Chapter 1 #2
“Oh, look, is that a pet psychic?” Salvatore’s voice pitched up, laced with mischief. “Let’s take our girl, Rumble. Do you want to know your future?” Sal asked the black cat, pulling her off Arthur’s shoulders with an unpleasant chorus of a disgruntled yowl and claws snagging on fabric.
Arthur glanced at the nearby tent. Where all the other such structures had open sides to let in the summer breeze, the pet psychic’s was closed up and decorated in arcane symbols Arthur wasn’t sure meant anything at all.
He did a quick sweep for any religious iconography that might prevent their participation, but there wasn’t a Coexist bumper sticker in sight.
“Perhaps you should take Rumble ahead and I’ll catch up,” Arthur said. He knew himself well enough to suspect he would not be a good sport about whatever nonsense a pet psychic dispensed to breathless parents of fur babies.
“If you’re sure?” Sal asked, holding Rumble in front of him like a small shield to ward off accounting jokes. Martha Worcestershire was indeed coming their way now.
“Yes, of course. Go enjoy yourselves.” Arthur smiled at Sal, then Rumble.
The latter stared up at him with doleful green eyes, as if she didn’t want to go see a psychic any more than Arthur wanted to witness it.
He felt a pang of pity for the creature, but not enough to rescue her from what was sure to be an unbelievably silly twenty minutes.
They each had their own ideas of fun, though, and Arthur was not about to get between Sal and his.
Sal hurried off, musing aloud if the pet psychic would be able to confirm the star chart he’d made for Rumble based off vibes. Arthur shook his head a little and turned just in time to avoid a collision with Martha.
“Oh, Arthur Miller! I didn’t see you.” Martha was a middle-aged woman with dark hair threaded with gray cut into a sensible bob. Unlike Arthur, she was dressed down for the festival, wearing a set of durable overalls with numerous pockets and resin-cast pine cones hanging from her earlobes.
“I actually wanted to ask you something,” Arthur said, stepping back to a respectable distance and hoping the sugar on his lapel wasn’t as noticeable as he suspected.
“Really?” Martha’s face brightened. The expression skittered away as fast as it appeared.
Perhaps she, like Arthur, was rarely the primary object of anyone’s attention.
Arthur preferred it that way, which made his marriage to Sal all the more perfect—Sal’s antics were nothing if not distracting—but the accountant’s reaction struck Arthur with an inexplicable sadness for the woman.
“I’ve been having trouble with that computer program you suggested and wondered if you might give me a few tips.”
“I’d love to stop and chat, but I’m running late.” Martha pointed down the path, though Arthur couldn’t hazard a guess to which booth she was headed. “Call me tomorrow? I’ve taken vacation for the rest of today.”
It was almost sad to think of Martha all alone in her accountant office, watching the festival people go by.
She deserved to take the day off. Sal might think it all rather pathetic, but Arthur had no trouble imagining the draw of a day spent quietly enjoying one’s chosen existence.
Sal’s idea of a vacation usually involved exciting locales that required some form of terrifying transit, whether by boat, train, or plane.
Still, the festival was a big draw for tourists, so why not the locals, too?
Martha was entirely justified in taking the whole day off to enjoy it.
Arthur rather wished he could do the same, but hospitality was essential during events like these.
He bid her farewell, then frowned. He had no more excuses not to join Sal with the psychic, but there was no rule saying he couldn’t take the scenic route there.
He strolled past tents with tables displaying all sorts of artisan goods: ceramics, blown glass, beaded jewelry, candles, and soaps.
He lingered to read the kitsch sayings on a series of embroidered tote bags that said things like Karma’s a Witch and Get a Broom.
Some booths advertised magical charms and effects, while others appeared to be totally mundane.
Near the center of the festival, a stage had been erected—for musical performances, perhaps.
Arthur made a mental note to keep Sal away in case he felt the urge for an impromptu performance as his drag persona, Miss Keto Bite.
To the right of the stage was a tent much larger than the others.
Its canopy was a midnight blue printed with gold letters spelling out The Celestine Coven with crescent moons where the Cs ought to be.
Unlike the other tents, which peddled handmade goods, this one seemed to offer an array of branded merchandise.
T-shirts with the same logo as the tent were folded in a neat display alongside a row of shirts sporting the face of a woman with a mane of flaxen hair and eyes that looked digitally enhanced to reflect the moon and stars in her blue irises.
At the edge of the tent was a poster of the same woman wearing a floor-length indigo dress with her hands raised toward the sky, neck and wrists bedecked in bangles and charms. A bright moon lit the crown of her head almost like a halo.
Above, in a swooping font Arthur recognized as Apple Chancery, the poster proclaimed, Power Through Unity.
“Ambrosia Celestine,” Arthur muttered, reading the name printed even bigger at the bottom. He cocked his head, examining the booth more closely. He was quite certain he’d never heard of the woman or her coven, but something about the display was familiar.
“Greetings,” said an ethereal voice, honey-sweet and airy. “Can I interest you in a rejuvenating energy potion?”
Arthur jumped a little, startled to be addressed.
He couldn’t remember walking across the path, but he found himself only a foot or so from the booth, facing a young woman who was a representative of the coven, judging by her attire, which included a truly impressive number of bracelets and a T-shirt with the same slogan as the poster: Power Through Unity.
She held up a glass vial full of a bright liquid that might have been orange juice or some sort of cloudy Gatorade.
It caught the light, sparkling in the sun.
Other vials full of shiny liquids sat around the edge of the booth in every color imaginable with cork stoppers and wax seals.
“Sorry?” Arthur shook his head to clear it.
“Is this your first time?” asked the coven witch, staring at Arthur with wide green eyes, empty as a field.
“I don’t know what—”
The witch gasped. “A solstice virgin!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
Arthur held up his hands and began backing away slowly.
“No, wait! Here, take this!” She ran around the side of the tent, pressing a flyer and the vial of orange potion in his hands.
He flinched away, not wanting her to make a scene if she noticed how cold his hands were. Witches were more amenable to other paranormals than the run-of-the-mill human, but he never liked to surprise people with the news of his immortal undeath all the same.
“Arthur Miller, dude!” Someone else took his arm and pulled him away from the overeager witch. “Been looking for you everywhere!”
Relief washed over him as he recognized the voice of Lore, Trident Falls’ medical examiner and coroner. They’d met a few months ago—over a dead body, no less—but Arthur had liked her instantly for her steady demeanor and dry wit.
Today, Lore sported oversize shades, the frames of which were dramatic yellow suns, complete with impractical rays protruding from the centers.
Arthur had seen a booth selling them right past the entrance and had deftly steered Sal in another direction before his husband could purchase them in every color.
“You were searching for me?” Arthur asked.
“Nah,” Lore said, letting go of his arm once they were a safe distance away from the coven booth. “You looked like you needed rescuing, so I made that up.”
Arthur, who had only ever needed rescuing once in his life and twice in his undeath, might have taken umbrage with her assumption if it hadn’t gotten him out of a deeply uncomfortable interaction, so he straightened his suit and said, “Thank you.”
“No problem. Those coven girlies are an enthusiastic bunch.”
“Indeed.” Arthur sighed heavily. “Is it always like this?”
“The solstice?” Lore asked. “I don’t know. This is the first time we’ve had a celebration in town. Elves have their own traditions, obviously, but I figured…when in Rome…” She lifted her sunglasses and winked one pink paintball-splatter eye at him.
Arthur knew better than to ask about Lore’s traditions. Elves were quite secretive about their customs, and he had no intention of overstepping. Instead, he gestured at the festival around them and said, “I hope this sort of thing doesn’t make a mockery of the holiday.”
Lore shrugged, letting her sunglasses fall back into place. “Humans have always had their own ways of celebrating the changing of seasons. And this way is both delicious and beneficial to local businesses. Have you had the funnel cake?”
Arthur’s fingers found the spot on his lapels still dusted with white sugar.
“Oh, speaking of local businesses…” Lore stepped to the side and gestured at a booth with colorful soaps displayed beside bundles of herbs. “You gotta check out my friend’s stuff.”
“Lore, don’t overhype me,” said the friend, a tall white woman in tight shorts and a matching crop top—athleisure wear, Sal would call it. She ducked her head, a strand of her long brown hair falling in her face, a gesture that seemed habitual.
“What’s not to hype!” Lore pointed to the stacks of soaps arrayed on the table. “She makes this stuff herself. Look at those color swirls!”