I've decided to start publishing parts of this! I know my other story, thicker than water, isn't completed yet, but I've already finished writing all the parts for that, and I'm currently on chapter 20 of this story, so I think I'll have a better time keeping caught up. Sorry it's taken so long, guys! xoxo, lamestuff

The inside of Miss Tully's home was either just as bad, or even creepier, than the exterior of her house.

On the outside, the paint was peeling, the front door was warped and the roof seemed to sag sadly. When Millie started up the steps, Brandon had to reach out a hand to steady her as the wood dipped and groaned beneath her feet. As if that wasn't enough to make Millie wish she were home, in bed and swaddled in her blankets, the mold on the window and the wooden boards sticking up all over the porch were enough to make her stomach roll.

"Go ahead," Brandon said, standing slightly behind her. "The house doesn't bite."

Millie shot him a dark look as she eased herself across the porch, careful not to step too heavily anywhere. The structure rumbled beneath her and she quickened her pace to the doorway, Brandon right behind her.

As Millie passed through the door, his hand hovering behind her back like he thought she might tip over, she tried to suppress her surprised gasp.

On the inside, it was pristine. Glimmering wooden floors stretched out before her, and the open plan allowed her to see small glimpses of every room: the kitchen, clean and bright yellow; the living room, all dark mahogany and heavy drapes and book shelves and the dining room, with a long oak table set with three places.

"Um," Millie said, clearing her throat. "Your home is very nice, Miss Tully."

"It's a glamour," the old lady informed her as she bustled down the hallway, from the kitchen and into the living room, holding onto a silver tray.

"What is?" Millie asked, her eyes still sweeping the house. It was more put-together than her own home.

"The outside," Miss Tully said, looking up at her. "It's a glamour. You see what you want to see — something dirty and awful. It doesn't really look like that. Or maybe it does. I've long ago stopped seeing what's beneath the magic."

"Millie doesn't know anything about magic," Brandon said, almost sternly, and looked down at Millie. "Sorry, Miss Tully assumes that everyone in the universe has as intense a magical knowledge as she does."

"I do not," the old woman snapped, flustered, as she regarded Brandon and Millie, still hovering in the doorway. "The girl is cursed. One would assume she knows about magic, at least a little. Brandon, how rude can you be? Let the girl sit down. It's like you were raised by wolves."

Millie jumped at the sudden topic change — and Brandon's hand on her spine, urging her into the living room — but quickly complied with Miss Tully's demands. She settled on the edge of the worn brown leather couch, on the very outskirts of the room, crossing her legs. She put her bag in her lap and had to fight the urge to wrap her arms around it and curl up in the fetal position.

She wasn't normally this gooey. If anything, Millie was used to feeling a lack of emotions in heightened situations. But Miss Tully's house, this "glamour" and what Brandon had said on the porch was all making her queasy, and she found that she could feel panic and fear thrumming through her veins.

"I told Brandon not to be so ominous when he talked to you," Miss Tully said, reaching toward the silver tray on the living room table to grab a cup of tea. "I really do hate the idea of us witches acting all better-than-thou, because we aren't. We are just more attuned with nature. Tea, dear?"

"What?" Millie barked.

"I asked if you wanted some tea."

"No." Millie shook her head. "Did you say . . . ?" She glanced sideways at Brandon, who had settled opposite her on the same couch. He was already staring at her. She'd originally thought it was an act of solidarity, and now she wondered if he was just watching her. "Did she say you're a witch?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah." Brandon sat back against the leather, one arm crooked behind his head. "I'm more of a witches' apprentice at the moment."

"Pshaw," Miss Tully scoffed. "The boy is a prodigy, and I do not say that lightly. His mother was one, as well, but not quite to his extent. He's gifted."

"Right." Millie stared at Brandon, trying to figure out if he looked any different. He was still tall and broad shouldered, with the same dark hair and dark eyes and permanent smirk. There wasn't a magical glitter floating around him, or the word "WITCH" in big, neon yellow letters dancing over his head. "You're both witches, and so is Brandon's mom, and I'm cursed." She paused, breathing heavily. "So, are we all settled up, then?"

"Looks that way to me." Miss Tully smiled, and her slightly crooked front teeth glittered in the setting light from outside the picture window behind Millie. "Cookie?"

"No." Millie couldn't look at either of them, and found herself staring at her toes peeking out of her sandals, the black nail polish chipped and worn from weeks (months?) of neglect. "How long have you known about the curse?"

"Personally," Brandon said, "I've known since I was a little kid. I don't remember not knowing. My mom used to tell me about it to . . ." He trailed off.

"Keep you away from me?" Millie filled in, after a beat too long of silence following his words.

"She didn't want Brandon getting involved," Miss Tully corrected. "It is not our way to interfere with these matters."

"So, how long have you known?" Millie jerked her chin in Miss Tully's direction, still refusing to look at her.

"I've known in a very vague-sense about it since I was a child. I was once friends with your grandmother, Helena. It wasn't until much later that I was truly given an in depth knowledge of what the curse was."

"You mean when you talked to my mother, right?"

Miss Tully looked momentarily surprised, but the expression quickly flattened out. "Sure. Well, Brandon's mother told me some about it. She knows it much better than I do, honestly. I just know the vague gist of it — and that's what I told your mother."

"What —" Millie blinked and coughed, trying to force the lump that was rising in her throat. "What did you tell my mother?"

"Millie, what have you always thought the curse was about?"

"Love." Millie looked up at Miss Tully, and blanched at her expression. "It's not, though, right? The curse is something different. We've just always thought it was about love."

"Your ancestors hid the truth from their children," Miss Tully said. "They were trying to scare them and they thought if they said love was the curse, then they'd never reproduce, never get married, and the Clearwater line would die out, and the curse would go with it."

"But the opposite happened," Millie said angrily. "And everyone died anyway."

"Yes, that's true," Miss Tully said, shrugging, "but by that point, the original ancestors had already been taken by the curse, or by age — those old bats were ancient — and the only people left were those who thought the curse was about love."

Except you guys and you didn't bother helping us, did you? Millie put her hand to her throat, refusing to let the words out. If she wanted help, she'd have to refrain from tossing out accusations at every turn.

"Well," Millie urged, when the silence in the room began to stretch out, "what's the curse?"

"Happiness," Brandon said smoothly, and Millie's gaze snapped to his face. He smiled at her sadly. "The curse is ignited by a moment of true happiness."

Millie looked away, face flaming. Brandon knew that the curse had begun — which meant that he had to know that Millie had had a moment of "true happiness" with Sam, his best friend. She couldn't think of anything more embarrassing, except maybe if Sam were to ever find out about the curse and how it had begun.

And suddenly everything seemed to be falling together in her mind. "That's why it's always been different. Grandma Helena died when she was like sixty, and my mom died in her forties, and Aunt Priscilla died when she was twenty one, and the curse started for me, almost two weeks ago."

She could remember with extreme clarity, sitting in the front seat of Sam's car. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Sam had said, looking at her. She'd seen the look on his face, a mix of excitement and nerves, and she'd felt her lips stretching into a smile. She'd said "me, too", easily, almost too easily, and then her fight against her muscles had broken and her smile had formed.

She'd been happy.