Ingredients of Magic

By Amber Fisher

Mix one part small-town magic and two parts heartbreak until fluffy. Bake under the Texas sun. Disaster is ready when you can smell it two towns over. Serve hot.

Magical pie baker Gracey Daylittle has everything she needs: her bakery where she bakes music into coveted desserts, a quiet life, and no complications. But when a ghostly figure with a hauntingly familiar face disrupts her fragile existence, Gracey's pastry-crust world crumbles to bits.

 

Her pies have lost their magic.

 

On the edge of the Chihuahuan desert, transient teenager Miko runs a bathhouse for spirits and delivers blessings to local families. But when the blessings dry up and a creeping chaos consumes the town, Miko suspects a connection between the town's bad luck, the phantom, and Gracey's magic pies.

 

Desperate not to lose the one thing that gives her life meaning, the baker tries everything to regain her magic and banish the phantom, even accepting questionable magical help from Miko. But when her efforts go disastrously wrong, Gracey has no choice but to do the one thing she has avoided for the better part of her life.

To destroy the phantom and restore her town, Gracey must discover and embrace the secret ingredients of magic before her personal demons destroy everything she holds dear.

 

Ingredients of Magic is a delicious blend of Spirited Away, Like Water for Chocolate, and Gilmore Girls that will transport you to a world where love, magic, music, and pie are baked to sweet perfection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amber Fisher
• Release date: May 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223781363

Book preview

1

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST

Nothing brought the Daylittle family together like a funeral.

In other Southern families, it was weddings—large, cheerful gatherings centered around a princess in a white gown, promises of fidelity and eternal love, and the addition of another strong, Southern family to the core of the collection. Grudges and old arguments were shoved neatly aside as long as the band played, the alcohol flowed, and girdles could be tolerated. For one day, if not a moment longer, most Southern families could come together for a wedding.

The New Orleans Daylittles couldn’t find it in themselves to share in the joy associated with this ritual, however, as they generally found their family too big as it was. Too many people meant too many opportunities for corruption, public humiliation, error, or liberalism. Fewer people could be better corralled, and perhaps with fewer people, the family’s original wholesomeness and grandeur could be resurrected. Reputation, of course, was everything. In Daylittle philosophy, if a family didn’t have its reputation, it hadn’t anything at all.

And so it was with a conservative but enthusiastic joy that the family celebrated the death of its own.

The caterers were late, but the bar was open, and Richard Daylittle’s funeral was in full swing. Gracey Daylittle stood ensconced in a corner, sipping on a cranberry juice cocktail, watching the preening peacocks she called her family with mild disgust. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she’d hardly been home for fifteen minutes, and already she was beginning to feel sick.

She shouldn’t have come.

A peal of laughter redirected Gracey’s attention across the room. The laugh was high and bright, intended to turn heads and raise eyebrows. Annette Daylittle, swathed in a black satin suit, smiled prettily into her champagne flute. With cousins-by-marriage vying for her attention, Annette was deep in her element, and if she felt an iota of grief at her late husband’s brother’s passing, she kept it, like so many potential wrinkles, carefully away from her face.

Gracey hadn’t meant to stare and certainly hadn’t meant to catch her mother’s eye. But when she saw the flicker of irritation pass over Annette’s face, she knew she had her mother’s attention. Annette excused herself from her entourage and made her way to Gracey’s side, her expression having gone from merry to stern in just a few strides.

My God. The woman stopped before her daughter, her expression pinched, mildly revolted. You wore cowboy boots to your uncle’s funeral. Annette sighed, let her shoulders droop just a little as her gaze flitted briefly to Gracey’s drink. Your hand looks dreadful. You shouldn’t have let them take your finger.

Gracey lowered her drink to her side, removing the scarred, four-fingered hand from her mother’s view. Sorry, Mama. She glanced down at the dust-covered boots. I don’t own any heels. Not much occasion for uncomfortable shoes in my line of work.

Annette disregarded this remark. "At any rate, I’m so glad you made it, she said with an indifference that belied her words. You didn’t call, so I didn’t know if you would. I honestly thought I raised you better than that. I don’t know how you expect me to plan an event like this without a proper headcount. Annette shook her head, her platinum hair an unmoving helmet around her face. Didn’t you bring anything? A casserole or…?"

Gracey frowned, incredulity knitting her brows together. It’s a catered event, she said. Why would I bring a casserole to my uncle’s funeral?

Annette’s lips parted, but no sound came out as the woman shook her head in disbelief. It’s like you were raised by an entirely different family, she mused with bewilderment. "You don’t bring food for the event, Gracey, it’s for the grieving family. Charlotte brought her Coca-Cola brown sugar ham, Olivia made a beautiful cream of mushroom bake… Annette threw her hands up, heaved a sigh. Well, what’s done is done. We have another matter to attend at the moment. Please come with me."

Without questioning her mother’s wishes, Gracey followed behind, eyes cast low. She sensed her family’s gaze as she wound her way through the funeral, heard the small intakes of breath as she passed by. She’d never had much in common with her relatives, and the past ten years had only widened the gap between them. She was sure that as they caught a glimpse of her, curly hair wild and untamed, hips carrying fifteen too many pounds, they simply raised their brows and shook their heads. Poor Annette, they were likely whispering, casting sidelong glances at her behind her back. "Where did she go wrong with that one?"

Winding through the crowds, trekking up the stairs, they finally made their way to one of the guest bedrooms. The door was already slightly ajar, and Annette pushed it open to reveal a young woman curled up in an armchair smoking a joint.

Gracey blinked. The young woman was her sister, Tiny.

Her eyes grew wide at being discovered, and she hurried to crush the joint out against the sole of her shoe. Her eyes flitted from Annette to Gracey and back again. She clambered to her feet. Sorry, Mama, I just needed some quiet. I—

Don’t bother, Clementine. We have another matter to discuss.

Tiny was dressed conservatively in a black dress that hit just above her knees. The scoop neck revealed strong collar bones. She was tall, even for a Daylittle. Her hair was still red, though it had dulled to copper with the years. It had grown curlier, though.

Gracey couldn’t keep her eyes off her. The girl had been eleven years old the last time Gracey had seen her.

Mama, what’s going on? Tiny’s voice was tremulous as she wrapped her arms around her torso.

Annette gave Tiny a sharp look before returning her attention to Gracey. Your sister is pregnant, Annette announced, her voice all ice and vinegar. Gracey could practically taste the sting in her words. The older woman turned calmly to Tiny, whose face had gone white. How far along are you, exactly?

Tiny opened her mouth, shook her head. I—how did—

You had the audacity to make an appointment with Dr. Feldman of all people. His wife and I play Bridge on Sundays after church. How could you be so thoughtless?

Tiny scowled. I thought there was such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality.

"Well, now you know how the world actually works. Camille says you’re about ten weeks along. Is that right?"

Tiny’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, it looked as though she might refuse to answer. But suddenly, her shoulders sagged, and she just nodded.

Annette returned her attention to Gracey. I’m sure you understand that this is a situation I absolutely cannot abide. So until a better alternative presents itself, you need to take Clementine back to Texas with you. She simply cannot stay here.

The pronouncement struck Gracey like a pillow upside her head. Take Tiny back to Texas with her? She was so shocked she forgot to breathe. Tiny, for her part, was breathing enough for them both. She seemed to be hyperventilating.

"You’re kicking me out of the house? Are you serious? Mama, I can’t go live in Texas; my entire life is here!"

If you hadn’t whored yourself out and gotten knocked up out of wedlock, we’d not be having this conversation. What do you think people are going to say?

This, Gracey realized with dawning disgust, was the heart of the problem. Annette wasn’t worried about her daughter’s welfare. This was not a question of moral support and options. This was a matter of public humiliation. Although the world had moved on at a liberal pace, the New Orleans Daylittles still considered having a child out of wedlock the worst display of human vulgarity right up there with feminism and hot pants.

"Well, I can’t just live with Gracey. I won’t. Mama, we barely even know each other. You can’t just foist me off on her like that!"

Gracey bit her lip, nodding. Foist is a good word. Well, of course it is. She went to LSU after all, Gracey thought idly. Did she graduate? I should have gone to her graduation. Must have been in May, I assume. Mama didn’t mention it. Was I invited? (2 cups raisins). I probably wasn’t invited. (4 tablespoons cornstarch). We really don’t even know each other. What are twenty-one-year-olds into these days? (1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon. 2 tablespoons cider vinegar)

A familiar rumble began in the lower cavities of Gracey’s chest.

Gracey swallowed, gave her head what she hoped was an invisible shake. Not now, she thought, panic rising in her throat. Can’t you see I’m busy here? Come back later when I can at least write this down!

But the recipe was running full steam ahead, pushing all other thoughts aside, and no amount of cajoling would shame it into more appropriate behavior. With a small sigh, she let the recipe run its course, hoping at least it was a short one.

❖

Funeral Raisin Pie

2 cups raisins

2 cups water

1 ½ cup sugar

1 ½ teaspoons cinnamon

4 tablespoons cornstarch

2 eggs, separated

¼ teaspoon salt

4 tablespoons melted butter

2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

1 9-inch baked pie shell

Bake to the tune of Here by Alessia Cara

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a saucepan, combine raisins, 1 ½ cup water, and 1 cup sugar and bring to a boil. If nobody notices you’re uncomfortable, don’t worry. Most people only care about themselves. Combine the remaining ½ cup water and ½ cup sugar, cornstarch, egg yolks, and salt; add to raisin mixture. This is one of those times when raisins are acceptable, unlike when you expect to find chocolate chips in a cookie only to find this supposedly healthful alternative. At funerals, sadness should imbue everything, including pies. Cook until thick, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and add butter and vinegar. If the funeral is for a loved one, add extra vinegar. It keeps unwanted conversation at bay. Pour mixture into baked pie shell. Bake until golden brown, about 10 minutes. Eat alone, standing in the corner, waiting for the proper moment to make your escape.

❖

"…Gracey? What’s the matter with you? Has living in the middle of nowhere with those blue-collar people made you stupid?"

The recipe wrapped itself up just in time for Gracey to discover that Annette had been addressing her. Gracey faltered; she had no idea what her mother had said. Even Tiny was staring at her like she had a second head growing from her neck. I’m sorry, she stammered. Did you ask me something?

"I asked if it would be too much of an inconvenience for you to take your sister home with you when you leave. When are you planning to leave?"

Annette’s words were hardly making sense. Was she really saying Tiny should live with her? After ten years apart, reunited by an untimely embryo at their uncle’s funeral, Gracey wasn’t so sure that this was the most auspicious beginning for a relationship. Besides, Gracey had lived alone for ten years. Did she even know how to share space with someone? Let alone two someones?

I was planning to leave in the morning, she said, her voice coming out hoarse. Tiny stared daggers in her direction. She realized then that she was supposed to object to the entire situation and give Tiny an out. But what could she say? Annette wasn’t really asking. Surely Tiny knew that.

Annette gave a small nod and turned back to her youngest daughter. Good. That gives you time to pack your things. I’ll have Matola box up whatever you don’t take. Would you like me to store the boxes, or shall I forward them on to Gracey’s?

Do whatever you want! Tiny shouted, her eyes wide and wild with disbelief. "How the Christ am I supposed to care what you do with a roomful of bullshit right now? Are you seriously kicking me out of my own home? Daddy would never have done this to me!"

Annette’s expression did not soften when she said, "Then I suppose it’s a good thing that your father is dead, and I’ll thank you to not use that kind of language in my house. Now, I consider this matter closed. Tiny, you can leave the keys to your car in your room."

Tiny’s jaw dropped; her hands fell to her sides. "You’re taking my car? What am I supposed to do for transportation?"

Annette gave a dismissive flick of her hand. Take the bus.

Gracey cleared her throat. We don’t have busses in Love & War, she said.

Annette laughed. "If they don’t have busses, the town’s probably so small you don’t even need a car. Problem solved. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to attend to. I expect both of you downstairs in a few minutes to help. Richard was your uncle, after all. He’s no blood relation of mine."

Without waiting for a response, Annette Daylittle turned and left the room, leaving the door open behind her.

The two sisters stood a moment in silence before Tiny burst into tears. Bitch! she barked, burying her face in her hands. "How could she do this to me? How could she? This is my home!"

Tiny’s words struck a chord in Gracey’s heart, and she took a tentative step toward her sister, intending to put her arms around her. But the younger Daylittle stepped away, shaking her head. You better get downstairs, she said, wiping away snot with the back of her hand. "Mama will be pissed if you don’t come running. And God knows you don’t want to upset Mama."

Gracey didn’t move. She registered Tiny’s words accurately as the admonishment they were. She watched her sister cry a moment before saying, What was I supposed to tell her, Tiny? When her sister didn’t reply, Gracey pressed on. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. She can make you move out of the house, but she can’t make you leave New Orleans. You could—

"I don’t come into my trust fund for another four years," she said. There was a sharpness in her voice that Gracey could read at thirty paces: I don’t have any money, and I don’t want to talk about this with you. "Why didn’t you tell her that I can’t come with you? Why did you just stand there and take it? If you’d said no—"

Tiny. Gracey’s voice came out softer than she expected. You don’t just say no to Mama. Nobody—

That’s ridiculous! Mama’s not some kind of god, for Chrissakes! You could have told her no!

Fine, Gracey amended. "I can’t stand up to Mama. She’s the entire reason I left New Orleans to begin with. She controlled every aspect of my life, from my bank account to my friendships to the way I wore my hair. The only way I could live my own life was to leave. She knows that. It’s why she called me here in the first place. She knew I’d have to take you in because I can’t tell her no."

Well, thanks for nothing, Tiny said, dabbing lightly at her face to avoid smudging her makeup. Your complete spinelessness just assassinated my entire life.

Gracey tried to find a suitable response to her sister’s accusation but found that she agreed with Tiny’s assessment. The assertion stung like jalapeño juice in a paper cut. "I’m sorry you feel that way. She paused before continuing. I’m staying at the Marriott, Gracey said. I’ll pick you up around ten. It’s a long drive back to Love & War," she said.

Tiny made no reply as she turned her back to Gracey, her shoulders shaking. Gracey watched her sister a minute before slipping out the door and heading downstairs.

2

SHE AIN’T HEAVY, SHE’S MY SISTER

Early the next morning, Gracey pulled up the long drive in front of the Daylittle house, grateful there was no one out front to judge her for the condition of her ancient pickup truck. Her decision to walk away from the Daylittle lifestyle had been intentional, but she’d be lying if she said she felt secure in her choices when held side by side against the grandeur she’d left behind. With a sigh, she put the pickup in park and got out of the truck. She checked the time on her phone. She was fifteen minutes early.

Emerging from her vehicle was like walking into a sauna. It was July, the warmest time of year in Louisiana, and after ten years in the desert, Gracey found the Louisiana air too full, too clotted with moisture to enjoy. She tried to recall breathing this air as a child, even relishing it, but each breath was so labored she wondered how anyone could live like this. Each inhale pulled her further underwater until she was sure the air itself would suffocate her. She closed her eyes against the sensation of drowning. She conjured thoughts of hot, dry air, agave, dust. She had to open her mouth to breathe, to let in enough oxygen to keep her afloat. Living was so much easier in Texas.

For you, she thought sharply, her mouth arcing into a frown. Not necessarily for your sister. This is the only home she knows. You should have said something. You should have stood up for her.

Gracey sighed, swallowed down her own objections. What would sticking up for Tiny have looked like, anyway? A refusal to take her in? How would that have been received, she wondered. It was true that she and Tiny scarcely knew each other. But blood was blood, and no matter how hard Gracey thought on it, she could conjure no elegant way to argue that Tiny should not come home with her. Annette had already shunned her; Gracey didn’t have it in her to do the same. For better or worse, taking her sister home with her was the right thing to do.

Wasn’t it?

At ten o’clock on the dot, Tiny emerged from the front doors, carrying two large suitcases and a backpack slung over her shoulder. She didn’t make eye contact with Gracey as she heaved the bags into the bed of the truck. Gracey tried to help, but Tiny turned a slender shoulder to her sister, silently refusing the assistance. She went back into the house and emerged a moment later with a single suitcase which she shoved into the back of Gracey’s cab. Wordlessly, Tiny slid into the front seat and leaned her head against the window.

You have everything you need? Gracey asked.

Tiny closed her eyes. I need my mother to be human, she said. Otherwise, I have everything. Let’s just go.

Gracey breathed in through her nose, exhaled through her mouth as she put the truck in gear and pulled away from her childhood home, her mind screaming that it wasn’t too late to go back, that she still had a chance to set everything right. She could yet walk right back in that house and dress her mother down for repudiating her youngest child.

But the fantasy quickly evaporated as the distance grew and the house became smaller and smaller, eventually winking out of existence.

They drove for hours in near silence before Tiny asked, So. Tell me about this place I’m moving to. What’s it called again? Leavenworth or something?

Gracey chuckled, tossed the curls from her face. Love & War, she said. I think Leavenworth is a prison.

Tiny blew out through her nose. Fitting then, I guess. So what do you do out there? Mama doesn’t really talk about you much.

Though not surprising, the news twisted in Gracey’s stomach like a knife, causing her skin to pimple over and her scalp to burn. I call her every Sunday, Gracey said lamely. She tells me about you. Sort of. Said you were getting a degree in Sociology?

Tiny snorted, rolling her eyes. I dropped out of LSU last year. It was a giant waste of time. I want to be an artist, and you don’t need to go to college to do that.

This was news to Gracey. Annette had never mentioned Tiny’s career ambitions, but then, she supposed that was par for the course. Daylittle women were expected to marry well or, barring that, earn their living delicately through avenues like interior design or personal shopping. Getting splattered at an easel was not something Annette would have approved of.

So you’re an artist. I didn’t know that. What sort of art?

Tiny shrugged. Papercrafts, mostly, but there’s no money in it. I didn’t think that mattered before, but now… She let her voice trail off, gave a shrug. "You didn’t answer my question. What do you do?"

Gracey cleared her throat. I own a bakery, she said. She spoke self-consciously as she cast a sideways glance at her sister who, by the looks of her, probably didn’t eat carbs.

You own a bakery? That’s pretty cool, I guess. How did you get into that?

The question made butterflies erupt in Gracey’s stomach. It was innocent enough—the exact sort of thing people who didn’t know each other asked. It meant nothing; it was a polite set of words intended to fill time and dead air, to move a dull conversation from one point to another. But in Gracey’s case, the question was sublimely personal. It was a topic she rarely broached with anyone, as her inner circle was nearly nonexistent. In all this time, no one had ever asked her why she’d chosen her given profession, and she’d never bothered to share.

And yet, she wanted to tell her sister. It would feel good to get the words out, to let someone else in on her secret. But at the same time, their relationship was new and fragile. And Gracey’s truth was wild. She didn’t know how her sister would take it. But on the other hand, they were now roommates; she was bound to find out sooner or later.

You ever seen pictures of me when I was a kid?

Tiny frowned then, gave a small nod. Yes, although I had to go looking for photos. Mama doesn’t have photos of you in the house. You didn’t look like anybody else in the family. You know, because of your dark hair, and…

And because I was fat, Gracey finished. Her sister merely nodded her meek agreement. Well, when I was about ten or so, I started having… Hallucinations? Waking dreams? She had no idea how to complete this sentence. She’d never bothered to explain her circumstances to anyone before, not that anyone had ever asked.

No, that wasn’t true. Someone had once.

She shook away the thought as she cast about for an appropriate phrase. I started having weird feelings. I’d be cutting out paper dolls or getting dressed for school, and all of a sudden, I’d get these powerful impressions of food. Butter. Pineapple. Tahitian vanilla. It was like they possessed me. I couldn’t shake them. It happened at the most random times, and of course, I just ignored it at first. But over time, I couldn’t. So what did I do? I tried to eat them into submission. She cringed at the memory, twin roses of embarrassment blooming in her cheeks. If I started having strong chocolate feelings, I ate chocolate. If pecans showed up, I stuffed myself with pecans. But it didn’t help. The feelings kept coming. If anything, eating made it worse, but by then, I couldn’t stop. And as a result, I got fat. My weight drove Mama absolutely crazy.

Gracey noted from the corner of her eye that she had her sister’s rapt attention. It was encouragement enough to plunge on. She put me on all kinds of diets, sent me to see nutritionists, even put me in dance classes. But when the feelings struck, I snuck the food. I was willing to do anything to try to make them stop. I didn’t even want to eat. But I wasn’t really in control. I know it sounds like I had an eating disorder, Gracey said, shaking her head, "but that’s not how it felt. It was more like the food was trying to tell me something, but I just couldn’t speak its language.

"It wasn’t until I went to college that I finally figured out what the food wanted from me. I met a girl in my political science class who invited me over to help her make a pie for the Fourth of July. As I started baking, the food sensations just sort of…exploded. I started mixing ingredients together while she put on music, and suddenly, everything just came together. I didn’t even need a recipe because the ingredients told me how to mix them together. That’s what they had been trying to do all along. They were trying to get me to mix them together, and I was eating them. She laughed at the memory, gave her head a small shake. But that day, that’s how I discovered…"

Tiny wrinkled her brow. Discovered what?

Gracey paused. What she was about to say was crazy. It would either push Tiny completely away or draw her in, but there was no way to know which it would be. She’d gotten this far, so there was no turning back. She had to roll the dice. The baker took a deep breath before saying, It’s how I discovered that I can bake music into pies. I can take the emotions from songs and put them in a pie. And when you eat it, you feel the song. But like, ten times more.

She held her breath, waiting for her sister’s response. She was prepared for rejection. She was ready for incredulity. She could probably even stomach being laughed at. But she was not expecting Tiny to say, Only pie? Not cake or muffins or anything?

Gracey smiled. Only pie. I have no idea why but believe me, I’ve tried other things.

The younger Daylittle gave a low whistle. That’s wild. And completely batshit crazy if you don’t mind me saying so.

And there it was, the ridicule Gracey had been expecting. She was glad that she hadn’t let Tiny’s initial reaction give her any false hope that