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Back Spells for Lost Things Save as PDF
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

I don’t even have to look through my travel magazines anymore. All I have to do is focus, and there they are: postcards from my future. I see bright city streets and tiny fishing villages, cloud-shrouded mountains and peaceful beaches, all places my feet have never touched but that I know anyway. Those images feel engraved on my soul, my heart a blank passport book anxious to be filled. The desire to get out there and see it all is so visceral, I can practically hear it rushing in my ears.

Go go go.

Soon. All I have to do is survive one more year as an island, and then no one can stop me.

“Willow?” Phoebe prompts again. Her smile is brittle. She’s worried about disappointing my mom. “You okay?”

I take a deep breath and attempt a smile. “Completely okay. Thanks for asking.”

– 2 – Mason

In the late 1600s Salem, Massachusetts, was the trial site of nineteen innocent people who were found guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to death, which I assume is the reason I am being driven there in a golden Toyota Corolla listening to slow jams of the early 2000s while hitting every single red light in the Greater Boston area.

To die. Or at least to suffer greatly.

My new foster care worker’s name is either Kate or Kaitlin, I can’t remember which, and I can’t figure that out without asking her or looking at her I.D. badge, which is always settled directly between her boobs, thereby making the whole thing more awkward than it needs to be. She’s youngish, probably in her late twenties, so still carrying a bit of hope, but she’s overworked because they all are. And watching her slowly wilt over the past few months while the Morgans get qualified to become foster parents has been stupidly depressing. It’s like the plants my mom used to bring home from the grocery store. She’d walk in carrying a brand-new one, its leaves springy and youthful, and then she’d put it in the corner of the house and maybe water it for the first week, and then after that I’d watch it die a slow, colorless death.

That’s what Kate/Kaitlin is like. My mom’s dying houseplants. That’s what the foster care system does to people, and she’s only made it through one year. I’m an eleven-year veteran.

“How’s the music?” Kate/Kaitlin asks. “Is it okay?”