Izzy, of course, was a kitchen witch. While I was growing up, she always used to tell me there was very little difference between a recipe and a spell. Both were simply a set of instructions for how to put ingredients together in order to make something magical. And when directions weren’t followed, well, we’ve all messed up a dish, or in Izzy’s case, turned someone’s skin a very pale shade of green. It had only happened once. To me. Right before the Spring Fling dance of my senior year. But, you know, it’s fine. Now.

Usually, most everything Izzy cooked came out just right. Ivywood Hollow’s breakfasts were legendary in the B&B community. Her muffins and cakes were always moist, her eggs were always fluffy, and her bacon was never too soft or too crisp. But more than any of that, Izzy’s food was made with intention. I wasn’t kidding when I said she could get anyone to do, or feel, just about anything if they ate at her table. If she put an intention into her food, whether it be good feelings like happiness, curiosity, and excitement, or other emotions like anger, jealousy, and regret, that intention usually found its way into reality. Izzy was judicious when it came to using her influence though. She believed in a feather touch.

Now, Nora, first and foremost, was a garden witch. She understood plants; not just how to grow them, but what they could be used for. She had a deep connection with nature and loved trees more than she loved most people. The idea of a garden witch might seem cute, but only the very foolish underestimated what Nora could do with her plants. As a child, I once stuck my tongue out at her when I thought she wasn’t looking, and I swear a stinging nettle smacked me on the back of the leg. I never did that again. Nora was also pretty talented at creating what I call atmosphere, not just outside but inside too. Much the way her sister was able to put intention into her food, Nora could put intention into a room. Cozy rooms became even cozier when she gave them her touch, and let’s just say, you’d never want to go into a room my aunt had decorated for Halloween. Unlike Izzy, Nora preferred bold magic, and she wasn’t always a fan of following the rules.

Then there was me and my uncle Gideon. We didn’t specialize the way my aunts did in creating and nurturing magic. Our talents just were. And unfortunately for me—and more so for Constance—my affinity was suddenly in great demand.

You see, I was a friend of the other side.

Or to put it more bluntly, a witch of the dead.

For as long as I could remember, I’d had the ability to see and talk with ghosts just like I would anyone else.

If Constance’s death had occurred a couple of years ago, we wouldn’t have had to spend the day waiting by the phone for Beatty to call to tell us what was happening with the police. He hadn’t, by the way, which I had to admit was a little infuriating. No, back then, I would have spent the day talking with Constance, asking her about her life and what she thought had happened—ghosts almost never remembered the hours before their deaths.