4. 4

"Will you please sit down? I hate having people hover over me."

Holt's voice was bored. Bored! She felt as if she might vibrate out of her skin, and there he sat, slouched on his folding chair with nary a care in the world. Ladybug only glared. He'd been video chatting just a few minutes earlier with a pretty human woman with purple highlights in her hair and wide, black-rimmed eyes — his girlfriend, Ladybug surmised — discussing their dinner plans as if her entire future wasn't resting in carefully placed positions on the table before them.

Now he was slouched in the chair, making his black leather jacket rise up around his ears like a cape as he tapped out a text with a pointed black nail. He was clean-shaven that morning, and the absence of his close-cropped beard somehow made him look even younger, the rankest sort of glamour, she personally thought. Nothing set her teeth on edge like a hundreds-year-old near-immortal chasing after human teenagers, simply because they were able to project an aura of youth to conceal their decrepit hearts. She didn't know anything about the life Holt lived in Bridgeton, but she decided in that moment that she would find out, rifle through his mail, and determine that this human he'd taken up with was an actual adult with a life, and not some besotted co-ed he kept clouded under his charm.

His thick black hair fell in a tumble over his forehead, concealing his sharp green eyes from her for the moment. He had one leg stretched out, his black boot disappearing beneath the table, preventing her from pacing. He was as annoying, she had decided, in his man skin as he was as a cat.

"Then stand up," Ladybug snapped, cracking her knuckles for the tenth time that hour. "I'm too nervous to sit."

The day had arrived, at last.

She couldn't stop twiddling her fingers. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers interlacing, winding and unwinding together, over and over again. The room buzzed with the white noise of dozens of different voices, and she didn't know how she was meant to concentrate on anything, let alone how she was meant to smile serenely and project an aura of professional witchiness. All she really wanted to do was curl up beneath the table, hidden by the satisfyingly long drape of the custom tablecloth he'd ordered, and let Holt handle things topside. She could pass him product as things ran low, keep the understock of jars organized . . . it might actually be worth making the suggestion.

She'd already gone tongue-tied once, when they were approached by a pair of goblins, her neighbors, she'd learned. The pair exclaimed in wonder as Holt unfurled the tablecloth, double teaming her with questions about who she was and what she sold until they were mollified that she'd be no competition for their hand-crocheted pot scrubbers, ambling off arm-in-arm while she breathed heavily.

She wasn't sure how she was meant to get through an entire day of that, and now the time was nearly here. The doors would open to the public in little more than thirty minutes. The other vendors were still wheeling their carts in, most of them only just beginning to set up. She and Holt had been early, at her insistence, two of the first cars in the lot that morning, and he'd grumbled about that as well.

This was a mistake. This was all a terrible mistake.She should have never gotten out of bed that morning, should never have turned the application in, should absolutely never have opened the door for this wretched cat. Holt! This was all his fault. He'd planted the thought in her head, where it had grown in the fertile soil of her anxiety, watered by her desperation to be liked and fertilized with her determination to prove herself, and now she was trapped in the vine, counting down the minutes until the Makers' Mart opened.

Although . . . as she looked around the big room, watching their neighbors set up their booths from where she stood beside her towering pop-up banner with her custom table linen and professional display, she was forced to admit what an asset he actually was. A pain in the asset. But, an asset nonetheless.

He'd parked in the lot beside her that morning, taking a folding dolly from the boot of his sleek black car, emptying the meticulously packed boxes from hers in only two trips. When he'd returned from the lot for a third time, the dolly was loaded again — this time with a collection of display blocks, a black-painted wine crate, and an aluminum wash basin. The blocks were shiny black and a luminous white, as if they were coated with nacre, set up in alternating color as risers of descending steps, while the wash tub was flipped on its side.

It was a picturesque backdrop for the rows of soaps he set up, making it look as if they were marching out in a military formation, intent on banishing dirt and dry skin. A sea sponge loofah was set beside them, and before he moved on to the next corner of the table, Ladybug watched as he got down on his knees to snap a photo with his phone.

"We need to get you a website," he'd reminded her, sliding the phone back in his pocket before turning to the risers. "I appreciate your dedication to tradition, but it's not the eighties. No one is consulting their Rolodex to call the neighborhood witch when their kid has the flu."

Ladybug had bristled, but Holt paid her no mind.

"Anzan already started it. He kept asking me questions," she begrudgingly admitted, "but then he decided it was best to wait for you so that he didn't build the wrong code." She wasn't sure if she was even using the right phrase, and Holt had only snorted at her words.

"I love him even more . . . well, this way he'll have photos for the site and you'll have something to copy when you do it on your own. You don't have to keep things exactly the same week after week, change it up, but the point is not to just throw your crap on the table and call it a day." He had sniffed at the time, looking askance at the vendors around them. "An elevated display will set you apart. And you just watch how fast others will copy what you're doing once they see you selling out. The fastest way to earn imitators is to be independently successful."

Rollerballs of intention oils were placed on the highest block, a scatter of loose crystal chips and dried herbs giving them an ethereal and high-priced aura. The next descending step held the face creams, the exfoliators, the serums. Her herbal steamers were grouped in a wire basket on the table, her strawberry rose shampoo and conditioner lined up like infantrymen. Abalone shells held the pots of non-waxy lip balm, the more expensive medicinal offerings grouped in the center of the table. It was a retail display one might expect to find at the entrance table in the busiest of shops, and knowing Holt's retail pedigree, she supposed that made sense.

The Cat Crow had always been the name of Holt's business — a purveyor of occultist supplies, curiosities, and fine esoteric goods since the 1700s. Monkey's paws, rare altar artifacts, hard-to-source ritual supplies — he was able to procure them all, for a steep price. He'd opened the current Bridgeton shop with Bethany a few years earlier, and although she had never visited, Ladybug knew they'd amassed a bit of a cult following.

The shop might be relatively new, but he'd been a procurer for an age. There would not be many a vendor at the community center that day who could boast that they had been haggling over their wares with witches since practically the dark ages, but the familiar sitting in the chair beside her, scrolling through his phone without a care in the world, could.

"Does that mean you're not coming back?" she'd asked then, as he snapped a photo of the intention oils, realizing the meaning of his words.

Holt had only shrugged. "Not every week. Don't worry, you won't need me for long."

She'd been chewing on his words since, twiddling her fingers as her stomach knotted itself like a poorly played game of cat's cradle. So much for hiding under the table. She couldn't do this alone, he had to know that.

"For pity's sake, you're going to be fine," he sighed now, pushing to his feet. "The table looks great," he went on, moving to stand before it one last time, looking over his careful displays. "You're welcome, by the way. There's not going to be anything left," he assured her. "Come here, look at how professional you look."

She felt like a child, trudging around the table to meet him. It was an impressive display, she had to admit. She would practice the set-up at home until could replicate it flawlessly, would make small changes as her product assortment shifted with the season, adding new things, and removing those that didn't sell. She would ensure she could set up the banner on her own, would make sure she knew how to run the small credit card reader he had purchased for her, would practice until she had every element of this micro business down pat.

All but one.

Ladybug knew there wasn't enough practice in the world she could do at home with a card table that would make up for her conversational deficits. After all, she had been practicing that for more than thirty years, and the mastery eluded her still.

"Look at that sigil. Remember what it means. Remember how far you have come on your own, Elizabeth. On your own, but never alone. And don't forget how proud they all are. That is the power of witch, little Ladybug."

Anzan had given her a similar pep talk that morning, reminding her of her bravery, how much she had accomplished on her own, and how proud he was of her. She didn't have time to get emotional, she reminded herself, pushing her tongue into the roof of her mouth as she nodded. It was time to open.

"It's showtime," one of the goblins exclaimed cheerfully from the table beside them. "Cheers to your first big day!"

The first customer to her table was a middle-aged troll with a curtain of platinum silver hair, shopping with a teenager.

"Just browsing."

Ladybug's stomach bunched as the two troll women looked over her work, nerves tightening and twisting her insides, leaving her breathless. Looking, touching, judging.

"Do you ladies come here every week?" Holt asked the pair conversationally. If he was aware that Ladybug was suffering from apparent apoplexy right beside him, he gave no notice. "This is our very first week, so I have no idea what to expect with traffic."

"Not every week, but at least once or twice a month," the older of the two answered with a smile. "I like to get here as soon as the doors open while it's still a bit quiet. This place will be a madhouse within the hour. Hard to believe it's your first week, everything looks great." She gave Ladybug a kind smile. "Don't look so petrified. You're probably going to sell out some of this stuff! I don't think anyone else has perfume oils in roller balls like this, so smart."

She turned to the younger woman, her daughter, most likely. Ladybug bit her lip when the younger troll handed her mother two bottles of intention oil that she had picked out, using the small plastic spatulas beside the testers of body butter to try the lavender sage.

"That one is made with goat's milk from Saddlethorne, just up the road, and all of the herbs we use are grown in our own medicinal garden."

The older troll hummed at Holt's words, sniffing the top of her daughter's hand as she extended it to her mother's nose. Ladybug considered that she might need to wear period panties next week, because there was a very real concern that she was going to pee herself in excitement as Holt rang the women up; two bottles of intention oil, the lavender sage body butter, and the matching bar of goat's milk soap.

"Good luck to you," the troll said as they walked away. "Although I'm sure you're going to do great."

"Hopefully we see you again," Holt said just as cheerfully, matching the woman's bright tone. As soon as the pair had stepped away, he turned to her, dark eyebrows drawn together. "I'm going to say this as nicely as I can — fix your face. Because you literally look like you're shitting yourself."

"I can't help it," she hissed back. "I told you I'm no good at this! Did you see that?! I can't believe they bought so much!"

He rolled his eyes in response. She imagined him getting stuck that way, a permanently cross-eyed black cat, momentarily mollified at the thought.

"I already told you, you're going to go home empty-handed. If you don't sell out just about everything, I'll let you put me in a little daisy cat hat and post photos online. You heard what she said, this place is going to get busy very soon. Why don't you go to the bathroom and empty your damn bladder and stop hopping from foot to foot. Grab me an iced coffee on the way back. I'm parched."

She had promised herself that her days of being the group lackey were over, but now was not the time to start. Ladybug did as she was asked, taking the long way back around the hall on her way back to the table, mentally counting how many vendors she spotted selling similar products to her own. It was then that she spotted them.

Two witches around her age, one of whom she had known since the junior coven. They were laughing over something and didn't see her, and she quickly moved past their row before either of them turned their heads. She could no longer see the items on the table, but from her vantage point, Ladybug was able to make out the sign they had in a picture frame — herbal remedies and elixirs.

The real competition. In more ways than one, she thought, scurrying back to her own table. You're a witch, not a mouse. You can sell circles around them, and you will. The troll woman had been right. The hall was already substantially more crowded than it had been just fifteen minutes earlier, and she knew from her own previous trips to the Makers' Mart that the crowd would continue to grow.

"Do you remember Leticia Lattimore?" she asked upon her return, handing Holt his coffee.

"Unfortunately. Why, is she here?"

Ladybug plastered on her most winsome smile, hoping it did not resemble a grimace as fresh shoppers stepped up to the table. She could do this. She had to do this. "Her daughter Izzy," she said from the side of her mouth. "Perfect, poisonous Izzy."

"Ladies, if I can answer any questions for you, please do not hesitate to ask." His voice, she noticed, was a titch more serious as he spoke to this group, his glamour slipping ever so slightly, a vibration of magic threading his words. "Every crystal used to power your intention oil has been charged beneath the full moon, in traditional ritualistic fashion. Some of the recipes in our medicinal grimoire are potions that have been curing our neighbors for hundreds of years. We have the witch who created everything you're about to enjoy on the table with us today, so if you have any questions at all, she is on hand to offer her expert opinion and advice."

The moth woman and her sylvan companion murmured appreciatively, while two goblins slathered their arms in tester lotion.

"Ah yes, Ismerelda. I remember her." His head turned and his voice was low, a hiss for her ears only. "Nasty even as a child. Let's make sure she hurts her back lugging her whole table of stock to the car after closing today."

She didn't understand what it was about Holt that made her argumentative and defensive, eager to snap back, when she was meek and quiet any other time. She wondered if he'd had this effect on Willow. She didn't know what it was, but Ladybug decided she was grateful for it all the same, for at that moment, she was possessed by the singular need to show up those witches who'd all smiled superciliously as she was cast from the circle, and if that meant she had to converse with every single stranger in this room for the rest of the day, she would do so with the brightest smile she could muster, shoving her nerves and anxiety into the closet of her mind until later.

"Are you the spider witch?"

The question came from one of the pot-scrubber goblin women beside them, and although her tone was neither rude nor overtly suspicious, Ladybug floundered.

"Oh! She probably means Anzan," Holt laughed after a moment of her stunned silence, a moment which she spent gaping like a codfish. "Yes, that's us! He was unable to get the day off, unfortunately. He really wanted to be here for support, but alas, the wheels of commerce never stop moving."

The goblins exchanged a dubious look, both of their heads swinging back around to Ladybug.

Change the narrative. A ripple up her spine as the thought was placed in her head. Do you want them to see the bloodsport? Or the basket weaving? Her shoulders straightened. She would never be good at this, but Holt was right. For Anzan's sake, she would try.

"Yes," Ladybug added with a weak laugh of her own. "He-he works in tech and, um . . . sometimes its non-stop. He was disappointed not to make it to our first day." Anzan would have sooner volunteered for an Arctic expedition before he willingly came to the community center in the middle of a bustling Makers' Mart, but she followed Holt's lead.

"I don't envy his hours but I wouldn't say no to the salary," Holt joked gaily, grinning winsomely at the trolls, bringing them into the joke. The original speaker's eyebrows shot up, while her companion nodded sagely.

"My nephew works in tech and he makes more money than he knows what to do with. My sister keeps telling him it's time to settle down, start a family, buy a nice house."

As she watched, Holt deftly turned the conversation, and suddenly he and the two goblins were chattering about babies and families until a fresh crop of customers stepped up to the table, and conversation was forgotten. He was snapping his fingers when a human and minotaur couple meandered away, bag of soap in hand, turning to her with fire in his citrine eyes.

"I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. This is the perfect opportunity, Elizabeth. You can change the perception from this table. Little by little."

"I'm going to what?"

He huffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation, turning his back slightly as a throng of people crowded the aisle. "Change the narrative. Slip him into conversation casually, don't dwell. You want to paint the idea of him being here to be as boring and mundane as everyone else's lives. They think he's spinning webs for their children. You're going to make them think he's home watching television and drinking coffee."

"But that is what he's doing."

The smile Holt gave her was devoid of humor, his fangs gleaming like knives. "Just follow my lead, okay?"

For the next hour, any time a question was asked about a specific product, Holt would address the asker, none-so-subtly redirecting the question to her. By the second hour, she was answering the questions herself.

"Um, that–that one is made with locally sourced cream and honey. And, um, the roses are grown in my own garden and steam distilled. Rosa Damascena. They carry the strongest, purest fragrance, and we never use any chemical pesticides."

The elf before their table was beautiful. Long, shiny hair, a soft blush in her lavender cheeks and at the tips of her long, pointed ears. She smiled prettily at Ladybug, her green eyes fluttering closed as she inhaled the smell of the lotion she had just rubbed into the top of her hand.

"Oh, that is divine," the elf sighed. "This is the one, I want to smell like this all the time."

"Well, I–I have a few different products with it, so you can." Ladybug laughed awkwardly, internally cringing. Do you always sound like that? You laugh like a bird with a broken wing! "That lotion and-and then there's a body butter, and a dry-finish cream stick. The Love Me Madly intention oil . . . oh, and then of course the shampoo."

The young woman smiled wistfully, her gaze following Ladybug's hand to the roller balls of intention oil on the alternating steps.

"Love Me Madly," she murmured. "Is that a love spell?"

Ladybug smiled. No more injured bird sounds. You can do this. "It's not. Um, but I do make those, if you're in the market. Not that I think you need any help," she quickly added. "Please, take my card. I offer private spellwork for clients. I-I've earned full accreditation and am licensed through the state agency, I come from a long line of witches, and I can provide references upon request."

She was beginning to sound robotic and talking too much. Swallowing hard, she gestured again to the rollers of oil. "The intention oils are more about . . . well, intent. They help to focus your intent, they provide you something specific to focus on, and the herbal properties in each enhances your concentration. Every bottle contains a crystal that was charged beneath the appropriate moon to amplify the herbal properties. You can think of them as manifestation oils, if that's more grounding."

"Manifest your reality," the girl said with a smile. "Yes, I'll take one of those as well, and the other things you mentioned. I love this for us, I really do. Did you say there was a shampoo?"

There were several other shoppers at the table, and all had been listening as she spoke, Ladybug realized. Two selkies elbowed each other to reach the display of intention oils, examining the labels and holding up the bottles to the light to see the crystal inside. Ladybug felt as if she might levitate with excitement. You did that, all on your own. You didn't even need Holt's help.

"Yes! Shampoo and conditioner, of course. It's made with strawberry essence and the same Rosa Damascena distillation."

"You should buy a second bottle to keep at your boyfriend's house." The elf looked up from the bottle she was holding, her mouth dropping open at Holt's words. "You know, so you don't have to use his. The last thing you want to smell like is his stuff. It's such a trip. Because it doesn't actually smell like him on you, you know?"

Ladybug had no idea what he was talking about, but the elf seemed to. Understanding bloomed in her wide eyes, and her laugh tinkled like a little crystal bell. "I know exactly what you mean! A few weeks ago I used his soap thinking I would smell like him for the rest of the day and it was just so wrong."

Holt matched her laughter. "Sometimes my girlfriend will use my shampoo and I can't stand the smell of myself on her. Like, is this really what I smell like?! She smells great on her own, she doesn't need my stink tainting her."

Ladybug forced her smile to stay put until she was certain it likely resembled a grimace of pain. She had no idea what they were blathering on about. This was a conversation far above her level of understanding, but that was fine. This elf is so sweet, she's the one you practice with. Change the narrative. As she watched, the girl picked up not only the second bottle of shampoo, but two bottles of the conditioner as well.

"My partner is the one who harvested all the rose petals used for this batch of products," Ladybug blurted, neck heating as soon as the words were out. "He-he's able to step around the bushes without disturbing the bases, and . . . well, his claws are very handy for snipping off the blooms. I always manage to cut myself on the thorns. He's going to be very happy to hear the roses were a hit."

The elf beamed. Over her shoulder, a pair of trolls whispered to each other. "Oh, I love that! The whole household has to pitch in! Well, please thank him for me and let him know how much I appreciate his efforts. This all smells so amazing! And thank you so much for all of your helpful recommendations!" She twinkled up at Ladybug as Holt came around the table to hand her the heavy bag of products. "You just became my new favorite vendor here. I can't wait to see what new stuff you have next week!"

Ladybug spun to Holt when the elf left, elation and panic nearly taking her off her feet but the familiar had dropped to his seat upon his return to the table, a stricken look on his face.

"Oh good, you're panicking too," she hissed. "What did she mean, new stuff next week?! Do I have to have new stuff every week?"

"What?" Holt looked up sharply as if she'd interrupted him, incomprehension turning his brows down. "What — what did you say about next week?" He pushed back to his feet, leaning over the table to peer above the heads of the goblins who were examining every single intention oil, watching the back of the elf as she made her way up the aisle.

"She–she said she can't wait to see what I have next week . . ."

Holt shook his head roughly, as if to shake himself back to attention. "So next week you show her something new. That doesn't mean you need to craft something new, only that it will be new to her. Take your own advice, Ladybug. Manifest your reality. And that was nicely played, well done."

"Your partner," one of the trolls asked a moment later, the pair crowding their way to the front of the table at last. "The one who helps with the roses . . . is that the —" The troll hesitated, biting her lip and exchanging a fast look with her friend.

Change the narrative.Ladybug inhaled, swallowed hard, and nodded. She would never sparkle and would always prefer potions to people, but she could do this for him. Your mother was a strong witch. She didn't give a shit about the neighbors either.

"He's an Araneaen," Ladybug supplied in a voice that she hoped sounded stronger than she felt. "Spider-folk. He-he's going to be thrilled the roses went to good use."

"Araneaen," the second troll repeated. "I've never known any spider-folk before. It's hard to believe there's one living right here in town! I'm sure he's the first in the area."

"Hardly." Holt's voice was casual, catching the troll's attention before pointedly answering a question for one of the selkies then turning back to the conversation as if it were an afterthought. Change the narrative. Make Anzan sound as boring as Holt does. "Philomel has been here for ages. She lives over by the park, at least thirty or forty years now."

The trolls exchanged another fast look. "I think I've seen her before," one of them admitted. "Not often, but here and there at the store. I guess I didn't realize they were the same species. The males though, they're much bigger, right?"

This time, the smile she wore had a bit of a natural stretch. "They're not. Female Araneaens are actually larger. They're a matriarchal society, you know. It was almost a challenge getting used to being treated so well." She didn't miss Holt's grin at her words, fighting the impulse to bounce on her toes again.

The troll women shared another pointed look, the shorter of the two giving her friend a none too subtle elbow to the side.

"We read something about their venom?" the original speaker asked, glaring down at her eager companion.

Ladybug heated, knowing exactly what they'd heard. "Araneaen venom has aphrodisiac properties, yes. It-it's quite potent."

Both women's eyes widened. "You've tried it?"

Her stomach swooped, and for a moment, she had no idea how to answer. Yes, every time he goes down on me, he puts a drop of venom on my clit and turns my blood to gasoline. When he goes into heat, he bites me like a vampire so that we can have sex for two days straight. "It's important for a witch to be well acquainted with every item in her cabinet," was what she said at last. "And he-he is my partner. It's very potent stuff."

"Do you have any products with it?" the troll demanded, eyes lighting up.

You're not just going to sell circles around these other witches. You're going to turn this whole town into a bunch of venom addicts.

"I don't have them here," she said regretfully, "not this week. But I can make them."

"This is our first week here," added Holt quickly. "The product line will be ever-changing and expanding, so you'll need to check back with us. Or," he plucked up one of the cards with a flourish, "be sure to sign up for updates. The online shop will be opening soon, and of course, we do personal consultations."

By the time the last patrons were pulling out of the parking lot, she was exhausted and giddy. With the exception of a few soaps here and a pot or two of lotion there, the table was empty. She had given out dozens of cards, explained what charging the crystals meant to countless mothfolk and goblins, and had a tentative appointment with a friendly amphibious woman to discuss her little boy's predilection for licking things.

"I think that mostly sounds like a behavioral issue," she'd told the woman thoughtfully, "but if he's sensory seeking, I wonder if we can concoct some sort of candy to help him redirect the action? Sugar-free, of course, we'll make sure it's healthy."

"That sounds perfect! His pediatrician has been absolutely no help. Am I able to make an appointment online?"

Her smile had faltered, but Holt had cut in smoothly, rescuing her. "That option is coming. For now, though, that QR on the card will take you to our landing page, phone number, email, mailing list. That way you'll be notified as soon as the website scheduler is live."

When the woman walked away with a small bag of shower steamers, Ladybug decided she likely needed to come clean. He wasn't going to be pleased to know that her mailing list consisted of an actual mailing list of things she mailed out with stamps and handwritten addresses, and there was no time like the present to admit it.

" . . . I don't actually have a mailing list. Not in the way you're thinking."

"No, I'm sure your version has a feather quill and a centaur trotting along with the delivery sack for saddlebags, but I've already taken care of it."

She couldn't even be mad over the dig. He was right, and besides, she didn't care. It had been a wildly successful day. She bounced on her toes, unable to keep still, her fingers trembling from the suppressed desire to hug herself. She had talked to people. She had stammered and tripped over her words and flushed repeatedly, and it hadn't mattered. There had been a fair number of passersby who'd nudged each other upon their approach to her table, with knowing looks they didn't bother hiding. Holt had quickly worked out a system of pointing them out discreetly, and to those customers, he made a point of casually bringing up the Araneaen waiting for them at home.

She wasn't sure how well she would manage on her own, and Holt might need to accompany her for a while longer before she could even consider it. A fair amount of conversations still took place a bit above her understanding, she laughed like a limping sparrow, and she needed to practice smiling in front of the mirror, but she had lived through it. It was a good day.

"Elizabeth. I thought that was you. You know, when we saw the name, I thought perhaps it was a mistake."

Her back stiffened, her jaw clenching. Ladybug turned slowly towards the voice of one of her longtime tormentors, a queen bee in the junior coven. Ismeralda Lattimore looked as smug and superior as she had on that last Hexennacht, the night she had been expelled from the coven.

"Although, I do hope you know better than to be claiming to be a fully accredited member of any coven," Izzy admonished her in a tone of voice normally reserved for young children. "That's a big no-no. That's a misrepresentation of your licensing and I would hate to have to report you."

This was the confrontation she had been avoiding for a year. This was why she slipped out of line at the grocery store, backed out of the fruit market, ducked down behind aisles at the pharmacy. She had managed to go nearly an entire year without having this conversation with one of her former sisters, not that they had ever felt like sisters.

This was probably the moment when she would have stammered and turned beet red, her tongue twisting itself into knots until the other two witches laughed at her and walked away. Unfortunately for them, Holt still stood behind the table, triggering that impulse inside her, something that made her braver, angrier, less concerned with appearances. Maybe it was Willow's residual energy, the memory of Authricia hitting the familiar in the face with her broom, his occasionally nasty, hissing cattitude that rubbed off on her.

It didn't matter what it was, only that rather than lowering her eyes and removing herself from the situation, Ladybug felt a bubbling pool of rage within her.

"I have earned my full accreditation," she snapped back. "Probably twice over, to be honest. But you don't have to worry, Izzy. You can let Evelyn know that I am absolutely not claiming accreditation with the coven. I would sooner burn my license than be affiliated with any of you." The two witches huffed, and Ladybug held her ground. "I can't imagine I would keep many clients if they knew I was a part of an amoral group of carnival charlatans."

That last thought had definitely not been her own, but she didn't care. Beside her, Holt snorted. The witch standing beside Ismeralda gasped in offense.

"I'll have you know that this coven has never been stronger or more united."

"Ohhhh, that's not at all what I've heard," Holt purred from over her shoulder. "I've heard that some of you have been telling tales out of school, Izzy. I've heard there's quite a drop-off in attendance as well. Shedding numbers at a critical juncture in our history is not going to be a good look when the state board does its annual review. You've left the door wide open for secondary practitioners to form. Who knows if Evelyn will even be able to keep the charter at this point? It would be such a shame for Cambric Creek to lose that . . . of course, you're not the only coven who can carry it. I do wonder if your sisters are keeping you intentionally in the dark, Izzy. Or maybe you're part of the whispers and you're just afraid of saying it in public."

Ladybug knew the other witch by face, but not her name. She had been relatively new to the coven, only in town a few months before Ladybug's expulsion, and this witch did not know Holt at all. Ismeralda Lattimore did. Her face screwed up in a scowl, but she said nothing in her own defense. She didn't dare.

"I didn't realize the two of you were working together now," she grumbled at last.

"Why wouldn't we be?" Holt demanded. "I have been the familiar of a Brackenbridge witch for longer than our histories are recorded. We are family."

Izzy pursed her lips, and the other witch sneered.

"Just make sure you're not misrepresenting yourself here," the nameless witch huffed. "Because if I find out that you are, I won't have a choice but to report you."

Ladybug took a breath to retort, her fists balling once more, but again Holt did not give her the opportunity.

"That's an interesting word you keep using," he mused. "Reporting. So quick to use it. You know, reporting is an epidemic. Once someone puts the thought out in the world, everyone starts doing it. I wonder if you know the severity of punishment that comes from magical law being broken. And it all starts with one . . . little . . . report."

Ismeralda grabbed the other woman's arm, silencing her, and they departed. She watched the witches move across the hall, heads together, not breathing until the door had swung shut behind the pair.

"Well, that was a fun way to end the day." Holt's voice was cheerful, and although her blood still sizzled with the desire to argue, Ladybug grinned.

"You are a terribly bad influence."

He shrugged, unbothered. "The degree of difference between being the best and the worst is a hair's breadth. It doesn't matter if you're at the bottom or the top. The whole world's a circle, and you're just that much closer to meeting in the middle." He dropped the washtub onto the dolly with a grin. "Come, Elizabeth. Let's hurry up and get out of here, because we're celebrating with sushi tonight. And it's your treat, so that's like, a double celebration for me."

There was something magical about the attic on nights when the sky was clear and the moon shone brightly. Ladybug did not need to envision the way the moon cast her glow across the lawn, did not need to wonder if the branches in the trees outside her window resembled skeletal arms and grasping hands, for from this vantage point, she could see them plain.

The waxing gibbous moon in the sky was bright and shining that night, casting her white light over the still bare trees, the shadows of which stretched and danced across the attic, bony fingers nearly plucking out her web, making her feel as if she were the helpless marionette at the center of their macabre puppet show.

"I talked to so many people." It was the tenth time she had told him. Anzan hummed against her skin as she closed her eyes, giggling, still giddy, still wired and filled with too much adrenaline. "So many! And I probably sounded like a fool, but it didn't matter. I didn't have time to overthink it. There were too many of them, one right after the next!"

He had been waiting for them. Ladybug saw the outline of his silhouette in the third-floor window as they returned from the market, Holt's car sliding into the driveway behind her. By the time they made it into the house, carrying the single box of product that had remained on her table, Anzan was pacing in the kitchen, waiting.

"Well?" He'd demanded, not even giving her a chance to shrug out of her coat.

"We almost sold out of everything!" she'd squealed, throwing herself into his waiting arms as Holt came in behind her with the box.

"She did amazing. Chatted with customers, sold her behind off."

Holt removed the bag of sushi from the box, and Ladybug quickly extricated herself from Anzan's grip to take the bag from the familiar, before he scarfed down an entire tray, which he'd already threatened to do several times as they waited for the order. Pulling plates from the cupboard, she lined up the takeout trays, opening the small containers of pickled ginger and wasabi, and pointedly putting the extras she had ordered for Anzan's lunch in the refrigerator.

"Funny, that," Holt went on, as if she'd not interrupted him. "I seem to remember saying that's exactly what would happen. You know, it's very hard being right all the time. A bit of a burden, to be honest."

"And do these witches sell at the market every week?" Anzan demanded, once they relayed the story of her confrontation with Ismerelda Lattimore.

"I suppose they do," Ladybug groaned. "I just have to get used to putting up with them." Holt grumbled from where he sat perched on the edge of the counter once more, as she chewed thoughtfully. Seeing them had been the one dark spot of the day, and the realization that she would have to see them every week would put a bit of a damper on her future at the Makers' Mart.

"It would be terribly unfortunate if someone were to vandalize their vehicles next Friday, preventing them from arriving at the Community Center Saturday morning." Anzan's voice was mild and musing, as if he were discussing something as inconsequential and dull as the weather, but for several moments no one said anything.

Holt broke the silence with a strangled burst of laughter. "He's my favorite. Without question."

"No one is going to be vandalizing anything!"

Holt continued to laugh, ignoring her, and Anzan had chosen that moment to become thoroughly absorbed with his rice.

"You are both terrible!"

Now Holt was gone, and they were back in the attic, and she was suspended in the air like the most graceful of acrobats. He'd had flowers waiting for her, a beautiful bouquet of early spring blooms. Ladybug decided that the thought behind the gesture mattered more than where exactly the flowers had come from. The bouquet had been disassembled, the blossoms fed through the fastenings at her wrists and ankles, her neck and waist, braided down her torso, like the May Queen herself.

"My perfect little reina," he murmured against her throat, nipping at her skin. "I am so proud of you, little bug. I am not at all surprised to hear of your success, of course, but I have never before felt such pride."

Ladybug gasped when he rose above, hooking her knees over his arms and stretching her open, mounting her. The spot on his abdomen that concealed his cock was yet smooth and unopened, but her pressed it to her slick center, thrusting against the mouth of her cunt. Closing her eyes, she willed the smell of her to ignite his heat, to keep her trapped in his web and use her body for his pleasure . . .

"Do-do you need to —"

"Not yet," Anzan groaned, not needing her to finish the thought. "Although I suspect we are close. This is how you smell the nights you worship your moon mother, my Ladybug. So beautiful and confident. My little queen ruling her kingdom, with no doubt making her second guess herself."

With a grunt, he dropped, lowering himself to kiss her, his mouth leaving a hot trail down her throat. Perhaps it was not some pheromone trick she needed to work on, Ladybug thought. Perhaps the only thing needed to trigger his heat was her. "I'm supposed to thank you," she remembered, grinning.

Anzan pulled back with a raised eyebrow, leaving the nipple he'd just sucked into his mouth wet and tight in the exposed air.

"A beautiful elf. She was the best customer of the day. She said to thank you for harvesting the roses." Though the moonlight was dim, she was able to make out the rapid blink of his small black eyes and the confusion on his brow. "I talked about you," she explained. "I talked about you to so many people! A-and Holt's right, I think. Most of them are just curious. We're going to show them the basket weaving."

Anzan harrumphed and she tugged on his hair as his mouth moved down her body. He paused when he reached the juncture of her inner thigh.

"They did not seem frightened?"

"No!" She beamed, uncaring if he could see her smile. Adrenaline still coursed through her, her pulse thumping, still punch-drunk over the day. "I think . . . I think we need to start going out more. Even a bit in the day. Slow at first, as much as you're comfortable with, but . . . I don't know that we have much of a choice. And I'm going to start using your venom in products. We're going to introduce Cambric Creek to Araneaen culture, one bottle at a time."

He chuckled against her heat and her head fell back against the springy confines, her heated skin already quivering in anticipation.

"Your ingenuity knows no bounds. I shall give this plan some thought . . . let me have you, little bug."

Her eyes fluttered closed when his mouth descended, the tip of his tongue carrying single potent drop of his venom where she needed it most as she buried her fingers in his hair.

"You can have me whenever you want . . . I'm already yours."