“Thanks so much for looking.”
“You’re welcome. It’s sort of fun, like a treasure hunt.”
I smiled. “I never think of anything computer-related as ‘fun,’ but I’m glad you do. Hey, could you look up something else for me while you’re on the Internet? I think it’s Latin, and it’s probably an ingredient for baked goods, or a sweetener of some kind. Lepisma saccharina.”
“Spell it for me?”
“I’m not completely sure, but L-e—”
“Dude, what kind of baked goods are you eating?” interrupted Conrad, who had been playing with a heap of colorful Mardi Gras beads.
“What do you mean?”
“That means silverfish.”
“Silverfish?” I asked. “As in, the bug?”
He nodded. “Lepisma saccharina is the Latin name for silverfish.”
“I didn’t know you knew Latin,” Maya said.
“I don’t. I know bugs, dude.”
“So then it’s not an ingredient for baked goods,” said Maya, looking it up online. “At least, I sincerely hope not. Yep, the Con’s right, as usual: Lepisma saccharina, commonly known as ‘silverfish.’”
So Jamie had been asking around the Russian psychics for silverfish? That made no sense at all, of course, but there had to be a connection to the bugs in the shoe box.
I felt lost. Whom could I talk to about this? I glanced at the map: The grandmas were in Sacramento. If they were completing this same sign, and it looked like they were, they’d be headed somewhere north next: maybe to Napa for a little wine tasting. Aidan wasn’t going to be much help if he kept demanding I turn over Oscar or Sailor; I would save him as a last resort. But there was another wise woman out there, someone I had, perhaps, underestimated.
I knew Calypso Cafaro had a magical way with plants, but according to Aidan, she was more than that. She “used to be” a witch. In my book, once a witch, always a witch.
What’s more, she also used to be in charge of the Bay Area’s magical community. She had had Aidan’s job.
Determined to speak with her, I asked Maya and Bronwyn to stay and close up shop, and made sure Conrad and Duke would keep them company. Then I ran upstairs and managed to corral one of the silverfish from the box into a jar, rewrapped the shoe box in rowan, and returned it to its place on the shelf. Next I jumped in my car, stopped by the wax museum to pick up my pig, then headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I take it you’re feeling better?” I asked my familiar in greeting.
Oscar—or Aidan?—had anticipated my arrival and he’d been waiting with the highly disgruntled Clarinda at the front ticket office. He remained in piggy form until we exited the thick traffic of the Golden Gate Bridge and Highway 101. Now we were winding through the hills, with no witnesses to notice Oscar’s true form.
“Hey, mistress, you know when I’m going to do that again?”
“Never, I sincerely hope.”
“When pigs fly,” he said, slapping his knee and cackling. “Get it? ’Cause I was high, like flying?”
“Very funny. Seriously, Oscar, you scared me. What were you thinking, going into the Dumpster for something I told you not to eat?”
“They were cupcakes,” he said, as though that explained everything.
As we neared Bolinas, it occurred to me that a normal person might have called ahead to warn Calypso that she was coming, or to make sure it was a good time. But in the past, Calypso had always known I was arriving. Whether she was psychic, or someone informed on me, I had no way of knowing.
I turned off the main highway, into a long drive that was virtually invisible unless you knew to look for it. A massive hedge leaned so far in on both sides that it was difficult to pass, the branches scraping the sides of the car as I squeezed through. I cringed, thinking of the Mustang’s cherry red paint job, but forced myself to stay focused on the important things. After all, paint jobs could be reapplied.
I had only one fiancé, and there was only one San Francisco.
Beyond the hedge was a clearing, backed by a redwood forest. An old butter yellow farmhouse was fronted by a deep porch filled with white wicker furniture and colorful flowering pots. A calico cat was curled up on a porch swing, while a tabby lingered on a windowsill. A vast vegetable garden sat out back, and a greenhouse was attached to the rear. The little brick walkway leading to the front door was lined with rose trees, and everywhere one looked, plants were in abundant bloom.
“It looks like a picture in a calendar,” said Oscar, a note of awe in his gravelly voice.
“That’s what I think every time I see it.”
“It’s pretty early in the season for peaches, isn’t it?” asked Oscar.
“Things bloom on a different schedule in Calypso’s world.”
“That’s some powerful plant magic.”
“She’s a whiz at everything botanical,” I said, glancing over at the copse of redwood trees that edged the back garden. My heart fluttered. I had imagined my handfasting with Sailor taking place right there, at the edge of the woods, to invite the blessings of the fairy folk. Soon Graciela’s coven would be here, filling the house with laughter and wisewoman energy. Or . . . would those things happen, after all? I knew it was dangerous to anticipate something so fervently.
Be careful what you ask for, my grandmother had always told me. The spirit world might become jealous; it’s best to let the world unfold at your feet, as it will.
The first time I visited Calypso’s home, I had felt conflicting feelings: On the one hand, it was gorgeous. A fantasy setting, a fantasy farmhouse, a fantasy garden. On the other . . . Calypso was a virtual recluse. By choice, of course. But it made me realize that, after years of wandering alone, I wanted something different for myself: I didn’t want to be a solo act anymore. I wanted friends nearby. I wanted a family. And most of all, I wanted Sailor by my side.
As she had
