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She looked at the portrait now and smiled. She could almost hear her mother telling her that the glasses weren’t going to stack themselves, her grandmother telling her to get a move on with prepping her ingredients for the night. And if she looked away from the portrait at the rest of the room, other memories flitted through her mind and called her mother and grandmother back. That leather chair, the one closest to the fireplace, was one her mother had discovered at a famous witch’s estate sale. Margaret recalled the day she brought it back so clearly; her grandmother had been reading to her by the fire, and Daphne Nettle had spelled the front door to slam open so that she could levitate the chair inside.

“I’m pretty sure it’s haunted,” Margaret’s mother had said, winking at the pair as she exploded into the pub with the chair lofted above her head. “I’ll have to have Maggie give it a good round of testing to make sure it’s a friendly-enough ghost for the pub.”

This had also been one of Margaret’s childhood pub jobs: test the furniture. She’d bounce on it, sit in every position imaginable on it, launch herself from it, sail through the air to land on it, and anything else to give it a proper wear test. The chair had passed, naturally—and no ghost, friendly or otherwise, had seemed disgruntled as a result.

These days, though, Margaret could see the chair was showing wear. There were spots where the leather was threatening to peel. Margaret would patch it, but the chair was taking on a sunken quality. It wasn’t the only thing in the pub that was starting to show the test of time, either. Lately, it felt like Margaret couldn’t do one of her rounds without finding something in need of repair: a squeaky windowpane, the pantry door that wouldn’t latch all the way, her showerhead that leaked.

She could’ve asked Liza for help. Liza would’ve been able to fix it all, probably. After all, Margaret hadn’t yet found any magic that Liza couldn’t master. But this was Margaret’s pub to look after. And besides, if Margaret asked Liza to fix something, she wouldn’t stop at fixing. Then she’d be saying let’s upgrade this or throw out that. Why fix an old chair when she could gather the materials and make Margaret a brand-new one?

No. Margaret wouldn’t be asking her friend for help. She’d carry on with her furniture tape and her pen that made the dings in the wood blend in better. And as for the showerhead . . . well, she’d pretend she didn’t hear the water as it drip-drip-dripped all night long.

A flash near Margaret’s eyes drew her attention away from the portrait and the pub’s growing list of issues. Bernie had deigned to come downstairs, apparently, and circled Margaret’s head. She knew immediately what the calico was searching for.

“I’ve put the bowl away,” Margaret said. “It’s not a bed.”

The dragon huffed and flapped her wings, sending a tiny tornado of air in Margaret’s direction.

“Let’s look at this logically,” Margaret said, tucking a hair behind her ear. “I can find a nice bed for you today when I’m out for lunch. I’ll stop into the Creature Emporium and look at some nice, fire-resistant options. Then, I can keep my bowl. What do we think?”

Bernie did a loop in the air, then blew a tiny flame in Margaret’s direction that she had to duck to avoid. It evaporated behind her before it hit the wall.

“Are you trying to set the place on fire?” Margaret demanded, putting one hand on her hip. “I’ll remind you that I cannot feed you if my home and business are burnt to a crisp?”

Bernie didn’t seem bothered by this. In fact, she flicked her tail as if to say she’d use whatever means necessary to get her bowl back. As if it was her bowl and not Margaret’s bowl.

Still, Margaret let out a sigh and found the bowl in one of the cabinets under the bar. She set it down on the bar, and before she had even fully pulled her hands away, Bernie had zoomed toward the bowl and curled up inside it. Margaret rolled her eyes, but the annoyance was mostly for display. Bernie did look awfully cute in that damn bowl.

“Afternoon!” Liza’s voice sang out, muffled slightly from outside. The bell followed, and then the door before Liza stepped inside. Her blond hair was tucked into the kind of effortless, messy bun that Margaret could never quite pull off. The witch was wearing a soft brown cloak today and skirts and top to match, plus a pair of smart leather boots.

“Ready for lunch?” Liza asked, popping her head inside. Her eyes swept Margaret before a frown played across her lips. “Apparently not.”

Margaret glanced down at her own outfit. She was in her cleaning clothes: her old, paint-splattered jeans and a rose-red sweater that she’d found at a witch’s thrift shop when she and Liza took that trip to the coast. Sure, not exactly fancy, but they were just going to lunch.

“I was cleaning,” Margaret said. “But I’ll change when we get back for my shift.”

Liza looked her up and down again. “How about now?”

Margaret arched an eyebrow. “Why? Did you book us at Vigilucci’s and not tell me?”

Vigilucci’s was the village’s only fine-dining establishment, a place that served decadent dishes but did not print the prices on the menu. This was good news for the food, naturally, but terrible news for Margaret’s bank account. She and Liza were more frequent visitors at the more casual spots, places that didn’t send Margaret into bankruptcy.

“No,” Liza said, tapping her foot. “I just figured you might want to, well, look nice.”

Now this was getting suspicious. Liza loved to dress up and saw every morning as an occasion to be fashionable, but she generally only pressed Margaret if there was a reason, such as last night when she was trying to play matchmaker—

Ah.

Margaret understood.

“I will not dress up on the off chance there’s a man to impress,” Margaret said with a huff. “If a man doesn’t like me in my cleaning clothes, then it’s better we know now.”

Liza worried her lip. “Oh, come on, Maggie. I’m not asking for much. Maybe something that you haven’t worn to scrub a toilet?”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “That eliminates most of my wardrobe.”

Liza sighed, throwing up her hands. “You know, this is what I meant when I said you—”

She was cut off by a loud boom that echoed so loudly that the Toasty Owl seemed to vibrate under Margaret’s feet and Bernie let out an indignant squeak from her bowl. Booms such as this weren’t entirely unheard of; there was, after all, a world-renowned joke shop up the street that was often testing or showing off its more explosive offerings. However, this particular boom hadn’t come from that direction. Margaret and Liza looked at each other before striding in unison to the pub’s door and throwing it open.