Scout picked up a red wire basket from a stack by the door and immediately headed for a shelf that held various kinds of salt.

“Don’t people wonder about a magic store in the middle of downtown Chicago?” I asked quietly.

Scout picked up a small glass bottle of pinkish salt, held it up to the light, and squinted at it. “They don’t wonder because they assume it’s a joke.” She put the bottle back on the shelf, and grabbed a bottle of gray salt instead.

“Why gray instead of pink?”

Scout shrugged and moved over to the next bank of shelves, which held old coins and metal knickknacks. “It’s my go-to shade.”

“Veronica has lip stain; you have salt.”

“Not just salt. Brittany sea salt from France. It has great stick.”

“Stick?” I asked, picking up a small metal dog that looked like a miniature schnauzer. It was heavy for its size, and had a crazy level of detail—little ears, little tufts of fur, and a perky little tail.

“Stick,” she repeated. “It means . . . the spell has staying power. It sticks around for a long time. Doesn’t just fade away like cheap perfume.”

She picked up a coin, weighed it in her hand, and then put it back on the shelf again.

While she perused the coins, I put the tiny dog back and looked at the rest of the metal items. There were lots of them, and they were all just as detailed—a tiny Ferris wheel; a lantern; a potted sunflower; a laptop.

“What are these?” I asked Scout, holding up the lantern.

“They’re called icons,” she said. “It stands for Iterated Condensations of Normal Space.”

“Using English—no magic speak—explain to me what that means.”

“Just call ’em icons,” Scout said. “You use them to symbolize something in a spell. Something you want. Something you want to effect. A quality you want to give something.”

My gaze went back to the tiny dog, and I picked it up again. I know it sounds weird, but I liked the way it felt in my hand. It was a cute little dog with a funny little expression. But it felt kind of right.

“I like this one.”

She looked over. “Good choice. Dogs have good energy.”

I put the dog back on the shelf again. “So is this stuff just for people who do spells? Spellcasters or spellbinders or whatever?”

“Not at all. There are books, gear with the Adept and Reaper symbols on them if you want to go full out. And people who can make stuff with their magic sometimes sell the stuff they make. You can get all that here. Oooooh,” she suddenly said, making a beeline for the wicker urns of branches. “I need to look at those. The books are over there,” she said, pointing to the other side of the room. “If you want to take a look.”

I watched her pick through the branches, pulling out one after another, looking it over, and shoving it back into the basket. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but it was certainly beyond anything I could see. As far as I could tell, they were just tree limbs—the kinds of sticks an interior designer might throw into a vase on a dining room table.

I took her advice and walked to the book area, which filled the shelves on the back wall of the store. They looked like comic books and graphic novels, but then again, so did Scout’s Grimoire.

“I wonder if these are magic books, too,” I muttered.

“Can I help you?”

I glanced behind me. A guy whom I guessed was in his twenties, with short black hair, a Gaslight uniform, and a name tag that read KITE smiled at me. His teeth were a little bit crooked, which made him seem cuter, actually. Friendlier. More real.

“Are these really graphic novels? Like, comic books?”

“They really are.”

I looked at him for a sec, trying to figure out if he was telling me the truth and these were just normal books . . . or if they were magic books in disguise and he wasn’t sure whether he could trust me.

“If I was, um, special, would they still be graphic novels?”

“Yes,” he slowly said, looking at me with an odd expression. “Can I help you find something?”

“Hard to believe,” Scout said, joining us, “but she is totally for real. ‘Special,’ she says. Poor girl thinks everything in here is magical.” She fluttered her hands in the air. “Woo woo!”

Kite laughed knowingly. “Noob?”

“Totally. But got firespell her first time out.”

Kite’s eyes widened, and there was a little more respect in his face. “No kidding. Nicely done.”

Not that I’d had any choice in the matter, but I said, “Thanks,” anyway.

“I just thought they might be—”

“Because we’re in a magic shop,” Scout hurriedly finished. “We know, we know. Silly girl. Hey, do you have any of those beeswax candles I like?”

Kite frowned. “There weren’t any on the shelf?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Maybe we have some in the back. Let me check.”

“Thanks!” Scout said. As soon as he was out of sight, she gave me a sharp pinch on the arm.

“Hello, ow,” I said, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

“Ixnay on the graphic novel bit. The form of my Grimoire is just between you and me. Gaslight Goods is Switzerland.”

“It’s Switzerland?”

“Neutral territory,” she explained. “Reapers and Adepts are both allowed in here, and Kite loves gossip. That can work well for us—he gives us info when he’s got it to give, but he gives it to the other side, as well. So you have to be very careful what you say, because the information’s probably not going to stay here.”