A Curious Kind of Magic

Chapter One

Always heed the warning of a wolpertinger.

Those words became something of a refrain in the weeks after the girl with the wild hair and strange accent entered my shoppe and spun everything arse over teakettle.

It was the kind of advice a father should give his daughter, particularly one who operates a magical curiosity shoppe for a living.

But that fateful September day, I’d been so excited by the mere prospect of an authentic magical artifact that I hadn’t listened to the wolpertinger’s words. And oh, I would pay for it dearly.

The wolpertinger—a chimera sporting the head of a rabbit crowned by deer antlers, with pheasant wings sprouting from its squirrel body—had been collecting dust near the front door of Edward Stokes’s Cabinet of Magical Curiosities for decades now, and never once had it so much as winked at me.

I knew enough of my father’s dubious business dealings to gather that this particular creature was a moth-eaten assemblage of taxidermy animals, not the genuine article.

It was merely an oddity, a true curiosity, and certainly not worthy of the title “magical.” Nothing in Da’s shoppe was.

So when it piped up in an alarmingly deep voice, “Beware the girl in the oxblood cloak,” I was so shocked it had spoken at all that the words didn’t sink in until later.

In fact, I hardly noticed the girl in question.

I was too busy sprinting from behind the counter toward the wolpertinger, knocking over an “enchanted” ostrich egg and a dish of counterfeit talismans in my haste.

I lifted the rabbit-size creature in both hands, turning it this way and that with far more delicacy than I’d shown it previously—I’d been known to use it as a hat rack, since it wasn’t doing anything else of use.

Perhaps someone was playing a trick on me.

It wouldn’t be the first time Trystan Shilling and his gang of weasels attempted to make a fool of me.

But the wolpertinger was as lifeless as everything else in the shoppe, and the girl was clearing her throat expectantly behind me.

I plastered a smile on my face and turned toward her. A customer was a customer, after all, and she was my first—and likely last—of the day. “Anything I can help you with, miss?”

She gazed at me with wide brown eyes framed by a cloud of sable hair that made my straight blond tresses anemic by comparison. “I’m searching for a book,” the girl said in an unfamiliar accent.

“What kind of book?” I asked, setting the wolpertinger back in its place.

For a moment I thought I saw it raise an eyebrow, but then the gaslights flickered, and I knew it was only wishful thinking.

I didn’t have any magical items to sell.

What I did have was a growing collection of bills to pay.

Curse my derelict father and this blasted shoppe.

“Well, a magical book, I suppose,” the girl said. “You do trade in magical objects?” She glanced at the window, where the word MAGICAL was painted in white over the warped glass. I thought I detected a twinge of sarcasm but chalked it up to her accent.

Clearly, she hadn’t heard about Edward Stokes and his reputation as a charlatan. My smile widened. “’Course we do. I have a lovely collection of spell books right over here.”

I led the girl to a bookshelf crowded with old books and bric-a-brac that looked magical, if nothing else.

My fingers skipped past a crystal inkpot that was purported to contain faerie ink, which, were it real, would translate your words into the language of your choosing.

I pulled out a tome with a tattered lilac velveteen cover and held it aloft, hoping my customer didn’t notice the wisps of cobwebs trailing behind it like the tattered, unworn wedding veil of an old maid.

“What kind of spells are you looking for? This one has incantations for love, but I also have hexes, cures, and curses, if you’re interested. ”

The girl winced and gave a small shake of her head. “I’m not interested in performing magic. I’m looking for books that are magic.”

“Grimoires?” The back of my neck prickled with a feeling that was close to curiosity, bordering on suspicion.

“What would you want with a grimoire?” Only witches could use grimoires, and this stranger, with her flat accent and startled-fawn eyes, didn’t look like any witch I’d ever seen. Not that I was any kind of expert.

“Never mind,” she said, deflated.

I could feel the possibility of a sale slipping through my fingers like the purple sand in my faux-enchanted hourglass, which theoretically bestowed the owner with more time.

But I was feeling generous today. “Look, if it’s a grimoire you’re after, you should try your luck at Anatolia’s Antiquarian Bookshoppe on Cloverbell Lane.

If anyone in Ardmuir has one, it’s Ana.”

“That’s where I came from,” the girl replied. “I’m her new assistant.”

I blinked in surprise. Ana didn’t hire just anyone—she was as discerning as my father was negligent—and Finlay hadn’t mentioned any newcomers. Working at the printer gave him all the best gossip, and he was the sort of friendly that attracted vagabonds and outlanders. “New in town, then?”

She nodded and toyed with the ribbons of her cloak. A childish gesture, though she seemed close to my age.

“In that case, welcome to Ardmuir. Where are you from?”

Her eyes darted to the window again, only she didn’t seem smug this time. She seemed frightened. “Carterra.”

I covered my startled cough with my fist. Carterra was across the Obsidian Sea, a country arguably more wild and rugged than Achnarach. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her accent. She was the first Carterran I’d ever met. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”

She nodded again, licking her lips. “Do you know where I might find a grimoire trader?”

“If Ana doesn’t know, I’d say no one in Ardmuir does.

” At least not a legal trader. This outlander didn’t look like she wanted the kind of trouble that came from black market trading, the kind that had nearly cost my father his life more than once.

“Do let me know if you come across one, though. I’d love to add a grimoire to my collection.

Take this in the meantime.” I tossed her the book with the velveteen cover as a show of goodwill, but the way she fumbled it, dropping it on the hardwood floor as though it were a hot coal, made us both jump.

“Good grief,” I muttered, stooping to lift it. “I was only giving you a present.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I don’t accept gifts from strangers.”

A dry laugh bubbled out of me. “This is Ardmuir. There are no strangers here. At any rate, I’m Willow.” I held out the book again. It might not be magical, but it was pretty, and the spells inside were mildly amusing. This girl looked like she could use a smile.

With one last glance at the window, she took the spell book from me and stuffed it into a satchel slung across her body. “Thank you.” She was already moving to leave, like she was running from something. Why else move all the way here from Carterra?

In her haste, the tail of her cloak knocked over a broom I’d propped against a curio cabinet. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, bending to pick up the broom and then catching herself abruptly.

“It’s fine.” My lips quirked in a grin at her awkwardness. “I’ll get it.”

She put out a hand to steady herself, her palm landing squarely on the wolpertinger’s back, her fingers sinking into its pheasant wings.

“Beware the girl in the oxblood cloak!” it thundered, and this time there was no denying it had spoken, or to whom it was referring.

My gaze flicked to the deep red velvet cloak hanging over her shoulders, then up to her brown eyes.

She looked surprised and guilty, like my father when I found him sneaking biscuits in the middle of the night.

We stared at each other in disbelief. Every hair on my neck stood at attention as a chill ran over me. “Crivvens,” I breathed.

With that, the outlander yanked open the door and vanished onto the busy street, leaving me open-mouthed in astonishment.

The wolpertinger looked at me with its beady eyes and blinked slowly, awfully self-satisfied for a stuffed bunny. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” it muttered, before closing its eyes for good.

At home that evening, I got the fire going as hot as I could and sat wrapped in a plaid blanket before it.

Normally my father’s old tartan provided some comfort, but ever since the wolpertinger’s strange declaration, I’d been chilled down to my bones.

The shoppe had stayed quiet after the girl left, but I could have sworn I saw the broom twitch a few times.

Her odd behavior was a mystery in its own right, but it was the effect she’d had on my shoppe that had my head spinning with questions.

And, because I was a Stokes through and through, with possibilities.

Argyle, my storm cloud–gray kitten, jumped onto my lap from his place at my feet, nearly causing me to spill my tea on his head.

“Careful now,” I murmured, settling him on my shoulder.

I had infinitely more patience with animals than humans, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.

I hadn’t always been this prickly, but ever since Da’s death—and the discovery of all the ways he’d ruined my life—I found I had little to give to anyone, even myself.

But Argyle was a birthday present from Finlay, and though I’d protested that I had no use for a ball of fluff with sharp teeth and even sharper claws, I’d been instantly smitten.

He curled up against my neck, warm and purring. The chill finally began to thaw.