Which is where Sophie headed now, pausing only to switch on a light upstairs before heading down. Her workshop was here. Her tools, her cauldrons, her herbs. She’d had an industrial sink and stove installed and shelving to hold the basic ingredients of her cosmetic line. Everything was neat and orderly and stored in a way to make her work easy.

Sophie was nothing if not organized.

She tied her hair back and an apron around her slender frame and got right to work. In forty minutes, she had a batch of moisturizer brewing on the stove. It was time to add the new ingredient; time to add Mr. Deveraux and see what he brought to the mix. Her hand was shaking with excitement as she measured out a teaspoon, then reduced it by one half. After all, she had no idea what the effect of the ash would be. And since she was going to be the guinea pig in this experiment, she felt it prudent to proceed cautiously. She could always add more to a later batch if need be.

Sophie stirred in the ash. It dissolved into the cream base instantly. Now all she had to do was wait for the mixture to cool. She could hardly stand still, her excitement and impatience bubbled up inside her like champagne waiting to be uncorked. She stuck her finger into the pan, testing, again and again only to snatch it back and dance around waving her burned digit. Why was it taking so long for the damned stuff to cool? She had spells to make things hot as fire but none that did the opposite. She’d have to work on that.

Later.

At last, the mixture was cool enough to allow Sophie to spoon a portion onto a glass plate. She swirled it a bit, approving of the texture—not too greasy, not too dry. She lifted the plate and sniffed. A nice citrusy bouquet…with just a slight undercurrent of musk. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. The citrus was supposed to be there. The musk? She wasn’t too thrilled but realized that the musk was Mr. Deveraux. He was male, after all. Perhaps in the next batch she would add a stronger fragrance—essence of jasmine, maybe, or frangipani—to counteract it.

In any case, the scent was not important. It was time to sample the cream, to see if what she hoped was true.

Her hand shook a little as she scooped a portion onto two fingers. She crossed the room to watch in the mirror as she smoothed the moisturizer onto her face. It felt rich and luxurious on her skin. That was a good thing. It was absorbed quickly into her skin, leaving no greasy residue. Good, again. It tingled just a little. Sophie’s inspiration for when she took the stuff public. It gave the impression that there were active ingredients in the lotion, that it was doing something. An attribute of her original formula.

They were all attributes of her original formula.

So far, she saw and felt nothing new. No flush of rejuvenation. No tightening of the skin to signal a return to youthful firmness and texture.

Maybe she needed to give it more time.

She stared at her reflection. And waited.

And waited.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, she gave up. With a shrug, she turned away from the mirror. She wouldn’t let herself be too disappointed. This was only a first attempt, after all. She stared at the pan on the stove, wondering if she should give it another try tonight. But her tired feet and tight shoulders intervened, begging to be put to bed.

Sophie acquiesced with a sigh. She was exhausted. She locked the baggie with the remains of Mr. Deveraux in a drawer, flipped off the light, and went upstairs to lay her weary bones to rest.

When she awoke the next morning, the first thing Sophie did was rush into the bathroom to examine her face in the mirror. She’d had a dream that the cream worked. Her dreams were often portents of things to come and she believed in them.

But she could see nothing changed in the heart-shaped face that stared back at her. The tiny wrinkles still radiated out from the corners of her eyes. Her hair was still touched with gray at the temples, though she hadn’t really expected the cream would change her hair. Not unless she rubbed the stuff into it. She scolded herself in impatience for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. If she wanted to change her hair, there were plenty of conventional human products on the market to take care of it. No, she was looking for something different. Something to take the years away, not just cover them up.

She got dressed and went directly back down to the basement. This time she added a full teaspoon of the ash to a new batch of moisturizer. She applied it liberally and went about her day.

There were always lots of chores for a practicing witch. Besides her catering business, Sophie had clientele who came for readings or spells. There were herbs to gather, earth summonings to perform. She was an important witch in her part of the country, and a great deal of her time was spent in correspondence with others of similar station all around the world. Generally, the time passed quickly and she was content.

Today, however, Sophie felt restless and ill at ease. She couldn’t concentrate on her readings, had no interest in her spells. She ignored the weeds in her garden and cut short her correspondence on the Worldwide Witches Web, even though one of the messages was from her sister and marked “important.”

When at last evening arrived, she allowed herself to look in the mirror. She saw no remarkable changes. Actually, she saw no changes at all. She stared at her reflection and frowned bitterly.

Then she grew angry with herself. She recognized why her day had been unproductive and knew very well what was at the root of her restlessness. She had been self-indulgent, selfish, something very out of character. She had gotten caught up in a foolish daydream. She knew there was nothing (short of becoming vampire) that could reverse the signs of age. What had possessed her to even consider it? Especially since her own formulas worked a kind of magic in themselves and didn’t rely on immolated vampire dust to work.

No, better to proceed with her original formulas. They were pretty darned good when you thought about it. Look at her. She was eighty, for goodness sake, and no one ever believed it when she told them. Besides, even if the formula had worked, how did she think she’d get her hands on more vampire ash? More birthday candle accidents? How likely was that?

She hurried down to the basement, determined to throw Mr. Deveraux right into the trash. She opened the drawer and pulled out the baggie, even had her foot on the pedal that levitated the lid of the trash can, when something stayed her hand.

The dream.

The dream she’d had last night. She closed her eyes and conjured the image. In the dream, she had been standing right in this very place, at this very counter, and when her eyes had risen to the mirror, the face and body reflected there were hers but younger, prettier. Her lashes were long and luxurious, her lips full, her body lush. She was perfect. She was beautiful. The cream had not only transformed her face but had altered her entirely.

For a woman who had always been considered “plain” (though not unattractive, she was quick to amend), it was a captivating and alluring dream. And one she was, in reality, loathe to abandon.

And so Sophie made the decision to give it one more try. This time, she would add all that was left of Mr. Deveraux’s mortal remains to the cream in the bottom of her kettle. She did it quickly before she could change her mind. Then she scooped the mixture onto her fingers and smoothed it thickly onto her skin.

She didn’t stand around this time and wait for something to happen. She went straight to bed. If when she awoke in the morning, there was still no change, she would give it not one more thought. No, she’d proceed with her original plan and contact a witch she knew in real estate to start looking for an industrial site where she could manufacture her night cream. Her night cream. No more thoughts of adding vampire dust to a perfectly good product.