Brewed with Love

1

My tonic is out for blood. Raucous green bubbles burst from the mixing pot, spilling over the sides and rushing at my feet like starving mice. Unruly fizz chomps at the toe of my high-­top Converse, instantly melting the rubber with its searing heat.

In hindsight, adding the carnations to the pot after my magic was a bad idea. Magic brews are fickle, and this one doesn’t have neatly printed instructions in my family grimoire for me to follow. I’m creating it from scratch, a feat only a witch as skilled as Nana manages to make look easy.

A smoky haze clouds the kitchen, and the scent of charred rubber fills the air as I lurch away from a particularly large bubble.

“Sage! What’s that smell?” Nana yells from her study.

“Um . . .” My gaze whips around for a way to stop the foamy mess before it escapes into the rest of the house. I’m not supposed to brew at home. Most of my supplies are at our apothecary, but after spending all night tink­ering with this blend, I thought I’d finally cracked it. Joke’s on me.

Nana’s heavy footsteps and her signature scent—­rose oil and lemongrass—­meet me before she does. A second later, she’s standing in the doorway, wiry bifocals sagging halfway down her broad nose. Her large gold earrings match her gold bangles. The green monstera hair clip I gave her last Mother’s Day holds her tiny gray afro in place. It complements her olive linen shift perfectly. If Nana was a succulent, she’d be aloe vera—­nourishing and sweet with a hardened exterior.

“I know you are not brewing in my—­ Oh! Not my rug!”

The poor rug she’s had for the last three decades is fighting for its life against the remnants of my failed tonic. Scorch marks decorate the patterned fabric. Nana’s stricken, and my most apologetic smile doesn’t help the situation.

“Which rug, Hazel?” Tiva hollers from the other room, though her footsteps are light and swift as she heads our way.

“The purple runner from Rugs R Us, but that’s hardly the point,” Nana replies sullenly.

Tiva pokes her head into the kitchen with our oldest pothos tucked under her arm like a baby. Her thick, waist-­length hair frames cheekbones as sharp as blades.

Sizzling bubbles charge toward her on a mission to destroy anything in their path, but Tiva’s fast. She flicks her wrist, gathering magic in her palm, and extends her hand. Instantly, the angry bubbles turn into harmless puddles.

Misbrewed tonics can do anything from itch to burn if touched. They leave behind nasty stains that are nearly impossible to get out (RIP my rainbow cacti shirt), and if ingested, they can cause dizziness, fever, pain, or even memory loss.

The key to brewing the perfect tonic is not only the ingredients—­all grown in the Hemwood, a redwood forest soaked with more magic than a fairy tale—­but how and when you put them in the pot. If the grimoire says “toss in” an herb, you better toss it. If it says to add a burst of individual magic after the mixture, don’t add it before. The order of operations, the attention to detail, and the witch’s intentions are what make a brew glow. Brewing isn’t a problem when I have guidance, but inventing something new is advanced magic requiring a deep understanding of herbal properties and the problem in need of remedying. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that.

“Explain yourself,” Nana demands, her round face pinched with annoyance.

I turn to Tiva for a show of support, but she shakes her head and covers a smirk with her free hand. Her and Nana have been together longer than the rug has haunted our kitchen, long enough to be like a second grandparent to me—­one who is all too amused by my predicament.

Nana levels her gaze. “Well?”

“I swear I thought I finally cracked this tonic. It’s going to put Bishop Brews back on top.”

“Ah yes. Your breakup cure.”

“It’s not a breakup cure. It’s an emotional recovery tonic, not just for heartbreak but for anything emotionally difficult someone might experience. It’s genius.” All the tonics we sell are healing, and this one would mend the mind and the heart.

Nana hums noncommittally. “And this has nothing to do with Ximena Reyes starting at the shop today?”

Ugh. As if I needed reminding. I’ve been dreading today since Nana told me Ximena applied for the open cashier position two weeks ago. Back then I could pretend it wasn’t happening. It was easy to imagine Ximena’s full day of training with Nana last weekend as a fluke. Now I have no choice but to face the music, which is easier said than done, because I’d rather pull out my teeth than spend fifteen long hours a week alone with Ximena.

I skirt around the counter, stepping over the now harmless mess on the floor, and throw the residue floating at the bottom of the pot into the trash. “Of course not. I’m doing this for Bishop Brews.”

It’s not a total lie. I am creating the tonic for our family apothecary, but I’m also doing it for me. I just don’t mention that part because it’s embarrassing enough to admit to myself that I’m still not totally over Ximena, even though it’s been four years since she ghosted me.

I dust my hands off on my jeans, blow a frizzy curl out of my face, and add for good measure, “Something needs to be done about Bottled Wonders.”

Bottled Wonders is an apothecary in the neighboring town of Crimson Grove, the only other town in Northern California with a reputation for magic. The store is a force to be reckoned with. Customers say their prices are lower than ours, and their tonics work faster. Nana’s too tired from running Bishop Brews for the last thirty years to try to compete with them, but at the rate Bottled Wonders is growing, our business won’t survive much longer. I can’t let everything she’s worked so hard for crumble.

Nana grabs the mop from the hall closet and starts sopping up the remainder of the fizz. “Don’t you worry about the apothecary. Tiva and I will figure something out. You should be focusing on—­”

“School. I know, Nana, but Bishop Brews is important too.”

Nana shakes her head, probably because she knows I’m not giving up. “Actually, I take that back.” She points at the charred remains of her precious runner. “If you want to worry about something, worry about getting me a new rug.”

A car horn blares from outside. Perfect timing. “You needed to upgrade, anyway. This thing is nearly as old as you,” I tease.

Tiva covers a laugh. Nana scowls half-­heartedly and pushes the mop in my direction. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that. Go on, or you’ll be late. It looks un­professional if Ximena gets there before you.”

“Can’t we switch shifts? You work Sunday mornings, and I’ll work evenings.” I don’t even try to keep the desperation out of my voice. I wouldn’t have stayed up half the night if I wasn’t desperate for a fix to this Ximena-­size predicament.

“Sage, we’ve been over this. You have to be eighteen to work the farmers market on Sundays. Tiva has her own stall to run. She can’t manage Bishop Brews as well. It has to be me.” Nana peers at me over the rim of her glasses. “Unless your birthday changed overnight?”

I’ll be eighteen in four months, which is exactly how long Ximena and I will be stuck working at the store together until we go to college in August. The universe hates me.

The car horn shrieks again and my phone buzzes in my pocket, begging me to get a move on.

“I really don’t want to do this,” I announce, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Luckily, I’m the nana here.”

I grunt and shuffle toward the door. The parlor palm and the hanging verbena in the hallway wilt from my mood.

Tiva follows me. “Keep your chin up, love. This helps your gran. And believe it or not, a little change can be good.”

Change can also be bad, especially when it means spending time with the girl who broke your heart.

“Not,” I mumble. “I wish there was another option.”

“You love Bishop Brews, right? Since Tracy retired, the store could use the extra hand, at least for the spring and summer while your gran and I work the farmers market. Ximena may not be your friend anymore, but she’s a good kid and a qualified applicant. Hazel isn’t doing this to hurt you. She just wants to see the two of you find common ground again.”