Tarnished and Torn by Juliet Blackwell Page B

from your box. The others are the ones I bought from the woman who sold the knotted necklaces and the other vendor with the buttons. Bronwyn didn’t buy any rings.”
    There weren’t many: two school rings, a fake diamond engagement ring, a plain silver band, a black resin ring with a raven à la Edgar Allen Poe, and a large mock-ivory cameo.
    I spread them out on the counter and studied them one by one. I felt a few vague vibrations, but nothing much. The raven—black against a bright yellow background—was by far the most evocative, but it was modern, probably made in the last decade. I slipped it onto the ring finger of my left hand, enjoying the way its bold, large profile made my hand look dainty. It was dramatic and vaguely sinister.
    “Hey, now you look like a real witch,” said Maya with a smile. “And I mean that in the nicest sense of the word.”
    •   •   •
    As much as I love my friends—and my shop, and my customers—it had been a long and eventful day. As the clock slowly ticked toward the closing hour, I grew anxious to take my pig and head home to the warmth and serenity of our cozy apartment, where I could interrogate my porcine pal in private. Luckily, my commute’s pretty short: up a flight of stairs to the apartment above my shop.
    So as soon as Bronwyn, Maya, and I flipped the sign to C LOSED , went over the day’s receipts, emptied the cash from the register, noted the tally, and straightened the racks, I locked the front door behind them, and followed Oscar into the back room.
    I paused briefly to arrange a pile of clothes in front of the jumbo washer and dryer. These clothes were a rarity: new acquisitions that could be tossed right into the machines. Most vintage items had to be dry-cleaned—at a green cleaner, of course, as this was the environmentally conscious Bay Area—or hand washed, or subjected to even more complicated cleaning techniques. I adore the history and feel of vintage clothes, love finding the right outfits for my customers. But the never-ending laundry? Well, let’s just say I could use a helper elf.
    Speaking of which . . . I looked at my piggy familiar as we climbed the rear stairs. Oscar had his moments, but as he had informed me on more than a few occasions, he was no Igor to do my bidding . . . and he most certainly did
not
do laundry.
    A door at the top of the stairs opened onto my apartment, which consists of a bedroom, a bathroom, a checkerboard-tiled kitchen, and a snug living room. By far the best part of the apartment is the beautiful outdoor terrace, where I keep my witch’s garden in pots and planters. My grandmother is a kitchen witch and
curandera
, or healer, and raised me in her tradition, which means that botanicals are central to my practice.
    I might fail at scrying and divining and intuiting vibrations from jewelry, but when it comes to brewing, I shine.
    I breathed a sigh of relief just walking into my apartment; in the tiny foyer was a mirror to repel bad spirits, a consecrated sachet tied with a black ribbon, and a hand-thrown earthen oil pot full of stinging nettles. Throughout the apartment were good-luck symbols and charms to keep me secure and protected . . . especially lately.
    I felt safe here, at peace. At home.
    “So . . . Oscar, we need to talk more about what you sensed at the Gem Faire.”
    Oscar usually transformed into his natural self once out of sight of others. But this time he remained in his piggy guise. He trotted over to the sofa, hopped up, faced away from me, and curled onto his side, blowing out a loud sigh.
    “Talk to me, Oscar.”
    He harrumphed.
    I was guessing he was still holding a grudge over my reaction to the incident with the security guards. No doubt about it, Oscar was one sensitive gobgoyle.
    I sat on the arm of the couch, where I was treated to the sight of his curly little tail.
    “I apologized once . . . but I’ll say it again: I really am sorry.”
    One piggy ear