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Tempest laughed, and it surprised her a little. She hadn’t laughed like that in a while. She’d missed Priya.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

She hung up and stood for a moment in the booth. Salem was only two hours away, give or take. Fortune was sleeping.

She folded the map, pushed open the door of the booth, and went to buy some freshly baked muffins.

The next morning, Tempest drove the bus through the heart of Salem. It was peak tourist season, and the streets were teeming with visitors in witch hats and robes. Traffic moved at a crawl along Essex Street, past shops selling crystals and herb bundles, and Every Witch Way branded merchandise, past tour groups and costumed guides and groups of giddy teenagers photographing each other outside colorful storefronts. Nobody looked twice at the large deep blue bus with gold lettering. This was Salem. Nobody expected anything to be Ordinary, which was amusing, because Tempest knew that most of the magic here was just for show.

Most, but not all of it.

She pulled into a fortuitous spot on a side street beside the Peabody Essex Museum and cut the engine. Fortune was perched on the headrest behind her, breathing slow and even. She was sleeping so much more these days. Her coloring had changed yet again. She was almost all gray now, the red and green and blue of her natural parrot coloring retreated to small smudge-like patches on the undersides of her wingtips, the rest of her feathers turned a soft metallic grey. Like pewter, Tempest thought.

“I’m sure Priya will be happy to see you, Fortune.” Tempest scratched the back of the bird’s head. “I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t bring you a special treat.”

Sure enough, a few moments later she spied a familiar figure walking briskly down the street. She jumped out of her seat, threw open the door of the bus, and stepped down to the curb to wave.

Priya crossed the street at a half-jog, slightly out of breath. She was carrying a paper bag, a takeout food box, and had something long wrapped in kraft paper and tied with string tucked under one arm.

“Tempest!” She stood wide-eyed on the sidewalk, taking in the name of the bus, the deep mysterious blue of it, the shimmery finish catching the dappled morning light as if something were swimming just beneath the surface of the paint.

Tempest stood beside the open door, beaming. “I know,” she said. “She cleaned up so well.”

They hugged briefly and then Priya held out the brown paper parcel. “A little housewarming gift. For the bus.”

Tempest unwrapped it right there on the sidewalk. It was a miniature handmade broom. The handle was smooth dark-stained wood, the bristles bound with blue cord, a small blue glass charm sewn into the binding at the top.

“There’s a bespoke broom shop on Essex Street,” Priya said. “I went in not knowing what color to choose. I think I chose well.”

“It’s the same blue as the bus,” Tempest marveled. “Come inside.”

Priya took a closer look at everything once she was in. She ran her hand along the loaded shelves, admiring the way the books had settled in. She noted the small succulents from Boise, the patchwork quilt from Denver, the trivia trophies displayed above the dash. She doubled back to examine the three skeleton figurines turning slowly in front of the windshield, the window cracked and a slight breeze coming through.

“Tempest,” she said, exhaling her name in a rush. “I’ve really, really missed you.”

“Sit down,” Tempest pointed to the small banquette behind the driver’s seat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll make us tea.”

Priya sat cross-legged on the bench. Fortune had moved from the headrest to her perch on the passenger side and was watching Priya with round, unblinking amber eyes.

Priya reached into the paper bag and pulled out a smaller bag of taffy and a small plastic container of pomegranate seeds. She opened the takeout box. “I don’t know what kind of food you’ve been eating on the road, but I got us Dan Dan noodles. With extra chili.” The smells of spice and sesame hit Tempest immediately.

Priya held the container of pomegranate seeds out toward Fortune. “And I got you your favorite too, Fortune. See?”

Fortune looked at the seeds disinterestedly. Then she swiveled her head away and closed her eyes.

Priya considered the bird for a long moment, brow furrowed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Tempest said. “She’s been refusing all her favorites lately. Last night she tried to steal my pastrami sandwich, which at least tells me she still has an appetite for something. I just hope your uncle can help.” She felt her eyes beginning to tear up. She set the teacups down and joined Priya at the small table. “I should have done something sooner. Fortune’s been with me my whole life. I don’t think I could stand to lose her.”

Priya set the seeds on the shelf beside the perch, within reach, just in case. “I don’t think it will come to that,” she said. “She doesn’t appear sick to me. Just different. My uncle will know.” She patted Tempest’s shoulder. “In the meanwhile, I want to hear everything. From the beginning.”

Tempest poured the tea and sat down to catch up.

She told Priya about that first night, not knowing which way to drive, seeing the moon reflected in the atlas and following it east. She told her about the strange radio station she kept managing to tune into no matter where she seemed to be, and about the brewery in Boise where she’d won her first tournament.

“Though Fortune deserves some credit for pushing me to enter.” The parrot opened one sleepy eye to refute this, then closed it again.

She told her about Zara painting the bus, how fast she’d worked, the way she made everything more beautiful just by touching it. About Asha and Nell browsing the shelves and insisting she take the figurines for good luck when they left.