Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery by Bailey Cates
Authors: Bailey Cates
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Stunned, I froze. Mungo sat down, looking up at me. Then I laughed, realizing what had happened.
I hadn’t been paying attention as I walked, thinking out loud, and had wandered into the circular patch of pavement in Rousakis Plaza that was known as the echo chamber. One day when I’d picked Bianca up from her wineshop, Moon Grapes, to have lunch, she’d suggested we get something and eat by the water. On the way she’d pointed to a man in plaid Bermuda shorts standing by himself in the middle of the pavement and apparently moving his lips silently. A woman stood nearby, watching him with a smile. Bianca had explained that something about the construction of the area ramped up even the smallest whisper and returned it to the person who had uttered it. However, this was the first time I’d actually experienced it myself.
I laughed again, waiting for the echo, but this time another laugh joined my own. I looked around to see who it was. There wasn’t a soul nearby. Puzzled, I looked down at Mungo. His nose quivered as he sniffed the air. He wagged his tail, and a split second later I smelled the sweet scent, too.
Gardenia.
My eyes went wide. “Nonna?” I asked quietly. Now Mungo’s tail was wagging so enthusiastically that the whole back half of his body wiggled.
This time, instead of an echo of my own words, I heard the voice of my grandmother—my grandmother who had died when I was nine years old.
Katie . . . magic is always about intention. Make sure your intention is for good, and you don’t have to worry.
This was the third time she’d come to me, but only the second time she’d spoken. I was thrilled to hear from her again.
“Oh, Nonna,” I whispered. “What if I mess up? No one seems to understand. What if I need to cast gray or even black magic for some reason, but I can’t because I’m a lightwitch who can only cast white magic? What if the good of the many depends on the sacrifice of one? What if my intentions are good, but I still make the wrong choice?”
There are no easy answers. And remember that every group for the good has their warriors—the Jesuits, warrior monks, the yamabushi. You must trust that you have whom you need in your life.
Voices behind me warned of an approaching group of tourists. Quickly, I asked, “Whom do you mean?”
The words returned as a normal echo. My nonna’s spirit was gone.
Smiling absently at the family walking by, I picked up Mungo and put him back in the tote bag. Slowly, we returned to the Honeybee. As I walked back to Broughton, I mulled over the brief advice my grandmother had offered. What did she mean that I had to trust that I had whom I needed in my life? Someone I already knew? Someone I would meet? More than one person?
At least I understood what she meant by keeping my intentions toward the good. I tried to do that anyway.
Was it possible I was worrying about nothing? That I was already on the right track?
And what the heck was a yamabushi?
• • •
Even with the walk along the riverfront I got back to the bakery before we closed. The door of the Honeybee opened when I was a few steps away. Cookie came out but didn’t notice me. She propped it open with the ironwork cat we used as a doorstop and turned to wave to someone inside. The spicy, sweet, and savory scents that were the Honeybee’s best advertisement rolled out to entice passersby from the sidewalk. I glanced at my watch. Half an hour until closing. Maybe all those good smells would pull in a few last-minute customers from the Sunday strollers spending some of this beautiful day in Savannah’s historic district.
“Hi,” I said.
Cookie whirled. “Oh! Katie, you startled me.” She wore a black ribbed turtleneck over a black and green plaid skirt. Her long legs were encased in tights, and soft leather boots reached to her knees.
“Sorry. How did the job interview go?”
She shrugged. “Hard to tell.”
I laughed. “Usually you can tell right away.
I hadn’t been paying attention as I walked, thinking out loud, and had wandered into the circular patch of pavement in Rousakis Plaza that was known as the echo chamber. One day when I’d picked Bianca up from her wineshop, Moon Grapes, to have lunch, she’d suggested we get something and eat by the water. On the way she’d pointed to a man in plaid Bermuda shorts standing by himself in the middle of the pavement and apparently moving his lips silently. A woman stood nearby, watching him with a smile. Bianca had explained that something about the construction of the area ramped up even the smallest whisper and returned it to the person who had uttered it. However, this was the first time I’d actually experienced it myself.
I laughed again, waiting for the echo, but this time another laugh joined my own. I looked around to see who it was. There wasn’t a soul nearby. Puzzled, I looked down at Mungo. His nose quivered as he sniffed the air. He wagged his tail, and a split second later I smelled the sweet scent, too.
Gardenia.
My eyes went wide. “Nonna?” I asked quietly. Now Mungo’s tail was wagging so enthusiastically that the whole back half of his body wiggled.
This time, instead of an echo of my own words, I heard the voice of my grandmother—my grandmother who had died when I was nine years old.
Katie . . . magic is always about intention. Make sure your intention is for good, and you don’t have to worry.
This was the third time she’d come to me, but only the second time she’d spoken. I was thrilled to hear from her again.
“Oh, Nonna,” I whispered. “What if I mess up? No one seems to understand. What if I need to cast gray or even black magic for some reason, but I can’t because I’m a lightwitch who can only cast white magic? What if the good of the many depends on the sacrifice of one? What if my intentions are good, but I still make the wrong choice?”
There are no easy answers. And remember that every group for the good has their warriors—the Jesuits, warrior monks, the yamabushi. You must trust that you have whom you need in your life.
Voices behind me warned of an approaching group of tourists. Quickly, I asked, “Whom do you mean?”
The words returned as a normal echo. My nonna’s spirit was gone.
Smiling absently at the family walking by, I picked up Mungo and put him back in the tote bag. Slowly, we returned to the Honeybee. As I walked back to Broughton, I mulled over the brief advice my grandmother had offered. What did she mean that I had to trust that I had whom I needed in my life? Someone I already knew? Someone I would meet? More than one person?
At least I understood what she meant by keeping my intentions toward the good. I tried to do that anyway.
Was it possible I was worrying about nothing? That I was already on the right track?
And what the heck was a yamabushi?
• • •
Even with the walk along the riverfront I got back to the bakery before we closed. The door of the Honeybee opened when I was a few steps away. Cookie came out but didn’t notice me. She propped it open with the ironwork cat we used as a doorstop and turned to wave to someone inside. The spicy, sweet, and savory scents that were the Honeybee’s best advertisement rolled out to entice passersby from the sidewalk. I glanced at my watch. Half an hour until closing. Maybe all those good smells would pull in a few last-minute customers from the Sunday strollers spending some of this beautiful day in Savannah’s historic district.
“Hi,” I said.
Cookie whirled. “Oh! Katie, you startled me.” She wore a black ribbed turtleneck over a black and green plaid skirt. Her long legs were encased in tights, and soft leather boots reached to her knees.
“Sorry. How did the job interview go?”
She shrugged. “Hard to tell.”
I laughed. “Usually you can tell right away.
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