Page 10 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
Trial one: Spell Caster's Cipher.
Cliché alert.
Rolling my eyes, I read on.
Each contestant will be assigned an altar and a part of the studio space where they're going to be invoking a traditional circle and reciting a spell. All props, ingredients, and the spell will be provided for each contestant. The objective: correctly invoke the circle and recite the spell—but be careful, one small mistake means starting over.
"Wow, even in written form, they like to be dramatic," I murmur, flipping to the next page.
Trial two: Divination's Divide.
Each contestant will be given a method of divination to 'predict' the future—cartomancy (prediction using tarot cards), gastromancy (scrying via a crystal ball), pyromancy (divination through fire), or nephomancy (prophesy from cloud interpretation). Those who correctly divine the answer will move forward to the third and final trial.
I shake my head derisively, smacking it against the dryer.
Ouch.
But I love how they have to explain every form of divination—are we witches or are we not?
It’s too bad that one of the options isn’t oenomancy, or wine divination, because drunken prophecies are kind of my jam.
Maybe I can convince someone at the network. . .
Say, my on-screen coach?
And I can persuade him with my mouth. . .
I shift in my seat again, feeling overheated—andnotfrom the hair dryer.
Moving on.
Trial three: Sorcerer’s Sign
The two remaining contestants must prove themselves as witches and will be tasked with a certain objective that will verify their existence as a witch. More information will be told before this trial.
That’s not encouraging—at all.
At the end of the third trial explanation is a long list of terms and conditions relating to the show followed by a list of rules for the set, but at that point I’m focusing only on one thing—this might be a lot harder than I anticipated.
Especially against someone whocando magic.
But the show is rigged, right?
I just need to convince the producers that a hippie is the face of modern witches.
And if anyone can do it—a Porter can.
Preston gets back just as Sissy is turning me around in my chair, my hair finally done. It’s like a total Hallmark moment where his eyes meet mine in wonder, adoration, and lust. Then, we bang right there in the hair salon while fireworks go off.
Thattotallyhappens in Hallmark movies, right?
“Nora, you look. . .”
He trails off, not finishing his sentence.
I wince—maybe I read him wrong?
“That bad,” I tease, ignoring the pinch in my chest.
