“Mmmm,” Glenn said smugly as he picked the ketchup bottle up between two fingers to read the label for himself. “What’s natural flavors?”

“You don’t want to know,” Ivy said, her voice pitched dramatically.

Glenn set the bottle down. I couldn’t help my snort of amusement.

The sound of an approaching motorcycle pulled Ivy to her feet. “That’s my ride,” she said, crumpling her wrapper and pushing her half-eaten carton of fries to the middle of the table. She stretched, her lanky body reaching for the ceiling. Glenn ran his attention over her, then looked away.

My gaze met Ivy’s. It sounded like Kist’s cycle. I wondered if this had anything to do with last night. Seeing my apprehension, Ivy grabbed her purse. “Thanks for breakfast, Glenn.” She turned to me. “See you later, Rachel,” she added as she breezed out.

Shoulders easing, Glenn looked at the clock above the sink, then went back to eating. I was scraping the last of the ketchup up with a fry as Ivy’s demand filtered in from the street, “Go Turn yourself, Kist. I’m driving.” I smiled as the bike accelerated and the street grew quiet.

Finished, I crumpled my paper into a ball and stood. Glenn wasn’t done, and as I cleared the table, I left the ketchup. From the corner of my sight, I watched him eye it. “It’s good on burgers, too,” I said, dropping to crouch beside the island counter and pick out a spell book. There was the sound of sliding plastic. Book in hand, I turned to find he had pushed the bottle away. He wouldn’t meet my eyes as I sat down at the table. “Mind if I check on something before we leave?” I asked, opening to the index.

“Go ahead.”

His voice had turned cold again, and deciding it was the spell book, I sighed and leaned over the faded print. “I want to stir a spell for the Howlers to change their mind about not paying me,” I said, hoping he would relax if he knew what I was doing. “I thought I might pick up what I don’t have in the garden while I’m out. You don’t mind an extra stop, do you?”

“No.” It was marginally less cold, and I took that as a good sign. He was noisily stirring the ice with his straw, and I purposely edged closer so he could see.

“Look,” I said, pointing at the blurring print. “I was right. If I want to send their pop flies foul, I need a noncontact spell.” For an earth witch such as myself, noncontact meant wands. I’d never made one before, but my eyebrows rose at the ingredients. I had everything but the fern seed and the wand. How much could a dowel of redwood cost?

“Why do you do it?”