held me in place, pinned to the bars of the fence, while green and gold vines spiraled around my hands, sinking into my flesh with a sigh that whispered of enchanted forests.

It means nothing, I reminded myself, over and over again until it was like a mantra: nothing, nothing, nothing, while his eyes were shadows in the forest, hiding mysteries.

I had the magic. I could let go. And yet I wanted to hold on longer, even as I had to let go before it became obvious. I gasped at the shock of disconnection, quickly covering it with a cough.

It was just magic.

It meant nothing.