Free Winds of Salem by Melissa de La Cruz

homestead. But as the maxim went, good things never lasted.
    Tonight, though, it was really quite perfect that she had the house to herself, logs burning in the fireplace, scented candles lit. She had prepared dinner and set the table in the dining room. Perhaps she should flick more lights on? Would that be better? She decided to turn the ones in the dining area on, dimmed, in addition to the candlelight, so they could see each other while they ate. She headed upstairs, passing her griffin, Oscar, in the hallway, his lion’s tail looping around her ankle.
    “Oh, no, this won’t do, my dear, you have to be out of sight this evening. You are just too scary even though you’re a pussycat.” She grabbed him by his feathery scruff and brought him to the pixies’ old haunt up in the attic. “Sorry,” she said sadly, locking the door. “Not tonight. Another time, perhaps.” She returned down the stairs. Yes, witches do possess familiars, but they certainly do not suckle them. Good gods! thought Ingrid. How gross. They really got so many things wrong back in Salem.
    She went inside her bathroom. “Yikes,” she said, glimpsing herself in the mirror. She had worn her hair down, as Matt liked it, but it looked a fright—witchy, really. She ran a brush through it, then sprayed it with some serum Freya had recommended so that it looked glossy and smooth. Ingrid smiled at her reflection. There was a pink flush in her cheeks, her gray-blue eyes shone, but her lips looked pale. She found a berry-red lipstick, but when she put it on, it looked too scarlet.
    She dabbed her lips, then finished them off with a touch ofgloss. “There!” She didn’t look half bad, she thought—not too pale or bookish or bland.
    The doorbell rang and she started, losing hold of the perfume bottle, which fell to the sink. She placed it back on the counter, deciding against it. Too overbearing.
    Everything had to be perfect tonight.
    Tonight was the night!
    Downstairs in the front foyer, she took a deep breath. She steeled herself and opened the door.
    Matt Noble stood in the doorway with a shy grin. “Hey there!”
    Ingrid tingled all over at the sight of him.
    Then she turned to the girl beside him. “Maggie! How are you? It’s so great to meet you—I’ve heard so much about you from your dad!”
    Tonight was the night Ingrid was finally going to meet the most important girl in Matt’s life. His daughter.
    “Likewise,” said Maggie, giving Ingrid an impressively firm handshake for a twelve-year-old. Maggie looked unabashedly at Ingrid, her big brown eyes aglitter. And she was so pretty. Beautiful was more like it, but more olive toned and exotic looking than freckly, Irish Matt. “What a pretty dress!” Maggie said. “Is it vintage? And you have such great hair!”
    “Well, I could say the same to you.” The child was delightful. “I always wished I could be brunette.” Ingrid nodded.
    “The proverbial grass is always greener,” said Maggie.
    “Exactly!”
    “Um, I’m here,” piped Matt.
    “Oh, right!” remarked Ingrid.
    “But please, I don’t want to interrupt the lovefest.” He grinned.
    Maggie giggled.
    “Come in,” said Ingrid, and once Maggie strode through the door into the house, she and Matt took a moment to exchange a kiss.
    His cheek came around to hers, tenderly nuzzling it, and she felt his breath on her ear, which made her melt. “You’ve got this one!” he whispered.
    “I hope so, I’m nervous,” she said, then softly, “I’ve missed you!”
    “Tell me about it!” he boomed.
    Maggie was a quiet, watchful child but, at the same time, engaged and inquisitive. She was polite but also confident. Over dinner, she asked adultlike questions, sometimes encouraging the conversation if there was a lull. Matt’s daughter sought to put people at ease, and Ingrid felt grateful for it. She felt insecure about her cooking—she was no Freya in the kitchen. Had she over-grilled the scallops? Was the reduction of