A lavender candle flickered on the coffee table next to a pile of petitions and voter-registration pamphlets. In the window, the last light of the day caught on the crystal suncatcher and broke into rainbow-colored shards across the old oak floor.
Gofflesby, where are you?
“Greta?”
Ysabel poked her head through the doorway, ladle in hand. “Dinner in five minutes. Don’t worry, honey, he’ll be back. He probably snuck outside through the bathroom window—I’ve been meaning to tell the darned landlord to fix that screen.”
Greta closed her eyes briefly, trying to discern if the juxtaposition of Gofflesby and bathroom window resonated. Nothing. Also, outside made no sense. He rarely went out. And he was sick.
“I bet he went to one of the neighbors’ houses,” her mother went on. “That’s what happened when I was about your age and our cat, Boots, escaped. He was an indoor cat, too. We found him at Mrs. Zakarian’s down the street; he’d gone right into her house and helped himself to a bowl of dog food! He’s lucky their shepherd didn’t eat him.”
“Mama! Don’t even say that!” Greta cried out.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just trying to… I guess I’m not being very helpful.”
The front door opened and her father, Tomas, walked in, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “It got humid all of a sudden. So I walked up and down our street, but no sign of him. I checked the garage and shed, too, in case he was hiding. Listen, Bug, we can make flyers after dinner and pass them around to all the houses.” Her father’s nickname for her was “Ladybug,” which often got shortened to either “Lady” or “Bug.”
Her father said something else, but Greta wasn’t listening. She was rewinding back to when she’d last seen Gofflesby, in case the memory might trigger clues. This morning, before school. She’d woken up early and filled the upstairs bathroom with eucalyptus steam; it was something her mother had done for her when she had bronchitis. Greta had sat down on the bathroom rug and cradled Gofflesby in her lap, encouraging him to breathe. She’d gently stroked his ears, the way he liked, and told him a Chinese folktale about a woman who’d woven a beautiful tapestry, only to have it stolen by fairies, and about the magical journey her three sons had to undertake to recover the lost tapestry. Gofflesby’s emerald eyes had never left her face, and he’d coughed only once the entire time, which seemed like progress. Greta had promised him that they would repeat this ritual every morning and every night, too, until his respiratory infection was totally gone.
She’d also recited a spell of protection to him—a poem—one of her favorites from Callixta’s book:
Goddess of the wild Beasts
Watch over this familiar
Favor him with winds from the East
Take your magic brand of peculiar
And bless his soul
Keep him safe from harm
Help him feel control
And lots of charm
That was the last time she or anyone else in the family had seen him, except maybe Teo with his story about the closet door.
“Gofflesby, come back to me,” Greta prayed out loud.
Only silence greeted her.
For a brief, awful moment, it occurred to Greta that his disappearance might be connected to the shadow message she received yesterday morning. Did the words you and your kind mean familiars as well as witches? But she couldn’t go to such a dark, dark place in her mind. The Antima couldn’t possibly want to hurt an innocent cat.
Could they?
By morning, Gofflesby still hadn’t returned. Greta had stayed up most of the night, trying sortis and every other finding and scrying spell she could think of. A chaotic assortment of candles, gemstones, herbs, and flower petals covered her floor. She’d fallen asleep just before dawn—fully dressed, her face pressed against her grimoire, her wand, Flora, clasped in her right hand, and Gofflesby’s favorite toy clasped in her left.
That day, Greta didn’t go to school (her mother called the attendance office to say she had a migraine). Her father drove her over to the SPCA to see if Gofflesby might have shown up there (he hadn’t). They also made another sweep through the neighborhood and passed out more flyers.
“He’ll be back,” Ysabel kept reassuring her. “He’s a smart little guy. He’ll find his way home.”
But Greta wasn’t so sure.
Binx and Ridley had been texting her every few hours to check in. They were coming over after school to try some group scrying rituals.
Around lunchtime, Greta received a new text from Ridley:
Is he back?
Greta replied:
No.
I’m sorry. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Power of three!
Can you ask Iris to come, too? Power of four would be even better, and she knows about you and Binx. Or five—what about Penelope? You guys talked, right?
Yes. She confirmed that’s she’s like us. But she’s not in school today.
Is she sick?
I don’t know. I texted her a couple of times this morning, but she didn’t text back.
Just ask Iris, then, okay?
What about Div and Aysha and Mira?
Greta hesitated.
Maybe later, if we need them. I’m feeling too raw to deal with them right now.
Especially not Div, Greta thought.
Got it.
A short while later, Ridley texted again:
Iris said yes. I still haven’t heard from Penelope. It’s kind of weird.
She probably turned her phone off.
I guess so. Anyway the three of us will be over soon. We’ll find him!
Later that afternoon, Ridley, Binx, and Iris showed up at Greta’s house, holding various packages.
“Any sign of Gofflesby?” Ridley asked immediately as Greta let them in.
“No, not yet.”
Iris hugged Greta; her hair smelled like strawberry shampoo. She held up a paper bag. “I brought you some chocolate-chip cookies. Chocolate-chip cookies always make me feel better when I’m stressed, which is basically all the time. They’re a thousand percent vegan. Wait, can something be a thousand
