Kat,” Cosima says softly. “I know I shouldn’t have done it. I know you always warned me about practicing magic for selfish purposes and I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying to make it better, but it’s trickier than I thought.”
All her life Cosima has felt her big sister watching over her. She’s always heard Kat’s voice in her head, reproving her use or misuse of magic (enchanted breakup brownies are one thing, fertility cannoli quite another) and critiquing her business decisions. Kat would have a heart attack if she knew what Cosima has been doing with the baking spells lately; she’d kill her if she knew what Cosima had accidentally done to Kat’s best friend. So Cosima had better fix that, and quickly.
Marcello pokes his head around the door again.
“ Mi scusi , Cosi, am I meant to add cream to the cake mixture before it goes in the oven? I’m sorry, it is a bit…thick.”
Cosima smiles. “Yes, Marc, just as it says on the recipe, okay?”
“ Perfetto, chef, grazie .” He nods, grinning, and turns to go.
“Wait,” Cosima says, and he does, lingering in the doorway, that hapless smile on his face. Why not give him a chance? Perhaps…
“ Sì , chef?”
“Marcello.” Cosima rolls her tongue around the three syllables of his name. “Would you like to work late tonight?”
—
Noa steps inside Santiago’s flat. Her aunt Heather wouldn’t like to think she’s gone home with someone she barely knows, someone who claims to have the ability to rid her of the habit she hates most about herself, someone who talks about magic as if it’s something he has at his fingertips. The rational, sensible side of Noa is a little nervous but even though she can’t see his secrets, and even though she’s not entirely sure she can trust him, when she’s looking into those deep brown eyes she doesn’t really care.
“Take off your shoes,” Santiago says, as they reach the end of the hallway.
“Of course,” Noa says, slipping off her trainers.
“Follow me,” he says, reaching for her hand.
Noa allows herself to be led down the hallway and into the living room. As Noa looks around, it takes every ounce of her depleted social graces not to gasp. The room is like a cave, like the catacombs underneath a twelfth-century church carved out of stone and painted with the faded frescos of Catholic saints. The walls are windowless and white—in places. She’d expected Santiago’s pictures to be hanging everywhere but instead he’s painted them directly onto the walls. Between dark green forests, deep red fields, and purple sunsets are dozens of shelves lined with hundreds of different objects. Noa can’t identify even half of them immediately, though she feels she’s stepped into an exotic antiques shop filled with mysterious, magical objects from all over the world.
“It’s taken me thirty years to build up this collection,” Santiago says. “I’ve been acquiring art for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Really?” Noa frowns. “But I thought…how old are you?”
Santiago smiles. “A little older than I look.”
“Oh, okay,” Noa says, not wanting to pry. It’s still strange to her that she can’t see inside him as she can with every other person she meets. Strange, but rather a relief.
Santiago crosses the carpet and, when he reaches the closest set of shelves, picks up a wooden object and brings it back to Noa. She takes it from him, tentatively examining the little statue of a naked boy, features carved into his face and what appears to be a shock of dark human hair sprouting from his head.
“It’s a birth baby,” Santiago says. “My mother made it after I was born, to protect me.”
“From what?”
“There’s black magic in Brazil, many people believe in it. We are a Catholic country, but the traditions of our ancestors still run deep in our lands.”
“Oh,” Noa says. “I see.”
“My mother was a powerful woman,” Santiago explains. “Some people were
All her life Cosima has felt her big sister watching over her. She’s always heard Kat’s voice in her head, reproving her use or misuse of magic (enchanted breakup brownies are one thing, fertility cannoli quite another) and critiquing her business decisions. Kat would have a heart attack if she knew what Cosima has been doing with the baking spells lately; she’d kill her if she knew what Cosima had accidentally done to Kat’s best friend. So Cosima had better fix that, and quickly.
Marcello pokes his head around the door again.
“ Mi scusi , Cosi, am I meant to add cream to the cake mixture before it goes in the oven? I’m sorry, it is a bit…thick.”
Cosima smiles. “Yes, Marc, just as it says on the recipe, okay?”
“ Perfetto, chef, grazie .” He nods, grinning, and turns to go.
“Wait,” Cosima says, and he does, lingering in the doorway, that hapless smile on his face. Why not give him a chance? Perhaps…
“ Sì , chef?”
“Marcello.” Cosima rolls her tongue around the three syllables of his name. “Would you like to work late tonight?”
—
Noa steps inside Santiago’s flat. Her aunt Heather wouldn’t like to think she’s gone home with someone she barely knows, someone who claims to have the ability to rid her of the habit she hates most about herself, someone who talks about magic as if it’s something he has at his fingertips. The rational, sensible side of Noa is a little nervous but even though she can’t see his secrets, and even though she’s not entirely sure she can trust him, when she’s looking into those deep brown eyes she doesn’t really care.
“Take off your shoes,” Santiago says, as they reach the end of the hallway.
“Of course,” Noa says, slipping off her trainers.
“Follow me,” he says, reaching for her hand.
Noa allows herself to be led down the hallway and into the living room. As Noa looks around, it takes every ounce of her depleted social graces not to gasp. The room is like a cave, like the catacombs underneath a twelfth-century church carved out of stone and painted with the faded frescos of Catholic saints. The walls are windowless and white—in places. She’d expected Santiago’s pictures to be hanging everywhere but instead he’s painted them directly onto the walls. Between dark green forests, deep red fields, and purple sunsets are dozens of shelves lined with hundreds of different objects. Noa can’t identify even half of them immediately, though she feels she’s stepped into an exotic antiques shop filled with mysterious, magical objects from all over the world.
“It’s taken me thirty years to build up this collection,” Santiago says. “I’ve been acquiring art for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Really?” Noa frowns. “But I thought…how old are you?”
Santiago smiles. “A little older than I look.”
“Oh, okay,” Noa says, not wanting to pry. It’s still strange to her that she can’t see inside him as she can with every other person she meets. Strange, but rather a relief.
Santiago crosses the carpet and, when he reaches the closest set of shelves, picks up a wooden object and brings it back to Noa. She takes it from him, tentatively examining the little statue of a naked boy, features carved into his face and what appears to be a shock of dark human hair sprouting from his head.
“It’s a birth baby,” Santiago says. “My mother made it after I was born, to protect me.”
“From what?”
“There’s black magic in Brazil, many people believe in it. We are a Catholic country, but the traditions of our ancestors still run deep in our lands.”
“Oh,” Noa says. “I see.”
“My mother was a powerful woman,” Santiago explains. “Some people were
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