Page 40 of Enchanted Village

Instead of Petals and Pixies, Margaret ducked into Sugar Spell, the older establishment that sold stronger lattes and flakier pastries. Now, here was a place that did not even have the word remodel in their vocabulary. Quaint, with warm wood and occasionally chipped but large mugs. They’d also hoisted up a Christmas tree with colorful bulbs, shining in the corner. Margaret made her way to Sarah, the older witch at the front, who spotted Margaret and grinned. Her gray-and-white braids were pulled into a bun today, and she wore horn-rimmed glasses that dipped slightly as she leaned forward to greet Margaret.

“Well, Maggie Nettle!” she said. “How’re you?”

“Doing well,” Margaret said. “The place looks great. Love the decorations.”

Sarah laughed. “Had to make sure we did it up properly. Can’t have Petals and Pixies showing us up in the decorating competition.”

Margaret laughed. “Of course not.”

“You know, they’ve got their thing, and we’ve got ours,” Sarah said. “But I must say . . . I like ours better.”

She winked at Margaret, who smiled. Yes, that was true, wasn’t it? So what if there were two coffee shops. They were very distinct, weren’t they? You could come to Sarah’s if you wanted to feel cozy and cared for . . . and you could go to Petals and Pixies if you felt like having your senses bombarded.

It would be the same way with the Toasty Owl and Fox Bar, Margaret decided. She had nothing to worry about.

Margaret ordered a few sticky buns, a moon-shape pastry with huckleberry filling for Liza, and two hazelnut lattes. For the lattes, Sarah charmed the foam so that it crashed like waves and re-formed after each sip. She also graciously cast a spell to keep everything warm and safe from the snow before Margaret could say anything to the contrary, for which Margaret was grateful.

With the sugar and caffeine in tow, Margaret headed out just as a line had started to form. She rounded the corners and lanes of the village, passing a group of carolers preparing for their route as she went. Thankfully, they hadn’t officially started for the day, or their singing—while quite nice—would’ve been much louder and harder for Margaret to ignore.

At last, she was at Liza’s. The exterior of the shop was a brilliant emerald green, while storybook-style script read The Bewitched Quill in silver letters. There was a window display where, normally, books spun in place and opened to different pages, charmed depictions of those exact scenes popping into the air. Today, however, it was empty, save for the mainstay that was the window chair, a very old and battered mauve armchair that had been patched in several places. It couldn’t be moved because Liza’s cat Charles demanded that it stay in the window. Charles was an orange tabby with whiskers that looked slightly burnt. Like Liza, he was always finding ways into mischief.

A sign on the door said that the shop was closed, but Margaret opened it anyway. Instantly, the smell of old books and Liza’s favored fig-and-lilac perfume drifted through the air, and Margaret sighed with relief as she stepped over the threshold and heard the telltale jingle of the bell. It was all so very Liza, which meant just stepping through the threshold made Margaret feel at ease, particularly when she saw Liza’s head appear around the corner.

“There you are!” Liza said, not bothering to hide how her eyes instantly glowed at seeing the drinks and the paper bag in Margaret’s hand. “Come on. I’m dying, Margaret. Give me sugar or give me death.”

The women retired to the back of the shop, which was where story time was generally held on a circular burgundy rug. Charles was sunning himself in the neighboring window, blissfully curled up without a care in the world. He did reward Margaret with a soft blink of green eyes when she walked in, though, before returning to his nap. After returning the loving gesture with a gentle pat of his head, both Liza and Margaret sought out the two large armchairs, and each woman fell into one with a warm cup in hand and a pastry in the other.

Liza bit decadently into her pastry and moaned.

“Margaret, darling, this is delicious.”

“I didn’t make it,” Margaret said, unable to resist a slight giggle. “But I had a feeling you’d be in the mood for huckleberry.”

“Needed it, frankly,” Liza said. “I’ve been building the Christmas display for the window for the last hour. I thought I’d gotten the lanterns to twinkle just the right way, but I was wrong.”

“But, I thought you’d already made one,” Margaret said, biting into her sticky bun and shivering at the brown sugar and cream that exploded on her tongue.

“It wasn’t festive enough,” Liza said. “I went outside in the snow to have a look, and I just felt I had to do better. We’re a stone’s throw from where they’re putting up the village tree, after all. Can you imagine people looking at that and then coming here? No, I won’t be outdone. I refuse.”

Honestly, Margaret thought that it was somewhat laughable that anyone else in Hex Hollow was attempting to compete with Liza. For as long as they’d known each other, Liza had always been singularly focused. Much of this, Margaret thought, had to do with her mother. Mrs. Stippleton was an accomplished, high-achieving witch who often threw out adages like “The only one you should be in competition with is yourself” and “Every day is an opportunity for improvement.” Liza had lived and breathed these things, particularly the first one. Also, if an actual competition came around . . . well, Liza was not in the habit of losing. Ever.

“I can’t believe I heard from someone at the candy store that whoever this ‘P. Kerrigan’ is has been telling people he intends to win the contest,” Liza said. “With that sham of a bar that we saw. Can you believe that?”

Margaret shook her head. She took another bite, then sipped her latte.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get gingerbread,” Liza said, also sipping from her latte. “I heard Sarah’s gingerbread latte is exceptional. And so—”

“—festive, yes, I’m aware,” she said. “I run a hard line on no Christmas-themed beverages until after Thanksgiving.”

“You mean, you try to pretend you’re opposed to anything and everything warm, cozy, and delightful?” Liza said, shaking her head. “As for me, I need whimsy. I need joy.”

She waved at the bookshop, and suddenly, it was as if the night sky had been transposed to blanket them. Small lights twinkled from every corner, casting a soft glow over all of the shelves.

Margaret admired the lights. They were beautiful.

“So,” Liza said. “Any word from our favorite professor?”

Margaret laughed. “You mean, did I wake up to him in my pub again? No, just your note.”