them. Probably working too much. Overtired. I’ll take a nice, ghost-free vacation once we deal with the disappearances.
As I left the café, I spotted the guy who had chatted me up about the latte sitting at a table by the window in a restaurant across the street. He saw me, waved and smiled, but made no move to call me over or get up. That was fine with me. I gave a half-hearted smile and wave, then walked briskly down the block.
What bothered me about him? I still wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the too good-looking part. Something about Coffee Guy seemed fake, although I couldn’t put my finger on why. My gut feeling told me that Coffee Guy wasn’t what he seemed.
And then there was the zap of magic when I brushed his hand. That didn’t happen often. Usually, only when I touched someone else who had magic. So that meant the stranger had some kind of power of his own, and from the look in his eyes when I got jolted, he didn’t like that my magic outed him. Curiouser and curiouser. And now there he was again, popping up along my path. Coincidence? Maybe. Stalker? Too soon to tell. Friend or foe? Not sure, but until proven otherwise, he goes in the ‘foe’ category.
I cut through the Charleston City Market on my way to Forbidden City. The Market is the heart of historic Charleston, and buildings take up the main section of Market Square.
Charlestonians have been buying produce, spices, and baked goods at the City Market for hundreds of years. Nowadays, shoppers can find fresh fruits and vegetables, locally-made jams, jellies, and pastries, artisan-roasted coffee, Charleston-raised tea, and a wide selection of craft and art objects sold by the people who made them.
Walking through the City Market is my favorite way to lift my mood and clear my head. I shop there a lot, so many of the merchants know me. The smell of the coffee, pastries, and spices makes me happy, and I love to see so many beautiful things on display. I waved hello to friends as I walked by, although I didn’t stop to chat like I usually do.
Near the main outside doors, sat an elderly woman and her daughter weaving beautiful, complex baskets from sweetgrass. Completed baskets lay on a large cloth on the ground near their feet. Charleston sweetgrass baskets are a local art, passed down from generation to generation, and they sell for hundreds – sometimes thousands – of dollars. Baskets like these are in the Smithsonian and other museums, a handcraft with roots tracing back to the Gullah people and the region’s freed and escaped slaves. And in my opinion, no one made more beautiful sweetgrass baskets than Mrs. Teller and her daughter, Niella.
“I wondered when you’d come ’round here, Cassidy,” Mrs. Teller said, not looking up from the complicated pattern her agile fingers wove. She had been making baskets all her life, and she made it look easy, but the strips of grass were tough and sharp, and novices ended up with bloody fingers.
“It was a nice day for a walk,” I said.
Niella nodded. “Sure is. Lots of tourists walking around. Let’s hope they feel like taking a little bit of Charleston home with them.”
“You heard about the men that disappeared?” Mrs. Teller asked, looking up at me with piercing, black eyes. Close-cropped gray hair was a stark contrast against her dark skin. I wasn’t sure how old she was. But I knew her skill as a powerful root worker was a force to be reckoned with.
“Yes. But I’m not sure what to make of it,” I replied.
Mrs. Teller cocked her head at me as if she were certain that I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Oh child. I think you do. Bad things are happening all over town. People been coming to me for days for charms and blessings. I give them what I can,” she said with a sigh, “but what’s comin’ is bigger than I can put a root on, you know what I mean?”
“Mama –” Niella said, a warning for her mother not to speak of things too loudly, or maybe not to call the evil by name. Niella and Mrs. Teller know about my magic, and about Sorren. Teag takes Weaving lessons from Mrs. Teller to learn more about controlling his power, something he’s also pretty new at doing. Still, Niella’s right to be careful. Most people in Charleston don’t believe in magic, or