“It’s always the proper moment to be skyclad,” Marigold says firmly, but she gives me a little wink. Violet gestures to her door, and it makes her moon earrings swing. I suddenly feel stupid for showing up in sneakers and a T-shirt. I didn’t even think about what I was wearing, which is sort of normal for me but embarrassing under the circumstances. “Was I supposed to dress up? Or…” I gulp, looking toward Marigold. Not dress? “I didn’t know what to wear. Do I need to wear anything special?”

She shakes her head. “Being a witch is about what happens on the inside. Plenty of witches walking around in sneakers and T-shirts. No pointy hats and black cloaks unless they make you feel powerful.”

The aunts hustle me into the house, which is, honestly, like walking into a fairy-tale witch’s house. It is so charmingly chaotic that I have to stop for a moment to take it all in. Three rocking chairs have been arranged around the fireplace, with baskets of knitting perched by two of them, a stack of books by the other. The walls are lined with built-in bookcases bursting with books, and the fireplace mantel is decorated in drying herbs. A fluffy cat lies on the rug in front of the fireplace, and he raises one eye sleepily at me before going back to his resting.

Violet leads me into the kitchen, which is a delightful blend of homespun and state of the art. Worn copper pots gleam from hooks on the ceiling above a cast-iron oven range, and a vintage yellow refrigerator sits next to an enormous espresso maker. More herbs are planted in old tomato cans on the windowsill, and several handmade rugs line the floor.

Best of all, as I step into the space, I get a deep whiff of something that sends me hurtling back to my summer with Bea. Poppy is removing a baking tray from the oven, and when I see the round, flaky pastries, I let out a giddy sigh. “You made kouign-amann?”

“For Willow, our guest of honor,” she says, sliding the pan onto her stovetop. “My goodness, the French know what they’re doing with butter, sugar, and salt, don’t they?”

“That’s my favorite French pastry!” I say. “I haven’t been able to find one in the States anywhere. Did my mom tell you I love them?”

Poppy smiles and shakes her head, and the aunts exchange quick conspiratorial smiles. “No, dear. Just a coincidence.” She whisks over to the fridge, producing a pear-shaped glass bottle that I’d recognize anywhere. “And a drink. There’s a tradition in witches’ gatherings, we serve cakes and ale, which today means basically any food and drink we want.”