Chapter Two
In which we meet Scarlett and learn about an extremely handy spell.
Scarlett…
“Scar, where the fuck are you? There’s a pile of shit to clean up!”
Closing my eyes, I hold in a groan. Please god. Let that not be a literal pile of poop.
Last year my stepmother bought a horrifyingly expensive designer Peke-a-Tese. I’d had to look it up to believe such a breed was possible. Fluffzilla is a nightmare and dumber than a bag of bricks. I’ve cleaned up countless messes from that spoiled little beast ever since.
My last pan of Kouign-amann is baking in the big Viking oven, and the smell is glorious.
Creating them is such a delicate process; there’s layers upon layers of delicate flaky dough, slathering each one with butter and sugar before shaping it into a little bundle and pinching the top in a tidy fold.
The result is something like a croissant but far more addictive, denser, with a crispy caramelized edge.
I grew up in this house, and the kitchen has always been my favorite room.
There’s a huge bank of windows looking out over the garden, with a hanging rack of copper pots and pans and a long wooden farm table and mismatched chairs.
The sunshine streams through the skylights and makes the huge granite counters gleam.
When I was young, Mom used to send the housekeeper home early and we’d create baking “experiments” that were sometimes disastrous, sometimes delicious.
We’d usually end up covered in flour and smacking each other on the butt with dishtowels.
When Dad would walk in, he’d survey our baking carnage, pick up a spatula and chase us around the kitchen with it, all of us laughing uncontrollably.
Now, the garden’s dead.
The perennial hollyhocks and sunflowers my mom planted so long ago are withered stalks and the slate terrace is covered in leaves.
My only thing to be grateful for is that my stepmother, Marlena, never thought the kitchen was worth remodeling to fit what she’s done to the rest of the house.
It’s been renovated from a historically elegant Federal style to a gilt and marble explosion filled with crystal chandeliers in every room - including the bathrooms - and velvet furniture in her favorite color, aubergine.
“Not purple!” Marlena had screamed at the designer. “Not lavender, you bitch! Aubergine! My signature color!”
Kyle, Wicked Stepbrother #1, stomps into the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear me? I have a meeting in thirty minutes and my study’s a fucking mess.”
I don’t bother to point out that he’s the one who made it that way. “You wanted pastries for this meeting of yours.” Wiping my hands on the dishtowel, I glare right back. “Which is more important?”
“Both.” Kyle’s wearing what he thinks is his “power suit.” It only proves that even if you dress up a douchebag in a $2,000 suit, it's still just a $2,000 suit stuffed with a douchebag. “Get moving.”
I shuffle down the hall to his study. My stepbrother took over three rooms in the east wing of the house to create a “command center,” and I’m grateful I didn’t have to watch him destroy Dad’s office.
Kyle’s domain also holds secrets.
It’s difficult to get in here without someone hovering over my shoulder, so I have to move fast. When I’m cleaning his study, I have a pattern.
While sweeping up the ash from the cigars Kyle smokes - and who couldn’t find an ashtray if you hit him in the face with it - I check under the furniture, there’s occasionally items hidden there, though usually just stuff like stolen watches and contraband he wants to keep for himself.
Moving on, I clear up the litter of dirty glasses by the bar before crouching down to spin the combination on the safe.
It’s still the numbers of his birthday and his last girlfriend’s cup size.
So classy. Nothing new, just the same fake ID’s, and a dwindling pile of cash.
No thumb drives or incriminating photos.
A quick dusting for the desk as I go through the papers scattered on top. Nothing useful.
Leaving the vacuum running loudly, I pick the locks on the desk drawers. Just the usual sloppy pile of fake credit cards and cocaine. There’s a bottle in the bottom drawer, though, its-
Oh, god. It’s somebody’s pinkie in a jar filled with embalming fluid.
“Nice ass.”
“Son of a bee sting!” I sit up so fast that I bash the back of my head on the bottom of the desk. Steve, Wicked Stepbrother #2, is standing there, hands in his pockets and a stupid grin on his face.
“What are you doing down there?”
“I’m cleaning for Kyle’s big meeting, remember?
” Getting up, I push the drawer shut with my knee, praying he doesn’t hear the click of the lock.
I circle around the opposite side of the desk to get some distance from him.
“There’s a pile of cigar butts that never made it into the garbage can.
It’s a miracle he hasn’t set the study on fire. ”
“Speaking of fire, whatever you’ve got in the oven is burning. Get moving, Scar.” His grin makes me nauseous; it manages to be greasy and greedy at the same time.
The smoke alarm in the kitchen goes off as I race down the hallway.
I can hear the front door opening and the low murmur of voices as Marlena storms into the kitchen.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” she hisses, “We have an important business meeting and the fucking house smells like the inside of a Cracker Barrel?”
What my stepmother lacks in height, she makes up for with an extensive array of platform high heels. She’s lean and angry-looking, like an angular bird of prey, and her red wrap dress is draped to display maximum cleavage.
“Kyle told me I had to clean the study immediately.” I know even as I say this that it won’t make any difference.
“This is coming out of your pay!”
She stomps back out of the room before I can remind her that she doesn’t pay me. Marlena just enjoys talking to me like I’m the help, and since she’s driven off the rest of the staff who've worked here for years, I’m all that’s left.
I sit down heavily on the window seat and my kitty, Murder Mittens saunters over to sit on my lap. God, I’m so tired. I wish I could sleep for a week.
“Would you like me to murder the Wicked Stepmother?” Morgan offers with complete seriousness. “Really. I could turn her blood into tar. There’s a spell.”
“Generous of you,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “That still leaves me with Wicked Stepbrothers One and Two. I think that three sudden deaths from the medical impossibility of blood turning to tar might garner some unwanted attention from the authorities.”
We’re in Morgan’s little apartment above her spellshop, Arcane Atelier, just a block away from the legendary Salem Witch Museum.
She would be Central Casting’s first choice for Hot Young Witch.
Black hair, cut choppily into a bob, pale makeup with blazing red lips and eyes heavily lined with kohl.
She, however, owns this look. While you can’t take three steps in Salem without bumping into a Wiccan, medium, spiritualist, or witch, Morgan’s the one the locals go to.
She’s also my best friend and refuge when things get too bad.
Her apartment is wonderfully shabby and cozy, with lots of velvet drapes and fabric over the lamps for what she calls an “ethereal glow.” It's more of a, “I can’t walk through here without tripping over something,” aesthetic. But hey, it’s her place.
“Really,” she persists. “You know those two louts are too stupid to run the business without her. Cut off the head of the snake and the whole thing withers and dies.”
There’s a smile of such malevolent satisfaction on her face that I blurt out, “I have never loved you more.”
“I know.” She waves her hands, ladened with a ring on every finger before her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Is that fucker Steve bothering you again?”
“Are you trying to read my mind or is that based on statistical probability?” I ask, taking another gulp of her horrible homemade wine.
“Both,” she says.
“He doesn’t dare do anything. He just… He’s always there, you know? I’ll turn around and he’ll be right there so I’ll bump into him. Staring at me like a creep when I’m vacuuming or washing the windows.”
“If that prick ever shows up at the office building when you’re there alone, you leave immediately, do you hear me?” She leans forward angrily. “Do you still have that ceremonial dagger I gave you? And the pepper spray?”
"I do," I promise, "I swear." Though to be honest, a ten inch ceremonial dagger is kind of awkward to carry around.
"It would have been better if you'd been born ugly," she says, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Instead, you're tall with a great ass and that hair! That insane shade of 'too red to be red' hair that's flowing down to your waist."
"Stop this," I groan, by which I mean, 'please do go on!' because it's been a terrible day and my self-esteem could use a boost.
"You have those stupid crystal blue eyes - remember when Steve Murdock wrote that pitiful ode to your eyes when we were nineteen?"
"Oh, that poor guy," I'm laughing and I really shouldn't because poor Steve was so earnest about it.
"My point is," she continues, "is that if you were hideous I wouldn't worry so much about you being in that house. Even if those fucking assholes don't bother you, I can see them selling you off if they could make a buck doing it."
Murder Mittens must sense my anxiety, because she leaves her loving tangle with Morgan’s kitties, Familiar One and Familiar Two, to leap onto my lap, placing her paws on my chest, looking up at me sternly.
“That’s a good kitty,” Morgan says approvingly. “Just bring your attack cat to work. Neither of those asshole stepbrothers are willing to get near her.”
This is true. Murder Mittens is dark as sin with a soul to match. I’m the only person she won’t bite. Even Morgan steers clear of her.
“Oh, she never leaves my side.” I scratch Murder Mitten’s chin as her eyes close in contentment. “Maybe that’s why he’s not trying to corner me at work.”
“While I recognize that we revisit this topic every month, I still feel compelled to ask again. Is all this worth it? Girl, fucking run.” Morgan leans forward, as serious and concerned as I’ve ever seen her.
“Go far away. You’ve been looking for this mysterious proof for over two years.
It could be anywhere. Go hide in Australia or something until you can get your trust and then you can hire someone to find the proof for you. ”
Murder Mittens drapes herself around my neck like a scarf as I stand up, pacing the tiny living room.
“I can’t. You know I can’t. Even if I did, the instant I tried to claim my trust, Marlena would have one of her special little Boston Police buddies there to arrest me.
I’m not getting anything if I’m in prison. ”
“I’ve got some money saved,” she persists, “I’ll come with you.”
My chest clenches and I can feel my Ugly Cry Face about to make an appearance. She would. I know Morgan would give up everything she loves if she thought she could pry me out of that house on Beacon Hill.
“I can’t. I have to find the proof or I’ll never get free of them,” I say hoarsely.
“You’re not getting emotional, are you?” she snaps, hastily changing the mood. “I don’t do emotional. You know that.”
“I do.” Slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder, I head for the door. “Thanks for the wine and whine session.”
Sniffing in a way that tells me she is Deeply Displeased, she follows me to the door. “I still think the blood turning into tar spell is our best option.”
Giving her a hug, I whisper, “Maybe just have the ingredients for the spell handy, huh?”
Her laughter follows Murder Mittens and me down the stairs.