Freya wore Joanna's red kerchief around her hair, along with a black Provençal apron with little white-and-purple flowers over a T-shirt and jeans. Sweat poured down her face as she whirled through the kitchen, juggling pots, pulling baking pans out of the Aga stove, throwing new ones in, washing dishes as she went, and barking, "Stay out!" at anyone who had the audacity to stand in the doorway and offer help, including Killian.

Freya knew she was bossy when it came to cooking, but that was the only way to ensure the purity of her magic. She really should open up her own restaurant someday, she thought, instead of whiling away her time in bars, although that would require learning to cook with a team, delegating, giving up control. Maybe. Tonight there would be all the traditional dishes: twice-baked sweet potatoes, haricots verts, garlic mash, blackened brussels sprouts with chunky garlic, homemade cranberry sauce, and thick brown gravy. Of course by the time it was all on the table, she would have no appetite, not until the next morning when she woke up famished and would have her own private Thanksgiving feast.

Killian, Joanna, and Norman stood by the fire in the living room, chatting as they sipped champagne. The table in the adjacent dining room, connected by an open archway, had been lavishly set for six. Ingrid was the one who had insisted on the romantic candlelight and the best china and silver. She was excited for Matt to meet her family as her guest instead of as a police detective asking rude questions. She was also hoping that her father's presence meant the family would be back together again. Speaking of, where would Norman and Joanna sit? Across from each other or side by side? They had been rather chummy this evening.

With a snap of her fingers, elegant place cards appeared on each plate, and Ingrid stuck them together just for the fun of it. She'd placed Killian and Freya on opposite sides at the head and foot of the table, although they probably wouldn't like that, not being able to touch each other every second or play footsies. But they were the most logical choice. It wasn't as if she and Matt were established enough to sit at those places.

She had folded the red cloth napkins on each plate into Japanese love knots, adding loads of magic inside each tie, performing a quick ceremony that asked for harmony that evening. She set down the votive candles in clusters of three. Joanna had been in charge of flowers, low autumnal-looking arrangements of Chinese lanterns, dark mauve-and-white calla lilies, red amaryllis, hypericum berries, and large green leaves. Ingrid had endowed the bouquets with her magic wand, so their fragrance would exude love and peace. This was going to be a real family dinner for Thanksgiving for a change, and Ingrid was thrilled. She'd had a long talk with the pixies in the morning, requesting they be out all afternoon and into the evening. All the familiars were up in the attic, sleepy and fed. She felt elegant with her pearl pendant, black dress with the thin red ribbon that Matt liked so much, a silk slip beneath it, and black suede pumps.

"So you have a date?" Norman asked Ingrid, who instinctively blushed.

"Dad! Please don't scare him off. He's smart. You'll really like him."

Killian clinked the ice cubes in his drink. "I approve. Detective Noble's been very generous about waving away my speeding tickets lately."

Ingrid laughed. She was giddy, the bubbles of champagne having gone to her head. "Has he now? He must want 'in' to this family." She winked, which wasn't something Ingrid usually did, but somehow it just happened.

"Oh, he is a dear boy, even sent some flowers to apologize about asking us in for questioning over the summer." Joanna gave her daughter a satisfied once-over, then swayed from side to side, pleasure animating her face.

Ingrid blushed prettily and Norman swung an arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head, which made Ingrid curl in on herself. She hated all this attention and suddenly resembled an embarrassed teen. "We'll see if he's good enough for our Ingrid," Norman said.

"Dad!" Ingrid groaned.

The doorbell rang.

"That must be for you," Norman said, patting her arm.

"Oh!" Ingrid said, suddenly nervous.

"You look great," Killian said. "Don't worry."

She'd been wrong about Killian, Ingrid thought as she rushed toward the kitchen. So wrong. She'd taken him to be one of those bad boys, flashy and superficial. But she saw now that he was more than his movie-star good looks. He was thoughtful, sensitive, and deep. She saw how much he loved her sister; she understood that particular glazed-over look now for she had experienced it herself from the inside out.

She hurried through the kitchen. "Not here to help, just passing through!" she called.

Freya glanced up at her from the stove's open door, her hand inside a fat oven mitt. "No worries, sexy. I'm almost ready to go upstairs and change."

Ingrid stood in front of the door before opening it. "Sexy," her sister had called her. Was that true? She tugged down the hem of her dress and pulled her hair onto one shoulder, then adjusted the pearl pendant at her neck. She coughed to clear her throat, then swung the door open.

Except the person standing at the doorway wasn't Matt. It was a tall older gentleman with a widow's peak and white-streaked black hair, dapper in his wool coat over a three-piece suit. He beamed at her, holding up a bouquet, then extended a hand.

"Hi. I'm Harold," he said in a soft, pleasant voice.

She shook his hand. "Ingrid."

"Ah! I know exactly who you are!" he said, his tone pure delight.

Ingrid experienced a strange sensation then, a sudden loss of gravity, a drop, a queasy-making kind of feeling. Where was Matt? Nothing could have happened at the precinct on the Thursday of Thanksgiving. Wasn't this a low-crime day? Matt was a senior detective, so he had the afternoon off, which he had confirmed via texts that morning. And who was this?

Harold coughed. "Joanna invited me," he said.

"Oh, of course! I've forgotten my manners! So glad to meet you," replied Ingrid, thinking this must be Mother's g*y pal. Every girl had at least one, why not Joanna?

Harold nodded and Ingrid stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She went down the steps, so she could take him around the house through the patio where everyone was waiting. She peered distractedly down the street as she moved along the path.

"Is there a problem?" Harold called to her back, still waiting by the door.

Ingrid swung around. "No, not at all! I was just ... expecting someone and he was supposed to be here by now." She motioned with her head. "We have to go around this way to the living room. You know, Freya's cooking!" She said the latter as if Harold knew exactly what she meant.

Joanna nearly dropped her champagne glass when she saw Harold behind Ingrid coming toward the glass panes while Killian slid the door open for them. They stepped inside, Killian welcoming them with a "Well, hello!"

Norman raised his eyebrows at Ingrid. He wasn't expecting to meet someone his own age for his oldest daughter. But it made sense; Ingrid would want someone wise, settled, and established. The silly name suited him. Norman moved toward him, stretching out a hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Matthew Noble," he said.

Joanna, in her pearls and flowing red dress and silk scarf, rushed forward, aflutter, her face flushing as crimson as her outfit. She was racking her brain, trying to remember how this could have possibly happened. She had a vague remembrance of a phone conversation with Harold, something about his family being out of town and inviting him over for dinner. Had she actually invited him to Thanksgiving? It had been while she'd been immersed in research on Long Island witch hangings. She had been in a rush to get off the phone and back to her studies. She realized the horror of her blunder.

"Um," she said. "Actually, Norman, this is my dear friend Harold. And Harold, this is my ... um ... my sort-of husband ... Norman."

"Awkward," whispered Killian, smiling at Ingrid, who returned a half smile, half grimace. In unison, they took a step back and observed.

So much for harmony, Ingrid thought. She had been primarily thinking of Matt while she had made her dining-room table incantations. Shame on me for being so distracted.

Freya ran through the living room on her way upstairs, pulling the kerchief off her head so that her wild hair came loose. "Ignore me. I'm a mess! Back down in a second!" But the only one who noticed her was Killian, who let out an appreciative snort as she trotted up the stairs.

Norman looked at Joanna, Harold looked at Joanna, and Joanna shrugged.

"Is this the Harold?" Norman asked.

"Sort-of husband?" Harold inquired, his face turning pink.

Joanna wrung her hands, her face turning from one suitor to the other. She had managed to bludgeon two of her birds with one stone.

"Yikes," whispered Ingrid. Mother wasn't going to get out of this one. The two of them continued to watch.

"Front-row seats," Killian commented under his breath.

"Indeed," said Ingrid, trying not to giggle.

"I can explain," said Joanna.

"I thought this was a family dinner," vociferated Norman.

"It is!" cried Joanna, scratching her hair, fluffing it out so that it genuinely appeared witchy. "Harold is like family!"

A log popped in the fireplace, like an exclamation point.

After a long silence, Harold strode toward the glass-paned door. "No, no, it's my fault. I'm so sorry to disturb all of you. It appears there has been some mistake. Joanna, please forgive me ... I did not realize I was intruding on your family dinner on this holiday."

"Good riddance," Norman muttered as Harold swung the glass door open and stepped out, then slid the sliding door closed.

Joanna ran after him. "Harold! Please come back! I'm so sorry! Of course you're welcome to have Thanksgiving with us!" But it was too late. He had already stepped off the deck and seemingly vanished. She pressed her hands against the glass, then her nose. "Oh, dear," she muttered to herself. "Norman, this is all your fault!" she snapped.

"My fault?" her sort-of husband roared.

Killian put an arm around Ingrid, looked at her, and said, "Well, that was fun. But where's our good detective, sis?"

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

"It's him!" Ingrid said breathlessly, running to get the door. She opened it to find the good detective standing on the doorstep with a huge bouquet of flowers in hand.

Chapter forty-one

I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm

They had gotten into quite a habit of pressing up against vertical surfaces. No sooner had Ingrid invited Matt inside the house than he cornered her up against the door, inching in close to kiss her. Her hands fluttered upward, coming to rest at his neck, pulling his face toward hers. It was wonderful, this feeling, this closeness, this warmth.

He peered into her eyes. "You're a good kisser, Ingrid." He bit his lip, looking down at her, then flicked his eyes back up, catching himself being entirely salacious.

She laughed. "Really?" It was about the best compliment she'd ever been given.

"Uh-huh," he said, nodding, widening his eyes at her. "I'm sorry I'm so late. I hope I didn't mess anything up. I got stuck at the precinct with some boring paperwork."

"You're right on time." Ingrid was actually relieved he had arrived later than intended, serendipitously missing the embarrassing parental drama. Perhaps that was how her table-setting magic had worked: they were still going to be six. Mother could be such a ditz, but she still couldn't believe Joanna had been so forgetful as to invite a date for Thanksgiving dinner when Norman would be there.

Matt held up a bag with a bottle of wine and the huge bouquet of orange gerbera daisies. "For you."

Ingrid took both, smiling. "My dad's here. I'm glad you'll get to meet him."

"Fantastic!" Matt said as if he enjoyed meeting the fathers of the girls he dated all the time.

"He'll love you. Don't worry." She took his hand and guided him through the kitchen to the living room. The atmosphere was still awkward, but Killian made up for it, coming over from the fireplace where he had chucked in a log. Norman rose from the dining table, Joanna from the couch, where they had been sulking separately.

Killian and Matt shook hands, then decided to turn it into a hug, patting each other on the back. "Good to see you, man!" Killian said, then narrowed his eyes. "Actually, should I call you detective?"

Matt laughed, brushing off the question with a hand. "Not tonight. I'm off duty."

Killian smiled warmly.

Ingrid stepped forward. "Dad, this is my friend Matt Noble."

"Ah, much better," Norman said, reaching out a hand, while Matt glanced questioningly at Ingrid, who shrugged. Norman cuffed him on the shoulder. "Ignore that. It's just ..."

"Dad!" cautioned Ingrid.

"Never mind, nice to meet you, Matt! I'm Norman."

Matt laughed good-naturedly. "Likewise, Norman."

Freya was tottering down the steps in a tight red dress and high heels. Her hair was piled up onto her head, cascading down in a fountain of strawberry curls, her lips painted a bright red. She looked as if she'd never touched a pan. "Dinner's on. Who's carving the turkey?"

Chapter forty-two

Prodigal Son

The sun had begun to set. The lights were turned off in all the rooms, the fire roaring and all the candles lit, lending an intimate old-world atmosphere to the house. The effusive praise for Freya's cooking flowed, as did the champagne and wine. It seemed as if Harold's visit was already a distant memory.

Ingrid had decided after all to place her parents at the opposite ends of the table. She sat Freya and Killian together on one side, and she and Matt faced them. Every time Matt slipped a hand on her thigh or knee, her face burned, and she was grateful for the dim lighting. Still, she quite liked the sensation. She had managed to clasp his hand once under the table while talking at the same time. It was probably the champagne.