Page 107 of Enchanted to Meet You

“No!” I cried.

Esther looked at me and lifted an eyebrow. “Why did you two bother teaching me how to control my powers if you don’t want me using them?”

“Youdiduse your powers,” Derrick said. “Your powers of compassion and empathy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Boring.”

“Isn’t it better not to be like him, though?” I asked, nodding at the sniveling Brewster.

She thought about it for a moment. I could see her considering her options—then she shrugged.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess you’re right. Besides, I can always blow stuff up when I get to college.”

Then, just like that, the last shaft of wolf light disappeared, the party lights in the rest of the tent turned back on, and Esther was herself again.

And Professor Bartholomew Brewster slumped down into the mud in a dead faint.

Jessica

To show gratitude to the Mother Goddess for all her bounty, place sacrifices of wine upon her altar. Or simply drink it in her name.

Goody Fletcher,Book of Useful Household Tips

It took the EMTs a while to get into the tent, because of the crowd and the road closures.

But when they finally got a chance to examine Derrick’s brother, they found his pulse and blood pressure completely normal. He begged them to take him to the hospital anyway, and hold him overnight for “observation.”

I guess I can’t really blame him. I wouldn’t want to hang around, defenseless, against a whole bunch of powerful witches who hated me, either.

It was as they were trundling him away on the gurney that we turned around and saw the mayor walking up to our table, her wife in tow.

“Good evening,” the mayor said. “That was certainly aninteresting performance piece.”

“It wasn’t a perf—” Esther started to say, but Rosalie jumped in before she could finish.

“Oh, Madam Mayor, I can’t apologize enough,” she gushed. “I was assured the tents would be wind- and waterproof.”

“That’s quite all right.” The mayor shrugged sympathetically. “These things happen, especially in New England in the fall. We can’t control the weather.”

None of us said anything—especially those of us who knew better.

“I don’t think it’s too late to try to salvage the evening, though.” She looked up at the dripping tent ceiling. “Well, what’s left of it, anyway. The sky is clear now, and there are still quite a few people left, including the caterers.”

It was true. The servers had begun putting out the first course—a somewhat soggy lobster bisque. Cold, hungry partygoers were drying off their chairs with their napkins with good-hearted cheer, and sitting down.

“And look,” said the mayor, pointing to the stage.

The orchestra was back, apparently no longer fearing either damage to their instruments or electrocution, and had resumed Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number Four.

“Aw, see, honey,” Billy said, beaming down at his wife. “Things haven’t turned out so badly, after all.”

I have no idea what Billy had seen—or did not see, or told himself not to see—in the hour before. But whatever it was, the whisky seemed to have caused him to decide it was all right. He was back to being the happy-go-lucky Billy he’d been ever since he’d married Rosalie.

Was that because of the spell Dina and I had cast upon the couple, so many years earlier? Or simply because he loved her, witch or not?

Whatever the reason, Rosalie seemed relieved. She swayed against him, and he put an arm around her to support her.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you’re right. I guess things are turning out all right, after all.”