Chapter 6 Truth and Consequences

When Scarlett opened her eyes, the midday sun was streaming in the window and Luna's bed was already made. Scarlett hoisted herself up, rubbing her eyes. She had overslept. And there would be consequences.

"Shit."

She pulled on her fuzzy robe and wandered downstairs, hoping to find coffee. But the dining room had been cleared and all of Zahir's scrumptious breakfast offerings long put away. The only soul in the place was that magician, Maximillian the Magnificent. He sat by the window, at a table covered with books. He had a thick hardcover on his lap, and he would intently study a passage, then close his eyes. His lips would move, seemingly repeating what he'd just read. Then he'd look down at the page and begin the process again. Scarlett paused to watch him awhile. There was something hypnotic about it: read, close eyes, repeat the words; read, close eyes, repeat the words.

Zahir came bustling in from the kitchen, dropped off a gravy-smothered plate at Max's table, and headed back to his post.

Scarlett stopped him midway. "Hey," she whispered. "What's he doing?"

"No clue." Zahir sounded annoyed. "All I know is, he claims to be Canadian this morning, so he insisted I make him poutine."

"Oh yeah? If I claim to be a cop, can I get some coffee and a donut?"

"Absolutely not—I'm too busy with lunch prep. You want breakfast? Get up at breakfast time." And with that, Zahir was gone.

Since Max had paused his ritual to shovel some cheese curds down his gullet, Scarlett moseyed over to his table. "Morning, Mr. Magnificent. What's all the studying for? You taking night classes or something?"

He peered up at her with oddly cold eyes and tapped on the book he'd been reading: Essential Facts About World War II. "Tell me, witch: by what year had the entirety of Emperor Hirohito's army surrendered to the Allies?"

"Uh. Well . . . let me think . . . the war ended in 1945, right? So. Around then?"

Max made a buzzing sound. "Wrong! The entire army had not fully surrendered until the final soldier, Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda, gave himself up in 1974."

"Wow, impressive. You know your wars, huh?"

"I know all aboot it," said the magician, Canadianishly. "I know a whole lot of things, witch. And do you know how I know? Because we magicians? We study. We learn. We aren't like your kind, who sit around burning sage and waiting for the Muse to strike."

Offended, Scarlett made a face. "Sir, that's not at all how witchcraft works. I don't know where you get your information, but we aren't just some—"

" For example ," he said, interrupting, "here is a fascinating tidbit that I just learned: Adolf Hitler had a nephew, William Patrick Hitler, who served in the U.S. Navy."

Scarlett couldn't help but laugh at that. "C'mon, there was a Bill Hitler ?!"

"It's no joke, eh? He even won a medal."

Mama Melrose leaned into the dining room. "Scarlett, stop bothering our guests. I need to speak to you."

Oof, Scarlett thought. This should be fun. "Okay, Max, gotta go. Enjoy your studies."

"Don't you worry," said Max with a baffling degree of menace. " I absolutely love trivia ."

***

Behind the inn's reservation desk is a discreet door that leads to a small, low-ceilinged office—Mama's domain. Mostly the office was for bookkeeping and inn management, but it was also where she'd summon the girls for a stern talking-to when they misbehaved. Crowding the walls were framed paintings, tintypes, and photographs of many generations of Melroses. Whenever Scarlett received a summons—which was often, because of the three sisters, she was always the one misbehaving—she'd stare up at all those images and feel the weight of hundreds of years of disapproval.

She numbly followed her mother into the office now. As far as she could tell, nothing had changed in ten years. The ancestors looked just as disapproving as ever.

Mama assumed her position behind the desk, folded her hands, and gazed at her middle daughter. "I assume you know why I've asked you here."

Scarlett sighed. This was classic Kelly Melrose: she'd wait, letting her guest squirm under her penetrating gaze, until the accused offered up a whole variety of reasons why they deserved to be in the hot seat. The worst part was, Mama rarely let the guilty party know whether or not she had confessed to the correct crime.

Scarlett sat up straight, trying to fight off the sensation of being twelve years old again. I'm an adult now, she reminded herself. I am perfectly capable of having an adult conversation with my mother. "This is about me accidentally destroying the piano, for which I apologize," she said firmly. "I suppose I'm just out of practice."

"No," her mother replied.

Scarlett tilted her head, confused. "No, it's not about the piano?"

"No, you're not out of practice."

"Of course I am. It's been ten years since I've—"

"Balderdash," said her mother. "You have been using magic whether you knew it or not."

Scarlett stared at her mother. "Absolutely not. This one time, I accidentally locked myself out of my apartment, and sure, I could have cast a spell to open the lock, but did I? No, I didn't. I sat in my hallway for four hours waiting for the locksmith."

"Oh well, congratulations—you sat in a hallway for no reason. What exactly did you prove, by doing that?"

Scarlett threw up her hands. "It's not about proving anything! You don't know everything, Mama. I'm sorry, but you don't. You haven't seen me in ten years."

"And I am to blame for that?"

"No, of course not. I'm just saying."

Mama leaned forward, a knowing look in her eye. "There are a fair number of rude people in San Francisco, right?"

" What?! Why are you bringing up San Francisco?"

"Just answer the question."

Scarlett rolled her eyes. "There's rude people everywhere . . . even in Oak Haven. Heck, even in this very room."

Her mother ignored the obvious attempt at provocation. "When you find yourself in a restaurant, and some moron is at the table next to you, babbling on his cellular phone about the latest start-ups, or kale futures, or whatever nonsense . . . what happens?"

"What do you even mean? Nothing happens."

" Think ," Mama insisted, her gaze intense. "What happens, Scarlett?"

"Well . . . I guess . . . now that you mention it . . . I guess sometimes his uh, phone will . . ."

"Explode," Mama said, a note of triumph in her voice.

"God, no!"

"Melt?"

"No!" Scarlett exclaimed. "Good grief, what is wrong with you? I just mean . . . occasionally . . . the battery will die? Or the signal will drop? Or . . ." She trailed off, staring at her mother in disbelief. "You're not saying that's me doing it? Breaking some stranger's phone? Come on. Without trying?"

"All I can tell you is, phone-destroying spells were among the top ten most-cast spells last year."

Scarlett's eyes widened. "You know what the most-cast spells are?"

"Naturally, they are listed in the Acta Diurna Magus ." The Acta Diurna Magus was an ancient witchcraft newsletter that had been in circulation since before the birth of Christ. There had been few prouder moments in the Melrose family than the day that Papa's article, "Ethics of Enchantment: Love Spells and Individual Agency" had been published in the newsletter. "Every issue contains a list of the most-cast spells, both globally and regionally. It's a way for us old ladies to keep up with what you young folks are doing. And one thing you're all doing, whether you realize it or not, is destroying the cellular phones of people who annoy you."

"But how can I be casting a spell without meaning to?"

Mama sighed, her expression softening. "Magic isn't something you do, Scarlett. It's not some hobby that you can opt to pursue or not pursue. Magic is something you are . You can deny it, ignore it, push it away . . . but magic is still there, alive in you. And if it isn't used? If it isn't nurtured and tended to? Well . . . like an ignored child, it's going to act out. Honestly? Given your ten years of magic repression, I'm amazed you haven't caused any significant accidents."

"No, of course not, I'd never—oh." Scarlett's mind flashed to an especially disastrous blind date about a year earlier; it began in a bowling alley and ended in an emergency room. "There might have been the occasional issue. I told myself it was a coincidence."

"Not coincidence. More like overflow. As far as my piano goes, I actually don't think it had anything to do with your lack of practice. It pains me to admit this, but I am slowly coming around to Delilah's opinion that something has gone wrong with magic."

"Delilah was always pretty sharp," Scarlett said. "You probably should have listened to her from the beginning."

"Delilah is absolutely sharp, but she is also an alarmist. Has been for some time."

"I don't see her that way."

"Oh you don't ," Mama said, an edge in her voice. "Well, a less forgiving person than I might point out that you are hardly in a position to judge, having not spoken to her in a decade."

Scarlett took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Okay, you win, Mama."

"Funny, I don't feel like I've won anything. The truth is, Delilah has become a very pessimistic sort since her father passed. You do realize that, don't you? That her father died, just as much as your own father did? That you were not, in fact, the sole victim of that particular incident? And ever since, Delilah can be relied upon to find the absolute worst in every given situation. I've come to anticipate this quirk and I usually overlook it. But after Luna's failed gourd spell and your piano catastrophe, I've reconsidered . . . and I now fear Delilah is correct. And this is why I've asked you here." She ripped a page off a nearby notepad and slid it across the desk. "If magic is currently fragile, we must take steps to secure the inn and the safety of our guests. Thus, I need you to run an errand for me. Fetch these items from Williams Hardware."

Scarlett's heart sank. Late morning or not, it was far too early to deal with the hardware store. And on no coffee, no less. "Mama, please don't send me to Williams. You know I don't want to go over there right now. Send Del or Luna."

"Delilah and Luna awoke at a proper hour, enjoyed a proper breakfast, and went into town. Who knows, perhaps you'll run into them, outside the hardware store ."

"But, Mama, that's not fair."

"Fair?! My child, I have seen a spell turn rain to sun. I have seen a spell turn old to young. But never have I seen a spell to turn the world to fair."

Scarlett sighed. Well, there is a part of Oak Haven I haven't missed—my mother's aphorisms. "Mama, come on . . ."

" Now , child." Mama pointed at the list like a threat.

Resigning herself to the inevitable, Scarlett accepted the shopping list. She stood up, stomped out of the office, and clambered up the stairs to get dressed. I can't believe she's making me go to the hardware store with no shower and no coffee.

But deep down, Scarlett knew: the consequence of oversleeping had arrived at last.

Because Nate runs the hardware store.