Chapter Text
Madame Lilura Shade smoothed a black and gold cloth across a vintage circular table, then carefully placed a crystal ball and stand in the center. Her legal name was Brittany Jones, but it just didn’t have the same ring to it.
She scattered black rose petals and sage around the table, but stopped short of her usual preparations—the crystal wasn’t the focal point for the evening.
That honor belonged to the massive chalk sigil drawn on the floor at the center of the room, reproduced painstakingly from one of the many antique books that lined built-in bookshelves.
It was not as if the exact shape of it mattered all that much, but Lilura took pride in her craft. Even if it was, ever so technically, defrauding people.
It hadn’t been her original intent. The thrill of real magic had drawn her into what started as tarot readings to her friends and then blossomed into psychic readings at local events and finally her own dedicated space. It was just that she’d learned in the intervening decades that the source of her magic was a knack for reading people created by a survival need to predict her erratic and abusive mother, rather than the occult.
But it wasn’t not magic, the way that a mind could shift and change and grow improbable abilities, how people could resonate with each other from just a glance, the healing power that came from the right words at the right time.
So, Lilura kept her shop open. The peaked roof, black shake siding, and crystalline windchimes beckoned guests across the little porch and into the lower level of the duplex. The main room let ample sunlight in through the bay window—filtered through gauzy purple curtains or blacked out with velvet, according to the needs of the ritual. There was a small kitchen at the back and a closet-sized bedroom, packed with tidily organized herbs and crystals. Lilura’s apartment upstairs had become overflow storage as of late, but she didn’t mind.
She gave every detail of the rituals her full attention—the wavering candlelight, the soft perfume lingering in the air, the crushed velvet cushions and tapestries on the chairs, the pacing and suspicion of disbelief of every scene—to ensure her guests always had an excellent experience. That’s what most of them wanted, anyway—a gasp of disbelief, a story to tell, an ethereal affirmation, a thrill of magic.
Occasionally, she had a client who was truly hurting, and for those she always offered the realest balm she could—a cup of hot tea and nonjudgemental company.
Halloween near Salem always posed a challenge, however. Whether it was the clumsiness of naïve clientele or the heckling of skeptics who thought interrupting a performance made them smart, Lilura had started to dread what once had been her favorite holiday.
But she was trying something new this year—setting aside the whole month of October to put on truly extravagant experiences for her favorite clients, a mix of true believers and what Lilura liked to call “truest believers” who understood what made magic feel real—not literal ghosts or demons or spirits, but a playful imagination and a sense of wonder.
And with a full moon on Halloween, Lilura was brimming with inspiration.
The five women who would be attending this experience all deserved some time away from the mundanities of life, a night to lose themselves in the magic.
And everything was ready.
***
Nancy arrived first, letting her hair down from its messy bun as she stepped over the threshold.
“How was your day?” Lilura asked.
“Ugh, terrible. I mean, good! Busy! So busy. So I really shouldn’t complain, it’s good the bookshop is finally getting some traction!”
Lilura handed over the lavender stress relief tea she’d already brewed for Nancy, who went and took a familiar seat in the bay window.
Next was Yuki, who was the youngest of the group but also the most jaded. She nearly skipped up the front steps.
“They finally give you a promotion?” Lilura asked.
“Nope,” Yuki said, grin spilling across her face. “I quit. Got an offer for what I’m worth from a new lab in Kendall.”
“Attagirl!”
As Lilura introduced Yuki to Nancy, another knock came from the door.
Lilura opened it to Daphne and Violet, who were the black house / pink house meme personified—Daphne with dark hair and black overalls, full sleeves of tattoos and spiderwebs climbing up her neck, and Violet with her hair dyed bubblegum pink, a bright orange pumpkin pinafore, and equally tattooed.
Daphne was a long term client of Lilura’s and a successful tattoo artist. A few years back, she’d gotten a reading from Lilura that predicted new love around the corner. The next day, Violet had stumbled into her shop on a whim. They’d been dating ever since.
“Happy Halloween,” Daphne said.
“Come on in.”
Shortly behind them was Anastasia, still dressed in her leggings and sports bra. A British-Kenyan with a passion for yoga, she’d just opened her own studio after a reading that told her to seize her future.
The five women chatted and sipped tea by candlelight, settling into the expansive, easy space of not having to make themselves smaller for anyone else’s comfort.
There were no complaints about waiting for the last invitee, because even though she was always at least thirty minutes late, they all adored Penny. The woman was a tangle of color and curly blonde hair, with the type of eccentric aunt energy that you couldn’t help but fall in love with.
She ran a Wiccan supply shop, and Lilura would wager that she knew more about herbs and their uses than a biologist and historian combined.
As Penny floated in the front door, every guest turned to greet her. Lilura gave them all a few minutes to catch up, then stood and latched the front door.
An eager hush fell over the room, as they all knew what that signaled—it was time to begin.