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never a lover. Fiji pushed back the wave of misery. She would not show weakness in front of her sister.
    The bed was single and covered with a bright patchwork quilt. There was a red bedside table holding a lamp and a box of tissues. Otherwise, the room now contained only a narrow chest of drawers (purchased from the pawnshop) and a narrow wardrobe (likewise).
    Kiki looked around her, her lips pressed tight together. It didn’t take a mind reader to tell that Kiki had a low opinion of these accommodations.
    Fiji let that roll off her back.
    “Okay, I’ll go get my suitcase,” Kiki said. She jerked her thumb down the hall. “That’s the only bathroom?”
    “Yes. I know it’s not what you’re used to, but we’re lucky Aunt Mildred put one in. She used to have an outhouse.”
    “Ew.” Kiki’s disgusted face was enough reply. She pivoted to go to her car out front.
    “You can move your car back behind the house with mine,” Fiji called after her sister. When Kiki was out the door, she sat in the chair behind the counter and put her head in her hands. Ordinarily, she’d be calling Bobo to tell him the big news—a family member had actually come to see her. But of course she could not do that. She thought of telling Manfred, but somehow that didn’t suit her mood, either.
    My sister is here and there’s more to that story for sure, my dad’s mind is disintegrating, and I just broke off emotionally from the guy I’ve loved for three years. So what else can happen today? Fiji asked herself.
    The bell on the door tinkled as it opened, and Fiji stood up to see an actual customer coming in. “Hi,” she said, hoping she sounded passably sane. “What can I do for you?”
    “Do you have any ceremonial daggers? I’m not sure how to pronounce them. Athames?” The middle-aged woman peered around the shop as if one would materialize in front of her. She looked faintly familiar.
    Fiji looked at the woman more closely, wondering where she could have encountered her new customer. Fiji would never have pegged this woman for a serious practitioner. On the short and stubby side, she had a graying perm with a severe, almost militant, curl to it. Bright pink lipstick was her only makeup. Her clothes were strictly Chico’s, and her sandals were something good but practical, like SAS.
    “Don’t I know you?” Fiji said.
    The customer looked up reluctantly. “Maybe,” she answered vaguely, and looked around the shop again. Fiji began to get the feeling something was distinctly off about this woman. This had been a day for encounters that weren’t what she’d expected, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.
    “I have a few athames,” Fiji said. “I keep them here inside this counter, if you’d care to come look.”
    The woman approached, and Fiji pointed through the glass of the countertop. There were seven or eight athames on display, of different types, sizes, and styles. The newcomer peered down, apparently fascinated by the blades. Fiji was ready to tell her the different materials used in carving the handles, but the woman didn’t ask a single question. The bone one was plain and simple, a steel one had designs chased all the way down the blade, another had a wicked and practical look, another was modeled on a Scottish sgian dhu.
    While the customer looked at the display, Fiji looked at the customer. She was convinced she’d seen her before.
    “Athames have very specific usages,” Fiji offered, to break the silence. “Would you like me to explain?”
    But the woman shook her head. “I want that one,” the customer said after another moment of contemplation. She pointed to the sharpest one, made of stainless steel—the most utilitarian-looking of the bunch, and the only blade that looked as though it could do real damage. Athames didn’t have to be sharp; they were meant to direct energy. Some witches did use their athames as daily tools, on the theory that usage gave the blades power—but most were strictly