“She definitely will. Besides, your mother would hardly drag you around bars and nightclubs until all hours, now would she?”
The thought of my mother on a pub crawl was amusing enough that I sat with the image for a minute or two. “So there’s no plan to embarrass me?”
The expression of secret amusement on her face did not convince me. “I’m not giving you any details. The whole point is it’s supposed to be a surprise. But you don’t need to worry.” Then she flicked me another glance. “Too much.”
At that moment, my mother called. I sometimes thought her witch senses were active, but unconscious. I’d just been talking about her, and she called. “Lucy,” she said, “I need you to come shopping with me.”
“Shopping?” My mother was a brilliant archaeologist who cared far more for clothing and personal ornamentation of the Middle Kingdom than she ever cared about her own personal ornamentation. She lived in a uniform of chinos and cotton shirts and boots. She rarely wore makeup and let her hair go. It was so unfair, because she’d been blessed with long, thick, smooth hair, while I had inherited my dad’s crazy curls. He wore his cropped close to his head, but I found it easier just to let mine grow and tame the curls with product.
“And,” my mother continued, “if I can’t buy your wedding dress, then I’d like to buy you a going-away outfit.”
“That’s so nice of you.” I hadn’t planned on a going-away outfit. This very simple wedding was getting more complicated by the day. Still, it was nice for Mom and me to bond. She didn’t acknowledge that she was a witch, so that whole part of our shared experience was denied us. I had very little interest in Egyptology, so that was another big thing we didn’t have in common. We ended up defaulting to things that were not natural to either of us but that we could both tolerate. Like shopping.
Then she said, “And I think we’ll get our hair done. I’ve made appointments for us tomorrow in that darling salon we went to once before.”
“Sure. That’s a great idea.” I’d already asked Sylvia to do my hair for my wedding day. She had a deft touch, and she’d worked with my hair before. I knew I could trust her. But a trim and some shaping before the wedding was probably a really good idea. Mom had clearly not seen the inside of a salon in some time. She had beautiful hair, thick and smooth, and she’d never tried to hide the gray, so it was a pretty salt and pepper but badly in need of styling.
So I agreed that I would meet her at Westgate Shopping Centre the next day.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened all that day. No one died unexpectedly in my presence; the vampires didn’t attack any Oxford pedestrians; no magic intervention was needed. Since I was tired from wiping the men’s memories and generally on edge, this was a good thing.
Jennifer and I joined Pete and Meri that night for a pub dinner and a nighttime stroll around Oxford.
The next morning, Jennifer said she’d booked a tour of Blenheim Palace and so declined my offer to come shopping. I was a bit sorry, as she made a good buffer between my mother and me, but I was also glad she was making the most of her vacation.
While I was getting ready for my shopping date, my mobile phone rang. It was William. I answered with pleasure and got a crisp voice in reply. I had learned with William that there was off-duty William, who was warm and friendly, and then business-oriented William, who was efficient and clipped on the phone. This was clearly business William. So, not wanting to waste any of his time, I said, “What’s up?”
“We’re having a bit of an issue with the wedding cake.”
“What sort of issue?” I’d given him free rein on the catering, including the cake. How complicated could it be?
He said, “I’d tentatively booked a woman named Poppy Wilkinson, who lives near Bath, to make your cake.”
“Bath? That’s kind of a long way to go for a wedding cake, isn’t it?”
“It is. But she’s extraordinary. She went quite far in The Great British Baking Contest, and now she bakes all the cakes for the inn at Broomewode. I’ve seen her work, and her wedding cakes are lovely.” There was a slight pause. “And I believe she’s one of your kind.”
My eyebrows raised, even though he couldn’t see me. “My kind? Female? American? Feminist?”
“A witch.”
“Oh. That kind. Well, her cake should be magically delicious then.”
He didn’t seem in the mood for humor. “Now we come to the sticking point. I’ve just had a call from Florence Watt. She and Mary want to bake your wedding cake.”
“Oh, that is so sweet,” I cried. Florence and Mary owned Elderflower Tea Shop next door, and I’d known them since I first began coming to Oxford as a child. They’d been great friends of my grandmother and good friends to me since I’d taken over the knitting shop. “I don’t care if you put down a deposit on that other cake. I really think we have to let Florence and Mary make my wedding cake.”
He let out a sigh. “I was afraid you’d say that. It won’t be as nice as the other, you know.”
I looked around to make sure nobody could overhear me. There was only Nyx, and she knew all my secrets. “William, it’s not like most of our guests will even taste that cake. And it would mean a lot to me, and my mother, and my friends from Harrington Street.”
“Consider it sorted,” he said, and then with a curt goodbye was gone.
I wore loose navy cotton trousers that were easy to slip on and off with a white cropped sweater hand-knitted by Clara. When I met up with Mom, I
