Chapter Text
ONE MONTH EARLIER
Rio's hands shake as she reaches for her phone, grabbing it with nerve-damp fingers just before the force of its vibration can knock it off of the edge of the counter.
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Nesta Williams, I'm calling from the Le Fay Famile funeral home. To whom am I speaking?"
"This is Rio Vidal's phone — can I ask what this is about?"
"… Is this Rio Vidal?" Nesta asks, instead of answering her question.
She's still a little traumatized from accidentally confirming her contact information to a collections agency two phone numbers ago, but given where this particular call is coming from, she thinks she already knows what this is about.
Taking the phone away from her ear for a moment, she clears her throat and adds a little grit to her voice, as if she's another person, then says gruffly into the receiver:
"Rio Vidal."
"Ah!" Nesta acts as though he doesn't see right through her act, which Rio thinks is rather polite of him. "Ms. Vidal, I'm glad I caught you — we've been calling you for about a week, now, but…"
"I told your assistant that I didn't ask for the body reclamation. I'm not sure how the wires got crossed, but I can't pay for—"
"The funeral costs were covered, as was the service." Nesta cuts her off smoothly but not unkindly. "We're very sorry that we missed you but you'll be pleased to know that it was well-attended. Your uncle had many good friends."
Something in Rio's heart clenches sharply and cracks her voice when she speaks again.
"What is this about, then?"
"We were having some trouble reaching you, as you know, but we thought you'd be interested to know that you were named as a beneficiary in your uncle's last will and we need your permission to proceed with the unsealing and reading."
Rio freezes.
"What do you mean 'my permission'?"
"Well, you're the sole beneficiary."
"Of everything?" Rio clarifies, feeling lightheaded.
Nesta quickly corrects her misunderstanding.
"No, I mean — well, yes, on paper. But it seems that its likely there's only a small estate package left. We'd like to know when you can come in for the reading."
"Back up, back up." Rio flicks her coffee machine on, stepping away from it when it immediately begins percolating obnoxiously and almost drowns out the phone call. "What do you mean left?"
"Several members of his community came forward at the service with stories about how, in his last months, he had donated or gifted them different possessions, money, the like. It's fair to ask that you brace yourself for the possibility that whatever he has left for you… isn't much."
Rio waved a hand dismissively as if Nesta was there to see it.
"I don't… I don't care about that," she says honestly. "He could have left me nothing. I wasn't expecting anything, actually. I just wanted to make sure you weren't trying to tell me he was sucked into some kind of cult or like… cryogenics scheme when he was all… mentally deteriorated."
Nesta laughs softly, and the sound of it immediately soothes tension that Rio didn't realize was forming in her shoulders.
"Nothing like that," he assures her.
"I can be there in a few days." Rio plucks the notice of nonrenewal of lease from her fridge as she speaks, feeling less like it's a death sentence and more like an easy out, now. "You don't have any hotel recommendations, do you?"
Salem, while very charming, is not quite what Rio had been expecting. Surprisingly drenched in the witchcraft theme, though in a warmly authentic way that is somehow more deeply chilling than kitschy and tourist-y.
Rio tries not to let herself get too distracted on her way to her the funeral home; the rental car is due at the drop-off garage in just a few hours, and depending on how long this meeting takes, she may need to return it before even finding a place to stay for the night.
The funeral home itself is extremely pretty; all old time-washed white wooden plank walls and a surprisingly sturdy old-fashioned roof that looks like it can — and has — survived plenty of trials of its own over the years. It seems to tower over her as she parks in the modest lot to the west side of it, but instead of feeling intimidating or looming, it reminds her of being short next to a particularly comforting adult as a child. The windows on the top floors are each cracked open slightly, causing the wind to whistle through them hauntingly as she makes her way up to the side entrance.
"Ms. Vidal." The man who she must have spoken to on the phone, judging by the familiar accent, steps out to greet her, holding the door open for her.
"That would be me," she replies, trying not to sound too chipper. She's in a particularly good mood despite the circumstances, the coziness of her surroundings likely playing a part, but it feels inappropriate to exhibit such zen contentment in a place like this.
"Right this way." The man that she now recognizes as Nesta leads her down a carpeted hallway, past a large sitting room housing a rather domestic-looking set of couches and a coffee table. He instead pushes open a door to a room marked PRIVATE, and lets Rio step inside first once again.
She finds herself in what appears to be a repurposed bedroom of sorts. There's a radiator and a set of small built-ins against one wall; soft linen curtains lining the single window behind a large oak desk that houses a simple laptop and disposable coffee cup.
"Have a seat." Nesta gestures to the cushy-looking chairs nearest her, and rounds the desk to take a seat himself. He reaches for the drawer out of sight and pauses when it resists his tugging, standing up again. "Sorry, this isn't my usual office. Excuse me while I get the key."
He leaves her alone to glance around further at her surroundings, eyeing the collection of books on the built-ins. Death, Todd May; When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi; All That Remains, Prof. Sue Black; Death, Shelley Kagan—
"Got it!" Nesta's announcement startles Rio as he reenters and rounds the desk, crouching to open the drawer and then setting an unexpectedly thin envelope on the desk between them.
Rio stares hard at it, surprised at how suddenly finite the entire scenario seems. She'd mourned her uncle in private when he'd passed. She hadn't been especially close with him, but the few times she met him in her childhood had felt profoundly impactful in a way she hadn't quite yet unpacked. It had been odd to hear that he'd died from the morgue, and even odder still that she'd felt very little guilt over being unable to lay any claim to the body.
Living paycheck to paycheck already felt too much like drowning for her to open her body up to any more suffering in the form of real raw mourning or understanding.
"Alright," she breathes, watching Nesta pull a small letter opener from the drawer. "Let's do this."
Nesta eyes her curiously as he tears it open, tipping it upside-down so the papers slip neatly out onto the desk with a soft flutter. He scoops them up, straightening the edges against the surface of the desk, and then clears his throat as he flips through the first couple of pages.
"Would you like the old formal reading script?" He asks, eyes flicking up to Rio. "Some of the older clientele prefer it."
Rio shakes her head.
"No, no, that's fine."
"Alright," Nesta flips through, muttering half-sentences, sums of money and the names of what Rio assumes to be local businesses and charities. "Ah. Here we are. And to the daughter of my eldest brother, who at the time of writing this is called Rio, though keeping this name is not a condition of the gift, I leave my florist business, Vidal's, and all of my shares. The transfer of ownership of both the business itself and the property it resides on are conditional of the ownership of both being owned by Rio, or sold directly as a package to another local business owner."
Rio stares blankly. Nesta stares back before slowly speaking again.
"… Do you understand the terms?"
"…Yes. Yes, I understand."
"Would you like to see the property?"
"Please," Rio agrees, not sure what other answer would possibly suffice in this situation.
"Perfect. You're parked in the lot, right? You can follow me, or I can ride with you."
"Oh, I— I have to return the car," she says, suddenly realizing the time. "Maybe, another time, we could—"
"I'll follow you to return it, then," Nesta decides, already standing up and straightening the pages. "Then we can ride together. Let me just go get Sharon to make a copy of this for your records."
He leaves her once more, clearly expecting her to follow, but Rio lingers slightly, eyes drifting back to the built-in shelves once more as she takes her time gathering her coat.
Will My Cat Eat My Eyeballs?, Caitlin Dougherty; Death's Summer Coat, Brandy Schillace—
"Ms. Vidal?"
"Coming!" Hastily buttoning her coat, Rio rushes out of the office and back down the hallway toward the exit.
The shop is nothing like Rio was expecting.
She's pleasantly surprised at the mixture of trendy and fitting the vibe is: black-washed stone rounds a full corner of the street that Vidal's calls home. Unlike the Victorian style repurposed house that the funeral home occupied, this vintage storefront looks like something straight off of someone's ideal center-west European Pinterest board.
The deep golden lettering above the large window they stop in front of gleams invitingly. Vidal's, est. 1966.
Rio peers through the subtly green-tinted glass curiously, but its too dark to see much, even with the large twin window around the corner bringing in a bit of natural light.
"It's been closed since he passed," Nesta tells her. "A couple trusted neighboring businesses said they had spare keys, in case they ever saw the place burning down, but they've mostly all returned them. A couple people made sure to come shut off the water and check the mouse traps, but otherwise they've minded their own. Electricity should be back up, too. I'll check the breaker once we're inside."
Nesta approaches the door and pulls a key from his pocket, unlocking the wood-and-glass door carefully, as if it were delicate, and steps inside.
There's a level of reverence to all of his movements that makes Rio feel almost nervous, light on her feet as she steps into the shop after him as if its a just-unsealed tomb and she's the first person alive inside of it for centuries. Nesta crosses the shop floor to the counter opposite and rounds it, flicking the lightswitch. The instant illumination from the several stained-glass hanging lamps adds even more glowy magic to the space, dulled slightly when he flicks a second switch and the two glass-panelled cabinets lining a couple of the walls are brightened by a combination of fluorescent bulbs and cool-toned grow lights. Rio peers into the cases, but they seem to be mostly empty, save for a few straggling bouquets. Nesta follows her gaze and clears his throat to explain.
"Most everyone picked up their arrangements already. A couple of these are probably just from regulars who had a running order going and forgot."
Rio crosses to the farthest corner where there are no windows nor the till counter, and opens the cabinet next to a large unmarked wooden door.
A small arrangement sits alone on the top shelf: sunflowers, baby's breath, a few loose yellow carnations that have been cut extra-short to add a little dynamic height to the look of the whole piece. She runs her fingers over the sunflower curiously, then glances back at Nesta, who stands by the till watching her curiously.
"Do you know where he keeps — kept his order forms?"
Nesta shakes his head apologetically.
"No, sorry. I am not especially familiar with the shop, but of course you're welcome to do what you will with whatever you find."
He steps out from behind the till and hands her the key.
"What do you think?"
"It's… lovely," Rio admits, glancing around the somewhat spooky space once more. "I'll, uhm… I'll get everything in order, then. You wouldn't happen to know the number for me to call to get the water back on, would you?"
Rio returns to the shop after firing its sole remaining member of staff, arms laden with two massive brown paper bags from the liquor store three blocks east. She's pleasantly surprised to see that said fired florist wasn't lying about taking the news well and hadn't come back in her absence to torch the place.
Nearly dropping one of the bags as she wrestles with the key, she shoves messily into the shop and forgoes the lights altogether, already having somehow programmed the muscle memory for herself to navigate the space in the dark. Hearing the lock 'click' behind her, she heads to the opposite corner where she's left the door open for herself, and then carefully and slowly begins up the stairs to the loft.
Yellow light filters in from the streetlight directly outside the uncurtained window on the wall opposite the staircase, casting an eerie glow into the otherwise cool-toned space. Flicking on the overhead light makes the walls seem to shift from green back to their true-painted blue, the retrofitted fluorescents cancelling out the warm hues from outside. Crossing the small front room towards the kitchenette, Rio uses the toe of her boot to jimmy the fridge open and then sinks down to a crouch to begin unpacking the couple of bottles of cheap wine and six pack of something local and hoppy that the kid at the till managed to upsell her on.
A dozen strangers' faces greet her as she shuts the fridge again, eyes glazing over as she stares at the door of it. Photos, greeting cards, a single hand-drawn sketch litter the space, held up by a combination of worn down cellotape and mismatched magnets. It hadn't felt right, to take them down — or anything else of her uncle's, for that matter. His dresser drawers had been emptied out, probably during his hospital stay, but the side-table next to the futon still had half a pack of cigarettes and an unopened box of incense in the top drawer. She'd left those untouched, just like the memories on the fridge.
She's become to used to the photos of strangers littered around the tiny loft that they're familiar now, popping up in her dreams in passing like old friends. While visiting a local craft shop the day prior, she'd run into a young woman that she swore she knew, only to realize she was only so familiar because of a Chirstmas card tucked into a photo box that Rio had found while exploring the space for the first time.
She'd been a little startled to find a photo of herself, once, clipped from a local — to her, not her uncle — newspaper. She remembered it being taken: she was sixteen and looked very uninterested, having just won a high school science fair and knowing that her classmates were only going to goodnaturedly tease her about her fifteen minutes of celebrity status.
Rio pauses in the quiet, listening to the soft twin buzzing from the fridge and the lights, then swings the door open to retrieve one of the beers.
Making her way over to the futon, she sinks down onto it and winces as it creaks and groans in protest of being forced to do its job. Fishing blindly around under the edge of it for her laptop on the floor, she pulls it into her lap and cracks it open, watching the startup loading screen flutter to life as she opens the beer and takes a small, thoughtful sip. Not bad at all. These spooky hipsters really knew their shit.
Her email screen appears, reopening from where she'd left it mid-draft that morning. A response email to the estate lawyer about the successful transfer of the business license stares back at her. It was so inconsequential, but it felt difficult to find the words to appropriately thank someone for this strange situation.
Minimizing the window, she pulls up a fresh tab and clicks through a few of her bookmarks to find the wholesale flower supplier she'd been given the contact information for in the process of taking over the shop. The prices and amounts read like Greek to her. She recognizes the names of each flower, something that her botany education had at least somewhat prepared her for, but the varying seasonal surges and discounts make her head spin.
She knows she'll have to properly dig through all of her uncle's paperwork at some point to figure out what his best patterns were. She's lucky he kept hard copies of everything, even if the mountain of invoices and receipts are a little intimidating to tackle.
Deciding it can wait another day at least — there is one more prepaid order coming in this next Friday that Rio hopes will hold her over enough to get the doors open — she instead opens Google Maps and types in the shop's address, scrolling aimlessly through a slew of positive reviews. It calms her a little, seeing so many locals speaking so highly of the shop. They'll probably help her keep the lights on while she decides if she needs to sell or not.
Clicking out of the reviews, she lets her eyes trail down the flat map of the road in each direction. With a scroll back to zoom out a little, she can see the liquor store she'd just been to. Scrolling back in until it vanishes from view, she peers at each new shop name that pops up around her. A few cafes, an exorbitant amount of crystal and metaphorical shops in such close range of each other, a whimsical gothic boutique across the road, and a tattoo shop sandwiched between what looks like a year-round Halloween store and a tiny, standing-room-only pub.
Working almost a stones-throw away from a tattoo shop doesn't bode well for her savings account.
It's been at least three months since she's added anything to the rather massive collection she's been building up over the decades. Her fingers itch with a long-forgotten temptation as she hovers over the outline of the shop on the map and watches the photo of the front door load in.
Coven Ink. According to the quick blurb, it's an older institution than most of the shops on the street, with the exception of just a few, Vidal's included. Rio lets the temptation get the best of her and clicks through to their website, settling in with another long sip from her beer.
The 'meet the artists' page calls to her from the top-bar navigation, seeming to glow and stand out among the tasteful, dark web design.
Rio assumes the order of the artists is based on seniority, since it clearly isn't alphabetical. She clicks on the first name — Lilia — and the message at the top of the page immediately tells her that she is not currently accepting appointments. Still, Rio scrolls, curious, through a smattering of photos and flash scans that seem to resemble a rare combination of fine-line and heavy-detail, closer to anatomical than photo-real. She scrolls down to a rather large, intricate back piece and squints at the tiny caption in the corner of the JPEG that informs her the entire piece was hand-poked.
Curious, she clicks back to the list of artists and chooses the second name on the list — Agatha. This page is much more bare, with only a few brightly-lit photos. A surprisingly brightly colored piece of two silverback gorillas wrapping around a thick bicep draw her eye first, a high-contrast and extremely realistic bundle of flowers on a slender ankle dragging her gaze in next.
Two more photos — the linework of and finished colors of the same piece, a smattering of tarot cards wrapping up and around an arm marked by lines and age spots — and Agatha's page ends there.
Rio clicks through the others — Alice, with a scrawling and impressive portfolio made up of old Asian traditional, brightly colored pop-art, gothic script, cybersigilism, and everything in between that Rio could possibly imagine. She's almost overwhelmed by the expanse of her range, feeling curious as she clicks finally through to the page labelled 'Jen'.
Detail-oriented fine line pieces with side-by-side well-healed and well-aged photos to back up the skill light up Rio's computer screen. Between delicate glyphs of nature — resting deer, blooming flowers — an image of the moon so real it almost seems to glow, despite being a black and grey piece on a patch of a darker-skinned client's shoulder.
Rio's mind drifts back to the photos on Agatha's page. She reopens the page back in a separate tab and returns to the homepage to click idly through the other pages, not entirely sure what she's looking for. Their hours of operation, address, and mission statement all pass through Rio's vision, being unconsciously tucked into her memory as she navigates to their accolades and press page.
Brightly lit photos from conventions, varying women holding plaques and trophies, and quotes with links to various local and national publications litter the page. Rio counts five different women across the varying pictures, despite the shop boasting four artists. Before she can question the inconsistency, she notes the link to the shop's official Instagram handle and pulls it up on her phone.
She flicks through the highlights — shop policies; artists' individual rules; a few outdated flash sheets for special events. Scrolling and sipping, Rio becomes accidentally acquainted with the artists — as well as the fresh-faced apprentice — and the overall vibe of the shop. 'Bookings in person or phone only' sticks out at her from the bio and she hazards a glance at the time. Later than she'd realized.
She can go in herself, the next afternoon.
Afternoon creeps up on Rio, bringing dehydration and a jaw ache.
Rain patters against the scratched window next to the futon, and Rio immediately clocks the combination of the weather and her own idea to have a beer as her bedside beverage as the dual reason she must have been grinding her teeth all night.
Forcing herself out of bed — if her poor excuse for one can be called that — and trudging over to the coffee maker, she yawns and waits for her body to get the memo that she's starting her day. The four-models-old Keurig sputters disgustingly as it percolates and fills the small kitchenette with the bliss-inducing scent of hot coffee.
Before she even manages her first sip, her phone buzzes from its spot on the floor, plugged in by the futon. She shuffles over to it tiredly and squints at the screen from her standing position, trying to decide if it's worth it to bend down and pick it up.
[3:31] Dottie: did you actually move to fucking SALEM?
[3:31] Dottie: when can i come visit you're so much closer now
Rio snorts, sinking down to the floor and deciding to sit there with her coffee instead of trying to get up again on precipitation-affected knees.
I did.
My uncle left me his flower shop.
[3:33] Dottie: rip to him but ok goth hallmark movie
[3:33] Dottie: sorry. were you close?
Rio snorts out loud, shaking her head in amusement as she types out her response.
No, we weren't. It's actually kind of a cool spot. And I actually really wouldn't mind some company, you're welcome any time.
[3:34] Dottie: i WILL hold you to that.
[3:34] Dottie: guess i'd better hurry, too. it's probably a nightmare around halloween.
Yeah, Rio replies, smirking at her screen. Plus, I haven't quite figured out which of my neighbors are witches yet, so you'll have to be on your best behavior.
Rio tucks the phone into her pocket as she forces herself up and brings her coffee with her to the small bathroom off the kitchenette — which she's sure must be an illegal build — to wash her face and dig through her small train case of makeup perched on the top of the toilet tank.
It's a nice, quiet ritual. Her phone continues to buzz in her pocket — likely Dottie with some ideas for dates to come out — but Rio ignores it for the time being to give herself her undivided attention. The look is simple, clean, and daytime appropriate. The smell of the rain creeping in through the tiny stained window in the shower makes her feel immediate 'with' the nature outside, and downstairs the flowers and greenery waiting for her seem to be waking up as well, the scent of bright clean life sneaking up through the worn floorboards and poor insulation.
After an hour of careful but minimal application, she juggles between two different flavours of lip balm for several moments before finally choosing, and then tosses everything back into the case as she flicks off the lights and heads for the door.
She'd been right about the plants seeming to wake up in response to the weather. She heads down past the shop floor to the small, cramped basement storage, and digs out a box of calla lilies that she'd spotted the morning prior. They're looking a little worse for wear, but the discounted price and timing of poor weather are a serendipitous combination, and Rio has a freshly-emptied wooden planter bed outside just begging for some new tenants.
Just as she steps out, she has another one of her increasingly frequent moments of confused familiarity. A man — a boy, really — who can't be any older than twenty, maybe twenty-one, nearly bumps into her as he passes by.
He turns her way, interrupting the older woman with him.
"Sorry!" He says quickly, shooting her a quick, apologetic smile before continuing his conversation with his companion next to him, who is fussing over him in a way that makes Rio immediately clock her as his mother, even without the striking similarities in their features suddenly registering to her.
The woman is following him with a small cafe napkin, stippled with rain drops, and trying desperately to wipe the slight sheen of wetness from his face as he pulls his hood up over his already-damp hair. He steadies the tray he's holding housing two coffees, a third steaming cup in the woman's free hand. The scent of it fills the small space between them, and Rio considers asking where the cups are from, considering having her second of the day already.
"Mom," The boy scoffs, blushing as he steps back away from the woman and laughing in good-natured embarrassment. "Stop it, I have to get back."
The tray of coffees tilts precariously in his hand and he adjusts his grip.
"Don't work too hard," the woman insists, her arm extending out to him unconsciously even as he steps out of her reach. "And take that sweater off as soon as you get in — you'll catch your death. I'll bring you something warm and dry when I pick you up."
"Thank you," he sighs, smiling genuinely and then glancing both ways before jogging across the street.
The woman turns and Rio blushes, suddenly feeling a little like she's interrupting something that she shouldn't have. Before she can apologize, the other woman speaks first.
"Hi!"
Rio, stunned, blinks in response and then finds herself smiling in return.
"Hey."
"Those are gorgeous," the woman says, nodding to the small box of flowers in Rio's arms. Rio drops her gaze to them and beams proudly.
"Thanks."
The woman heads off without another word and Rio tries to push down the warm fuzzy feeling in her chest. She can't tell if she's just been lonely the last few days, or if everyone in the neighborhood really is that nice and friendly.
She spots the boy slow his steps to peer into the window of the gothic boutique a few doors down from the tattoo shop. Setting the flowers into their new bed under her display window, Rio overtakes him as she crosses the road on the diagonal and ducks out of the misting rain quickly into Coven Ink.
Soft, thrumming dark-pop echoes softly from the back area of the shop, with a large desk and fish tank flanking either side of a small, saloon-style gate that separates the front from the back of the building. Hanging plants cover most of the ceiling surface, and below Rio's feet she notes the artisan-style tiles, every few steps featuring a moon phase or what Rio recognizes vaguely as runes, though she's not familiar enough to have any more information about what they each symbolize.
A woman she recognizes as Agatha from the website sits alone at the reception desk. Kismet, Rio thinks, surprised by her own luck. Agatha doesn't say anything as the bell above the door rings and it shuts behind Rio. She doesn't look up from whatever she's doing on the surface of the desk, hidden by the raised edge of the counter.
Giving herself a moment to take in the space with a flick of her eyes, Rio makes a split-second decision that the vibes seem adequate, even despite the icy welcome, or lack thereof. Agatha's hair, even longer still than it had been in the photos, curtains around one side of her head, shadowing half of her face. Her jaw is set in slight concentration, fine lines between her furrowed brows and at the corners of her focused eyes becoming more visible as Rio steps quietly closer to the desk.
"D'you do realism?" She asks.
The bluest eyes she's ever seen jerk up to take Rio in properly for the first time, narrowed but no less bright than an island-warm sea. Rio's breath catches but she doesn't waver, and the other woman doesn't seem to notice, her voice gruff and low as she responds.
"Come again?"
