Terms and Conditions

"Rule one," Juniper says. "You don't touch anything behind the counter."

"Bit late for that."

"Rule two. You don't talk to customers about the curse. Half of them would think it's a gimmick and the other half would ask where they can buy one."

She has a rag in one hand and a bottle of lemon oil in the other, and she's holding them out to you like a contract. You're standing in the middle of Thistle & Bone two hours after finding out you're dissolving, and the witch who can save you wants the shelves done.

"Rule three," she says. "When I ask you something, you answer."

"I can't do anything but answer."

"I know." She smiles, finally, and it's worse than the scowl, because it's devastating. It changes her whole face, makes her look like someone you'd cross a street to talk to. "That's the part I'm looking forward to."

You take the rag.

The shelves go floor to ceiling and every one of them is dusty in a way that feels personal. You start at the front. Juniper goes back to her stool and her ledger, and Absalom the cat, who is enormous and black and has one torn ear, comes to sit on the shelf directly above your head and watch you with yellow eyes.

"Why are you selling Prudence's house?" Juniper asks, without looking up.

"Because I'm broke."

It comes out before you can even think about phrasing it better. You scowl at the shelf.

"How broke?"

"Illustration-broke. Rent's due on an apartment in Boston I can barely afford. My biggest client went under in June. I have a credit card I'm scared to look at."

"Hm." The pen scratches. "Do you like drawing?"

"More than anything."

"Do you like Boston?"

You open your mouth to say yes, obviously. The wall comes up in your throat. You cough. Juniper's pen stops.

"No," you finally manage. "I like being near my friend Dev. I don't like Boston. It's loud and it's expensive and nobody there would notice if I disappeared." You hear it after you say it. "Which, apparently, is about to be tested."

The shop is quiet. Absalom's tail twitches.

"That's not funny," Juniper says.

"It's a little funny."

"It's not." She sets the pen down. "Keep dusting."

She asks questions all afternoon, sharp and quick, like she's throwing darts to see where they stick. Do you believe in magic? I didn't until last night. Do you have a girlfriend? No. Did you know your great-aunt? Barely. I wish I had. Do you think she's attractive?

That last one is from Mab, who has drifted back in with a tray of tea, and who asks it with her eyes darting toward Juniper.

"Mab," Juniper says, dangerously.

"Yes," you say, at the same time.

The word is out and in the air and there's nothing you can do about it. Mab claps both hands over her mouth. Juniper, for the first time since you've met her, looks genuinely caught off guard. A faint pink climbs her throat.

"That's an abuse of the curse," Juniper tells Mab.

"It was research!"

"Out."

Mab flees, tray and all. Juniper picks up her pen and does not write anything with it.

"Everybody thinks you're attractive," you say, because the silence is unbearable and it's also true. "A man stopped walking yesterday to look at you through the window. You have to know."

"I know." She says it flatly, with no vanity at all, like you've mentioned she's tall. "It makes people stupid. It makes them think they know me."

"Do they?"

She looks at you over the counter, and for a moment there's nothing sharp in her face at all, just tired.

"No," she says. "Shelf four. You missed a spot."

At five she flips the sign. You are covered in dust and lemon oil and your arms ache.

"Tomorrow, two o'clock, Ethan," she says. "And tonight, before midnight, you write in the ledger. One true thing. Something you've never written down before. Don't be clever about it. It knows."

"What happens if I'm late?"

"You'll find out, and I'd rather you didn't." She holds out her hand. "Phone."

"What?"

"Give me your phone, Ethan."

You hand it over. She types something, quick, silver rings flashing, and hands it back. A new contact: Juniper Vale. No emoji, no nickname. Just the name, like a warning label.

"In case you start disappearing," she says. "I'd like to know."

"Would you?" It's out before you can stop it, and it's an honest question.

She looks at you for a long second. "Go home, thief."

The sun's going down orange behind the harbor when you turn onto Crossing Lane. The streetlights flicker on one by one. And there's someone sitting on your porch.

He stands as you reach the gate. Tall, nearly your height, maybe mid-thirties, in a camel coat that probably cost more than your car. Dark blond hair, a jaw like an advertisement, and when he smiles, a pair of dimples that are almost aggressive.

"You must be the new owner," he says. "Callum Sayre. Sayre Harbor Group. I'm sorry to ambush you. I knocked, but I suspect the doorbell died around 1987."

"It did. Hi."

He holds out a card. Heavy stock, embossed. "I'll be brief, because you look like you've had a day. I'd like to buy your house. I'd like to buy it badly. We're developing a boutique hotel on the harbor, and this lot sits right where the two old roads meet. It's the best view in town."

"I haven't even listed it."

"Which is why I'm here first." The dimples again. He's very good at this, and he knows it, and you find you don't entirely mind. "Think about a number. A big one. I'll beat it."

Headlights sweep across the porch.

A black car, old and polished, slows as it passes the gate. Slows almost to a stop. Behind the windshield, in the glow of the dashboard, you see a curtain of near-black hair and a pale, perfect face turned toward you. Toward Callum. Toward his hand still holding out the card.

Then the engine growls and the car rolls on down Harbor Road and is gone.

"Friend of yours?" Callum asks.

"I honestly don't know," you say, which is the truth.

At 11:40 you sit at Prudence's kitchen table with the ledger open and a pen in your hand and your heart going too fast.

One true thing. Something you've never written before.

You write: I'm afraid nobody will notice when I'm gone.

The ink sinks into the page and turns red-brown, and the clasp's brass eye seems to close a little, satisfied. The clock strikes midnight. Nothing takes you.

You let out a breath you've been holding for an hour.

Your phone buzzes on the table. A name you didn't have this morning lights up the screen.

Juniper Vale.