Chapter 1 Using the tips of my fingers, I gently stripped the tiny, pungent leaves of thyme from their woody stems. The air around me thickened with the scent of herbal goodness. I inhaled deeply with my eyes half closed, and my lips barely moved in a silent invocation to trigger the plant's powers of courage and healing. As a hedgewitch, this kind of green spell was my special talent. As a professional baker, my brand of kitchen magic was a handy addition to my recipes. As part owner of the Honeybee Bakery along with my uncle Ben and aunt Lucy-who was a hedgewitch like me-my gift allowed me to add beneficial dashes of enchantment to the pastries our customers loved so much. Lucy and I were spending the last hour before the Honeybee closed working on two new recipes. The thyme was for a blood orange thyme cake I'd been fine-tuning for a few days, and Lucy was developing a new treat with Halloween-and the Honeybee Halloween party-right around the corner: gummy worms crawling out of gooey "dirt" brownies made with dark chocolate and a tasty dollop of cherry jam. Lucy tipped her head and examined her work. "Katie? Come take a look. What do you think?" Brushing off my hands, I moved to stand beside her. She'd carefully created holes in the brownies, and the worms really did look like they were crawling out. "Looks yummy but just gross enough that the kids will love them," I said. "Good." She sounded satisfied. "We'll add them to the mix. So far, we have spiderweb red velvet cookies, homemade marshmallow ghosties, marzipan shortbread jack-o'-lanterns, and nutty popcorn balls." "We need something with candy corn for the Halloween party. Cupcakes?" She nodded. "Definitely. We can layer the batter to make the cakes yellow and orange, then frost them with white buttercream and decorate with candy corn. And our usual full-moon sugar cookies will go with the theme. I'll bring my old cast-iron Dutch oven to use as a cauldron. Your uncle has already ordered the dry ice." At the bakery, we kept things light and fun, but there was another layer to the holiday for the spellbook club-our informal coven of six. Halloween, or All Hallows Eve, was known to us as Samhain (pronounced sah-win), one of the four major sabbats. As the witches' New Year, it signified the end of the harvest, gave us the chance to celebrate our departed ancestors, and was the time of year when the veil between this plane and the next was the thinnest-and easiest to breach. "No one will know the Dutch oven isn't a real cauldron," I said. "So say you." Lucy's eyes twinkled beneath her loose top bun of graying blond hair. I grinned. "TouchZ." Because, of course, she had concocted plenty of enchanted brews in that cast iron, even if they ended up in a mug as a soothing drink or in a bowl as a soup that nourished the soul as well as the body. A kitchen witch's power extends to everything they cook with intention. The sound of laughter drifted from the bakery's library area. I smoothed the vintage gingham apron I'd chosen for the day and glanced at the clock on the wall. "I'm going to see if the ladies need anything before we start cleaning up." Lucy murmured absentminded agreement and went back to her brownies. I walked around the register and past the coffee counter. Uncle Ben looked up, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling in a smile behind frameless glasses. His gaze cut to the women gathered near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and he stroked his beard with his thumb as if speculating about their conversation before going back to cleaning the espresso machine. The next day, it would be ready to create coffee concoctions for our regulars who always showed up first thing in the morning. As I passed, I noted a few more strands of silver glinted from his beard and along his temples. The Honeybee was Ben's second career after he'd retired as Savannah's fire chief. It perfectly suited his outgoing personality and flair for business. I would be eternally grateful that he and Lucy had convinced me to bring my pastry school training from Akron, Ohio, to Georgia to start up the bakery. Life was certainly different than it had been before I'd relocated almost three years ago. For one thing, I'd learned I was a hereditary hedgewitch like Lucy and that my parents both had magical gifts that they'd hidden from me my entire life. Now I knew who I truly was and why I hadn't fit in for so long. I had heart-filling friendships and five witchy mentors in the spellbook club, a deepening adoration for the richly quirky city of Savannah, and a charmingly updated carriage house in Midtown. Best of all, two months ago I'd married the love of my life, Declan McCarthy. Life was good. No, make that great. I smiled to myself as I scanned the few customers lingering over steaming cups and empty plates scattered on the blue bistro tables. The late afternoon sun cut through the cafZ curtains that framed the front windows where a local artist had painted a cartoon graveyard scene. The skeleton hand reaching out of the ground toward a headstone marked with rip u.r. nex looked more comical than scary, and the floating ghosts reminded me of friendly little Casper. Fans mounted on the high ceiling lazily stirred the air, and deep amber walls subtly encouraged energy and creativity. The wall behind the register was painted a complementary burnt orange to contrast with the blackboard, where we listed the seasonal menu offerings and daily specials. Fake cobwebs festooned the edges of the sign and dripped from the corner of the glass case full of row upon row of delectable pastries. Silhouettes of mice cut from black felt gamboled along the floor moldings and a few well-placed pipe-cleaner spiders clung to the walls. At the other end of the bakery, a reading area welcomed anyone who wanted to peruse the eclectic collection of books. Customers were welcome to take any volume they might need or want, or leave behind a title someone else might like. The selection was always full, varied, and interesting. Comfortable chairs in rich jewel-toned brocade invited customers to stay once they'd selected their reading material, arranged along with a poufy sofa around a sturdy coffee table. On one of the bottom shelves, Mungo, my black Cairn terrier and witch's familiar, was curled into a sleepy ball in his sheepskin bed. On the far windowsill, Honeybee, the bakery's feline namesake and Lucy's familiar, sat hunched over her front paws as she watched the goings- on out on Broughton Street. Her orange and white stripes glowed softly in the sun. It was the perfect place for a book club to meet, and that was exactly what was happening. Five women gathered around the coffee table, each with a copy of the book they were discussing. Leigh Markes, who had reserved the reading area for their meetings for the last couple of months, closed her copy as I approached. I saw it was a biography of the artist Frida Kahlo. One of Kahlo's self-portraits graced the cover. Since Leigh was the owner of the Markes Gallery and a formidable artist in her own right, I wasn't surprised at her book group's choice. "Can I get anyone anything?" I asked. A freckled woman, whose coppery hair was several times brighter than my own short auburn locks, opened her mouth to speak. Leigh cut her off. "We're good. You close in a few minutes, don't you?" The redhead frowned. I remembered from their last meeting that her name was Calista, and I was pretty sure she was Leigh's sister. I glanced at my watch. "Fifteen. We'll be here for a bit, though, closing up." I did have plans for the evening-spellbook club member Jaida French had invited me and some of our other members to dinner and a ghost tour of Savannah, which she had somehow scored free tickets to. We weren't due at the restaurant for over an hour, though, so there was no rush. Leigh shook her head. "No. We don't want to inconvenience you. We're finished." Calista spoke. "But, Leigh, I still want to talk about Kahlo's pantheism and the almost surreal connection to nature her paintings evoke." She looked around at the group. Two of the other ladies nodded. Their dark hair and facial features looked similar enough they had to be related. Given the age difference, I guessed they were mother and daughter. The fifth member of the group, a tanned, athletic-looking blonde, appeared mildly curious. "That's speculative and irrelevant to this discussion." Leigh stood and adjusted a long silk scarf dyed in blues and greens around her neck. It was obviously expensive and nicely accessorized the elegant seafoam-colored dress that hugged her slender curves. Leigh's hair was solid white and expertly cut to frame her narrow face. With her penetrating eyes and petite nose, she reminded me of Emmylou Harris minus the easygoing manner. "It's not discussed in the book at all," she said with a note of finality. "And I think we've taken the discussion of her activism and relationship to Diego Rivera as far as we can today." "But her depiction of animals, her wonderful garden-" "Not in the book," Leigh repeated in a dismissive tone. Her sister's cheeks flared bright pink, and her eyes narrowed with obvious anger. "I don't give a . . ." She took a deep breath and glanced around at the other three women. The mother and daughter exchanged nervous glances, seeming equally uncomfortable. The blonde leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms with a bemused expression. I shuffled back a couple of steps, feeling out of place yet not wanting to call attention to myself. Mungo had quietly left his bed and padded over to stand by my foot. A low whine reached my ears, but the ladies were too caught up in their sudden melodrama to notice. "Listen, sis," Calista grated, glaring at Leigh. "This is a book group, all of us equal, not a bunch of toadies like your gallery people you can boss around. You don't have the right to dictate our entire discussion just because you're an artist, or should I say artiste, and we're not." She hesitated, glancing at the mother and daughter. "I'm sorry to be so blunt, but someone has to set her straight." Her gaze shunted to the blonde. "But you get what I mean, don't you, Jo?" Jo responded with a silent but sympathetic smile. Calista seemed to lose some of her steam. She licked her lips and frowned. "I'm only saying you don't have to be such a bossy moo." Leigh shrugged. "Usually, the person who chooses the book heads the discussion. At least that's what we've done before." She turned away and picked up the purse strap slung across the back of her chair. As she did so, the end of her scarf flared out, and I clearly saw the intertwined images that made up its blue-and-green pattern. "You want to do it differently? Fine by me." Leigh turned back and glared at the redhead. "Come up with some new rules, and we can talk about it next time. After all, it's your turn to choose the next book. What will it be?" Calista looked nonplussed. "Um . . ." Leigh quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, now. Surely you have something wonderful for us, don't you, little sister? After that scene? Please, tell us all about your fabulous choice for our next meeting." Her sister's cheeks blazed again, but her chin came up. "I've been looking at a few possibilities but haven't decided yet." Leigh laughed. "Well, you let us know-" The older woman with dark hair cut in. "Sorry, all. We have to be going. Let us know your selection for next month when you can, okay, Calista? No hurry." She stood, and her daughter bolted to her feet beside her. "Lovely discussion. See you soon." She waved as they practically ran to the front door. I couldn't say I blamed them. The air crackled with enmity. I glanced over at Lucy, who had come out to stand by the register. Our eyes met, and I knew she felt it, too. Mungo leaned against my calf, his little body tense and protective. Calista rose and stiffly packed her book, notebook, and pen into a large quilted tote bag. Without another word or a single look at Leigh or Jo, she turned and stalked out of the Honeybee. "You should be nicer to Calista." Jo reached down to adjust the strap on one of her sandals. When she stood, I realized how tall she was. Her white cotton shirt was loosely tucked into dark slacks that hugged her sturdy hips. She had the face of a model and the physique of a competitive athlete. Leigh frowned. "I've tried being nice. Ever since Daddy passed on, no matter what I do, she's against it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of her." They began to walk toward the door, and I quickly moved to tidy one of the bookshelves so I wouldn't be caught standing there listening to them. "Oh, Katie?" I whirled back to find they'd paused several feet away. "Thanks for accommodating us this afternoon," Leigh said. "It's lovely in here, and I think I must have eaten my weight in pastries in the last couple of hours. We'd love to meet here again next month." Relief that she wasn't going to take me to task for eavesdropping whooshed through me, and I started to smile. Then I saw the images on her scarf again. Dragonflies. Dozens of dragonflies. An oily quiver snaked through my solar plexus. "Of course," I managed to say. "Just give us a few days' notice so we can put up the reserved sign." "Will do!" She smiled and turned away. As they continued toward the door, I heard Jo say, "Well, Calista lost a father, too." They exited the bakery, and I turned toward Lucy. "Did you see?" Gravely, she nodded. "Your totem. All over her scarf. But dragonflies are everywhere, you know. It could be a coincidence." "Let's hope so," I said lightly. Nevertheless, something in me knew better. One of the things I'd learned in my brief journey as a witch was that dragonflies often served as a kind of metaphysical tap on the shoulder. When that happened, it felt different than when the iridescent lovelies simply zinged around my backyard hunting Savannah's ubiquitous mosquitoes. And it felt different now. The front door opened, and a muscular man with dark wavy hair and a deliciously strong jaw came in. His ice blue eyes met mine across the room, and I felt my heart give an extra pitty-pat. I wasn't sure how long that sort of reaction was supposed to last, but seeing my new husband still gave me a thrill every time. Excerpted from Spirits and Sourdough by Bailey Cates All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.