“I don’t. I know bugs, dude.”
“So then it’s not an ingredient for baked goods,” said Maya, looking it up online. “At least, I sincerely hope not. Yep, the Con’s right, as usual: Lepisma saccharina, commonly known as ‘silverfish.’”
So Jamie had been asking around the Russian psychics for silverfish? That made no sense at all, of course, but there had to be a connection to the bugs in the shoe box.
I felt lost. Whom could I talk to about this? I glanced at the map: The grandmas were in Sacramento. If they were completing this same sign, and it looked like they were, they’d be headed somewhere north next: maybe to Napa for a little wine tasting. Aidan wasn’t going to be much help if he kept demanding I turn over Oscar or Sailor; I would save him as a last resort. But there was another wise woman out there, someone I had, perhaps, underestimated.
I knew Calypso Cafaro had a magical way with plants, but according to Aidan, she was more than that. She “used to be” a witch. In my book, once a witch, always a witch.
What’s more, she also used to be in charge of the Bay Area’s magical community. She had had Aidan’s job.
Determined to speak with her, I asked Maya and Bronwyn to stay and close up shop, and made sure Conrad and Duke would keep them company. Then I ran upstairs and managed to corral one of the silverfish from the box into a jar, rewrapped the shoe box in rowan, and returned it to its place on the shelf. Next I jumped in my car, stopped by the wax museum to pick up my pig, then headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I take it you’re feeling better?” I asked my familiar in greeting.
Oscar—or Aidan?—had anticipated my arrival and he’d been waiting with the highly disgruntled Clarinda at the front ticket office. He remained in piggy form until we exited the thick traffic of the Golden Gate Bridge and Highway 101. Now we were winding through the hills, with no witnesses to notice Oscar’s true form.
“Hey, mistress, you know when I’m going to do that again?”
“Never, I sincerely hope.”
“When pigs fly,” he said, slapping his knee and cackling. “Get it? ’Cause I was high, like flying?”
“Very funny. Seriously, Oscar, you scared me. What were you thinking, going into the Dumpster for something I told you not to eat?”
“They were cupcakes,” he said, as though that explained everything.
As we neared Bolinas, it occurred to me that a normal person might have called ahead to warn Calypso that she was coming, or to make sure it was a good time. But in the past, Calypso had always known I was arriving. Whether she was psychic, or someone informed on me, I had no way of knowing.
I turned off the main highway, into a long drive that was virtually invisible unless you knew to look for it. A massive hedge leaned so far in on both sides that it was difficult to pass, the branches scraping the sides of the car as I squeezed through. I cringed, thinking of the Mustang’s cherry red paint job, but forced myself to stay focused on the important things. After all, paint jobs could be reapplied.
I had only one fiancé, and there was only one San Francisco.
Beyond the hedge was a clearing, backed by a redwood forest. An old butter yellow farmhouse was fronted by a deep porch filled with white wicker furniture and colorful flowering pots. A calico cat was curled up on a porch swing, while a tabby lingered on a windowsill. A vast vegetable garden sat out back, and a greenhouse was attached to the rear. The little brick walkway leading to the front door was lined with rose trees, and everywhere one looked, plants were in abundant bloom.
“It looks like a picture in a calendar,” said Oscar, a note of awe in his gravelly voice.
“That’s what I think every time I see it.”
“It’s pretty early in the season for peaches, isn’t it?” asked Oscar.
“Things bloom on a different schedule in Calypso’s world.”
“That’s some powerful plant magic.”
“She’s a whiz at everything botanical,” I said, glancing over at the copse of redwood trees that edged the back garden. My heart fluttered. I had imagined my handfasting with Sailor taking place right there, at the edge of the woods, to invite the blessings of the fairy folk. Soon Graciela’s coven would be here, filling the house with laughter and wisewoman energy. Or . . . would those things happen, after all? I knew it was dangerous to anticipate something so fervently.
Be careful what you ask for, my grandmother had always told me. The spirit world might become jealous; it’s best to let the world unfold at your feet, as it will.
The first time I visited Calypso’s home, I had felt conflicting feelings: On the one hand, it was gorgeous. A fantasy setting, a fantasy farmhouse, a fantasy garden. On the other . . . Calypso was a virtual recluse. By choice, of course. But it made me realize that, after years of wandering alone, I wanted something different for myself: I didn’t want to be a solo act anymore. I wanted friends nearby. I wanted a family. And most of all, I wanted Sailor by my side.
As she had in the past, Calypso seemed to have sensed our arrival and met us at the door, wearing a bright blue tunic with deep pockets over flowered leggings, a jaunty scarf tied around her neck. Her silver hair was braided, the heavy plait hanging over one shoulder.
“Lily, what a lovely surprise. And Oscar, too!” she said as Oscar and I got out of the car. Even though Calypso knew Oscar was a magical creature, he didn’t show her his true form but adopted his porcine guise. “Welcome. Have you heard anything from your grandmother’s coven?”
“Not recently. But I don’t think they’ll be here for another day or two. In fact, that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Of course. Please come in and we’ll have tea and talk.”
Oscar trotted out toward the woods.
“He loves the redwoods,” I said.
“Don’t we all.”
Calypso’s huge kitchen was warm and welcoming. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with the heady aroma of sage, rosemary, and oregano. Rustic shelves held old crockery and widemouthed mason jars full of spices and powders. A variety of kitchen utensils hung from pegs on the beadboard wainscoting; there were a number of mortars and pestles, electric grinders, and drying racks on shelves. Some of these might have been used for cooking, but most were for the processing of herbs. Calypso ran a profitable business selling herbs, fruit, and vegetables to Bay Area restaurants that were able to boast they used only “organic, locally sourced” ingredients.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scamper by. It was too big for a mouse, and didn’t have the shape of a cat. But it moved too fast for me to get a good look at it.
Calypso put a huge copper kettle on to boil, and I took a seat at the big pine farmhouse table. Leafy green plants hung in baskets in the sunny bay window, and African violets crowded the windowsill.
“Calypso, what are silverfish used for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are they an ingredient in anything?”
“Silverfish? The insects?” She made a face. “They weren’t in that suspected Tiberius Caesar spell you were asking me about, were they?”
“No. At least, I certainly hope not. They’re a little creepy.”
“A lot creepy. The only insects I really like are the roly-polies. Remember them?”
“I do. We had fireflies back home. I loved those.”
“Butterflies are amazing, of course, and moths, too. And bees, and ladybugs. But I don’t enjoy a lot of the crawlers.”
“I agree. So you don’t know of any use for silverfish? Could they be symbolic of something, maybe?”
She shook her head. “I can’t think of anything. But . . . Selena has silver magic, doesn’t she?”
“She does. That had never occurred to me. Do you think it’s connected?”
“I have no idea, Lily,” she replied. “You haven’t given me any context, or told me what’s going on.”