Epilogue
Summer
“Birds are evil.” Dahlia threw a pillow at the window. “We must vanquish them.”
A handful of birds continued to trill enthusiastically from outside the cottage window. Dahlia, in protest, shoved her face deeper into one of Talula’s pillows.
Sleepily, Talula groaned in agreement. “I think they’re from Mom. It’s her new thing. She wants me to learn bird language.”
“I speak pretty good bird.” Without looking up from her pillow-faceplant, Dahlia thrust a middle finger at the cottage’s bay windows. The birds whistled with outrage and fluttered away.
Talula looped an arm around Dahlia’s waist and snuggled into her shoulder. “They’re going to tell Mom on me.”
“Pssh. Sara will think it’s hilarious.”
Together, they breathed a content, sleepy sigh into the quiet. It was interrupted by a familiar scratching on the other side of the bedroom door. “Get up, let’s go!”
“Five more minutes!” Dahlia begged.
“But I’m hungry!” Simon whined.
“There are rice balls in the fridge. Eat those,” Talula commanded.
“I’m not in the mood for rice balls, I want pastries. Bochart pastries!”
“Simon!” Talula and Dahlia yelled, a chorus they practiced at least twice a week.
Simon gave a dramatic hrmph and stomped away.
Dahlia let out another sigh, this time tinged with laughter. The two women cuddled tighter together, skin warm from sleep and closeness. Dahlia peeked at Talula over her shoulder. “How much time do rice balls buy us? In case I’m not sleepy anymore?”
Talula nuzzled her nose into the alcove behind Dahila’s ear, letting her lips graze against the skin there, her hands sliding up to Dahlia’s breasts. “Plenty.”
Lazy mornings like these weren’t as frequent as Talula would’ve liked.
Her schedule (and life) had become a little bit more complicated since Samhain.
After her chat with Volta Talula, she’d moved out of her mother’s house and rented the jasmine-covered cottage in Muriel’s backyard.
Talula’s new place was a clean, bright little space barely bigger than a studio.
But it came furnished and had a gas stove, plenty of counter space, and a back porch perfect for sipping tea in the mornings or wine in the evenings.
Along with various necessities, she’d brought her favorite pots and pans, the good spatula, cookbooks, and a magical guard dog—though she’d not been consulted on the latter.
“What do you think ‘I’m never letting you out of my sight again’ means?” Simon had asked as he inspected the cottage.
“I don’t even know if this place is dog-friendly,” Talula had sputtered, balancing a stack of moving boxes on her hip.
“Why should that matter?”
The magical Council had offered to help restore Simon to his original shape, but he’d chosen to keep being Simon.
He’d said life was more interesting on four legs this time around.
And when it came to sticking with Talula, Simon was as good as his word.
Simon went where Talula went. Even her new jobs.
Talula had called her old culinary mentor and asked if she knew of any restaurants that’d be willing to take her on.
So long as the restaurants would teach her, Talula didn’t care if she was peeling potatoes eight hours a day.
It also didn’t matter where these places were, Talula had mentioned carefully over the phone.
Samin, who Talula had always suspected was magically inclined, gave a big, knowing laugh.
A few interviews later, Talula had her first real restaurant job. Then another. And another.
Her bosses and co-workers raised an eyebrow at the American girl who fumbled through their language and brought a snobbish dog with her to every shift.
But they saw that Talula worked with joy.
That always meant something to restaurant people, no matter the continent.
It was a fact Talula verified every week, since her work was all around the world.
The restaurants were off the beaten track, tucked in mountain villages or tiny island communities.
They were so hidden, they didn’t have Yelp pages, but each was worthy of a Michelin constellation.
Talula had a breakfast gig on a small island off the coast of Hokkaido, nestled between temples half claimed by Japan’s wilder gods.
She had an occasional lunch shift at a bistro outside of Mexico City, where the owner’s whole family served jokes and laughter with every dish.
She worked a late-night shift in Tuscany, where an elegant nonna made her roll pasta dough until her wrists ached.
Talula’s commute was made easier after a housewarming Studio Ghibli marathon with Kiki, Emilio, Anna, Simon, and Dahlia. Kiki had spat out their cola and lime at the magic door scene in Howl’s Moving Castle.
“Talula,” Kiki said, seizing Talula’s hands dramatically. “You must.”
So Talula, with her new extraordinary connection to the Volta, planted a little seed of portal magic into the cottage’s linen closet.
Almost every day, Talula would wake up at whatever time made the most sense for whatever time zone she was about to enter, throw on an apron (she had many now for her many restaurant jobs), kiss Dahlia goodbye, call for Simon, then open the door.
Talula was working her way across the world’s kitchens, collecting food knowledge and always bringing home leftovers. But that didn’t mean that she’d forgotten her roots in Pine Hollow or the Blue Moon.
In fact, Talula was looking to franchise.
Now that the Volta was free of its ancient protections and Talula had forged a new connection with it, the Volta’s magic was more malleable.
And Talula thought it should be distributed.
Talula’s idea was to create a network of Voltas, a magical metro system that could always be relied on by anyone in their community.
The world, after all, was only as separate as she let it be.
Now new Volta sites were being scouted, and plans were being drawn up based on the original Blue Moon—which was no longer a pile of rubble and raw magic.
The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium was operational again.
Thanks to Talula’s menu tweaks, it was also much busier.
After Samhain, magic had become a bit of an open secret in the town.
So Sara decided that hiding their magical community wasn’t necessarily the right choice.
Because what she hadn’t realized—what even Talula hadn’t realized—was how badly people wanted to stay in Pine Hollow.
Lucia, the wood nymph, had moved into Anna and Emilio’s greenhouse. She paid rent in completely organic pest repellent and had carte blanche to play with their Nintendo Switch whenever she wanted.
Dave, Roger, Pete, and Rowan started an architecture firm.
Their biggest client was the town. After seeing the incredible work they’d done for Samhain, the city hired the craftsmen elves to update old structures and make new ones—specifically playgrounds.
By spring, Pine Hollow Park boasted a multistory play castle with a functioning drawbridge and moat.
Kiki moved into Talula’s old room. They said they wanted to stick around and watch this new magical-mortal chapter unfold.
But mostly, Talula suspected, because Kiki was lonely and Sara was loving.
The two hosted cocktail and mocktail hours regularly (though their concoctions tended to have unexpected magical side effects).
Then there was Dahlia. Talula’s girlfriend.
Her best friend. Her enthusiastic culinary guinea pig.
Her favorite blanket-hog. The love of her life.
While Talula was a whirlwind of mismatched time zones and various shades of apron, Dahlia put down roots in Pine Hollow.
After a life of pick-up-and-go, Dahlia wanted to let herself belong to one place.
“I don’t count college or my marketing job in the city,” Dahlia had explained as they baked midnight cookies barefoot in Talula’s kitchen.
“Why?” Talula had asked, distracted by Dahlia’s latest shade of lipstick.
“Because those were always places I knew I was meant to leave till I found home.” Dahlia popped an orchid-colored kiss on Talula’s flour-dusted cheek. “By home, I mean you, in case you need me to spell it out for you.”
“Yeah, I’m notoriously oblivious to that stuff,” Talula said wryly, then turned her face to catch Dahlia’s petal-soft mouth.
Thanks to her Samhain help, the Council hired Dahlia to work part-time as the Blue Moon’s marketing liaison. But mostly Dahlia wrote. Her manuscript was already with a few agents, but she still had more stories in her. Talula, with her personal door to everywhere, made sure of it.
On the banks of the Seine, Dahlia composed half-tipsy sonnets over a luxurious meal of butter, baguettes, and Bordeaux.
In a snow-bundled house outside of Asheville, Dahlia watched home movies from her grandmother’s well-loved couch, snug under quilts with her smiling, teary-eyed mom as Nana and Talula baked yet another batch of sugar cookies.
On a gray and green Scottish island, Dahlia laughed as Mhairi told every embarrassing story from Talula’s childhood visits while Talula groaned and grilled fresh-caught crabs.
In the blue-painted hills of Chefchaouen, Dahlia, Talula, and Sara gossiped with locals, mint and honey glistening in delicate glass teacups.
At an underground nightclub in Buenos Aires, Dahlia and Talula stumbled through their first tango, blood humming with music and impatience for the hotel room (or, as it turned out, the alley).
On a pier in Liguria, Dahlia tore into focaccia so fresh, it steamed in the morning air. Talula sliced tomatoes redder than lust, redder than the afterburn of sun on eyelids, redder than lingerie or a convertible burning asphalt under a June sun.
They were snapshots in Talula’s mind, memories she framed with gold. She was nowhere near done adding to the collection. Especially this summer.
Especially today.