Her mother's speech didn't end until they'd pulled up in front of their two-story house. Cora got out of the car without a word, pulled open the gate, and stomped across their small yard, where fallen pink leaves from the dogwood tree withered.

The leaves crunched under her heels, as she went up the front steps and into the house. The sudden smell of her grandmother's bumble berry pie and burning oil floated from the kitchen. She'd forgotten her growling tummy.

It roared when the aroma settled beneath her nose.

"Stella, is that you?" her grandmother asked. "I'm afraid, Willow has ruined another batch of the marshmallow root."

"Really, Mom, it was an accident," Willow said.

"No, it's me," said Cora, tugging off her coat and boots at the door. She hung her coat up in the small hall closet and wandered into the kitchen. Although they were sorceresses, neither their kitchen nor the rest of their house resembled what someone would think a sorceress's house should.

The non-magical humans might have conjured up images of spell books and potions strewn all over the place—a black cauldron bubbling green liquid in a corner. Those were only stories. The truth wasn't so convoluted. Well, mostly. Cora wouldn't have minded a cottage in the woods.

The house belonged to her great-grandmother and therefore suited her tastes; exceptionally clean and white. Except for the mess of pots and pans, bottles of fragrances, jars of different cosmetic butters, ranging from the deepest orange to ivory, on the counters and breakfast table. Other than being sorceresses, the Emersons were also kitchen beauticians. After all, it was how they managed to blend in for so long.

Cora's nose took her past her grandmother and sister, both in stained matching red and white aprons, to the oven. She bent down to get a good look at the pie. Simmering right beside it was another one of her favorite meals, truffled macaroni and cheese.

"Mom said your boyfriend took you to the hospital." Willow crossed her arms. She said it in a matter-of-fact way, with a slight squint to her eyes, waiting for her to deny it. At twelve, Willow's bull-crap meter was perfunctory, much like the rest of her. Small and succinct, she liked things a certain way, including her hair, which was curly and bobbed. And her clothing, a striped black and white dress, nylon tights, and patent black Mary Janes.

So maybe, after all, she was like Stella.

Cora rolled her eyes and traipsed to the fridge. "You know he isn't my boyfriend." She reached for the box of cereal at the top. Once she had it, she shoved her hand in and brought a fist full of its crunchy sweetness to her mouth.

"Use a bowl," Agatha said. "Other people eat from that too."

Cora went over to her and pressed her sticky lips against her grandmother's warm, blushing cheek, earning her a swat on the shoulder. For someone her age, Agatha had brown skin as soft as a babe's. That youthful air around her was another reward for being a sorceress.

"Let's have someone look at that arm after dinner." Agatha's eyes twinkled, as they always did whenever she spoke to her granddaughters.

Both she and Willow stood in the center of the room at the island. Agatha had a mixing spoon in her hand, and Willow's bowl appeared to be mixing on its own. Despite this, her concoction had gone a horrible, dull gray.

"If he isn't your boyfriend," she said, "why didn't you break his arm in retaliation?"

Before Cora could retort, her mother came in, still in her coat and boots that clicked against the tile. However, she did tug off her brown leather gloves, which she then threw onto the table, knocking over a bottle of lavender oil.

Stella sighed but didn't bother to pick up the bottle. "I had to circle the block to find a place to park." She clicked her way over to Willow and lifted her bowl, inspecting it. "It makes no sense trying to salvage this now. We'll have to toss it."

Cora moseyed over to the table and somehow managed to sit despite how untidy it was. Putting the cereal box on the floor near her feet, she began to arrange the bottles of different carrier and essential oils based on the color of their labels.

For years, the Emersons had made and sold their own beauty products called, "Made with Magic." Their slogan was, "Beauty by the Light of the Moon." Even though their products contained no magic at all. At least, they no longer did.

It had to do with a nasty case of boils caused by a bad brewing spell. But for no more than forty dollars, anyone could be the owner of a Made with Magic all-natural product, promising even the most wretched face they could look as youthful as Cora's great-grandmother, Mariam, who was in her mid-eighties but looked sixty. It was all a lie of course, probably the biggest lie the Emersons had ever told.

It was wonderfully wicked—a certain catchphrase she meant to coin one day.

Stella whipped off her suede trench, putting it to rest over the back of a chair at the table where a pile of the day's mail sat. Cora, who was waiting on the latest issue of her favorite fashion magazine, held out her hand for them.

"It seems no one here goes through the mail anymore." Stella sighed again. The more she sighed, the bigger her wine glass would be at dinner.

"I haven't received anything useful since 1991." Agatha, who had been dumping a bottle of something into her mixing bowl, got a far-off look in her eyes.

"The good old days." Stella flicked through the mail.

"The olden days." Willow scoffed. She'd given up on her concoction and was now throwing it into the trash.

Stella clucked her tongue, but Cora thought it had more to do with the bills in her hand than her daughter's bluntness. She shook her outstretched hand.

"There's nothing here for you, dear." Her mother dropped the mail onto the table. When she did, Cora dived for them anyway.

"I'll be in my room if anyone needs me." Stella made for the door, but before she left added, "Where's grandma?"

"Gallivanting around town." Agatha stopped mixing to check the oven. "You know that old woman can never stay put. She's living in another decade."

Stella held a hand up as she left the room. As she had said, nothing had come for Cora. Her acceptance letter to FAE had arrived a week prior. She had applied to only two schools, including the Fashion Academy of Elorie, hoping to study either journalism or marketing. She wasn't a bad student, more like a B average. Come next year, she would be studying at FAE. Some of her classmates had gotten their letters too.

If there was one thing her mother didn't want them to fail at it was school. Like any mother, Stella wanted the best for her daughters. Like any daughter, Cora wanted to make her mother proud. An early response from her top school should have done the trick.

"I'm going to my room." She left the kitchen, leaving the mail on the table and the cereal box on the floor. Willow followed her.

She was on her heels as they went up the stairs. "Who exactly was that boy? Why did he break your arm?" She asked with much interest, maybe even slight glee.

"My arm isn't broken." Cora wiggled her fingers, as if to make sure for herself. Wearing a sling was such a pain.

"Is it bruised? Can I see?"

They were now outside Cora's room. She had one foot in the door. "It's a sprain."

"Bummer." Willow glowered.

"Such." She closed the door before Willow could ask more about Beau.

Unlike the rest of the house, her bedroom was all her. It was, not without bias, her favorite room. With a sigh, she flopped back onto her bed, which today was dressed in a shade of purple called boysenberry. She liked how boysen rhymed with poison.

She liked to fill her room with things that reminded her of who she was, sorceress or otherwise a black teenage girl. Her walls were a somber shade of gray, appealing to her wicked side. She kept her favorite clothes on display on two white racks she'd bought from a department store, appealing to her stylish side.

On the wall above her bed was a framed quote. Not Every Sorceress Carries a Wand.

A notification came up on her laptop's screen, reminding her she had new messages. She got up, striding across the cool, wooden floor to her computer. On the wall right above it, she'd pinned images from fashion magazines to a corkboard, tall, thin, listless bodies modeling the latest trends. She wasn't much for trends, but it pleased her all the same. She settled down into her desk chair and scrolled through her email. She had over one hundred new comments, but one from an anonymous reader made her sit forward.

She clicked over to her blog. Her last post had been on Wednesday when she'd begged Willow to take some photos of her in their front yard. In the photos, Cora wore a brown dress that buttoned up at the front. Her coiled-kinky hair had been styled into a braid. Without her mother there to direct her, she appeared too rigid in all the photos except for one where Willow had caught her laughing at a joke she'd made.

Despite the encouragement she received from most readers, one person didn't agree.

I don't think you understand the concept of having your photos taken. You're not photogenic and that outfit is as bland as a soy latte. I don't get why you have so many followers to begin with. Don't quit your day job, or better yet find a new hobby.

Below that comment, some people had stood up for her, telling anonymous to go read another blog if they didn't like her so much. A year ago, a comment like that would have made Cora want to quit blogging for good. She'd have an extra slice of bumble berry pie while she nursed her broken heart.

These days, she didn't receive much hate, but this hadn't been the first jab from anonymous. Almost all her posts this week had similar comments about how Cora shouldn't bother with blogging because she was either too unattractive or didn't know how to dress well.

She had wanted to respond to every single one because it annoyed her, and she was an Emerson and Emersons did not cower. Instead, she'd chosen to ignore anonymous. This time, however, she responded, much like a sorceress would.

It makes you feel brave, doesn't it, sitting behind your anonymity? I don't know who you are, but my blog is my own personal space. My readers are like my family, but I can tell you're only here to get a rise out of me. Well, congratulations, you've gotten it. I'm blocking you from here on out.

At times like this, she wished she could do more than make someone almost trip on a coffee cup. Without a name or a face, she couldn't do much more than respond. She imagined giving this person a nasty case of boils, or maybe even perpetual bad breath, or maybe making their teeth fall out, or even going all classic sorceress on them and turn them into a toad.

In the end, she deleted her comment and changed the settings on her blog to disallow anonymous users.

"How wicked of you." She slammed her laptop shut.

By the time dinner arrived in the Emerson household, she still hadn't gotten over it.

Have I been born into the wrong family?

She looked around the dining room table at her family. Her great-grandmother loaded her plate with greens. "I don't see what the problem is, Stella. You can't expect me to stay cooped up in this house all day." She frowned, which on her was more of a sultry pout.

Why can't I be more like her?

Mariam hadn't been like Cora at seventeen. Cora was sure. She'd been confident, snapping her fingers, making boys fall in love with her. She hadn't been a coward. Today, Mariam had dressed like a 1920s flapper girl, down to her shoes. All she needed was a cigarette, but Mariam didn't believe in poisoning her body with such things. She believed in looking her best, doing the occasional wicked deed, and having many admirers. When it came to her appearance, she considered herself a wickeder Dorothy Dandridge.

"You could have stayed to help." Stella cut herself a large portion of truffled macaroni, which she piled onto her plate.

"Isn't that why you have children?" Mariam held a hand up at Cora. "Dear, what happened to your arm?" she asked as if she hadn't noticed until now. She probably hadn't knowing her.

"It's a sprain?" Stella answered before Cora could.

Cora tipped her head back and blew a strand of her hair off her lips.

Her grandmother smacked her arm. "Sit up straight."

"Cora has a new boyfriend." Willow gave her a devilish grin and shoveled a large bite of truffled macaroni off her plate.

"Willow!" She wanted to kick her.

Willow was too far away for a stab in the shins to land, so instead she stabbed her macaroni and shoved a forkful into her mouth. If her mother hadn't been watching, she would have snapped her fingers, knocking Willow's cup over. She chewed as if the macaroni had angered her. She had to admit, its cheesiness did make her feel better.

"Is that so?" Mariam glanced at Stella. Stella looked at Cora, a glass of wine poised at her lips.

She shrugged, but thought better of it, reminding herself she was no doormat. She sat up straighter. "I think I found the one today."

In an ordinary household "the one" would have meant the one, the one she was fated to spend the rest of her life with, having arguments over the TV remote. To the Emersons, who had all gone quiet, it meant the time for magic had begun. On cue, as if it knew, the grandfather clock chimed.

"We need to get that horrid thing fixed." Agatha glared at it. "It makes too much noise." The grandfather clock had been a gift to Mariam from one of her many suitors. They kept it in the dining room because they had no other place for it.

Stella sipped her wine.

Willow's eyes, which had gone wide, returned to their correct proportions.

Mariam smiled. "I can remember my first."

Everyone, including Agatha, groaned and rolled their eyes. "Mother, I think what Cora needs is some advice, not a trip down memory lane."

Mariam pursed her red lips. She reached across the table for Cora's hand. "Darling, all you need to know is that you have decades of malice coursing through your veins." She held her hand to her chest. "And years of lessons from yours truly."

She said this in the way you'd comfort a child who'd found out they weren't as special as they'd been led to believe.

Cora felt as if her whole life had been leading up to this. This was more important than prom or walking across a stage to receive her diploma. This was what she'd been waiting for. This was her moment. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her mother beam at her or Willow's dumbfounded expression.

Stella Emerson tipped her wine glass at her daughter. "You're a bright girl. Remember all we've taught you."

Willow sat back in her chair. "You've got this."

Her grandmother put an arm around her and kissed her forehead. From ever since Cora remembered, she smelled like jasmine. It was because of this she didn't mention that even though she had found the one she'd let him get away.

She liked the feeling of them believing in her but wished she could have been fated to ruin the life of the unnamed commenter on her blog instead of Beau's.