Chapter 20 #2
Warily, Talula closed the book, turning it over to examine the cover’s looping calligraphy.
She paused—the book had been written in Jinn.
Although they couldn’t time travel, some jinn were able to keep one eye on the past, another on the future, and a smug grin for all the ignorant idiots stuck in the present with them.
So while jinn couldn’t exactly manipulate time, they could find little loopholes in which to play small anachronistic jokes (without destroying existence).
The simplest explanation was this: a jinn had peeked into the future, taken pity on Talula, and written the cookbook to help her.
She could think of only one jinn who would do such a thing.
Kiki. Kiki must have written the cookbook.
No wonder they’d had such a cat-who-ate-the-whole-flock-of-canaries smile when they’d met.
The jinn must’ve known Talula was only weeks away from uncovering the book.
And thanks to Kiki’s promise of honesty, Talula could feel reasonably confident that the book wouldn’t secretly try to wreck her life (or time and space, for that matter).
Overcome with affection and gratitude for the jinn, Talula picked up the book and gave it a hug.
More determined than ever, she refocused on the ingredient list for Near and Far Fried Chicken Sandwiches.
Specifically, Mrs. Bochart’s secret butter.
But Simon had said for conjuring to work, a sorceress needed to know exactly where the desired object was or have a strong emotional connection to it.
Talula had never even been to Mrs. Bochart’s house.
How was she going to envision her door to get the butter?
The world is closer than you think. Just knock.
She may not know what the door looked like, but maybe…
she didn’t need to? Talula closed her eyes.
In her mind, Talula created a door, the kind of door Mrs. Bochart might like.
She imagined it painted light blue with a small pane of stained glass.
She summoned her magic, focusing on the butter, on finding it beyond the door.
Talula reached for the doorknob and pulled.
She looked into the most organized industrial refrigerator she’d ever seen. Jars of fruit preserve were neatly labeled and lined up. Gallons of milk filled an entire shelf. And slab upon slab of wax-paper-wrapped butter filled the rest of the shelves. Talula moved closer and reached.
When she blinked back to herself, a slab of cold butter lay in her hands.
Carefully, Talula peeled back the wrapping.
She had no idea that fresh butter had a distinct scent, of fat and cream, of culinary lusciousness.
Talula, being an upright citizen and a general force for good in the world, had reservations about stealing butter from her hopeful baking mentor/conspirator in the Samhain crisis.
She thought about returning the butter. Then she thought about the baguette stashed in the Voltlette.
She should at least have a taste.
A significant amount of butter and half a baguette later, Talula decided that she could live with the ethical ambiguity of stealing Mrs. Bochart’s butter, just this once. She put away her snack—it was time to knock on some doors.
Behind a 1950s diner door, Talula nabbed a piece of freshly fried chicken thigh.
Behind a sleek metal door, a neat row of perfect, fluffy brioche.
Behind a scarlet, intricately carved door, a cluster of chili plants.
With each “knock,” conjuring became as second nature as reaching into a kitchen pantry.
Finally, Talula arranged all the ingredients on the counter, beaming at her magical mise en place.
She conjured the recipe’s few non-geographically-specific items into the spread with a shrug.
She figured that Kiki hadn’t had the patience to come up with more hyperspecific items to conjure (and mayo was magical no matter where it came from).
A faint blue sparkle of sorcery hung over the room, tickling Talula’s nose.
Then, just because she could, she conjured her apron from its usual hook behind the café counter.
Now it’s time for the real magic.
By lunchtime, Talula had completed the recipe (and sent digital payments to the restaurants she’d “borrowed” ingredients from).
From her mix of conjured ingredients, Talula created a fried chicken sandwich on buttered brioche with chili-infused honey and pickled mango coleslaw.
Talula had raised her eyebrow at the addition of mango—who puts mango on a fried chicken sandwich?
—but the results were dumbfoundingly delicious.
She started to make another but then checked the time and swore. She needed to prepare for the next phase of Operation Save Samhain.
The following morning, the farmers’ market (and really, the whole town) was buzzing with the latest Halloween surprise—this time on their front step. Each home and business in Pine Hollow received an envelope of luxurious midnight-hued card stock sealed with gold wax.
The gilded calligraphy inside offered a simple message:
The honor of your presence is requested.
The Magic Box. October 24th. Sunset.
Do you believe?
The effect was mysterious. Intriguing. Enchanting. And exactly what Talula and Dahlia had intended when they’d delivered the messages in the middle of the night.
Now the Saturday morning marketgoers could feel a distinct hum of excitement.
Everyone talked about how they found their invitation, their theories about the recent “magical” goings-on, their plans for attending the Magic Box’s mysterious event that night.
Smiling, Talula listened and swallowed a yawn.
For once, Talula wasn’t milling about the stalls, asking about apples or arugula.
She had her own booth, draped with a sparkly black tablecloth.
It boasted a stack of neat pamphlets (Celebrating Samhain: Get to Know Halloween’s Great-Great-Great-Grandma!), a smattering of autumn leaves, and some crystals.
Plus, free food. Talula had set out a silver samovar that poured aromatic tea and several plates of fried chicken, bacon, and egg sliders (the breakfast version of her latest recipe).
Above Talula’s head, a banner announced The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium Information Booth.
A tiny decorative chalkboard next to her elbow read i’m a witch! ask me anything!
It was one of Dahlia’s ideas—give people a chance to talk to Talula, ask her questions, and get to know the celebration as more than just a Halloween-themed orgy (Dahlia’s words).
Simon, of course, thought it was absurd and stayed home.
But Talula trusted Dahlia, so here she was with signs, sandwiches, and symbols of the occult.
So far, her most frequently answered questions included:
Q: “Do you worship Satan?”
A: “I don’t actually believe in Satan, but I do believe in celebrating the beauty of the season. Want some tea?”
Q: “Do you really dance naked in the forest underneath the full moon at midnight?”
A: “No. Mostly, I try to be in bed by eleven. Plus, you know, bugs.”
Q: “Is there gluten in this?”
A: “Yes, sorry. I’ll look into gluten-free options next time!”
If a line of questioning started to border on harassment, Emilio or Anna would pop by from across the way to help deescalate (and swipe another slider).
A few people did stop to try the food. While they chewed, Talula explained the essence of the celebrations—she also promised four bounce houses this year.
Some asked follow-up questions, some nodded politely and left, and others asked if they could have another sandwich or cup of tea.
Then, Talula had her most unexpected visitor of all.
Mrs. Bochart’s hand slammed down on her table. In her free hand (the one that hadn’t just scared the bejeezus out of Talula), she held a partially eaten slider.
“What is this?”
Anger and a hint of shame burned Talula’s cheeks. She took a breath and answered calmly, “It’s a breakfast slider with mango coleslaw, chili honey, bacon, eggs, and fried chicken on—”
“Buttered. Brioche.” Mrs. Bochart spat each word with enough venom to make Talula queasy.
Talula didn’t like where this was going.
But she tried for a let’s-make-peace tone.
“I know we didn’t leave things on the best of terms last week, and I regret it.
I should have stayed calm and talked to you about the petition privately.
But unless there’s something I can help you with, I think you should leave. ”
“Yes, you can help me,” Mrs. Bochart hissed. Her eyes burned with accusation. “You can help me by keeping your thieving magic fingers out of my fridge.”
Talula’s stomach plummeted. She swallowed and managed to say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mrs. Bochart leaned closer until her nose almost bumped Talula’s. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize my own butter, little witch?”