6. The Color of Buttercups
The Color of Buttercups
SPARROW BLACKBURNE
Aquiet Tuesday at the Pumpkin Hollow Township Library suited Sparrow just fine. The building was peaceful, just the occasional patron perusing the shelves. Mothers with young children came on Mondays and Wednesdays, when the library did activities.
Sparrow pushed the trolley full of books that needed to be shelved slowly through the aisles, that one squeaky wheel making just a bit too much noise.
She really ought to do something about that—surely it would be an easy fix.
But she tended to forget about it as soon as she put the trolley away, only to be reminded the following day.
With a soft smile, she headed down the next row, toward the young adult section.
Someone had recently finished the Secret Garden, a personal favorite of Sparrow’s from her own teen years.
The young witch had asked for recommendations, and she had been thrilled to offer several suggestions she thought the witchling might enjoy.
Witchling. The word echoed in her mind. The talking cat at the bookstore had called his witch that.
He seemed to be older than her by quite a few years, likely a long-time family companion now looking after the youngest witch in the line.
Her mouth quirked up at the corners as she remembered the way the young woman had bristled at being called “little witch” by Sparrow. Such a determined little witch.
“Let’s go pick out some books,” said one teenage witch to her friend as they stepped into the library.
School must have gotten out for the day, as they were the first of several young witches to enter the building in a row.
Their excited chatter filled the room. They each sported the uniform for the town’s private school, a black skirt and cardigan with a crisp white button- down shirt and an orange bow.
It made Sparrow nostalgic for those days—when she didn’t have to worry about bills and dating, only schoolwork and friends. She and Lark had been popular enough to get invited to most parties but maintained high enough grades to stay on every teacher’s good side. Things had been simpler then.
Before Sparrow had come to terms with the fact that she was demisexual.
She needed an emotional connection to someone to be able to do anything physical.
There could be no kissing or caressing unless she felt she knew and liked the person she was with.
That had been easier when Sparrow dated only boys, and the answer was nearly always “no.”
Dating witches felt entirely different. How would she know if she liked the witch or simply found her pretty? How could Sparrow decide when to take each step, when the male witches had initiated nearly everything during her teen years?
Would she be brave enough to make the first move, if a witch caught her eye? She didn’t know. But as the thought passed through her mind, so too did a glimpse of lavender hair and soft hazel eyes. Fern. Goddess, she had such lovely eyes.
“Have you read these yet?” one witchling asked another, pulling out a book from the shelf.
“Oh, I’ve heard they’re really good!” her friend replied excitedly.
Their voices brought her back into the moment.
Sparrow looked at the last book on her trolley and realized it went on a top shelf.
She glanced around the library, searching for the step ladder that allowed her to reach the highest shelves without wasting her magic on something she could easily do herself.
She frowned. The step ladder sat clear across the library. It weighed enough that moving it single-handedly would be a bother. Her coworker had stepped away for lunch and wouldn’t be back for another thirty minutes or so.
For a moment, Sparrow debated using her magic to carry the wieldy item across the library but eventually decided against it. The possibility of some distracted teen walking right in the path of the ladder felt like too great a risk at the moment. Better not to risk it.
With a glance down at her fitted red dress and the tall black boots she wore, Sparrow summoned her magic to her fingertips. They tingled and glowed as it coursed through her veins and shifted into a little sparkling orb in her palm.
“Hold steady and still, not for long, just while I return this book to where it belongs,” she said to the small wooden table in front of her. Then she flicked the orb at the table and watched the magic reinforce it.
Carefully, she placed one knee onto the tabletop, then the other. Sparrow straightened slowly, one muscle at a time, then bent down to retrieve the book from the top of the table. She stretched her arm to the top of her range of motion, pleased that she had worn her four-inch boots today.
The heavy book slid back into place without any trouble and placed both hands on her hips, grinning in triumph. “Who even needs that heavy old ladder? Not me!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sparrow caught sight of a purple blur. Turning quickly, she only made out the wavy ends of Fern Appleton’s pretty hair disappearing around the corner and out of sight. Fiddlesticks! She thought in dismay. How much of that did she see?
If the lovely little witchling had seen her bent in half to pick up the book or perhaps gotten a peek too far up her skirt while Sparrow had stretched to return it to the shelf…
oh, dear. A furious blush crept up her cheeks at the thought.
Of all the witches in town who might have stumbled past at that exact moment… why had it been her?
“Ma’am?” called a sweet, high-pitched voice. “We’re ready to go.”
Her eyes swiveled to the teens at the checkout desk, waiting for her assistance. “Oh! I’ll be right there. Just a moment.”
Sparrow scrambled down from the table in a rush, managing to catch her tights on a splinter that hadn’t been buffed out.
Holding back the curse she wanted to shout, the librarian did her best to ignore the sharp sting of the small cut as she hurried to her station.
She wore a tight smile as she waved the teenage witches forward and checked out their books.
“Have a good day,” she managed to choke out as they exited the library.
Thunk. Her forehead hit the desk with more force than she had intended as she slumped forward onto her elbows.
She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight as she tried to picture what she must have looked like from the other witch’s perspective.
Sparrow would bet anything that her legs looked amazing at that angle, but that was the least of her problems now.
Had she accidentally flashed Fern and anyone else passing by the library?
Mortification coursed through her at the thought.
Had she worn her usual black panties, it might not have even garnered a second thought from her.
This morning, though, with a full load of laundry to do after work, Sparrow had slipped into a pretty red lacey pair instead.
Goddess help me, she thought desperately. Surely after such an undignified incident, any interest the witchling might have had in Sparrow would have gone up in smoke. Why had she insisted on climbing onto the furniture like that?
She lamented the choice for the rest of her shift, then headed home in a dreary daze. Maybe she ought to stop wearing short skirts to work. Maybe she would wear dress slacks for the foreseeable future, in an attempt to prevent a repeat of this incident.
The winds had turned cooler over the weekend, bringing the crisp chill of autumn. No one would question her choice under these circumstances. When Sparrow slipped into her apartment and leaned her head back against the front door, she finally released the sigh that had been pent up for hours.
“Well, well, well,” came her twin’s lilting voice. “Whatever is the matter, sister dearest?”
“Lark!” she squeaked in surprise.
Her sister giggled. “I do, in fact, still live here, my dear.”
“I know that,” snapped Sparrow. “I was just lost in my thoughts and you startled me.”
“Lost in your thoughts?” repeated Lark with a sneaky little smile and one raised eyebrow.
She rolled her eyes, giving her sister a playful glare. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”
“If you say so, Sparrow darling,” her twin replied with a wicked grin.
They made dinner together and continued their annual rewatch of Gilmore Girls, side- by- side on the couch, just like any other night in the last few years.
In the back of her mind, though, Sparrow kept seeing those lavender curls disappearing around the corner and out of sight.
The image flashed behind her eyes at random when she blinked.
That night, she took a long steamy shower before bed.
Sparrow loved a good hot shower, the steam billowing around her and the smell of her lavender exfoliating scrub filling her senses.
She scrubbed the sweat off her skin and shampooed her dark hair, massaging the top of her scalp the way that always relieved her migraines.
Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped a fluffy purple towel around her waist and grabbed another for her hair. It didn’t take long to dry her short locks, as they only went down to her chin. She loved how low maintenance this haircut was, never requiring any extra planning on her part.
Those lavender waves, though—they surely required tremendous upkeep.
Fern’s hair trailed down her back, nearly to her butt, and the volume could only be described as thick.
She wondered how that hair might feel under her fingertips, if the little witch would enjoy a scalp massage as much as Sparrow did.
“No! No, no, no. Stop that,” she commanded herself. “There will be no daydreaming about her.”
Her hands moved quickly, drying each section of her body in the same order she always did. By the time she finished, her mind had wandered to another topic: the upcoming Pumpkin Festival. How Sparrow adored this time of year and how all-out their little town went for the season.
She fell asleep to thoughts of candy apples and bonfires and a soft yellow dress the color of buttercups.
By morning, Sparrow could hardly recall the details.
Yet she was certain that her dream had been about the Pumpkin Festival in the town square, with glowing lanterns and twinkling lights sparkling against the deep navy sky.
All she could remember really was how happy she had felt. Light and floating, like laughter on the wind.