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The man shook his head. “The tactics people will use these days.”

“That’s what I said!” Liza declared.

Inside the pub, Margaret could’ve sworn she heard movement. Silas might be there. She turned to the door, trying to figure out how to deftly exit this conversation. The man followed her gaze.

“Sounds like a wonderful place,” he said. “I won’t keep you. Just wanted to offer my compliments.”

“Would you like to see inside?” Liza offered. “A little behind-the-scenes action before you come by tonight?”

She flashed him one of those winning Liza smiles, and he chuckled.

“Well, if you’re offering,” he said, then looked at Margaret for approval. Margaret was just anxious to get inside and see if Silas was there, so she nodded.

“Come on in,” Margaret said, opening the door and gesturing inside.

As they walked in, Liza waved her wand to light the fireplace and the candles on the wall. The pub was clean and warm, especially with the new windowpane.

“Wow,” the man said. “It’s just as I pictured it.”

Margaret smiled, then realized she hadn’t yet caught the man’s name.

“Sorry,” she said. “But what was your name again?”

He did a 360-degree turn, taking in every bit of the pub before looking at Margaret and smiling broadly.

“Patrick Kerrigan,” he said, stepping forward to hold out his hand. Margaret took the hand and shook it, rolling the name over in her mind. She recognized it—but from where?

He seemed to sense that she was trying to place him.

“You might have read my name on the sign of my bar,” he said, his voice casual. “Right before you broke in.”

Instantly, it was as if Margaret had stepped onto a frozen lake and fallen straight to the bottom. Next to Margaret, Liza gasped.

This man was the owner of Fox Bar.

“If you wanted to see what I’m working on, you could’ve asked,” Patrick said, dropping Margaret’s hand. He spotted Bernie in the window, paused, smirked, and shook his head.

“Excuse me?” Liza snapped. Her flirtatious giggling had fallen away, leaving nothing but a snarl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Patrick turned and inclined his head at Liza, looking her up and down.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to suss out the competition,” he said. “I’m a businessman myself. I know it’s nothing personal.”

He looked back at Margaret. “But you should know . . . I had concealment charms on every inch of the building. And sensor spells. You weren’t able to see what Fox Bar looks like because I made sure you couldn’t.”

Margaret’s heart sank. Of course there were concealment charms and sensor spells. She’d been a fool to think that what they’d seen was the full effect of all the magic she’d seen exploding out of the place. She should’ve expected showmanship—wasn’t that what all of Fox Bar’s flyers promised? She’d been duped into thinking exactly what he wanted her to think.

Honestly, Margaret couldn’t even be as mad at the man as she wanted to. Instead, she heard her mother and grandmother in her head, telling her that this was what she got for taking her eyes off the business. Not that they would’ve actually told her that. They wouldn’t have needed to. They had always been focused. They had always put all their heart into the Toasty Owl. Margaret was the one without the clear head.

“You know,” Patrick said, turning his head to Liza. “You have quite the reputation, Liza Stippleton.”

If anything, his words were warm and smooth. There wasn’t a hint of a rudeness or callousness. And yet, even with that level of charm, Margaret could sense that whatever he was about to say to Liza was not a compliment.

“Everyone told me you’re an incredibly talented witch,” he continued. “The word brilliant was thrown around once or twice. And yet . . . you didn’t detect my spell work.”

Instantly, Liza radiated rage. It vibrated from her, her magic making her glow ever so slightly.

“How dare you,” Liza said. “You—you arrogant son of a—”