Page 29 of Big Little Spells

I might as well have written Nicholas Frost in big letters over and over again. Surrounded by hearts.

Like I did once upon a time, to my everlasting shame. The fact I was a teen girl doesn’t excuse it.

I’m half-tempted to delete every last brushstroke, but even irritated I know they’re great illustrations. I’ll make them into stickers and planner pages and everything Nicholas Frost himself would sneer at.

But I’m still annoyed that’s where my bitch of a muse took me.

You know, there might be a lesson here, Smudge intones from where she’s sprawled out in a sunbeam, living her best life. In the spring sunshine outside the house where she and Georgie’s cat familiar, Octavius, like to get together and confer about mysterious cat things they never share. Something about running away and facing your fears.

I glare at her. “I’ve unlinked my fear responses from shame and regret, Smudge. I’m pretty sure you were there for all thirteen of those sacred rituals. And let’s not get into the ayahuasca retreats.”

She flicks her tail in disdain.

I hear the squeak and groan of the front door down below and glance at the clock on my tablet. Hours have snuck by without my noticing it, but now that I do, I realize I’m starving. I can hear the faint echo of voices, and I recognize them as Georgie and Emerson, back from their pretty little lives here.

I should go down and join them. I should enjoy being with my friends while I can, but something holds me in place.

Smudge sighs. I’m sure it’s not your contrarian nature or anything.

Not for the first time in my life I wonder why on earth this usually rude cat can mean so much to me while also being such a giant pain in my ass.

I suppose that also describes my sister, who I can identify by the sound of her quick feet up the front steps and into the house, always in a hurry. Since the day she was born, according to all reports.

My sister, whose engagement I’m determined to celebrate tonight. I stand up and work out the kinks in my neck I didn’t feel while working. Then I head back inside to get dressed.

I don’t have a lot of options, as it turns out, but luckily a witch-run townie bar in St. Cyprian doesn’t have a dress code. In the end, I go with an impeccably hand-knit sweater I received as barter for one of my sculptures and a pair of loose pants that I’ll no doubt regret when faced with the cold of a spring evening.

I make sure my belly ring is still visible, because I might want to celebrate my sister, but I also live to annoy her.

Then I do something I haven’t given myself the pleasure of doing since I was a teenager. I do a cosmetic glamour spell, making my dark hair soft and romantic, my makeup just a hint dramatic.

I grin at myself in the mirror, because yes, I look good, and yes, I’m pleased with myself.

Happy engagement, Emerson. And happy return to your magic, me.

It’s getting close to eight, so I decide to shock the hell out of Emerson and be ready before the appointed time. We’ll call it her engagement present.

In the kitchen, Emerson is nowhere to be found but Georgie is sitting at the table, the big book Nicholas gave us this morning open before her. I’d forgotten about that book—perhaps purposefully—but Emerson clearly did not. I’m more than happy to let Georgie glean whatever is necessary from the old, dense pages and then pass it along. She’s better than CliffsNotes.

She’s also dressed up like she’s ready to go. Her quirky style hasn’t changed much since high school, all scarves and layers and color. She didn’t live in our house back in those days, although she might as well have. While the Pendells are historically known to be dowdy, quiet Historians, her parents always found a way to be loud, dramatic and forever at each other’s throats. Yet despite clearly not liking each other, they’ve always refused to call it quits. Georgie would end up here, where my parents would never dream of raising their voices.

Their preferred weapons were always encased in ice.

After a few moments, Georgie blinks up at me. Whatever worlds she’s immersed herself in are still there in her eyes for a moment or two before she blinks them away. Then she glances at the wall clock. “Oh, it’s almost time to go.”

“Almost,” I agree.

“Are you...early?”

“We all grow up, Georgie,” I say piously.

Ellowyn waltzes in then, dressed in all black and a hell of a lot of leather. Her lips are painted a dark purple and her blond hair is piled up on her head.

“Wow,” Georgie says to Ellowyn, drawing the word out. “You look dangerous.”

Ellowyn grins. “The highest of compliments.”

We all hear Emerson before we see her. She’s coming down the stairs, muttering things, not exactly quietly. No doubt spells or notes that, somewhere, her planner is dutifully marking down. When she appears in the kitchen, she’s dressed as the epitome of spring, sort of the colorful, floral opposite of Ellowyn’s badass ensemble.

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