“Grab a quick coffee with me? I have some Emporium financials to run through when I get home, and . . .” She melted into a yawn, tipping back her head to expose the long line of her throat and stretching her arms high, with the languor of a rousing cat. How did she even yawn hotly—that shit wasn’t right. “This attic is like Rip Van Winkle land. I need some caffeine mainlined stat, and I’d rather not drink alone.”

Spending too much time in the Tomes attic did exert a dreamy effect, all that dense, bookish magic swirling in the air like some soporific mist. I’d taken more naps on the worn couch than I could count, back when I spent my summers working in the shop below, whatever book I’d been absorbed in splayed out on my chest, bleeding its magic right into my heart. The old cushions probably still held the contours of my body, a lingering imprint of the hours I’d spent here.

“Lucky for you, I, too, am the kind of fiend who can pound caffeine this late in the afternoon,” I said, reaching for my pashmina wrap as Talia shrugged on the bomber jacket slung across the back of the couch and headed for the door. “Though I’ll have to warn you, Chicago’s kind of spoiled me for coffee. So I can’t promise not to be a bean snob.”

“Precious about her cocktails, precious about her coffee beans . . .” Talia paused to shake her head slowly, in mock reproach. “Is this what the big city does to impressionable young witches? Where does it end?”

“Oh, no, Avramov, you are not gonna shame me for having standards. Not today.”

She swung open the door for me, leaning in close as I reached her, a waft of her creamy perfume drifting over me. The nearness of her, the sudden heat that sparked between us, sent such a potent surge of thrill through my stomach that I caught my breath.

“In that case, I’ll let you in on a little Thistle Grove secret, Harlow,” she murmured close to my ear, her voice taking on a hushed, serious tone. “Try not to pass out, but . . . we even have nitro cold brew now.”

I was still giggling under my breath as we stepped out onto the cobbles of Yarrow Street, the picturesque pedestrian main drag that wound through the heart of the town. Storefronts lined both sides, awnings fluttering prettily in the wafting, cinnamon- and apple-scented breeze; so Golden’s, the bakery that sold melt-in-your-mouth croissants and mulled Honeycake cider, was still in operation. Along with the Wicked Sweet Dessert Shoppe, the Moon and Scythe tavern a few blocks down, and the little sandwich place on one of the side streets, it had been one of the few decent lunch spots within walking distance of Tomes.

But as we walked, I spotted a handful of new venues alongside the kitschy-witch offerings I remembered all too well. We passed the town’s elegant witch history museum, a gorgeous art deco movie theater that specialized in horror movies, the Bespelled soap and candle store, the tchotchke-peddling souvenir shops—but also a funky pizzeria called Cryptid Pizza, its spookiness clearly tongue-in-cheek, then an artisanal gelateria, even what looked like an upscaleish gastropub. Tourists milled around us, darting in and out of the bustling storefronts with tissue-papered bags in hand and bespoke witch hats perched on their heads, their kids bedecked in adorable Halloween paraphernalia.