Chapter 14 Public Enemy No. 1

Morning arrived, unavoidably. Scarlett blinked awake, sunlight filtering through the gauzy pink curtains of her childhood bedroom. Her first emotion was a profound disappointment that she hadn't turned to stone or spontaneously combusted from the shame of last night.

Scarlett couldn't quite wrap her head around how badly she'd failed. Delilah had pleaded with Scarlett to return to Oak Haven but instead of being a helpful member of the family, she'd become a harbinger of chaos. All her long-forgotten childhood anxieties—that gnawing sense that she was always on the edge of a cliff, always just a few breaths away from messing everything up—clawed at her brain like a box of mad rats.

Maybe she should just disappear again. Leave Oak Haven, leave her family, before she could hurt them more. Might be the best thing for everyone.

The thought made her chest tighten. Because while fleeing the scene of the crime might, in fact, be best for everyone else, she knew it wouldn't be best for her. Running hadn't solved anything last time. Why would this be different? A decade's worth of time hadn't put an inch of distance between how badly she felt about what happened to Papa. Leaving now would just mean more ghosts to deal with later.

Besides, her family needed her—even if they hated her at the moment.

Ignoring the lump of dread in her throat, Scarlett forced herself out of bed. This was her mess, and she would have to face it.

While getting dressed, she heard strange honking sounds outside of her window—some high-pitched, like the noise of plastic toy trumpets, and others low, like broken kazoos. She pulled back the curtains in time to see an entire squadron of flamingos soaring over the inn. Meanwhile, a very unhappy-looking man bicycled past, hotly pursued by a single rain cloud that dumped water solely on him.

Excellent, Scarlett thought sarcastically. Magic is in fantastic shape, I see. This should be a wonderful day.

***

Downstairs, a cluster of bewildered-looking Gilbert and Sullivan aficionados had just arrived. The guests were an eclectic mix of what Scarlett expected to see—tweedy, easily startled academics mingling with glamorous thea-tahh dahling types—and some she absolutely didn't, like that pair of middle-aged men with long beards, Black Sabbath T-shirts and studded motorcycle leathers.

Delilah was behind the reception desk, checking everyone in with her trademark efficiency. "You're in room 308," she told an elderly couple. "Yes, there is an ice machine on that floor . . . No, we don't offer laundry service . . . Yes, I'm aware of the flamingos. There really isn't much we can do about them at the moment."

Scarlett noted her sister's clenched jaw and furrowed brow—not to mention her aura of barely suppressed rage—and hurried to help behind the counter.

"Good morning and welcome, Gilbert and Sullivan Society!" Scarlett announced loudly. "I trust that you are right, and we are right, and all is right as right can be?" Sotto voce, to Delilah's shoulder, Scarlett said, "Need any help?"

Delilah didn't even turn her head. "Not from you." Fake smile to the guests. "Enjoy your stay. Can I help the next people in line, please?"

Cold, Scarlett thought, but not unjustified. She turned to the coffee pot behind the counter, pouring herself a mug of liquid courage.

Meanwhile, Mama was at the front door with a small, wheeled bar cart. As long as Scarlett could remember, this was Mama's standard move whenever there was trouble at the inn. Complimentary cocktails always took the edge off.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Mimosa?" She handed each of the biker dudes an overfilled champagne flute. "We're so happy to have you at our inn."

The biker dudes didn't look especially happy to be at the inn. "We were coming up the street," said one. "And our Harleys turned into hogs. Not hogs like motorcycles—actual hogs. They both threw us off and ran away!"

"Yeah," affirmed the other. "What the hell is going on? And what are you gonna do about it?!"

"I'm so terribly sorry about the hogs." Mama smiled beatifically. "The town is having some troubles with anarchic magic at the moment, I'm afraid. I assure you, we will help you find your motorcycles posthaste. Please, enjoy some cocktails and don't worry at all."

"So, Del . . ." Scarlett said quietly to her sister, "I take it Mama knows about the magic situation."

"Everyone in Oak Haven can't help but know. It's so much worse than before. Everything is chaos. Now get lost. I'm busy."

"Scarlett!" Mama had just noticed Scarlett's presence, and she waved her over. "Come here a minute."

No fucking way, Scarlett thought. She had an epic scolding coming her way, but there was no chance she was ready to submit just yet. Instead, she pretended she hadn't heard her mother and dashed off to find Luna. Maybe her baby sister could offer a sliver of comfort.

Scarlett found her on the back patio. A determined frown creased Luna's brow as she sat cross-legged on a table, arms outstretched and chanting under her breath. Scarlett's heart sank when she realized what was happening. Luna was trying to conjure a piano for the Gilbert and Sullivan crew. Because the inn's piano had been destroyed.

Yet something else for me to feel terrible about.

Alas, every flick of Luna's wrist summoned forth something other than a piano. An accordion wheezed into existence, followed by a mournful set of bagpipes. A startled penguin appeared, squawking its disapproval before vanishing in a shimmer of blue light. It would've been funny if it had not been entirely Scarlett's fault.

Luna swore softly as yet another attempt conjured a dusty harp instead of the gleaming grand that the guests expected. Clearly, today was not a day for even the most basic of magic.

"Hey . . ." Scarlett said gently.

"Can we talk later, please," Luna replied. She didn't sound angry so much as fully absorbed in her task. An air of grim determination hovered all around her.

"Of course. I'll leave you to it." Scarlett backed away, but lingered at the French doors separating the patio from the dining room. She gazed out at the overgrown beds that used to be her father's garden. As a kid helping her dad, the garden had given her a sense of purpose. Now, every leaf, every blossom, seemed to whisper her failure.

"Papa . . ." she whispered miserably. "What do I do now?"

"Scarlett!" The sound of Mama's voice pulled Scarlett from her reverie; her mother, regal as ever, was standing in the dining room. "Scarlett, there you are."

"Here I am," she replied weakly. Here it comes: the verbal flaying of a lifetime. Scarlett leaned against the doorframe and waited for the enhanced interrogation to begin.

Instead, Mama just gazed at her daughter without speaking.

Scarlett tried to read her mother's expression. Was that anger? Disappointment? Something else? Scarlett couldn't tell. Mama had something to say—that was clear—but apparently, she wasn't ready to say it.

After a moment, Mama seemed to make a decision. Whatever emotions had been playing across her face were replaced by a purely businesslike expression. "Find Zahir in the kitchen and have him squeeze some more oranges for me. And fetch some champagne from the walk-in. Nate was kind enough to deliver a case but—"

"Wait, the hardware store stocks champagne now?"

"Of course not! The market stocks champagne, but it just so happens that Nate is one of those increasingly rare individuals who knows how to be helpful in a crisis."

Scarlett just shook her head. "Your ability to compliment one person and simultaneously insult everyone you've ever met will never cease to amaze."

" Anyway , he never appeared to restock my cart. I'm going to need it soon—those light-opera people drink like fish."

"Mama, wait. Can we talk about what happened last night? I just feel like—"

"Oh I know, your generation is very keen on feelings . But at the moment we have a lobby full of guests who feel tired, hungry, and unnerved by the number of flamingos soaring over our small New England town. What say we focus on our guests for the time being and worry about Scarlett's feelings at a more appropriate moment."

"But—"

"Feelings later, champagne now."

***

Weirdly happy to have been trusted with a job— any job—Scarlett headed for the kitchen. "Zahir, are you busy? Mama needs orange juice and champers."

Zahir stood alone in the Stargazer kitchen, feeding orange sections into a juicer one by one. The juicer's grrrrrr sound matched his expression perfectly.

"G'morning, Z." Scarlett hoisted herself up on the counter to sit beside him. "How's the juice business?"

Ignoring her greeting, Zahir thrust a half-filled juice glass in Scarlett's face. "Taste this."

She did. "Yum?" she offered encouragingly.

"Tastes like juice?"

"Yep."

"Not Spam?"

"Absolutely not."

"Are you sure," Zahir demanded. "You haven't just brushed your teeth or anything? That can change the flavor."

"Zahir, buddy. It's fine. I'm sure that Spam thing was just a one-time accident. After all, dinner the other night was incredible . Hey, I have an idea! There's a lot of folks in the lobby, so why don't you throw some omelets together or something?"

"Oh, sure." Zahir shrugged, sighed, and rolled his eyes all at once. "Easy for you to say."

"It wasn't your fault, Z. The Spam thing. There's a problem with the oak grove—it was nothing you did."

"It was nothing I did," he repeated. "And there's nothing I can do. I'm a master chef at the mercy of a bunch of trees. You know, that's what you witchy people forget. You walk around with all that power. You have no idea what it's like to just be . . ." He trailed off. "To just be."

"Hey, pal, you forget who you're talking to? I've spent ten years living as a muggle, remember?"

"Yeah, that was dumb of you."

"What do you know!" Scarlett exclaimed. "It's been fantastic!"

He grunted. "Liar."

"Steady there, Z."

"Scarlett, I know your family doesn't understand that job of yours, but I do—I read Wired magazine, okay? Your job is all long-tail keywords and crawlability and content optimization." He spat out the terms like they were Spam-flavored. "What an utter waste of your talent."

"First of all, it's more interesting than you're making it sound—"

"Bah!"

"—and secondly, I have absolutely zero talent as a witch. I proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt when I single-handedly destroyed the oak grove."

"Wait . . . You did this?"

"Last night, yeah. Delilah, Luna, Nate, and I went up there to try and fix the trees but—"

"Hang on," Zahir interrupted. "Nate?! What was Nate doing up there? That's illegal, you know."

"Oh, whatever—he just wanted to visit the grove, that's all."

"Uh-huh . . ." Zahir's eyebrows bopped up and down. "So that's back on, is it?"

"Back on? What is ‘back on'?" Scarlett was confident she did an excellent performance of not understanding what he was alluding to.

"Gimme a break. You and Nate."

"There is no me and Nate. Where is he, anyway? Mama said he was back here."

Zahir reached for another orange. "He's in the walk-in."

"He's just . . . in the freezer? For how long?"

"What am I, your boyfriend-wrangler? I don't know. He took a case of champagne in there to chill, and he hasn't come out."

Scarlett frowned. "And you didn't think to look for him?"

Zahir grabbed more oranges and shook them at her. "Busy!"

"Right." She hopped off the counter. "Good talk, Zahir. You're the brother I never wanted."

He called to her as she walked away, "Back at you!"

Grrrrrr, said the juicer.

Scarlett yanked open the heavy stainless-steel door of the walk-in and stepped inside. As the door slammed behind her, she found herself standing on a street corner in New Orleans.

The air was thick with humidity and the scent of something deliciously spicy cooking nearby. Greenery dripped off the cast-iron balconies overhead. A cacophony of musicians blocked traffic on the street while tourists gathered to listen and dance and take pictures with their phones.

Scarlett spun around—the walk-in was gone.

Well, she thought. This should be interesting.