“I realize your talents far surpass mine, Grandy,” she muttered out loud as she blew her hair dry. “But if I wanted to, I could cast a spell of my own. To counter yours.
“Of course that’s also what you want me to do, isn’t it?” Tara frowned at her reflection in the wavy bathroom mirror. “That’s what all this is about. You’ve brought me back here to force me to get in touch with my roots. Well, I’ve got news for you, Grandy. I’m not going to cast any spells. I’ve made a life for myself that doesn’t involve magic. I’m happy.”
The falsehood hung in the air, mocking her. “All right, perhaps satisfied is a better word. But it’s only because I’ve had a grueling year. By the time I leave here, I’ll be itching to get back to work.”
Back to her tax tables and interest rates and stock indexes. Back to her tidy apartment on Russian Hill, decorated with no-nonsense Scandinavian furniture, where she spent her nights and weekends laboring over computer spreadsheets.
“I’ve worked hard to get where I am,” she insisted as she marched into the bedroom and for the second time that morning almost tripped over the suitcases that had not been there when she’d gone to bed last night.
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