Page 16 of Best Hex Ever
The house knew she was coming. The back of Dina’s neck prickled with a magical awareness as she turned onto Cypress Street, huffing under the weight of her bags and Heebie’s carrier.
“I need to stop feeding you so much cheese,” Dina muttered to the cat. But as they neared the house, the weight of her bags slowly became lighter—the house had a habit of doing that, stretching its magic across the street, like a mother bird protecting the young in her nest.
It knew when Dina walked up to the front door. The brass door knocker, shaped like an evil eye, blinked once at her—or was it more of a wink?—and swung open.
“Hi, House,” Dina said, patting the door lovingly as she stepped inside. The floorboards creaked happily. The house was delighted that one of its people was home.
From the outside, 2 Cypress Street looked just like any other country Victorian terraced house. But the moment you stepped inside—and the house decided that it knew you well enough or trusted you—it would shake off its glamour like a shabby coat and reveal itself.
Dina kicked off her shoes, slipping into a pair of house sandals. The house was very picky about no one dirtying its floors.
The house hadn’t been created using her family’s magic. Dina’s mum had suspected it was a spirit tied to the earth here, and over time it had slowly joined with the house until they were one and the same. If you treated the house badly, you could very well end up with a serious unwelcoming poltergeist situation. But the house loved them, and loved their magic.
“Mama! Baba! I’m home!” Dina called out.
“Coming, habiba!” Her mother’s muffled voice came from upstairs. Dina bent down and unlocked the cat carrier, letting Heebie sway out and stretch before scurrying off to eat from the food bowl that the house would have put out for her. The house always spoiled Heebie with fresh tuna, no matter how many times Dina had told it notto.
Dina dropped her bags at the entrance, and when she looked back, they had vanished—probably in her room already, the clothes neatly folded in her old chest of drawers.
The front room had a cozy, cottagey feel, with a warmly lit hearth and worn armchairs that were a delight to sink into. If you opened up the curtains, instead of seeing Cypress Street, you’d be greeted with a view of the verdant green valley in Wales where her father had grown up, complete with grazing cows. That was her father’s favorite room.
As Dina walked down the hall, the floorboards seamlessly transformed into blue and white tiles beneath her feet. She found herself standing in the heart of the house: a riad with a bubbling mosaic fountain, vines twisting up the walls and, above her, fuchsias blossoming in terra-cotta pots and miniature date trees coiling around the pillars. It was more of a garden than a room, really. The ceiling was open to the night sky, burnished stars in an inky darkness.
It wasn’t the real sky of course, but the house’s magic was powerful. Dina could even hear crickets chirping in the distance and the cinnamon scent of the earth in Khemisset, where hermother had grown up. She exhaled deeply, the feeling of being home sinking into her bones.
She headed into the kitchen, copper pots hanging from the ceiling, pots of fresh basil lining the windowsill—something her mother had done since she was a child, because it kept the spiders and mosquitoes away.
On the stove, a pot of harira was bubbling away, a wooden spoon stirring the soup, held up by the house’s invisible hand. Dina snuck a spoonful; it was perfectly delicious, the lamb melting in her mouth. This was the sort of food that went straight to your soul. The house preened in satisfaction as she went for a second bite.
A tortoise hobbled slowly toward Dina, and she bent down and gave it a gentle pat on its shell. Her hand slipped straight through and grazed the floor, because the tortoise wasn’t technically there, being a ghost and all. Still, it was a very affectionate ghost, and it liked to follow Dina around when she came home to visit.
“Mama, where are you?” Dina shouted.
“Ay! Coming, coming,” her mother’s disembodied voice shouted back from one of the rooms on the upper floor of the courtyard. Dina headed up the spiral staircase situated in one corner of the riad, and found her mother in the family bathroom, hurriedly scraping bleaching cream off her (now very blonde) mustache.
“Mama, what are you doing?” Dina said, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Dina’s mum jumped out of her skin.
“Tfoo, I thought you were downstairs! Don’t make me jump like that, I’ll get it in my eye,” she tutted, pulling Dina in for a tight hug with her free arm.
“You know I have a spell for that. You don’t need to use that stuff, it’s toxic.”
“Ah well, I forgot. And last time I tried it myself I had MORE hair coming out, so I’ll stick to bleach, waha?”
Dina’s mother washed her face in the sink and dried it off with a towel Dina handed her.
“Okay, now let me look at you,” her mother said, taking Dina’s face between her hands. “Mm-mm. A bit of stress, yes…but you’re glowing! What’s happened?”
“Mama, are you reading my aura again?” Dina sighed.
“What! Can’t a mother know how her daughter is feeling?Especiallywhen that daughter doesn’t call to say hello anymore.” Nour Whitlock, everyone—the original, trademarked Drama Queen.
“I called you twice last week,” Dina replied. Her mother sniffed, feigning hurt. She had a penchant for dramatics, a wickedly fierce sense of humor, and people-watching skills that would be the envy of any MI5 operative. She was a five-foot-two-inch bundle of concentrated chaos, with a short crop of henna-red hair and a piercing gray gaze. Dina got her mahogany-colored eyes from her dad.
“Are you staying next week? We won’t be able to have a proper catch-up, what with the wedding this weekend,” Nour said, handing Dina a pot of homemade beeswax and chamomile makeup remover that she had made herself. Taking off their makeup and doing their skincare routine together was something that Dina and her mother had always done, as soon as Dina had shown interest when she was younger. It was a very special kind of magic, this ritual between a mother and a daughter.
“I’m staying until Tuesday morning, then I need to get back to the café. Robin can’t top up anything with magic, so I need to be there.”
Nour tutted. “You never give yourself a break from work. But I am proud of you, habiba,” she said, patting Dina’s hand. “Tonight, you’ll let me do some henna on you, hmm? I’ve been working on a henna spell that will give you luscious hair and glowing skin, and I thought you might want it for the wedding.”
