Page 82 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“Stop hanging out with my brothers instead of me!” she shouts. “Hang up on Caden!”
I break into laughter, glancing around the corner to find her angrily gesticulating at me from halfway down Widow’s grand carved staircase. “I just did,” I reply, reaching for my coffee—served in a dainty vintage teacup, saucer and all. Then I pad through Widow’s gorgeous foyer to the base of the stairs.
“Sorry. My parents emailed. Caden wanted to let me know right away that they’re alive and stuff,” I say as I begin to make my way up the stairs.
Fallon’s head tilts to the side, hair falling across her shoulders like a shining curtain as she examines me. “Shit,” she says, drawing the word out. “Caden being considerate of another human being? My family sure is under your spell.”
I link my arm into hers as we begin to climb the remaining stairs together. “I left my entire life behind to hang out with youguys forever,” I remind her. “If anything, you’re the ones casting spells here.”
“Didn’t someone already explain this to you?” Widow asks me from where she’s suddenly appeared on the second-floor landing, still garbed in a long, embroidered silk robe that pools around her feet like water. “It’s the town. It’s Blackbird Hollow. Pulls the right people in. Pushes the wrong ones out. It’s why so many folks leave. Can’t take the ley lines, that feeling in the air.” She winks at me. “But people likeus? We can’t get enough.”
I smile at the witch, pausing when Fallon and I reach the second floor. The bay window on the other side of the landing steals my attention. Blackbird Hollow is framed like a painting, glowing golden in the afternoon light. My heart swells. “Yeah,” I agree before taking a long sip of coffee. “This place is pretty damn magical.”
“You know what else is magic?” Fallon asks, one eyebrow raised. “Widow’s closet.” With that, she wraps her fingers around my forearm and drags me into the first door on the left. As I pass over the threshold, a gasp slinks from my lips.
The rest of Widow’s antique home is all dark, shining wood and soothing earth tones, decorated with paintings of rivers, quilts in faded floral flannels, lovingly restored rattan furniture, warm off-white walls, and pops of stormy blue-gray. Glossy, oversized fashion books crown worn catalog cabinets, and ancient pharmacy shelving adorns the light-soaked kitchen.
I was expecting more of the same, but as Fallon pulls me into the space, I instead find an explosion of color and texture. The walls are painted a rich merlot, just barely visible between the frames of artwork decorating the room. At the far end, pale green curtains in a brocade pattern drape around a tall, narrow window.
The entire wall to my left is lined with garments in every imaginable hue and fabric, skirts and trains spilling out onto thewood floor beneath my feet. Marion’s seated at a fussy vanity with an elegantly shaped mirror, holding what looks to be a slinky flapper-style dress up to her chest.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Fallon asks me in a reverent whisper, trailing her hand along the wall of garments. She stops, fingers running down a slipper-pink sleeve for a second before moving on.
“And we’re just allowed to…look at any of these?” I ask in bewilderment. There must be at least a hundred pieces of clothing here, if not more—and they all look like once upon a time, when the world was different, they would’ve beenincrediblyexpensive.
“You’re allowed to do more than look,” Widow assures me, coming through the door with a pleased smile on her face. “Pick anything you’d like to wear tonight. I finally got it all unpacked and hung up. Might as well make use of it.”
I pause, glancing at Widow’s frame—tall, willowy, perfectly proportioned. “I’m not sure if anything would actually fit me, though,” I bemoan.
At the vanity, Marion twists in the velvet chair, beaming over her shoulder at me. “You’re in Blackbird Hollow now, Alice,” she grins. “Widow or someone else in the coven will make sure whatever you want to wear fits perfectly.”
“Magic, silly goose,” Fallon reminds me from further down the garment rack. I can’t hide the excitement bubbling in me as I set my coffee cup down onto the vanity and dive into Widow’s literal fashion archive, oohing and aahing as I go. I find about five different drop-dead-gorgeous dresses in less than a few minutes, but I’m not sure if any are reallyme.
Marion and Widow are deep in conversation about how to make the slippery, jade-green dress fit Marion’s stature appropriately when I hear Fallon give out a quiet little gasp. It’sso unlike her that my head snaps in her direction immediately, something like worry rising in my throat.
But instead of a monster or even just a nymph peering through the window, Fallon’s cradling a dress. It’s somewhere between pale blue and ivory, embroidery shimmering in the light of the crystal-trimmed sconces by the vanity. If I’m honest, it’s not something I would’ve ever expected Fallon to pick. Not with the billowing sleeves and yards upon yards of floating tulle fabric. I thought maybe the paneled leather dress I passed a few hangers ago might be more her taste, or even the slinky aubergine number with dark velvet ribbons. But the gown in her hands is like starlight condensed, the kind of dress that’s Faerie-made for a princess in a faraway, ethereal land.
“Ahh,” Widow observes, looking up from Marion’s chosen dress. “Is that the one, Fallon?”
Her head snaps up, meeting my eyes, and then she looks at Widow, mouth parted. “Oh, I—couldI?” Fallon asks with such tenderness, one hand gently skimming the gown’s poofy skirt. “Really?” The last word is a wistful whisper, more a wish than anything else.
I don’t know exactly why, but my eyes suddenly brim with tears. Maybe I’m thinking about the little girl that Fallon never got to be. The dress-up trunk her Nan never dragged out from the cellar. The butterflies she never chased through the creek in a vintage wedding dress, five sizes too big.
“Of course,” Widow replies with one of her dazzling smiles. “I think that would look absolutely lovely on you. Come, I’m nearly done with Marion’s alterations.”
Fallon pulls the dress from the rack, tracing the gossamer-thin lace trim along the plunging neckline. Her gaze darts to me. “It’s not really me, though, is it?” she asks, a hard glint appearing in her eyes.
I swallow, somehow knowing that if she sees my tears, she’ll shove the dress back without a second glance. “It’ssoyou, Fallon.”
“We’re going to be late.”I frown, checking the time on the ridiculous clock hanging above Fallon’s dresser. It’s shaped like a white duck wearing a handkerchief around its neck, two little ducklings adorning either side.
“I’m not gonna let a fucking duck tell me what time it is,” Fallon shouts from the bathroom, her voice muffled, referring to the clock that she personally chose for her own house. “We’ll get there when we get there.”
I make eye contact with the big duck that holds the clock in its belly. “‘A queen is never late,’” I remind it, peering into its beady little eye.
“‘Everyone else is simply early,’” Fallon finishes for me, looking pleased as she floats out of the bathroom, dressed in Widow’s ballgown.
I stare at her, no better than a man. Fallon is always beautiful, like the rest of the Hayes, but tonight she’s…magnificent. Between the gown and her makeup—a wet, silvery look that makes her appear ten years younger and also somehow ancient at the same time—I’m speechless.
