speed on Chaucer. The point is, why are you reciting one of his poems?”

“’S not poetry, exactly. More like a prose poem, I guess. It’s written in rhyming couplets—”

“Okay, sorry. My fault for asking the wrong question.” Oscar was a stickler for precise language. “Let’s focus. What is Tristan Dupree looking for? You’re saying he used an Old English word?”

He rolled his eyes.

“By that very rude gesture I’m going to assume you mean, ‘Yes, mistress.’”

I decided to pursue this line of questioning later, when he might be more forthcoming. Hunger made Oscar a mite testy. No two ways about it, Oscar and I had a nontraditional witch-and-familiar relationship.

I drained the cooked pasta and poured it into a bowl, mixed in the cheese sauce, and grated some Parmesan over the top. Not a gourmet version of mac ’n’ cheese, but better than the premade stuff from a box. I set the steaming bowl on the kitchen table. “Serve yourself. There’s also a pizza in the freezer if you get hungry later. Unless you want to come with me to visit Aidan?”

“I . . . uh . . .” He picked at his talons.

As nervous as Aidan made me, he had a much stronger effect on my familiar. Oscar had been bound to Aidan for a very long time, until I freed him by stealing back his wings. The wings themselves had been destroyed in the process, but at least Oscar now had his freedom. Ever since, though, whenever Oscar was around “Master Aidan,” he was alternately obsequious, giddy, and nervous as all get-out.

“Tell you what: You eat your dinner while I look for something. Let me know what you decide in a few minutes, okay?”

I went into the bedroom, closed the door behind me, and headed to the closet. At the very back, behind the clothes hanging on the rod, sat an old suitcase I had lugged around the world with me but hadn’t opened since arriving in San Francisco. It was nothing like today’s luggage; heavy and hard-backed, it was a mottled jade green, a 1960s-era suitcase as vintage as any of the clothes in my shop. My mother had called it her “special valise” when she helped me pack it to move in with Graciela, all those years ago. I stared at it for a moment, reminding myself to breathe, before dragging it out of the closet and hoisting it onto the bed.

I had never really blamed my mother for sending me away when I was eight. Children with supernatural powers can be a challenge to raise. I had recently become an unofficial “big sister” to a powerful young witch named Selena, who, despite my own powers, kept me on my toes. My mother, in comparison, was a simple small-town woman overwhelmed with life in general, never mind her magical misfit of a daughter.

But lately I had started wondering. Every once in a while Bronwyn’s grandchildren would come hang out at the shop, or customers would wander in with their kids. Seeing children who were about the age I’d been when I left my home made me realize just how young I had been. How vulnerable. How in need of guidance and love and nurturing.

Of course, it wasn’t as if my mother had put me out on the street, I reminded myself. She had sent me to live with Graciela, a woman who loved me unconditionally and had the strength and knowledge to handle my talents while helping me to understand them.

Still . . . now that I had made my home in San Francisco and had made friends—good friends, who felt more like family—I was beginning to realize that I wasn’t so bad, after all. Yes, I was different, but I wasn’t wicked and I wasn’t a freak. I was a person as deserving of love as any other.

All of a sudden I flashed on a memory of the drive-the-demons-out-of-her ritual I had been subjected to when I was seventeen, and felt a surge of anger toward Margarita Ann Velasquez Ivory. My mother.

Well, I thought. This reunion was going to be interesting. Clearly, I had a lot to say to the mother of the bride.

I pushed those thoughts aside for the moment and concentrated on the suitcase in front of me. I placed my hands on it and took a moment to ground myself before opening it.

The suitcase’s old metal fasteners popped open with a loud snick. I splayed the luggage open to reveal several tightly packed pouches and small boxes, many of which were bound with magically knotted string, as well as a manila envelope containing loose papers and newspaper clippings. I had traveled the world for many years before coming to San Francisco, and this suitcase was filled with items I needed to keep from each locale. Not the fun souvenirs that I picked up in my wanderings, such as my Bavarian cuckoo clock or stash of antique Chantilly lace. And don’t get me started on the vintage clothing I had started to collect and which was one of the main reasons for opening Aunt Cora’s Closet. No, this suitcase was filled with mementos too important to discard, even if I wanted to.

“Whatcha doin’?”

I jumped at the sound of Oscar’s gravelly voice, right behind me.

“My Lord in heaven, Oscar, you scare me when you do that!” Oscar had an uncanny ability to sneak up on me.

He cackled and waved one oversized hand. Goblin humor.

“Whatcha doin’?” he repeated.

“I don’t know if you noticed,” I said, slamming the suitcase shut, “but the bedroom door was closed.”

He stared at me.

“That usually means something,” I continued.

He shrugged.

“A desire for privacy?” I suggested.

“Wasn’t locked.”

“That’s true, but you could have knocked. What if I had been dressing?”

“You weren’t.”

“No, but—”

“So what’s the problem?”

I gave up. One day I would have to write a book: Etiquette Lessons for Gobgoyles.

“What’s in the suitcase?” Oscar persisted, and once again I was reminded of how intelligent he was. He didn’t fall for my attempt at diversion.

Keeping things to myself was a lifelong habit, and a hard

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