Talia nodded, resting her elbows on the table and interlacing her hands. “So how long is this checklist, and will Temporary You be allowed to sleep?”

I waved my hand at the notion. “No time for such frivolities when you’re bringing magic to the masses. She can nap when I get back.”

“You really do love that job, don’t you? You get all . . .” She pondered the right word, resting her chin on her laced hands and surveying me with those frozen-pond eyes. I struggled not to squirm under the discerning keenness of her gaze, the way it made me want to blush. “Agleam when you talk about it. Dewy-eyed.”

“Well, it’s my thing, right?” I spread my hands, shrugging a little. “My life, really. It feels so truly weird to be here, instead of heading in to work every day. Almost as strange as it feels to be quasi-living with my parents again. Tell you what, I was not prepared for the wealth of awkward silences.”

Talia took a sip of her espresso, which she drank so black and bitter even I’d have considered it a punishment. Apparently, when it came to coffee, the same girl who liked her cocktails mega fruity and with extra cherries took sweetness as some kind of personal affront.

“I can’t even begin to imagine,” she said, shaking her head in puzzled wonder. “How strange it must be, not being comfortable around your own. What Elena and my siblings are to me, even all the aunts and uncles and cousins . . . they’re not just family, they’re my home. They’re me.”

“Yes, well,” I said a little tightly. “We can’t all be Avramovs, blissfully living in each other’s pockets. And I might not have family in Chicago, but I do have a wonderful network, plenty of friends who always show up for me. It’s not like, Big City, Little Orphan Witch, the famed tearjerker musical.”

“But still, doesn’t it get lonely sometimes?” she pressed. “I mean, friends are good, sure. But blood is blood. There’s no substitute.”

Despite myself, I thought of having tea with my mother in the mornings since I’d been back, the quiet oasis of those moments, and how much I’d missed my father’s flashes of droll humor, the gentle fun he poked at the tourists’ expense.

“I make it work,” I said, trying to force my shoulders to unhunch, telling myself I had no reason to feel defensive about this. “And I like my space. I’m not sure I could ever do things the way you all do, living on top of each other in The Bitters.”

“Oh, we’re hardly on top of each other. It is just the five of us, plus whichever handful of relatives happen to be staying for a stint. And that crumbling old pile is so huge that we could each commandeer a wing for ourselves, play at being broke British peerage, never even see each other if we didn’t want to. Trust me, there’s plenty of space . . . and plenty of privacy.”