Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,6

where Kate and Josh were currently stretching and yawning—and since they were saving money to get married, it was only logical they’d slept mushed together, but they lived in another house in the cul-de-sac, just like Dante and Cully did! And Jordan, who lived next door to Alex and Bartholomew in the abandoned witch’s cottage, had slept in the recliner.

“You guys,” Bartholomew said fuzzily, “does anybody remember going to bed last night?”

They’d worked—hard—from the moment they’d bolted out of Jordan’s cottage, to finish Bartholomew’s planned stock. Alex and Jordan had started helping him bake, and Kate, Josh, Dante, and Cully had joined them about an hour in, hopefully after doing some heavy-duty karmic cleansing of both the spell and Jordan’s home, and nobody had said another word about the spellcasting thread crumbling to dust, or the wishes that really weren’t, or what everybody had said when they’d blurted out their heart’s desire instead of the carefully constructed lies on the page.

But somewhere in there, after Bartholomew had pulled the last tray of chocolate-lemon loaves from the oven, and after he and Alex had wrapped them and Kate had put the logo sticker on, holding the wrapping firm, they had all…

Just passed out?

When had that been?

Bartholomew blinked hard, trying to remember the last time he’d looked at the clock on the stove—and couldn’t.

Which made sense, because none of them had actually gone to bed. They’d all sort of dropped where they were, right?

Wonderful. Enchanted sleep, upside-down screaming starlings, let’s get this show on the road, guys. We’re late!

And then, as they’d been loading the specially equipped bakery van, they’d seen the squirrels.

Alex—Alex—who was usually as unflappable as the apple tree in the front yard—squealed. He actually squealed, and then he’d tripped, and Josh had saved the flat of poppy-seed loaves he’d been carrying, only to be swooped on by starlings.

Kate had bent over the flat of baked goods, shrieking breathlessly as one bird caught in her hair, and had gotten them into the van. Jordan, hearing the excitement, raided Alex and Bartholomew’s coat closet, coming out with umbrellas, which he and Cully wielded in a path to fend off the starlings, while the squirrels marched on.

They’d completed the ride in breathless silence, eyes roaming the neighborhood for more odd occurrences. As they’d pulled away, they’d all seen the Nine (as they called the clowder of cats that Jordan had inherited from the witch who’d left him the cottage) ghosting over fences, under hedges, and from behind closed gates, all of them with a twitching offering in its mouth.

Whatever they’d done, it had warranted intervention from familiars who—at this point—were so skittish Jordan was the only one allowed to touch them.

Alex had whimpered, Josh and Kate started swearing in tandem, and Bartholomew had moaned, resting his head against the window as Josh drove.

“This,” he said into the hollow silence, “does not bode well for the rest of the day.”

When Lachlan had greeted them—concerned, helpful, damned near heroic—Bartholomew had been torn between the urge to hug him tight and cry and the urge to hide.

Sure, they both worked the same venues—they both had to have just the teeniest urge to believe in magic, even if it was just the human magic of imagination. Lachlan had told him once in one of his rambling, happy monologues during the down times, that he and his sister had stayed up late and planned the little felt bags that covered his wands. She made them for her brother for a cut of the profits, of course, but also because they were pretty and clever and they liked to pretend people would go out and make the world a better place with wishes and magic.

A man like that possessed a streak of practical whimsy that Bartholomew couldn’t help but adore.

But Lachlan also got upset at shoddy workmanship and irritated at stupidity.

Although he’d only now said something, Bartholomew was well aware those damned racks of his had bothered poor Lachlan for a year and a half. Bartholomew had loved them a little, because Dante had made them, and Dante’s eternal quest for something witchy and crafty and creative was what made him so tolerable as the perfect organizer and reporter of life’s events.

The spell they’d done the night before—that had been shoddy workmanship. Bartholomew was supposed to be Jordan’s best friend. He’d looked over Jordan’s plan; he’d read up on all the particulars. He was their potion master, and he’d approved all the ingredients in the cauldron. How could