Page 7 of Everything She Does Is Magic

“Do you not want to own the art shop?” I ask.

She makes a scoffing sound, insulted by the question in a way that would require me to have a lot more context about the situation than I do. She seems to realize this herself, because she unfolds her arms, leaning herself against the Witches of Fableview shop window.

“The thing is, my parents don’t want anything to change.Ever,” she says. “They’re so obsessed with tradition that they don’t realize how hard it is to perfectly re-create every detail of our lives each fall. Not that I can’t do it. I can.”

“I believe you,” I say.

Her look is laced with mistrust, as if she can’t quite figure out what I have to gain by flattering her. “It’s just a lot of work. They don’t want me to wear a different costume or hang a new kind of twinkle light in front of our building. Passing this shop over to me is a symbolic gesture. They just want to know their only child has security over the paperwork. And I guess I would’ve liked a little say in the matter.”

Her life is so different from mine, but her problems still feel like my own. I’ve never had a job, for one. Learning how to be a witchismy job. Some of the members of our coven work, but most live on the trust funds every witch gains access to upon initiation on their eighteenth birthday. Keeping everyone in our coven connected, making sure the communities where we live continue to thrive—that’s the real work of a Doyle. It’s a traditioneveryone in the family is expected to keep up. Not only am I the first witch in centuries to potentially fail my initiation, but I seem to be the first to not really enjoy being a witch at all.

“They just want to make sure our family’s role as the planners of Fableview’s Halloween festivities doesn’t get snatched up by the Holtzenbergs,” Darcy adds.

The last name is familiar, but I can’t place it, so I say, “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“I like pressure.” The challenge in her voice intensifies. “That’s not the problem.”

“I’ve heard Halloween is a big deal around here,” I try, no longer sure where to go with this conversation. Even my kindest words seem to offend her. “Everyone wears costumes every single day?”

“Oh yeah. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Surely you could wear a different costume, though? There are thirty-one days in the month. You need to wash that cloak sometime.”

Darcy laughs again. Quick. Full.

I’m not funny.

Am I?

“So take this paint night, for example,” she says. “We’ve taught the same artwork for longer than I’ve been alive. A witch on a broomstick, flying over the forest. Grace and I wanted to add a tiny dog to the painting. Grace came up with a good backstory for it too. We make all this up anyway, so I’m not sure why my parents care so much. It’s not like witches are real. Leaning into all this stuff is a business decision that keeps Fableview afloat. Anyway, the actual change we made to the painting amounts to, like, five tiny brushstrokes. Still, my parents freaked outabout us teaching that version to the tourists. They wouldn’t let us doit.”

It’s not like witches are real.

For someone who is supposedly from a protector family, she hasn’t said this with any kind of hidden wink. Maybe that’s her version of protection? Could she really believe that in a town like Fableview? Aunt Cal and I aren’t the only witches who live here. We’re standing in front of a store called Witches of Fableview, after all. But, to my knowledge, wearethe only coven that seeks out protectors. Every coven has different rules, and in the Doyle family, having a protector is a practice that stretches back to our earliest times in Ireland.

There’s a story attached to it—there’s always a story—about a Doyle witch from hundreds of years ago who was moments from being killed for her gift, until she came up with a solution that appealed to everyone. She realized that the mortals hated her for having something they would never have. Making them a part of her magic by asking them to look out for her, to keep her safe, is what stopped them from killing her. She used her magic to keep the town’s crops healthy, bringing good fortune and prosperity to the area. And in exchange, she got to stay alive. It’s always sounded like more of a desperate trade-off than an actual act of kindness from the mortals.

Whether or not this actually happened anyway is impossible to say. My family’s stories feel more like folklore than truth from where I’m sitting, passed down and reshaped through generations to fit whatever lesson needs to be taught. What’s not lost on me is that my ancestor’s powers sound a lot like my own. I might be the second coming of the witch who created ourcoven’s entire structure, and I’m the first one in the family line who doesn’t seem capable of following the rules she set forth.

I already tried once to ask a mortal to be my protector. Her name was Julia, and I thought she was my best friend. But I was wrong. Very, very wrong. So it’s a little hard to buy into the feel-good family narrative about our beautiful, enduring connection to mortals.

Darcy eyes me expectantly. If this conversation is a test, every question I ask must be precise.

“What kind of dog?” I choose.

“It’s just a cute little basset hound,” she says.

“Should’ve done a wolfhound,” I respond without thinking, forgetting to accept her assertion that witches aren’t real.

This knocks Darcy out of whatever internal spiral she’s been in, reminding her that her audience for this is me, a stranger. An outsider.

“Don’t tell me you believe in witches,” she says. She reaches behind my ear, and my breath hitches at the nearness of her. She smells as sweet as always. Her hand is so soft.

I could die. I really could.

She procures a coin. It’s pressed into an oval shape and imprinted with a picture of a jack-o’-lantern.

“Someone else would tell you that’s magic,” she whispers. “ButIwill tell you the truth. Anyone who says they have real powers around here has just watched some YouTube tutorials on magic tricks.”