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focused on his tea as he stayed
out of it. Camino was busying herself with tidying up the snacks as
she interjected from time to time like a mother hen, clucking at
their behavior. The scene felt warm, comforting, and secure. I had
never felt so comfortable at my own family gatherings.
    Ruprecht was right. Magic couldn’t beat good
company, not by a mile.
     
     

Chapter 8

    “Darn it,” I said sleepily to no one in
particular. There was no one in my room, not even the cats,
although of course, the house itself was alive in a way. I rolled
over onto my stomach and felt along the floor for the phone.
    “Hello, Thyme?” I said groggily. “It’s
early.”
    “I know,” Thyme said. “I’m sorry.”
    I could tell at once, even in my half-awake
and caffeine deficient state, that Thyme was not herself. Her voice
was nasal. It dawned on me what Thyme was calling to say before the
words even left her mouth.
    “No!” I said, loudly. “No, no, no!”
    “I know,” Thyme said. “I’m sick. I’m sorry.”
She sounded congested and tired.
    “I could just close for the day,” I said.
“If I cook, we won’t have any cash, ever.”
    Thyme laughed weakly. “What about hiring
someone for the day?”
    “Who?”
    Thyme didn’t have an answer for that.
    I wondered why a witch was sick at all.
Wasn’t there a spell she could do? I had no idea. I really did to
need to read up a lot more on the subject. I also needed to look
for extra staff members I could call on in such a situation.
    I didn’t speak to Thyme again until later
that morning when she called to ask how I was doing. I had stupidly
decided to try to bake, and at the very moment Thyme called, smoke
was billowing out of the oven, slipping through the small crack at
the edges of the door.
    “Hi Amelia, how’s it all going?” Thyme
asked.
    “I have to call you back!” I screeched,
hanging up and throwing the phone on the countertop in one fluid
motion. I ran to the sink at the back of the room, and pulled a
small red extinguisher from the cupboard. I ran back to the oven.
When I pulled the door open, the flames leaped at me. Within
seconds, the towels on the counter next to the oven were
burning.
    I pulled the silver pin on the extinguisher
and aimed it at the fire, but by the time the extinguisher was
empty, the fire was still going, albeit far more weakly. I ran back
to the phone and called triple zero.
    After the call, I went back to the sink. I
filled a large mixing bowl with water, and threw it on the flames.
That did the trick, but as I stood in the somewhat blackened
kitchen, I heard the faint roar of a siren.
    Within minutes, Craig and the other
firefighters were in the kitchen. “I put it out just before you got
here,” I said lamely.
    “Well, we rushed here for nothing then,” one
of the men said to me. “Always the best kind of call—it means
everyone is safe.”
    Craig came over to me. He looked as hot as
usual, his muscles seemingly bulging through his uniform. “There
isn’t any damage here,” he said. “Just make sure that oven’s
working properly before you use it again. You’d better get it
checked out. Otherwise, there’s nothing that a good clean up
wouldn’t fix.”
    I smiled my gratitude. “No more baking for
me, seriously.”
    When Craig and the other firefighters left,
I spent the morning scrubbing the kitchen. After all, I was
experienced with removing smoke and ash from surfaces.
    I shut the shop at lunchtime and headed to a
local café to buy soup for Thyme.
    The woman who answered the door only vaguely
resembled Thyme. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and her hair limp
and stringy.
    “You look terrible,” I said.
    “Thanks for the compliment,” Thyme said
dryly.
    “I brought you soup.” I carefully held up a
paper bag.
    “Come in, but don’t get too close.” Thyme
threw herself down on her couch. “So what are you doing here? You
didn’t burn down the bakery, did you?”
    I pulled a face.