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Back Spells for Lost Things
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. – 1 – Willow
  6. – 2 – Mason
  7. – 3 – Willow
  8. – 4 – Mason
  9. – 5 – Willow
  10. – 6 – Mason
  11. – 7 – Willow
  12. – 8 – Mason
  13. – 9 – Willow
  14. – 10 – Mason
  15. – 11 – Willow
  16. – 12 – Mason
  17. – 13 – Willow
  18. – 14 – Mason
  19. – 15 – Willow
  20. – 16 – Mason
  21. – 17 – Willow
  22. – 18 – Mason
  23. – 19 – Willow
  24. – 20 – Mason
  25. – 21 – Willow
  26. – 22 – Mason
  27. – 23 – Willow
  28. – 24 – Mason
  29. – 25 – Willow
  30. – 26 – Mason
  31. – 27 – Willow
  32. – 28 – Mason
  33. – 29 – Willow
  34. – 30 – Mason
  35. – 31 – Willow
  36. – 32 – Mason
  37. – 33 – Willow
  38. – 34 – Mason
  39. Acknowledgments
  40. More from the Author
  41. About the Author
  42. ALSO BY JENNA EVANS WELCH

By 7:55 p.m., I’m a can of rocket fuel. The moon ceremony doesn’t start until eight thirty, but if I don’t get out of this maddeningly curated hotel, I’m going to explode. Mom is too caught up in her call to talk to me, but when I pass her a note, she scribbles down the aunts’ address, 611 Orange Street, look for the white fence, plus an extra note: WARNING: Aunt Marigold might be skyclad.

“Huh?” I say, but she just pulls the phone slightly from her chin, unleashing the tinny sound of someone speaking quickly, and mouths, Skyclad, while pointing at her blazer.

No idea. I’m too excited to get going to waste any more time, so I nod like I understand, then head for the door.

Salem is hot and earthy-smelling, even in the evening, and the street has swelled with people who seem exactly as interested in being here as I am, which sets my heart all aflutter.

My phone directs me down by the water, and the farther I get from the city center, the quieter Salem feels. Soon I’m passing rows of large, colorful homes, their window boxes dripping brightly colored flowers. Orange Street is only a block from the water, and when I see the street sign, a thrill moves up my entire body, putting a spring in my step. I am going to a witches’ meeting. I have to tell Bea. I pull up my phone and find a message waiting from her. As usual, we’re on a delay.

ROOFTOP BOY WAS AT LUNCH? I’m not out of class until 10 your time. Call me then?

I answer.

Yes. And I’m on my way to a moon circle with my great-aunts’ coven.

Bea: Please tell me you’re kidding…

I send back every witch-related emoji I can find.

The aunts’ house is easy to spot. It’s a completely different style from Aunt Sage’s, smaller, with a roof that flares out in curved lines. The roof and exterior are all lined in light brown shingles, and light is pouring out of every window. Several large garden boxes sit near the house, with herbs and vegetables growing from them. A sign on the garden gate reads WARNING: WITCH GARDEN. TRESPASSERS WILL BE USED AS INGREDIENTS FOR POTIONS.

I snort, glancing around at the rest of the neighborhood. The aunts apparently have no issues with advertising their witchiness.