Blooming Magic

The bell above my shop door chimed, and I looked up from the enchantment I was weaving to see a woman who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.

She stood just inside the threshold, clutching the strap of a worn canvas tote bag with both hands. Her chestnut hair fell forward, hiding most of her face. What I could see of her cheeks was flushed pink.

"Welcome to Hermine's Curiosities," I said, setting down my work. The half-finished charm, a small copper disc meant to keep milk from spoiling, could wait. "Take your time looking around. Everything's safe to touch unless it's glowing."

She nodded without speaking. Her hazel eyes darted from shelf to shelf, taking in the jumble of jars, hanging herbs, precariously stacked books, and the various enchanted objects I'd accumulated over three years of running this place. I watched her drift toward the back corner where I kept the older texts, the ones bound in leather that creaked when you opened them.

Most customers came in wanting something specific. A love charm. A luck spell. Something to make their garden grow. They asked their questions, paid their coins, and left. This woman moved like she was afraid of breaking something. Herself, maybe.

I busied myself with tidying the counter, but I kept glancing her way. There was something about the way she touched the spines of the books, reverent and careful, like she was greeting old friends.

"You can sit, if you want," I called out. "The chair by the window's comfortable. I keep it there for readers."

She jumped. Actually jumped, like I'd thrown something at her.

"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine." Her voice was soft, barely carrying across the room. "I was just... I heard you have a section on botanical enchantments?"

"Second shelf from the top, left side. The green-bound ones."

She nodded and turned back to the shelves, but I saw her shoulders relax a fraction. Good. I hated when people were scared of the shop. It wasn't that kind of place. Nothing in here would bite unless you asked it to.

The afternoon light slanted through my front windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. I'd meant to sweep earlier, but I'd gotten distracted by the milk charm. Story of my life. My mother used to say I'd forget my own head if it wasn't attached. She wasn't wrong.

I pulled my ribbon loose and retied my hair, feeling the familiar weight of it settle against my back. The charms on my bracelet jingled, a sound I usually found comforting. Today it just made me aware of how quiet the shop was.

The woman had found the botanical section. She pulled out a slim volume bound in faded green and opened it carefully, her lips moving as she read.

"You can borrow that one, if you want," I said. "I don't get many people interested in the old herbals."

She looked up, and for a moment our eyes met. Hers were large and expressive, the kind of eyes that gave everything away. Right now they were saying *please don't talk to me* and *please keep talking to me* at the same time.

"I couldn't," she said. "I mean, I don't want to impose."

"It's not an imposition. I'd rather someone read it than let it gather dust." I gestured at the shelves around us. "That's kind of the point of this place."

She hesitated, then nodded and tucked the book into her bag. "Thank you. I'll bring it back."

"No rush."

She started toward the door, then stopped. Her hand hovered over the handle.

"I'm Marie," she said, not looking at me. "I work at the library. The one on Elm Street."

"I know it. I'm Hermine."

"I know." Her cheeks went pinker. "I mean, I've seen the sign. Outside. Your name is on the sign."

I smiled, but she was already pushing through the door. The bell chimed again, and she was gone, a blur of brown hair and muted cardigan disappearing down the street.

I stood there for a moment, watching the door swing shut. Then I went back to my milk charm, but I couldn't focus. My mind kept drifting to the way she'd held that book, like it was something precious.

---

She came back three days later.

I was in the middle of a tricky bit of spellwork, trying to convince a stubborn crystal to hold a protection charm, when the bell chimed. I didn't look up right away. The crystal was being difficult, and if I lost my concentration, I'd have to start over.

"Be with you in a second," I said.

"No hurry."

That soft voice. I looked up. Marie stood by the door, her tote bag clutched against her chest like a shield. Today she wore a gray cardigan over a long brown skirt, and her hair was pulled back with a simple clip. She looked slightly less terrified than last time.

"You came back," I said.

"I said I would." She reached into her bag and pulled out the green-bound book. "I finished it. It was... really good. The section on moon-phase planting was fascinating."

"Did you try any of it?"

She shook her head. "I don't have a garden. Just a windowsill. I have a few herbs, but nothing that would need moon-phase planting."

"You could try it anyway. Small scale. A pot of basil, maybe. The principles are the same."

She considered this, her brow furrowing. "I hadn't thought of that."

I set down the crystal, giving up on it for now. The protection charm would keep. "Do you want some tea? I was about to make a pot."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't. I don't want to take up your time."

"You're not taking up anything. I was going to make tea anyway. It's better with company."

She hesitated. I could see her weighing it, the desire to stay against the instinct to flee. I recognized that look. I'd worn it myself, back when I was younger and the world felt too big and loud.

"I'll just have a cup," she said finally. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

I led her to the small kitchen in the back of the shop, a cramped space with a two-burner stove and a sink that dripped no matter how many times I fixed it. The teapot was already on the stove, and I lit the burner with a snap of my fingers. Marie flinched.

"Sorry," I said. "I forget that's not normal for everyone."

"It's fine. I just... I'm not used to magic."

"Then you're in the right place." I pulled down two mugs, both slightly chipped, and set them on the counter. "What kind of tea do you like?"

"Whatever you're having."

I chose a chamomile blend, something calming. She seemed like she could use calming. I know I could.

While the water heated, I leaned against the counter and studied her. She stood in the doorway, her bag still clutched in front of her, her gaze fixed on the floor. She was pretty, in a quiet way. The kind of pretty that didn't announce itself. You had to look twice to see it.

"You work at the library," I said. It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway.

"I'm the assistant librarian. Mostly I reshelve books and help people find things. It's quiet work."

"Do you like it?"

She looked up, surprised. "No one's ever asked me that."

"Is that a no?"

"It's not a no." She thought about it, her fingers worrying the strap of her bag. "I like the books. I like being around them. The people are harder."

"I get that. I like people fine, but I like them better when they're buying something."

She almost smiled. Almost. The corner of her mouth twitched, and something in my chest did a little flip.

The kettle whistled. I poured the water and handed her a mug. She wrapped her hands around it, absorbing the warmth, and I watched her shoulders drop an inch.

"Thank you," she said.

"You already said that."

"I know. I just... thank you."

We drank our tea in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable. There was something easy about standing in my cluttered kitchen with this woman I barely knew, listening to the drip of the faucet and the distant hum of the street outside. I found myself wondering what she was thinking about. What she saw when she looked at me.

"I should go," she said, setting down her empty mug. "I have work in an hour."

"Thanks for bringing the book back."

"Thanks for letting me borrow it." She paused at the door, her hand on the frame. "Could I... would it be all right if I came back? Sometime?"

"Anytime. I'm here most days."

She nodded, and then she was gone, the bell chiming in her wake.

I stood in the kitchen for a long time after she left, holding my cooling tea and trying to name the feeling in my chest. It wasn't until later, when I was closing up the shop and the sun was setting behind the hills, that I realized what it was.

Loneliness. Mine, not hers. I'd been alone for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to want someone to stay.

---

The next week passed slowly. I worked on my charms, restocked the shelves, argued with a customer who wanted a love potion and couldn't understand why I wouldn't sell him one. ("It's not ethical," I told him for the third time. "And it doesn't work the way you think it does. Go home. Talk to her like a person.") He left angry, but he'd be back. They always came back.

Marie didn't.

I told myself it didn't matter. She was shy. She had her own life. Just because she'd had tea with me once didn't mean she owed me anything.

But I found myself looking at the door every time the bell chimed. Found myself wondering what she was reading. Found myself thinking about the way her hands had held that book, gentle and careful, like it mattered.

On the fifth day, I closed up early and walked to the library.

It was a small building, brick with tall windows and a stone lion on either side of the steps. I'd passed it a hundred times but never gone in. Books and I had a complicated relationship. I preferred to make my own magic, not read about someone else's.

The inside smelled like paper and dust and something faintly floral. A woman at the front desk looked up as I entered, her eyebrows rising.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Marie."

"Marie's in the back. Stacks. Do you need her for something specific?"

"No. Just wanted to say hello."

The woman's eyebrows rose higher, but she pointed me toward the back without comment. I walked past shelves of books, my footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. The library was quiet in a way my shop never was. It felt like a place where sound went to die.

I found Marie in the farthest corner, reshelving a cart of books. She didn't see me at first. Her back was to me, and she was reaching up to place a book on a high shelf, her skirt riding up just slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin above her waistband.

I should have said something. Should have announced myself. But I stood there, watching her, and I felt that same flip in my chest, stronger this time.

She turned, and our eyes met. The book in her hands slipped. She caught it against her chest, but her face went red, and I knew she'd seen me watching.

"Hermine?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

She blinked. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

She stared at me like I'd spoken in a foreign language. Like the concept of someone wanting to see her was so foreign she couldn't process it.

"I don't understand," she said.

"I know." I took a step closer. "That's okay."

The book was still pressed against her chest, her knuckles white. She looked at me, and I looked at her, and something passed between us. Something I couldn't name.

"I get off at five," she said.

"I'll wait."