Page 13 of Strike It Witch

Four

My first full breath inside the garden room was like a power surge straight to my heart. Peaty compost mingled with the zest of basil, lemon balm, and rosemary, and intertwined with the sweet aroma of lavender, mint, and thyme. The perfumed air crescendoed into a scented chorus, a spicy medley of aromatic music.

I straightened one of the whimsical miniature paintings Mom and I’d nailed to a wooden sill, ran my fingers over the chipped paint corbels, arches, and decorative pieces we’d affixed to the walls, wiped dust off furniture we’d hauled out of thrift shops and off curbsides, cleaned, and lovingly restored as planters.

The room overflowed with life, with love, with peace.

Everything was perfect here.

Beautiful.

Serene.

Crash!

An aluminum watering can smashed against the floor at my feet with enough force to splash water on the ceiling. I jerked my mug back to keep water out of it and sloshed coffee on my shoes.

“Rrrreeee-ow.”

“Cecil, leave Fennel alone,” I said. “Wait. Is that my new trowel?”

The trowel flew across the room and slammed into one of the shelves with a metallic rattle, knocking an empty pot into the planter beneath it.

A blur of black fur shot past me and into the cat bed beneath the fennel planter. “Me-owww.”

“That’senough.” I slammed my mug onto my worktable, spilling even more coffee. “Drop those pruning shears and behave yourself,you pint-sized terrorist.”

The foot-high gnome threw down the clippers he’d been brandishing like a sword, and the tool clattered across the tile. He scampered across the shelf where I grew verbena and disappeared, his footsteps echoing like the keys of an old electric typewriter,clickity-click-clack.

“Why do we have to do this every day? Have you forgotten that I saved your life, Cecil? Do you think the wolf shifters in that trailer park were going to continue to welcome you with open paws after what you did to their gardens? To theirankles?”

Crash-bang!

“Dang it.” I knelt in front of Fennel’s bed, peered around. “Where’d he go?”

“Meow.”

“I know he’s upset about your trip to Limbo last night, but he has to learn to communicate without violence. Now, where is he?”

The cat yawned and closed his bleary eyes, ignoring my question.

“You’re still stoned, aren’t you?”

He rolled onto his back in the bed. “Meow.”

“You know how strong demon-grown catnip is. What were you thinking?”

“Mee. Ow.”

“No, I’m not your mom or your parole officer. I’m the witch who was going to ask you to accompany me to meet the buyer this morning, but I can see that would be an exercise in futility, given your state of mind.”

He purred motorboat-style. I was annoying him.

“Sorry to be a buzzkill.” I ran my finger over the fur between his ears, and his purr settled into a contented hum. “Thanks again for getting the belladonna. I’ll pick up some of that wild-caught salmon for you for when the munchies hit.”

“Me-ow.” He head-bumped my hand, requesting another stroke.

Fennel was particular about being petted and didn’t allow most people to touch him at all. Me, Ida, and Cecil, that was about it. So, it was nice when he asked.

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