Of every soul in this town, I can read the fate — the baker's third marriage, the mailman's lottery win, you're welcome. The only thread I've never seen is my own. Which is fine. Totally fine. I have my twin's wedding to run and one tiny mishap to fix: I may have broken an antique lamp in the gown designer's cabin. And the gown designer may have been magically bound to it.

And now he may be magically bound to me.

Rule one of four centuries of careful lamp management: never let a witch in fuzzy socks near the shelf. Now if she wanders too far, I'm dragged across town mid-stitch. Her rabbit sheds on my silk. A fat orange cat has annexed my workbench. And her new brother-in-law believes I grant wishes, which — no, I'm not correcting him. It's the only entertainment I have left.

I'd leave if I could. But she kind of did this to herself.

Call it coincidence if you like. Neither of them believes fate has a sense of humor. Fate, apparently, disagrees.

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