“I do.” He printed out his name and address in tiny, meticulous writing, then signed the bottom of the page while Lishta wrapped up his dreams in a square of brown paper. As the man slowly counted his change and pocketed his wallet and the paper parcel, the dark-haired woman let out a loud huff. She drummed her long fingernails on the counter until he was gone.

“Now, the jolie mademoiselle,” said Lishta, closing the lid of the wooden box. “How may I help you?”

The woman’s mouth stretched into an oily grin. “Give me a dozen of your worst nightmares.”

Two

Lishta slid the box of calming dreams over to Maren and folded her arms across her narrow chest. “Ms.…Malo, is it?”

The dark-haired woman hesitated for a flicker of an instant. “Yes, that’s right.” She tugged her cardigan around her slender waist, and the moth on the collar opened and closed its wings. It wasn’t a brooch; it was a real insect.

“How do you get it to stay there?” Lishta eyed the moth with keen interest, and so did Henri. The fuzzy-bodied creature would make a perfect addition to some dream—once it died of natural causes, of course. Lishta would never kill something just for that purpose.

The woman smiled down at the moth, which extended its long antennae and crawled up to nestle against her collarbone. “I have a…certain way with winged insects, you might say.” Her dark eyes flashed to Lishta’s, and the two women held each other’s gaze.

There was something in the lavender-edged waters of Rockpool Bay, people said, or maybe the town had been settled by fairy folk or witches a long time ago. Whatever it was, like in other pockets of the world, a small percentage of its residents were born with very specific, small magic. Maren’s family on her mother’s side had dream magic, from Lishta to Maren’s mother to Hallie and Maren. If anyone else tried grinding up ingredients and putting them in a sachet, nothing would happen. When the women of Maren’s family did that and then blew on the ingredients, they made dreams.

Other people had different kinds of small magic. If you went to the post office and bought a certain stamp from the vending machine and gave it to Edna Frye, the crotchety postmistress, your letter or package would arrive at its destination the very same day, regardless of where in the world you sent it. At the Green and Fresh grocery store, a massive yellow rosebush sprouted out of the floor, right in the middle of the produce aisle. The owner, Ernesto Perez, kept it well pruned so the thorns wouldn’t scratch any customers. On Thursdays he handed out free roses to anyone who wanted them, and on Fridays they all grew back.