Three days after hexing my ex’s underwear drawer, I came home to Willowmere with nothing but my grimoire, my cat, and a very expensive espresso machine.

My parent’s little cottage looked exactly as I remembered it: peeling purple paint with black window shutters and a shingle roof, with ivy climbing up the sides and marigolds and snapdragons cascading from the window boxes. Despite the fact that it was October, all of the plants were magically enchanted to bloom year-round. Smoke puffed from the chimney, most likely from my mother’s latest potion brew. The organized chaos of the front garden was neatly guarded by a wrought-iron fence, upon which a raven perched.

The purple cottage fit in perfectly with the other craftsman-style houses that lined the street. But what made the quaint town of Willowmere so special was not the architecture of the houses or even the main street, which was filled with mom and pop shops, but the residents themselves.

Willowmere was one of the only magical communities in the state of Washington where all kinds of extraordinary creatures could live together in harmony. Normally, witches, werewolves, faeries and orcs dwelled only with their own kind. But in Willowmere, you could find just about every sort of magical folk you could imagine.

Humans were the one exception. There was a ward around town that prevented humans from accidentally stumbling in. It was a marvel of magical engineering—a fact which my father would never let me forget. It was our family’s proudest achievement, after all.

And now that I was moving back in at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I was certain I would get to hear all about it. Again.

With a sigh, I lugged my heavy suitcase along behind me as I approached the front gate. I waved a hand to unlock it, and the raven croaked at me in greeting. My mother’s familiar, Fig, cocked his head at me, then flew inside through an open window—no doubt, to announce my arrival.

Are you sure I can’t eat it? My own familiar, Silas, asked me telepathically. The black cat twined around my ankles. Not even a little nibble?

You know better than that, I chided him. Familiars eating other familiars is strictly forbidden.

Never liked that law, he grumbled. He trotted up to the front door, which he magically opened and shut behind himself—right in my face.

“Bratty cat,” I mumbled.

I heard that!

You were supposed to! Though I could hardly blame him. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with our new living arrangements, either.

When I approached the door, it swung open, as if the house itself were welcoming me home. The smell of apple cider teased my nose as I stepped inside, and I smiled, despite myself.

No matter how long it had been, this place would always feel like home.

My mother swept into the entryway from the kitchen, with her raven perched on her shoulder. “Clove Morelli! Fig just told me you arrived. I wasn’t expecting you till this evening!”

I let her pull me into one of her motherly hugs. “I took a flying carriage to avoid the traffic.”

“Oh, let me look at you. It’s been far too long since your last visit.” Ginger Morelli held me at arms’ length, her blue eyes scanning me from head to toe. She was dressed in the black-lace style that most witches favored, and kept her dark hair drawn up in a bun.

“Welcome home, pumpkin,” my dad said as he came around the corner. Tristan Morelli stood a head taller than my mother, though it was his green eyes and dark purple hair that usually made him stand out in a crowd. His bit of a belly told me mom must have been baking more frequently since I’d left home.

I’d always thought that I was a perfect combination of the two, with my turquoise eyes and black hair with purple undertones. I liked to think my own style of dress was a tad more…modern, however. I preferred leather boots over ones with pointed toes, and purple dresses over black-on-black lacey colonial outfits.

“Thanks, dad.” I mustered a half-smile for him.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and unpack? Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes.” Mom patted me on the shoulder, but I noticed how her eyes kept darting away from my left ring-finger, like butterflies afraid to land.

I nodded. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Wandering down the hall and up the stairs, I glanced at all of the family portraits that my mother had hung with such pride. Accomplished witches and warlocks, every last one of them. 

Continuing on down the hall, I entered the last door on the left. My childhood bedroom looked exactly as I remembered it: Spellbooks and romance novels lined my bookshelves, and my worn woolen rug blanketed the hardwood floor. Warm rays from the setting sun filtered in through my lacy white curtains and onto my small desk. Silas was already curled up on top of my lavender duvet cover, snoring away.

Quietly, I unzipped my suitcase and carefully lifted my espresso machine onto my desk. After a quick examination to make sure it hadn’t been scratched, I threw the handful of tops and pants I had used to swaddle it into my tiny closet. Finally, I placed my grimoire on top of my dresser.

I had been so upset, that I had left behind everything else. But going back for the rest of my things was out of the question.

Without waking Silas, I slipped out and headed for the dining room. Mom just finished setting the table as I walked in.

“You’re just in time. I was about to ladle some chili into your bread bowl. I made the sourdough fresh this morning,” she said with a wink.

My mouth watered. Mom’s sourdough was my favorite. No matter how many times I tried to make it, mine just never came out quite right.

She served the food, and the three of us sat down around the table to eat. The blend of spices in the apple cider was divine, and her chili warmed me from the inside out, though the warmth stopped just shy of my heart.

The sounds of spoons and glasses clinking filled the air, but after a while, my mother asked tentatively, “Do you want to talk about it?”

A lump rose in my throat. “Not yet.”

She nodded one too many times. A hint of tension laced the air, until my dad cleared his throat and prompted, “Ginger, why don’t you tell Clove all about Mrs. Virgil’s news?”

I perked up. “Mrs. Virgil?” The satyr had run a cute little café on main street for as long as I could remember. I loved spending time there after school when I was little, sipping iced coffees while I did my spellwork.

My mom eagerly latched onto the topic. “Yes, that’s right! After her last child went off to college, she decided to travel the world, and left early last year. She’d been planning this trip for ages; I know there are at least seven different forests and five branches of the family she wanted to visit.”

“That’s wonderful news!” She had always worked so hard on her café, so I was happy to hear she was taking a little vacation for herself. “Which one of her older children took over the family business?”

Mom and dad exchanged a look. It was a look I knew all too well, the one that meant they had bad news they didn’t want to break to me.

“Pumpkin, the thing is…none of her children had any interest in running the café. Mrs. Virgil shut it down and put the building up for sale.” He smiled sadly. “Though it hasn’t sold yet.”

My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. “What?!” How could none of her kids have wanted to continue the thriving family business? There were seven of them, for crying out loud! Had they all decided to be adventurers or apothecaries or something? “The café is…gone?”

“I’m afraid so.” My mom patted my hand. “I know how much you loved spending time there. It’s a shame to think of it sitting empty—both the café and the apartment above it.”

I slowly lowered my spoon as a crazy, completely ridiculous idea popped into my head. “How much…” I licked my lips. “How much is she asking for it? For the building, I mean?”

The dreams of a younger me flitted through my mind. Dreams of running my own cozy little café, one filled with the aroma of coffee and the sound of music and laughter. And as impossible as it once seemed, perhaps the only thing holding me back now was myself. 

And for once in my life, I was done putting someone else’s dreams before my own.

Plus, since it came with an apartment, I could move out of my parents’ house and get a shred of my independence and dignity back.

My parents exchanged another look. Mom pulled out her magically expanding bag and rifled through it, until she pulled out a flyer and handed it to me. “This is the asking price. But why do you want to know?”

I scanned the flyer, my turquoise eyes quickly finding the number I was looking for. If I drained my savings, I should be able to afford the down payment. Barely. “Because I’m going to buy it.”

“Now, pumpkin, take some time to think this through. I know you used to love that old café, but you don’t need to give up on your bright future in the big city to save it.” Concern creased my dad’s forehead.

“I have thought about it. For longer than you might guess.” My heart was racing, but my voice was steady. I had promised myself that one day, if the opportunity presented itself to escape the rat race, I would take it. 

Everyday in my corporate job, I had dreamed of living a slower life, a cozier life. One where I answered to no one except myself, where I could sip my morning coffee while looking out at my little garden or flower boxes before opening my shop for the day. One where I could finally wear all the cute little dresses and frocks shoved in the back of my closet, and come home before the sun set. A life that truly felt like mine—a life worth living.

Even if that looked different from what I was supposed to want. From what my parents wanted for me. From what everyone else expected of me.

My mom took my hands, the calluses on her palms from a lifetime of working as a hedgewitch feeling like sandpaper against my skin. “Sweetie, we just want what’s best for you. We want you to be able to do all of the things we never could.”

“I know.” Guilt wormed its way through my heart. My parents had never had the opportunity to go to college, or to leave Willowmere. My mom had worked her fingers to the bone to give me that chance.

Was I a terrible daughter for throwing it away?

My dad put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his green eyes softening. “Owning a small business is no picnic. Are you certain this is what will make you happy?”

“I am.” I would take mopping floors and polishing glasses over drafting spreadsheets and office politics any day. And at least here, I would not have to hide my magic like I did in the city of Seattle.

“Then I will arrange a meeting with the real estate agent for you in the morning.”

“Tristan!” My mom protested, but he simply patted her shoulder. 

“We will support your decision, as long as it makes you happy. Besides, it will be nice to see you more often—especially during the holidays.” His words seemed to ease mom’s worries.

“Always ganging up on me, you two,” she tutted. “But it would be lovely to see you more often, sweetie.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, and for the first time in quite a while, it wasn’t fake.

 

…

 

The next morning, I knocked on the real estate agent’s door the very moment he flipped the closed sign to open. Though the centaur who answered the door looked none too happy about it.

“Good morning, Mr. Chevalier! I believe my father sent a raven to say I’d be stopping by to purchase the old café on main street this morning.” I’d been too excited to sleep, so I had stayed up most of the night imagining how to renovate the space and what to call my new business. After much deliberation, I had settled on a name I liked: The Broom & Bean.

“Is that what the letter says?” He tried, unsuccessfully, to cover a yawn, while glancing at a table behind him. 

Beyond his bay horse’s hindquarters, I was just able to make out the letter sitting unopened on the table. He glared at me from behind his half-moon spectacles, and scratched at his long beard.

This was not going well. But fortunately, I had come prepared!

“Coffee?” I held out to him the second cup I had brewed like an offering. 

“Thanks.” When he took a sip, his eyes lit up. “Hey, that’s not bad. Please, come in.”

He sidestepped so I could enter, before closing the door behind me. His receiving room was spacious and tasteful, with an oval table at standing height and a few stools on one side for two-legged guests. Scenic photos of houses and buildings he had sold lined the beige walls, and decorative plants stood in the corners.

I noticed with some amusement a bite had been taken out of a few of the leaves.

Mr. Chevalier clip-clopped over to the table, the sound of his horseshoes rapping sharply on the hardwood floors. It suddenly occurred to me why centaurs never even tried to sneak up on people—it was evidently an effort in futility.

“So, you are interested in purchasing Mrs. Virgil’s old café building?” he clarified as I took a seat on one of the stools. He slid the same flyer over to me that my parents had.

“Precisely. I have the twenty percent down payment check ready, and brought all of my relevant paperwork, including my credit score report and my financial statements.” I handed him the folder I had prepared after he took another long sip of his coffee.

After flipping through the documents for a few minutes, he nodded. “Everything seems to be in order. I can have my contact at the bank set up the mortgage with an interest rate slightly lower than the human market’s.”

“That would be much appreciated.” I had done the calculations around dawn, and so long as I earned a certain amount from the business each month, I should be able to make the monthly mortgage payments without too much trouble. “I would like to move in and open my coffee shop as soon as possible.”

“A coffee shop, eh? You’ll give the diner a run for its money—at least when it comes to the morning coffee rush.” He glanced up at me quickly, before looking down again and shuffling through a packet of documents with text so tiny it made my eyes hurt to try and read them. “I’ll just need you to sign here, here, and here, and check the box stating you wish to purchase the building as-is, sight unseen.” 

“Sight unseen?” I asked, a bit nervously. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, it’s just legal jargon for buying the property without first inspecting it.” He waved a hand in the air, as if batting away my concerns. “Since you already know how you want to use the space, it’s not as if you need to figure out where to put the counter and the register. All of that is still in place from the previous business.”

“Right.” I nodded slowly. “I guess that makes sense.”

Why did I get the feeling there was a question I didn’t know I needed to ask? Or that I was missing something? The agent seemed like he was in a hurry to get me to sign on the dotted line. 

But I had already decided that nothing could stop me. Even if there were an infestation of pixies in the upstairs apartment that he thought would be a problem, I would deal with it.

I signed my name with a flourish, thrilled beyond words to finally be taking the first step in the direction of my dreams. The contract rolled itself up, and with a flash and a popping sound, teleported itself to the bank.

“Here is the key to the shop, the mailbox, and…the upstairs apartment.” Mr. Chevalier handed me three keys, the metal cold and solid against my skin.

“Thank you so much! I am going to get to work right away. Enjoy your coffee—once I open, I’ll charge you the friends and family rate,” I said as I stood and headed for the door.

But as I closed it with a wave of my hand, I could have sworn I heard him mutter, “Good luck.”