“Something bad?” He said.

  “Right. Something bad.” I finished my coffee and put the cup down with a metallic ring of triumph before gesturing grandly at the kitchen. “Here’s where the magic happens, but only if you know the lingo. Allow me to introduce you to the terminology of the Hawthorn Diner. We begin with three of the basics. Ready?”

  “I woke up ready.”

  “Don’t test me, sir. Now, on to the first, and one of the most important because a lot of our regulars eat it first thing in the morning,” I told him, setting a stock pot of water to boil.

  To my pleasant surprise, he held a small notebook and pen, poised to write. “Hmph. Well done. Okay, this is going to be oatmeal, but our regulars like it with brown sugar, so when Glynna or Pat call it out, it’s a Bowl, Eh. Got it?”

  “Bowl A?” he repeated, but like the letter A, rather than the proper Canadian interrogative.

  “No, like a Canadian. You know, the fine folks just north, swimming in manners and maple syrup?”

  “Ah, got it. Bowl, Eh,” he emphasized, pen scratching as he wrote.

  “Exactly. We’ll serve twenty covers of it, easy,” I said, measuring out a mountain of oats with a pinch of salt.

  “What’s the silver medal dish?” he asked.

  “An excellent question. On weekends, it’s the Carlie or a Halfway. That’s waffles, stacked. The Carlie is”—

  “A half stack?” he offered, helpfully.

  “Yes.” I put the ladle on my hip, then removed it, thinking that I was channeling a short, angry frontier woman and it might not be a good look for me.

  “No offense, it seemed logical,” he wrote without looking at me, but his smile was barely under control.

  “Fair enough. During the week, we get a lot of to-go orders. That tends to be a Rasher Dasher or Three Hens Sailing.”

  “Bacon sandwich I get, but hens. . . sailing? You mean poached?” He looked up from his notebook to see me smiling. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s nice to have someone in the kitchen who knows about food, that’s all. You’re right about the eggs. They’re poached, we serve them on our own biscuits instead of English Muffins. It’s what we use for the Rasher Dasher, too. Four slices of bacon, mayo and tomato if they want it, and wrap it in foil to stay hot. We’ll do tons of those when people are going fishing or canoeing.”

  “House made Hollandaise for the eggs?” he asked, lifting a brow halfway.

  “Don’t be heretical. Of course we do, and that’s next while the oats are simmering. Know how to zest lemons?”

  “I was born to zest lemons, Carlie. It’s among my finest skills,” he said.

  “I like you even more. Three lemons, please, and don’t stop until you see the whites of their rinds,” I said, pointing an imaginary musket in his direction.

  “That explains the lack of English muffins. If you’re quoting the Battle of Bunker Hill, you must still hold a grudge for the Revolutionary War?” He spoke over the shoulder, making a pile of lemon zest that filled the air with a sharp fragrance.

  “Hardly. I’m only angry at the British for making me order certain cookies—excuse me, biscuits—online. They’re quite testy about shipping what I want, when I want it.” I sniffed with perfect disdain, thinking of the three day wait for tins of cookies that were, to be fair, a slight problem for me.

  “A noble reason to hold a grudge. I’ll remember not to anger you with baked goods,” he said.

  “You can’t stop me from eating baked goods, Dub. It’s part of my job, and a lifestyle choice I have no intention of abandoning until my last day on this earth.” I looked at him with my gravest expression, the one I reserve for important things like magic and family. “When I die, it will be with cookie crumbs on my face. I hereby swear it.”

  He stood and saluted. “I couldn’t agree more, Captain.”

  “I think we’re going to get along just fine. Now, for our next lesson, we discuss something that’s both a dressing and a food group. Allow me to introduce you to the wonders of house made buttermilk ranch.”

  Chapter Seven: Frankincense and Durr

  “We have no milk in this house,” Wulfric explained. He was standing in his underwear pouting, which is both impressive and irritating, sort of like a kid who can scream without running out of breath. He held the refrigerator open, giving a baleful eye to the contents while bathed in moonlight and complaining. It was 2:56 AM, and we were hungry.

  Specifically, we wanted cookies and milk, which meant I wanted four cookies and a reasonable amount of milk. Wulfric required a full gallon in order to assuage his fears of running out of milk halfway through his consumption of every cookie in the entire house. For a guy who lived in the woods for ten centuries, he sure did take to modern American snacking habits.

  “There’s at least a third of a gallon,” I said, looking at the jug.

  “Which is the same as having none.” He wasn’t budging. Even in the moonlight, his lips were set in a way that told me he was considering something crazy, like going to get milk. At three in the morning.

  When he would be getting up two hours later.

  He’s as unreasonable about milk and cookies as I am about everything else.

  “Fine. I’m going to walk to the gas station and see Shawn, get three gallons of milk, and buy myself a candy bar while you sit here, doused in moonbeams and eating your spiteful cookies. You big baby.”

  “I am not a baby. I merely have distinct tastes about snacks,” he said, looking wistfully at the milk.

  “You may as well drink out of the jug, you barbarian.” I kissed him, slipping into shoes I took from a mat by the door. He followed me to open the door and investigate the night. I was in my own town, armed with lethal magic, and going two blocks. Still, Wulfric would sit on the porch and watch me, I knew, because he respected me and protected me all in one manner. His old habits died hard, and he knew that my safety was certain, but his nerves were not.

  “I will—"

  “Be on the porch. I know. Be right back.” He began munching cookies, legs crossed and chest bare to the perfect night air. The stars were lurid points, ancient and knowing.

  “Walk fast.” He snickered, then tucked into another cookie. I loved being up in the night with him. The world was quiet, the mountains watching silently in the background as we would stand, taking in the night through my kitchen window.

  “Hah.” I stepped onto the sidewalk, and the night folded around me. Town was nearly silent, although I heard the bleating of a deer in the distance. Something had disturbed its sleep, but the sound faded and then I heard only my shoes, my heart, and the breath in my lungs.

  The gas station blazed to life when I turned the corner, and there was Shawn, head bent as he worked on one of his drawings. He’d worked the night shift for three years, spending the quiet hours drawing and inking a series of graphic novels he sold at conventions around the northeast. They were good; a sort of cosmic mechanic who went around fixing things in space. I could identify with his character, even if all my fixing was here in Halfway, either behind the grill or with my magic.

  The door had a bell on it, tinkling as I stepped through. Shawn didn’t even look up, but he said, “Hi Carlie.”

  “How did you know?” I asked, wandering back to the coolers.

  “Saw you across the lot. Only one person in Halfway would be out at this hour, unless you count the hunters and hikers.”

  I grabbed all the milk I could carry, making my way to the counter with small, uncertain steps. “The big baby needs milk for his cookies,” I said, letting the jugs thunk down next to the register.

  “Three gallons?” Shawn lifted a brow, smiling. He had floppy brown hair and eyes that smiled when he did. His shirt featured one of his own drawings, which was rather cool.

  “You know how he is.”

  “Yeah. Big.” He rang me up, and I swiped my credit card when the doorbell rang again. “Two customers at three in the morning?”

  “And a librarian, to boot,” Shawn said.

  I turned to see the leaf green eyes of Brendan, our resident librarian and notorious lover of a regular sleep cycle. “Stars above, what are you doing up?”

  His sheepish grin was odd, to say the least. When he came close, I leaned in to sniff him. Something was off. Not in an evil-has-taken-root kind of way, but still.

  “Well, actually,” he began, the smile lingering.

  “It’s a girl,” Shawn said, pointing at him with an accusatory finger. “This is clearly a variation of the Walk of Shame, but in reverse. Is she at your house? Is it snacks? Do you need snacks?”

  “How. . wait, what? No, I’m just”—

  “Guilty. Super, extra, fully, dripping in guilt,” I told him, watching his cheeks flush crimson. “And what’s that smell? It’s like,” I couldn’t identify what it was, other than the fact that it wasn’t perfume. Or waffles.

  When he faltered, I put a hand on his shoulder. “The gig is up. It’ll go easier for you if you tell us what we want to know, young man.”

  “It’s true.” Shawn leaned forward on his elbows, beaming innocence, unlike Brendan, who shifted from foot to foot in a dance of guilt. After another weird round of us both sniffing at Brendan, Shawn snapped his fingers, then let a confused smile tilt with confusion. “Have you suddenly started vaping?”

  “What? No?” Brendan stammered. “You know me, healthy all the time, heh, no I’m”—

  “It’s like frankincense,” I told Shawn, not even looking at Brendan. “Do people actually vape frankincense? Is that a thing?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it, but I don’t think so. They have some wild combinations, but as to ancient biblical spices, not really sure. Still, you know how it can be. Hipsters.” His one-word explanation came with an expansive wave, as if this term encompassed all manner of things. It did.

  My head rotated like an owl back to our librarian, who now stood turning purple with embarrassment. “So, after careful consideration, we’ve determined several things, young man. You have a special lady friend over—"

  Shawn made kissing noises because all my friends act like we’re twelve years old. I approved of his commentary with fingers guns, borrowing from Tammy, who would have loved seeing Brendan squirm.

  “And she vapes, and she asked you to go get?” I let the question dangle, brows lifted.

  “Organic pork rinds. She’s kind of doing this low-carb diet thing, so,” Brendan answered as the inquisition continued.

  “Of course. Low carb,” I said to Shawn, who smirked. “And this special friend is?” I asked Brendan, who picked up a bag of pork rinds with a look of disgust.

  “Betrayed by pigskin,” he muttered.

  “Indeed. You were saying?” I prompted. Shawn renewed his smile.

  “We’ve been talking for a few days and she came upstate to meet her girlfriends for the weekend. She got here a day early to see me, and decided to stay over after dinner,” Brendan explained. “We had the shrimp alfredo at The Pines.”

  “Tres chic,” Shawn said in approval. “She came to visit from downstate?”

  “Long Island. Rented cabins at the Limberlost for a pre-winter weekend with her girls.” Brendan sighed, looking at the ceiling as his defenses collapsed. “She likes nerdy types.” He waved at himself in triumph. “Voila.”

  “You’re actually a bit too good looking to be an average nerd. You’re more like a hot professor type,” I said.

  “Co-sign that. My sister and her friends used that exact term,” Shawn confirmed.

  “Great. Now that you’ve graded my looks and appeal and extracted a confession of my carnal lust, can I please take these pork rinds back home?” Brendan asked. He was on the verge of wheedling, which meant our interrogation was ended. You can only torment someone on a booty call snack run so far before things get awkward, and I’m an expert at making things awkward.

  “Of course. Shawn, put them on my tab. Never let it be said that I stood in the way of Brendan’s joy,” I said with a magnanimous wave.

  “Thank you, Carlie. You’re pure kindness,” Brendan said.

  “See you around. Be careful,” I told him, and I meant it. We’d known each other all my life, and he was more big brother to me than town librarian.

  The light of humor returned to his eyes as he slipped out into the night, waving to Shawn and giving me a mock glare. There was a bounce in his step as he vanished into the dark beyond the parking lot, pork rinds swinging in victorious rhythm.

  “Serendipity. You come for cookies, he shows up for pork rinds bought in the name of midnight loving. What a job,” Shawn waved grandly at the store, smiling.

  “You ever leaving here to go write, or what?” I paused, holding the milk like prey.

  “Soon enough. I get a lot done here. I see a lot, too.”

  “Obviously. Even what you don’t want to know,” I told him. “I’m headed home. The big guy will pout a tiny bit if we can’t eat cookies while it’s still dark. Part of the charm for him.”

  “Tell him I said hey,” Shawn said, grinning. “Carlie?”

  “Yeah?” I waited by the door, watching him decide if he was going to speak his mind.

  His eyes drifted over a sketch he was working on, bold lines of ink on a wide sheet of heavy paper. “Do you think these are good enough to get me, I don’t know”—

  “Out of Halfway? Yes. I do. But you don’t have to go anywhere to be known, Shawn. You can be great and still be at home. That’s the best part about knowing your place, and your people. You don’t have to leave, if you don’t want to.”

  He smiled, and it was a little bit sad. “I was hoping that was true. Sometimes, I don’t want to go over the mountains. Too many people.”

  “Then stay here and draw, and let the mountains protect you. I know that’s always worked for me.” I avoided saying that my magic did a lot of the work, but didn’t want to disabuse Shawn of his conclusions. I knew he worked the night shift because of anxiety, and I knew his art was a way to deal with the world.

  “Thanks, Carlie.” He meant it, and I saw him exhale with relief as the tumblers clicked in his mind.

  “Anytime. The world will find you if you’re good enough, Shawn. That’s the thing about Halfway. The mountains are never as tall as you think.”

  Chapter Eight: Shorter Days

  October days piled up like the falling leaves, only to be swept away by the first chill blast from the north. Days grew shorter, the light of afternoon glowing unearthly yellow as it filtered through the last, heroic leaves, hanging on until their frosty end. They rustled in every breeze, a reminder that the heart of winter approached even as the blazing glory of fall slipped away. It was something I loved to see, making me hopeful and sad all in one bittersweet mood that carried me through the brisk air from day to day, waiting for the Hunter’s moon to rise full and glorious over the eastern peaks.

  October was my month. A time for magic and wonder, on one hand, and on the other, a season for joy. I thought of this while running my fingers over Wulfric’s sleeping brow, his chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm with the call of a distant owl. Gus rumbled his approval of the whole situation, reaching out to touch my shoulder with a paw that flexed sleepily as he watched me through narrowed eyes.

  “I am whole,” I said to the dark, and I meant it in the way that only true joy can bring. Like the moon, I knew that being whole meant the inevitable slide towards something less perfect, and the weight of my responsibility as a witch settled on me, heavy but bearable. The moment began to break apart under my thoughts, even as I pushed back with my heart, trying hard to keep the quiet perfection of it all for just one more silent moment.

  “Mrowt?” Gus asked me, bronze eyes lit from within with curiosity and grace.

  “Exactly,” I agreed, because that was the only logical thing to do with cats, and he was right. No matter the sentiment, Gus understood, just like the moon. Along with Wulfric and Gran, they were fixed points in orbit around my heart.

  I slid from the warm bed, knowing Wulfric would rise after me to make coffee and try to convince himself he didn’t like Gus. I would shower, then come downstairs to see Gus and Wulfric sitting at the table, the cat rubbing his face against Wulfric’s chin as the sun began to rise outside the dim kitchen windows. Smiling into my pillow, I let my feet dangle, then come to rest on the floor as my awareness unfolded to greet the day. I was cooking with Dub today, then seeing Gran to test the growth of my projection spell. The day began to grow in possibility before I even got in motion.

  “Carlie.” Wulfric’s voice was a bass rumble, muted by pillows. He stirred, moving me like a wave lifts a ship.

  “Hey. It’s early.”

  “I know.” He turned to regard me sleepily. “I am surprised you slept through the arrival. A letter, I think, but not about magic. Something else.”

  “That’s why you didn’t wake me up?” His senses were deep and sharp, so I didn’t jump up to go downstairs. I kissed him, and he wrapped me tighter in his arm. The other he used to scratch Gus, who glared at us when it seemed I was getting most of the attention.

  I have a brass mail slot in my front door where people in need drop handwritten letters, filled with pleas for my magic to help them with everything from missing pets to broken hearts. It’s part of the covenant I have with Halfway. I draw power from the earth, the moon, and my family, and in return, I serve. Usually, on nights of a full moon, I sleep downstairs, waiting for letters to slide across my foyer with the whisper of need.

  “Sleep is good. Extra sleep is better,” he said. I couldn’t argue. With mumbles of protest, I got out of bed and went downstairs. To no one’s surprise. Gus did not accompany me downstairs, choosing instead to give me a look of disgust that I should dare to disturb his rest.

  There was a letter, all right, and I knew the writing instantly. “Brendan?” He could text me, or walk to my house, or come to the diner. There was no reason for him to use cloak-and-dagger witchy stuff to get me a message.