Octavia made a choked sound and grew so still that Amelia stopped chopping and joined me in waiting for the older woman to look up from the piece of paper and give us a little backstory. That didn’t happen.

After a moment, I realized Octavia was crying, and I hurried to my bedroom and got a tissue. I tried to slip it to Octavia tactfully, like I hadn’t noticed anything amiss but just happened to have an extra Kleenex in my hand.

Amelia carefully looked down at the cutting board and resumed chopping while I glanced at the clock and began fishing around in my purse for my car keys, taking lots of unnecessary time to do it.

“Did he sound well?” Octavia asked, her voice choked.

“Yes,” I said. There was only so much I could get from a voice on the other end of a phone line. “He sounded anxious to talk to you.”

“Oh, I have to call him back,” she said, and her voice was wild.

“Sure,” I said. “Just punch in the number. Don’t worry about calling collect or anything; the phone bill’ll tell us how much it was.” I glanced over at Amelia, cocking an eyebrow. She shook her head. She didn’t know what the hell was going on, either.

Octavia placed the call with shaking fingers. She pressed the phone to her ear after the first ring. I could tell when Louis Chambers answered. Her eyes shut tight, and her hand clenched the phone so hard the muscles stood out.

“Oh, Louis,” she said, her voice full of raw relief and amazement. “Oh, thank God. Are you all right?”

Amelia and I shuffled out of the kitchen at that point. Amelia walked to my car with me. “You ever heard of this Louis guy?” I asked.

“She never talked about her private life when she was working with me. But other witches told me Octavia had a steady boyfriend. She hasn’t mentioned him since she’s been here. It looks like she hasn’t heard from him since Katrina.”

“She might not have thought he survived,” I said, and we widened our eyes at each other.

“That’s big stuff,” Amelia said. “Well. We may be losing Octavia.” She tried to stifle her relief, but of course, I could read it. As fond as Amelia was of her magical mentor, I’d realized that for Amelia, living with Octavia was like living with one of your junior high teachers.

“I got to go,” I said. “Keep me posted. Text me if there’s any big news.” Texting was one of my new Amelia-taught skills.

Despite the chilly air, Amelia sat on one of the lawn chairs that we’d recently hauled out of the storage shed to encourage ourselves to anticipate spring. “The minute I know something,” she agreed. “I’ll wait here a few minutes, then go check on her.”