4. Mr. Sarcastic
Mr. Sarcastic
SPARROW BLACKBURNE
The sugary -sweet smell of apples and cinnamon lingered on Sparrow’s clothes for the rest of the day. The lavender-haired witch appeared whenever she closed her eyes, her face mere inches from Sparrow’s own. She shook her head, willing the thoughts away.
Alas, it did not work. An hour later, the door to the library opened, and the bell chimed to inform her of a patron.
Sparrow noted where she had left off with straightening the shelves and headed toward the front desk.
There, as if conjured by her imagination, stood the pretty young witch from earlier.
Fern, she corrected herself in her head.
The younger witch looked anxious, a tray of drinks in her arms and her talking cat familiar by her feet. He looked up at Sparrow and she could swear the fluffy fiend was judging her.
“I know you said not to,” Fern mumbled in a hurry. “But I got you a coffee to replace the one you spilled when you caught me. Pumpkin spice latte, right?”
Sparrow blinked at her. “You really didn’t need to do that.”
“It’s the least I can do after you prevented that accident!” said Fern fervently.
“I was simply in the right place at the right time,” replied Sparrow with a shrug. “You don’t owe me anything.”
The purple-haired witch set down her brown cardboard drink carrier and pulled free a white paper cup with the Enchantresso logo. Scribbled on the side were the letters “PSL” in Goldie’s familiar handwriting.
Sparrow hesitated. She had really wanted that second coffee. To say that she had been mildly devastated to find it spilling onto the sidewalk after the incident would be an understatement.
Who would be rude enough to refuse fresh coffee? She wondered to herself. Certainly not me. Slowly, she stretched one arm toward the paper cup in the middle of the check-out desk, her blue eyes trained on the delicious liquid that would bring her so much joy.
“Please take it. I’m sure you’re working hard and could use the pick-me-up,” murmured Fern.
For a moment, Sparrow tried to come up with a reply. When she couldn’t decide on something snarky or something polite, she opted to take a sip of her coffee instead. The warm drink smelled strongly of nutmeg and cloves, just the way she liked it.
Sparrow sighed contentedly, savoring it. “Mmm. It’s the best time of year.”
“It really is,” added Fern with a shy smile. The younger witch lifted her own cup to her lips and took a long drink.
Even from across the wide desk, Sparrow could smell the drink.
It smelled exactly like her—cinnamon, apples, and spices.
Too sweet for words. She nearly choked on her next sip of coffee as she wondered whether the witch drank that because it fit her or if she smelled of those scents because she drank too many of these.
She cleared her throat and glanced away, only to catch the green eyes of the cat watching her intently. What was his name? Sparrow tried to recall. Barnabus? Brandy? Something like that, it started with a ‘B’ for sure.
His eyes narrowed once more, his attention entirely too focused on her for Sparrow’s liking.
“What did you get?” she asked softly.
“Me? Oh, this is a cinnamon apple chai tea,” Fern brightened, lifting her cup. “They’re simply divine! I can’t get enough of them.”
That made Sparrow chuckle. “I can tell.”
“What do you mean?” asked the younger witch, blinking owlishly.
“Nothing,” Sparrow shook her head. “You smell like apples and cinnamon, that’s all.”
“I-I do?” gasped Fern, those hazel eyes going wider still.
From her spot by her boots, the cat spoke up. “She has five cups a day. Lemonades and other sweet drinks from time to time, but mostly tea. It’s an obsession.”
“Bramble!” cried the witch, her face turning pink. “That’s enough out of you, Mr. Sarcastic.”
Hmmm, thought Sparrow. So, the little witch is a tea connoisseur. Filing that away for later. Her eyes met the young witch’s hazel eyes, and she did her best not to react to their bickering.
“Anyway! You probably need to get back to work,” Fern said quickly. “Sorry to bother you!”
“You didn’t,” Sparrow said softly as Fern hurried out the front door with a half-wave.
A low purr drew her attention to the desk this time, where the talking cat had gracefully planted himself as his witch walked away. “Fern is twenty-seven, an only child, and painfully single. Do come bother us at the bookstore again soon, won’t you, Miss Blackburne?”
“What?” she gaped at him, her voice barely a breath.
“Cinnamon apple chai tea. Long walks through the color-changing forest. Books of poems and pumpkin baked goods,” added Bramble with a wink before he leaped from the desk and hurried out the door.
The rest of Sparrow’s day passed by in a blur.
The talking cat’s words played on repeat in her head, as if a record had gotten stuck on just that one line.
Twenty-seven, an only child, and painfully single.
Had she given the cat the impression that she might be interested in the little witch romantically?
She could think of nothing that would have done so.
By the time the library closed, and she had locked the back door, Sparrow found herself utterly confused by the familiar’s casual comment. In all her years, the witch had only dated male witches—the kinds of men her parents approved of, the kind her sister dated.
Sparrow had finally admitted to herself, and then to Lark, a couple of years ago that she identified as demisexual and bi. Yet in the months since, she had yet to go on a single date with a woman. A female witch. Something about taking that step had felt…intimidating.
Her thoughts tumbled over one another as she made the short walk to the apartment building where she and her sister lived. Leaves were still green and yellow in a few places, but the autumn shades were slowly taking over, and it made Sparrow smile. Fall in New England simply could not be topped.
The old red-brick building with its black wrought-iron balconies and matching awnings could only be described as picturesque at this time of year. Rows of trees as far as the eye could see stretched out behind it, the same way that they encircled all of Pumpkin Hollow. Sparrow loved it here.
Their little magical town tucked away in the middle of the White Mountain National Forest boasted some of the prettiest fall foliage in the country. This time of year, from their fourth-floor apartment, Sparrow and Lark could see the trees go on for miles in every direction.
She hurried up the three flights of stone steps to the front door of their apartment, smiling at the orange leaf wreath that Lark had surely put up that day. A little hand-painted sign declared “happy autumn” on a cream-colored bow and tiny white pumpkins decorated the area around the bow.
“I’m home!” Sparrow called as she stepped over the threshold and into the apartment.
“Welcome back,” came Lark’s voice from down the hall. “I got impatient and started without you.”
She laughed. “I can see that, sister dear.”
“Help me deck the house for autumn?” Lark asked with a cheeky grin.
In her arms were garlands of orange leaves, a spiced broom, candy-corn patterned bunting, and two plastic pumpkins.
It was all Sparrow could do to roll her eyes at her sister’s enthusiasm, hurrying over to take the pumpkins before Lark dropped them.
They no longer had glass pumpkins or other pretty but fragile decor—too many things had been shattered over the years.
Together, they used a combination of magic and their arms to put up their favorite decorations. There was plenty more in the closet, as fall was the most popular holiday in Pumpkin Hollow for good reason.
“What’s that smell?” Lark asked, leaning toward her and sniffing delicately.
“What smell?” asked Sparrow, too quickly.
A slow smile crept across her twin’s freckled face. “You smell like apples today.”
“N-no, I don’t,” Sparrow replied.
“Oh, but you do, dear sister of mine,” Lark sang in a jaunt lilt. “Fresh picked apples and cinnamon sticks, if I’m not mistaken. And you know that I never am.”
Sparrow hurried to wipe the expression from her face. “How strange. I haven’t the faintest clue why.”
“Is that so?” quipped Lark, one eyebrow raised suggestively.
“You know what? I did bump into that bookseller earlier,” said Sparrow carefully. “I bet it’s her perfume or something.”
“You bumped into her? Close enough for her scent to linger on your clothes hours later?” asked her twin dubiously.
Closing her eyes, Sparrow took a deep, calming breath. “I guess so.”
Though she turned back to the project at hand—hanging their candy corn patterned bunting from the rafters—she felt Lark’s inquisitive green eyes on her. Her sister did not bring it up again for the rest of the evening, but Sparrow knew that wheels were turning in Lark’s mind.
As the sun set over Pumpkin Hollow, casting everything in dramatic shadows, their candles and lamps around the apartment sputtered to life. The soft, warm glow of dozens of candles felt like a warm hug as Sparrow closed her eyes to focus on enjoying it.
Behind her eyelids, an image flickered. Lavender and sage. The smell of apples. Bouquets of flowers. Sunshine glittering through a fall canopy of leaves, a whisper of a breeze ruffling them gently as she strolled beneath.
A hand in hers, the lightest pressure, as someone rubbed their thumb idly over her knuckle. Happiness seemed to radiate out from the presence beside Sparrow and she turned to see who it was.
“Ready for dinner?” asked Lark, interrupting her daydream.
No, not a daydream. A vision. As dream witches, Sparrow and her twin often saw glimpses of the future in little bursts like this.
Normally, they involved the people in their lives—a friend who was pregnant with a bouncing baby boy in her arms, their parents at a thirty-year vow renewal that hadn’t been planned yet.
There were rules to their visions, though. The visions were always of someone else’s future, someone else’s life. Yet Sparrow had been looking through her own eyes this time—hadn’t she?
Unless…unless someone else had stood beside the pretty purple little witch with her affinity for flowers and her love of books. Fern, she thought despairingly. She must be about to meet her soulmate.
For some inexplicable reason, this caused Sparrow’s heart to squeeze painfully in her chest.