“Even for just a few days, though?” I pressed. “It took months and months before I couldn’t do spellwork at all anymore.”

“Not worth it,” she said, shaking her head. “Even a few days of being that weak just isn’t for me. Then what if something went wrong, and for some reason it never came back in full?” She shuddered bodily at the idea of such a loss. “Hard, hard pass.”

I sipped my drink past the sudden lump in my throat, momentarily saddened by how much she would miss because she couldn’t stand to let go of magic, and therefore of Thistle Grove, even for that long. But then again, I thought, recalling the gorgeously macabre spell she’d woven in the woods to dispel the shades—the sheer dark elegance of her magic—maybe I was the one whose priorities were out of whack.

“Then you’ll have to take my word for it on Beatnik. It’s eclectic in the best way . . . a little like this place.” I looked around at the thoughtful installations, bemused. “This doesn’t even feel like Thistle Grove. I mean, a solid coffee shop is one thing, but an actually tasteful dining establishment? Where are the inevitable bats? Why isn’t it called, I don’t know, Booo-nagi or something?”

She chuckled at that, shaking her head. “You’ve been gone a long time, Harlow. Like you saw on Yarrow the other day, it’s not like Thistle Grove’s been stuck in stasis since you left. Things change, new places open . . . If you’d just let your guard down the tiniest bit, maybe you’d find this place has a lot more to offer than what you might remember.”

I held up a hand, taking a healthy swig of the martini. “Let’s not go that far, just because I happen to enjoy a good transitional aesthetic.”

A host arrived to lead us to our table, where I tucked myself into the banquette while Talia took the chair across from me. By the time we’d ordered and our appetizers had arrived, we were well into our second round of drinks; I was feeling warm and glittery and a lot more relaxed, any lingering jitters swept away by the martinis and Talia’s equally intoxicating presence.

“My dilemma now is, how do I even admit how good this is without you gloating about it forever,” I said, taking another savory bite of tuna tataki, “thereby ruining my enjoyment? Quite the quandary.”

“If it makes you feel safer, I’ve been known, upon rare occasion, to be Jessica Lange gracious about being right.” She dipped her petal-pink sashimi in soy sauce, then nibbled at it in a way that abruptly catapulted raw fish to the unlikely top of my “most erotic foods” list. “And my favorite sushi happens to be the kind I make fresh at home. So until you’ve had mine for comparison, I can’t completely trust your judgment.”

“Wait a minute.” I stared at her with narrowed eyes, brandishing a chopstick at her. “You make sushi? You cook?”