Page 106 of The Magic We Made

And neither are all the messages I find on my phone when I finally check it.

There’s the usual assortment of texts from my family: Mom asking if I need her to drop by with something to eat; Mark asking if Ash has said anything yet about him coming by to pick up Ash’s truck, which he’s agreed to sell him; Cat asking when she can interview me about what I saw last night; Angie asking if I’m being careful and using birth control.

And then there are all the patients whose appointments I slept through today, asking if I’m all right—which is an excellent question. I’ve just found out my boyfriend is a demigod (or at least thinks he is), and all the evidence I’ve seen in the past twenty-four hours seems to suggest it might be true.

No, I don’t think I’m all right.

There are messages from various friends as well, including Rochelle:

“Hey, just calling to say thanks again. Not only did Ash refundMrs. Baumgarten’s rent for the month,” Rochelle says, “but he also gave her deposit backandoffered her an entire month of free rent for next summer, as well—inhigh season. I don’t know what you said to that guy, but the Baumgartens and I both really appreciate it!”

Before I have a chance to digest this, however, I see a voicemail from Jackie, repeating her request that I not speak to the press—specifically my sister Cat.

Something in Jackie’s tone causes me to do a quick scan of the headlines. Yeah, I can see why Jackie is concerned. #TeenageWitchDeathCult is already trending.

That might be why Cat’s left a voicemail in addition to her texts, promising not to identify Ash’s or my role in last night’s rescue—but only, she says, “Because you’re my sister. Although I don’t know why you don’t want to be identified. You can’tbuythis kind of publicity. You could get so many more patients for your practice if you’d just let me tell people what you did!”

But I already have all the patients I can handle... and most of them are worried about me. I’m starting to text them all back, apologizing for my negligence, when I smell it:

Coffee.

Not only coffee. I smell bacon.

But that’s impossible, because I haven’t made coffee yet, and Ash is still passed out naked in my bed.

Someone is in my kitchen. Someone is cooking breakfast in my kitchen.

After hurrying into a fresh sweatshirt, pair of leggings, and Uggs, I stagger out into the main area of the house and find...

A small middle-aged woman in a purple-and-gold abaya, heavygold and amethyst jewelry, and a stylish black bob leaning over my open oven door, checking on something she has inside it. Sunlight is streaming through the sliding glass doors behind her, causing the jewels at her wrists and neck to gleam.

She looks up when I walk in and smiles not only as if she’s known me for ages but as if she has every right to be in my house.

“Oh, hello, Francesca, darling,” she says. She has a vaguely European accent. The darling comes outdahling. “Sorry if I woke you, but I wanted to do something to thank you. You went through quite a lot last night. I’m not flattering myself that I’m as good a cook as your mother or brother, but I’ve been told I do all right. And I truly can’t thank you enough for what you did for my Ash. Coffee?”

I stare at her. She seems familiar, but I know I’ve never seen her before. Surely I’d remember if I’d ever met such a well-dressed and cultured—

Then it hits me all at once.

“Guy?” I say the word tentatively. “Are you...Guy?”

The woman laughs, delighted. “Why, yes, that’s me! I suppose Ash told you that he couldn’t pronounce the wordGaiawhen he was a boy, and so I became Guy. I have to say I’ve grown very attached to the name. Ash really is a darling, isn’t he?”

“Uh... yes.”

I pull a chair out from beneath my dining table and sink down into it—not because I’m so eager for a talk with this woman. No, it’s because my knees have suddenly given out.

A goddess. There is a goddess standing in my kitchen.

Except that... goddesses don’t exist. I don’t know what it was I saw last night, but I know none of it was real. So this womancan’t be real, either. Surely she’s simply a manifestation of my own insecurities from the depth of my subconscious. Because how else did she get in here?

It’s stupid to wonder, I suppose. I shouldn’t expect a hallucination to make sense.

And if sheisa goddess, she probably has some kind of magical door-unlocking powers. She certainly has magical culinary powers, because she’s covered my dining table with food, none of which came from my own pantry or fridge. Neither did the dishes it’s being served in. I don’t own any earthenware, and certainly not any painted in festive blue and white, with what looks like real gold trim.

But there are blue-and-white serving plates and bowls trimmed in gold all over my dining table, some filled with decidedly not-local fresh fruit—plums, melons, figs, and dates—and others piled high with hot, crusty flatbread, tabbouleh salad, hummus, and what looks like a massive pot of eggs poached in tomato sauce, still bubbling from the oven.

I can’t help reaching out to touch this pot, curious to see if it’s as real as it looks—and am surprised to find it hot enough to burn. I hastily pull my finger back.That’snot a hallucination.