Page 15 of Big Little Spells

We did a lot of giving in to Emerson back in the day, because it was easier. And she was often, annoyingly, right. Apparently none of that has changed either.

“All right,” I say, trying to sound as if I’ve come to a place of peace with this decision even though I really, really haven’t. “We’ll go ask the ancient immortal, known for offenses great and small against all of witchkind, for his charitable help. I’m sure that’s on offer.”

Emerson only smiles, but then, she probably knew she’d win either way. “Do you want to go get ready? I’ll put some coffee in a thermos for you.”

“Oh, I’m ready. And I don’t do caffeine. I’ve transcended the need for artificial stimulants.”

“But...” Emerson presses her lips together and looks at me as I stand there, leaning against Ellowyn’s chair. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. I’m more than familiar with my older sister’s judgments.

She is not reacting to my deliberately assy comment about caffeine, which isn’t even necessarily true. At the moment, what she does not approve of are my baggy sweatpants and the cropped sweatshirt I’m wearing that shows off the silver hoop in my navel.

I sweep a hand down the front of me. “I’m comfortable, and comfort is an important element of learning.” I smile fondly at her, and it’s only slightly put on. “I realized some time ago, Emerson, that societal expectations about what I should wear often chafe against my desire to be comfortable within myself. I’ve learned to value my own comfort first and foremost.”

Emerson nods along. “I appreciate that,” she says firmly. “It’s very evolved.”

I incline my head. “Just trying my best to be authentically me.”

I say that partly because it’s true. I do try to do that, generally speaking, because there’s only so much authenticity a witch pretending to be human can claim on any given day. But the other reason I say it is because it will annoy my sister.

Bonus: that is also me being pretty freaking authentic.

Her nod at that looks a little more forced. “But maybe you want to grab a notebook or your laptop?” Because she just can’t help herself, older sister that she is. No matter how she knows I’ll balk at being told what to do.

I let my smile go saintly. “My mind is the only tool I’ll need.”

Emerson smiles back at me, but I can tell her teeth are gritted. Just like old times. Because a girl can love her sister, but is it really love if you don’t also want to poke at her until she screams?

I glance at Ellowyn, and though she’s not grinning as widely as she might have done when we were seventeen, a corner of her mouth is curled up in amusement.

“We should go, then,” Emerson says briskly. “I have to open the store at nine.”

Somehow, I forgot about the store. Confluence Books. Not just my grandmother’s bookstore, but a building that’s been owned by women in our family going back generations. Emerson always got into studying and memorizing those women. She could likely recite our family tree with absolutely no prompting.

I never could keep all the Sarahs and Marys and Rebeccas straight. I was happy to know they existed, that I might have been cut from the same cloth. But the bookstore—as a building or business—never called to me the way it called to Emerson.

You are my two sides of the same coin, Grandma always said. First of the year, last of the year. Joined, destined. But that doesn’t mean you’re the same, or should be.

I remind myself that never, in my whole life, did I think my future included me staying here. Much less working in a small-town book shop in the Midwest, in a place so out-of-the-way and unheard-of that I never tell people I’m from here. I just say St. Louis. Most coastal types find that hard enough to fathom.

This was never for me, this tiny little life, and I knew it from the start.

So there’s absolutely no reason for me to feel sad that I’m not part of that long tail of Wilde women who inhabit the Confluence Books building in town, all brick and history. No reason at all.

We say our goodbyes, then Emerson is bustling me outside into the cool spring morning. She makes a little hand motion, and I know she’s sending off some little magic love message to Jacob.

I don’t want to feel sad, so I grin at her. “Save the town. Get engaged. All in a day’s work for Emerson Wilde.”

Her mouth curves and I don’t know the look on her face now. It’s soft and kind of sweet. It makes me want to smile myself, just as softly, even though I’m walking down Main Street in my own personal, cobbled hell.

“It was a long time coming,” she says in a quiet voice that matches her expression.

“Why did you make your ring disappear?”

She blinks as if she’s surprised I noticed. “Well.” She takes an uncharacteristically long time to speak as she looks down at her bare hand. “So much is happening, and you’re back, and I’d like to enjoy telling everyone. So I just thought...we’d wait.”

“For what?”

Again she pauses, but this time she studies me while she does. I don’t know if I can read her mind or if I just know her so well. She’s giving me a chance to settle in, presumably without any more changes. She’s giving everyone a chance to be happy to see me, and vice versa.

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