6. Wisteria

In the morning, the entire encounter with that bartender and the madness that happened afterwards feels like a strange dream. It's hard for me to believe that I really went into the ladies' room of a bar and got myself off, that I was so overcome with lust for a complete stranger that I'd forget the shyness that's lived with me my whole life. It's only the fact that my credit card isn't in my wallet that reminds me that I did in fact go there–and that I'm going to have to go back this afternoon, after my meeting with Mr. Screed. Breakfast is thankfully a part of my room at the hotel, but if I want lunch, I'm going to have to fetch my card. I don't want to strain my bank account much more than I already have until my inheritance is released, so I'm relying on my credit card limit for now.

Relax,I tell myself as I shuffle out of bed and get into a hot shower. A bartender who looks like that only works the night shift. No way the owner wastes him on the lunch crowd. He won't even be there.

I console myself with that as I change into the outfit I brought for my meeting with the lawyer–the nicest outfit I own. It consists of a lavender paisley skirt and a cream-colored top with a peplum ruffle, and a matching lavender blazer to go over it, with a pair of nude heels. I can't remember the last time I wore it–possibly for my college graduation the better part of six years ago–but it still fits. I manage to twist my dark hair back on the sides and wrap it into a low bun at the nape of my neck, adding a pair of gold and pearl earrings that I inherited from my mother and her wedding band–a gold filigreed ring that I wear on my right hand whenever I dress up. I haven't had many occasions to do so recently–the rare date I've gone on has usually been at a coffee-shop without a second date to follow up on, and my uniform for the bookstore and the group sessions was always a pretty standard jeans-and-t-shirt situation. I don't really feel like myself as I look in the mirror and slick on a coat of mascara and rosy lipstick, but I do look a little bit more like I have my shit together, which feels important when talking to a lawyer.

Mr. Screed's office is on the other side of town, where the non-beachside businesses are, and I regret not calling for whatever passes for an Uber here within a couple of blocks. The wind feels especially chilly today for early fall, and I'm not even a little bit used to wearing heels. By the time I make it to Mr. Screed's office–a small building with frosted glass bearing the names Screed Screed in bold black script–my feet feel as if they've been rubbed a little raw at the edges, and my arches ache. I can't wait to sit down.

The woman at the receptionist's desk matches the voice I heard over the phone–a prim-looking, bone-thin woman in her early fifties or so, grey hair kept short and neat. She smiles pleasantly as I walk in, looking up from the paperwork she was filling out. "Can I help you?"

"I–ah–I have an appointment with one of the Mr. Screeds." I smile a little shakily, trying not to shift my weight constantly on my painful feet. "Wisteria Avon?"

"Oh, yes. He's just finishing up with a client. He'll be out shortly. Have a seat." The woman gestures at a line of leather and wooden chairs against the wall, separated by low tables with neat stacks of magazines on them, and I retreat quickly, thankful for the chance to sit down. My feet are throbbing, and I almost wince when I see a door open at the end of the hall, a sure sign that Mr. Screed's previous meeting must be almost over.

A tall woman with pale skin and masses of lavender-hued hair hurries out of the room, a balled-up tissue clenched in her hand and red-rimmed eyes. She stops at the desk and speaks quietly with the receptionist for a moment before handing over a slim card, her entire posture suggesting that it's not an easy transaction for her.

Shit.I wince. If there's a cost for this meeting, I don't have my card with me–and I doubt there's enough left in my account right now to cover lawyer's fees. The moment the lavender-haired woman tucks the card into her purse and scuttles away, I stand up, trying not to limp as I approach the desk again.

"Ah. Ms. Avon. Mr. Screed really will be with you in just a–"

"I–I just realized I might need to postpone my appointment." I bite my lip, feeling like an idiot. "I don't have my card with me. I left it at a–restaurant last night. So if there's a fee for today–"

To my dismay, I can feel my cheeks heating. It's not as if this woman is going to interrogate me as to what happened to my card, but I'm still embarrassed remembering the reason why I forgot to close out my tab.

"You don't need to worry about it, Ms. Avon." The woman's voice cuts through my embarrassment, bringing me back into the moment. "Your aunt ensured all the lawyer's fees were taken care of. Just wait there, and–"

"Actually, she can go ahead and come back, Grace." A raspy voice comes from the hall just behind the desk, and I step to one side, momentarily confused as to why I can't see the owner of the voice. The reason looks back at me with a kindly expression–a gnome in a well-tailored dark grey suit, his receding white hair combed back, and a thick well-groomed mustache sitting just above his upper lip. "Come along, dear. I'm Mr. Wilhelm Screed. Your aunt entrusted all of this to me, and I assure you, it will be much easier than you're likely imagining. Just a bit of discussion, and some paperwork to go over. Come along, come along." He repeats it as he leads me down the hall, and I feel a bit as if I've stepped into some alternate universe. In less than twenty-four hours in Bayton, I've seen more supernatural creatures walking casually about without a care as to who sees them than I've ever seen in my life. No law office in Seattle would hire a gnome, but here Mr. Wilhelm's surname is proudly scrawled on his office's front window. I feel a small burst of hope, the first real feeling that maybe I made the right choice. I really might be able to be myself here, I think as I sit down on the other side of Mr. Screed's desk, tucking my legs under my chair and trying to calm the flutter of nerves that I feel deep in my stomach.

"Just give me a moment–" He sits down, looking at a stack of files on his desk. "Ah. Here we go. You're aware of what your aunt left you, yes?"

I nod hesitantly. "I think so. Her home, her shop, and–and inheritance?" I hesitate, biting my lip. "Saying it out loud, it all sounds like so much. You're certain she meant to leave it all to me?"

"There was no one else to leave it to, my dear, or at least that's my understanding." Mr. Screed opens the file, scanning through a document. "Here. The first order of business is signing the deed to the house over to you. We'll handle processing the paperwork through all the proper channels, of course, and as I'm sure Grace told you, the fees have all been covered by your dear aunt–"

His voice trails off to a hum as I look numbly down at the sheet of paper in front of me, feeling a deep sense of guilt. I can't quite believe what it is that I'm seeing. Since the day I moved out of my college dorm, I've paid rent on an apartment that often felt like far too much for the small, cramped, noisy space that I inhabited. Now, I'm looking down at a deed that will give me ownership of a home that's paid off in full–no mortgage, nothing but property taxes and upkeep. I'm sure the taxes and home insurance are nothing to scoff at in a beach town, but I won't have rent to pay any longer.

"There's a very good broker who handled Ms. Avon's property insurance," Mr. Screed says, as if he can read my thoughts. What if he can? I think with alarm, and resolve to be very careful about anything else that might pass through my mind. I don't know if that's an ability anyone possesses–or if a lawyer would use it so indiscreetly–but it's better safe than sorry. "And other forms of insurance, too. You know how biased companies can be against–" He makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. "A town well-known for supernaturals, such as ours, is often used as an excuse to raise rates. Mrs. Blackwell will help you avoid that. There's already a policy on the house, so all you need to do is pay her a visit, and she'll be made aware of the change in ownership."

I nod, reaching over to sign the document. My hand shakes a little as I do, making my normally looping signature more of a scrawl. It doesn't entirely feel real–and I don't feel as if I deserve any of this. I didn't come visit my aunt, or call her. I was so swept up in the difficulties of my own life–of trying to navigate entering the adult world and a job and apartment and the terrible dating scene all while hiding my magic…my very nature, that I didn't think about what life might be like for her. That she might be lonely here–not for acquaintances and friends like her and perhaps even a love interest–but for the only family she had left. After all, once upon a time, family was very important to the women who came before me. Magical knowledge is meant to be passed down. Others might try to keep secrets and hoard magic like a dragon with treasure, but that's never been how hedge witches do things. Community matters to us. Our family matters to us–or at least it should, until I forgot that.

My cheeks heat all over again, for an entirely different reason this time, and I bend my head, finishing my signature and passing the deed back over to Mr. Screed.

"Very good." He looks pleased. "Now, on to the shop. Your aunt ran an apothecary, which was quite well-liked here. She sold a number of very helpful remedies, and then of course some of the things tourists look for–teas and potions and such." He makes that light scoffing noise again. "I assume you'll be running it much the same, which means–"

"Actually, I thought I might change the nature of the business."

Mr. Screed looks up abruptly, his brow furrowing it. "Change it? My dear–"

"Is that not allowed?" I remember the letter saying that I could make the shop whatever I pleased–but maybe I misread it. I bite my lip, knotting my fingers together in my lap. "If she wanted me to keep it as an apothecary–"

I don't have any desire to run an apothecary shop, but if it was what my aunt wanted, it feels like the least I could do. She left me a house and a business and money. I can at least follow in her footsteps if that–

"No, my dear, it's perfectly fine. Your aunt left no conditions on any part of your inheritance. It's only that–" He frowns. "What did you have a mind to change it to?"

"A bookshop and teahouse." I feel my teeth sink a little further into my lip, anxiety churning in my stomach. My idea, so close to my heart for so long, sounds incredibly ambitious spoken out into the open air. I almost wish I could read Mr. Screed's thoughts, so I could know if he's inwardly laughing at me. "But again–"

"That sounds like a lovely idea." He sounds genuine, at least, when he says it. "But the cost of changing the business so thoroughly–well, it will eat up a good deal of your inheritance. And–the apothecary was profitable already. Depending on how well your new venture progresses–"

"Is there anything like that in town already?" I tense as I wait for his answer, wondering if I've made a misstep with my expectations. I don't know all that Bayton has to offer yet. Someone else might have already made my dream a reality, and I just haven't realized it.

"No." Mr. Screed shakes his head definitively. "There isn't. Not even a bookstore, in fact, although there is a very nice coffeeshop–"

I glance down at the paperwork for the shop that he pushes in front of me. There's much more to it than what there was for the house–itemized lists of products and shop furnishings and their value, a profit and loss schedule, tax documents–all things that I know I'll need to understand better than I do now, although having a lawyer in my corner does help. "I'm going to need an accountant, won't I?" I wince, flipping through the pages. Another expense.

"I would recommend it, yes. A Mr. Hope has done your aunt's taxes for years, he's well acquainted with the business." Mr. Screed pauses, giving me a kindly look. "I know this all must be rather overwhelming. Take your time reading through it. And perhaps take your time deciding what you would like to do. The shop has been closed since your aunt's passing, and no one who resides in town will fault you for leaving it closed a little while longer while you acclimate yourself to running a business. As for the tourists–" He tsks, shrugging, a glimmer of a small smile curling up beneath his mustache. "Perhaps it would be good for them to have to wait on us for a change."

I manage a small smile at that, resting my hand on the pile of papers. "I'll definitely think about it," I assure him. But just the thought of giving up my dream makes my heart feel heavy in my chest. I tell myself that I'm being ungrateful, that having the opportunity I've been given at all is a monumental blessing. That expecting to come here and have it all go exactly the way I imagined is asking far, far too much.

"We'll handle the deeds for now," Mr. Screed says. "And the paperwork for you to claim the account that has your inheritance. Everything else we can consult on later. Next week, perhaps? I'm sure you'll want some time to settle into your new house. The furnishings are all still there, but I expect you'll want to redecorate." He sits back as I sign the paperwork to transfer the ownership of the shop and the bank account, feeling more and more as if I'm in a strange alternate reality with each scrawl of the pen.

"There we are," he says cheerfully as I hand the last sheet back. "What about next Wednesday, at the same time? We'll discuss more then."

I nod, typing the date and time into my phone, and standing up. My feet instantly scream at me, and I wince, discreetly opening the app for Uber as I shake Mr. Screed's hand. He passes me the keys to my new home and the apothecary shop, and I swallow back the feeling that these shouldn't belong to me as I tuck them into my purse.

One thing at a time, I tell myself as I hobble out to the curb, ignoring the sharp breeze pulling loose tendrils of my hair as I look for a ride. Get my card back, perhaps lunch, and then I can go from there.

It's unsurprisingly difficult to find someone at this time of afternoon, in a town this small. Bayton is walkable for a reason, meant to be a place that tourists wander through. By the time the lone driver who pops up on the app pulls up to the curb in a silver sedan, I've started to wonder if I might not have been better off simply walking anyway.

"I'm headed to the Howling Moon," I tell the driver–a teenage boy who looks barely out of high school. He nods, pulling back out onto the road, and I lean back, watching the small shops go by.

One of those is mine.I have an address, but I've never been here before, so I don't know what part of town the shop is actually in. I plan to go and look for it tomorrow, but for now I watch the storefronts go by, wondering which one is the shop I've inherited.

The car pulls up in front of the bar, and I make sure to leave the boy a good tip, feeling a little bad that he's probably shuttling tourists around all day. I can't imagine it's the most pleasant way to spend an afternoon, particularly if he's something supernatural–which he likely is. Just the little bit of chatter I've heard in passing has made me uncomfortable, I can't imagine what it would be like to be trapped in a car with it.

I tuck my phone back into my purse, fully intending to get my card from the bartender on staff today, and find somewhere else for lunch. There's any number of places to eat here, and I should start finding out which ones I like, if I'm going to be living here. Maybe I can even find someone who might want to eat me from time to time. Figuratively of course–but the thought of having someone I like, someone who could be a casual relationship that could grow into more who would like me exactly as I am, makes me feel warm and hopeful. There's possibilities for a new life here, and I hold on to them as best as I can, wanting this to be the fresh start that I envisioned, no matter the obstacles.

With my plan firmly in place, I step inside the warm interior of the Howling Moon–

–and immediately see, behind the bar, the same man who scrambled my senses so thoroughly last night.

Shit.