It had been over twenty-four hours since I’d decided to ignore Fairy Jane’s latest advice, putting her firmly in her place amid my collection of favorite fictional romances. Maybe she was a fellow grudge holder intent on kicking things up a notch. Well, I could play hardball too—the shredder was not out of the realm of possibility.

If she could derail The Plan in just a couple of unsuspecting minutes, then what was next?

A nose-pierced vision of myself, belting out “Beautiful” à la Christina Aguilera to a crowd of lesbians in an off-key show of solidarity was just as scary as it should have been. Part of me wondered if Fairy Jane had that kind of power. And part of me was starting to get very nervous.

I’d never planned to “meet him too” either. And look at me now—I’d kissed him, bought his CD, and I was well on my way to becoming a groupie. Could I even take credit for those decisions?

I was going crazy!

This shouldn’t be freaking me out. I could call Mark right now and tell him to forget it, that I’d been talkin’ crazy. Easy out. But honestly, I was still reeling from being passed over for management all over again, and I was afraid of what might come out of my mouth if I tried. Time to make a quick exit, go find that key, and get some answers. I promised myself I’d ask Beck about all this later.

The phone rang as I stepped back through the doorway of my cubicle, and I debated not answering, a little fearful of what I might admit or agree to in this fragile state of not-myself. But crossing my fingers against virtually every eventuality, I picked up and found myself in the middle of a rant.

“A bikini, a mangotini, and a cabana boy?” Gabe blustered.

“Yes, please!” After the morning I’d had, a little fantasy come true sounded very, very good. So long as Fairy Jane wasn’t involved. . .

Judging by the silence, Gabe didn’t agree. I forged ahead. “Desert isle chick came back with an answer, huh?”

“Seems we weren’t stranded on the island, just alone, and she had cabana boy plans for me!” I imagined Gabe’s shouted admission sailing over the open-air cubicles that surrounded him and suppressed a giggle. “A little clarification would have been nice,” he complained.

“It wouldn’t have mattered—you were proud of that EPIRB.”

“True.” I heard a muttered curse. “Do they all have to want me only for my body?”

“Ahh ... the dance of online seduction,” I teased, holding back a snort of laughter. “You Photoshopped, didn’t you? A little pec here and a little pec there ...”

“No! I did not. You may be programmed to only see a guy’s 401(k) potential, but I can hold my own on both the physical and financial fronts.”

This time I didn’t bother to hold back my burst of laughter. “Next time I see you, I’ll take another look,” I promised. “But now I gotta go.”

“To lunch? I’ll go with you.”

“No. I need to run an errand. Sort of a girl thing,” I added, knowing that’d stave off any and all follow-up questions.

“Say no more. Hey, how did your performance review go? That was this morning, right?”

“Tell you later,” I fudged, really not wanting to discuss it right now. I tried to hang up, but Gabe was evidently undeterred by my dismissive, slightly brusque manner. I yanked the phone back against my ear.

“What?” I demanded, my anger quickly morphing into guilt.

“Did Beck ... say anything?”

“About what?” I asked, trying to be nicer as I gathered up my purse and rummaged for my car keys.

“About me.”

I smiled into the phone. “You’re the one who left with her. I haven’t talked to her since.”

“Well, what’d you think?”

I was standing in my cubicle, hopped up on anxiety, ready to go but for the landline receiver attached to the side of my head, and Gabe wanted to dish like a junior high school girl. Resigned, I pulled out my chair and dropped into it.

“About you two? Well, let’s see. She’s very pink and a little punk; you’re very geek and a little ga-ga. And yet ... it seemed like you got along great. Just remember you’re old enough to be her mentor,” I teased. “Why not consider what your computer might think of the match? Seriously, can I go now?”

“Please do.”

Halfway to the lobby (and about four hours late) it occurred to me that the journal was spending the morning with the Austen ladies. No question it would take a miracle for me to find the right key amid the dubious treasures crowding Violet’s Crown Antiques, but it’d be downright impossible without the journal. Looked like I’d be making a little detour back home. I truly hoped I was in line for some good karma.

Pulling into the driveway in record time, I fully intended to run in and back out again with the journal in my hot little hands, but once it had been pulled from the shelf, a mingling of temper and curiosity double-teamed my typical efficiency. Grabbing a handful of dark chocolate M&M’s from the bowl on the counter, I parked myself cross-legged in a chair at the kitchen table.

I’d popped open an Internet window during that morning’s fidgety waiting period, typed “fairies” into the search box, and learned way more than I’d cared to. They were quite the little bitches—devious, self-serving, and prone to trickery. Fairy godmothers, on the other hand, were known for having their wards’ best interests at heart. So which was I dealing with? It was mighty hard to say.

With fairies of all sorts flitting about in my head, I jotted off the day’s entry, short and just shy of sweet.


Okay, what is the deal?! Seriously. I assumed we had some sort of arrangement: You supply the crazy, mixed-up romantic advice, and I let you. On condition that the magic is kept safely tucked away in its own little quiet corner, inside the journal. No spells, enchantments, or charms—nothing devious or underhanded. And that’s it. My job has always been positively off-limits.

And yet ... surprise, surprise ... when asked today whether I’d consider a job transfer, out of nowhere, I said I would. The funny (you could say suspicious) thing about that is that I won’t! I’ve worked my way up through the ranks of this job, and I’m holding out for management—I’ve earned management. I don’t want to start over on a whim.

You want to know what I think? You’re not just omniscient, you’re hands-on. A couple of magic words, a sprinkling of fairy dust, a little wave of the proverbial wand, and there I am talking crazy, soundly hexed. Well, I’d like to respectfully request that it doesn’t happen again—not ever. I’d like you to keep your charms to yourself. If you need to take a break from all the romance stuff for a little while, how about some savvy investment tips? ... seriously!


Glancing over my words, I wondered how well Fairy Jane dealt with sass. Feeling a little gutsy, I snapped the book closed, ready for the next round. Honestly, I would have much preferred to banish it back to the bookshelf, but today, it seemed, absolutely everything was outside my control.

And then, on the way out the door, as I grabbed a couple more M&M’s, my gaze happened to catch on the little square calendar propped jauntily beside the door. It clearly displayed today’s date, but the quote had changed from the one that had been there this morning. Now it read, “ ‘When he was present she had no eyes for anyone else. Everything he did was right. Everything he said was clever.’ Sense and Sensibility.” I smacked it face-down on the counter and slid it into the closest kitchen drawer.

I guess I had my answer. The crazy was no longer confined to the journal—it was on the loose, in Austin. I couldn’t imagine a more dangerous combination.


I tried calling Beck on my way downtown, but it rolled to voice mail. As soon as her class was over, she’d be getting quite the earful. I truly hoped she had a logical explanation for this, although, knowing her, it probably wouldn’t be the least bit reassuring—or logical.

Violet’s seemed a little less quirky on a Monday at noon, and after parking on the street, I hurried inside, the journal tucked away in my purse. Deciding to risk another run-in with the Shop Nazi before launching an all-out search for the key myself, I headed for the counter. She saw me coming and crinkled her lips into a thin line.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she inquired, clearly hoping my answer was negative.

“I hope so,” I answered, exuding friendly, encouraging vibes. “I’m actually looking for a key to fit this lock.” I held up the journal and watched as it triggered her memory: me groveling unattractively, Beck being Beck. I couldn’t tell her I’d talked to Mr. Nelson—she’d wonder how I’d gotten his name and number, since she hadn’t been willing to give it up. This was going to go great. “I really feel like there should be a key.” Well done.

“I don’t recall a key, but you’re free to look.” That was evidently all I was going to get out of her.

“Are you the owner here?” I was holding out for the possibility that there was a sweet little lady locked in a closet somewhere in the back. If I could bust her out, maybe she’d help me.

“I am, yes.”

Wishful thinking foiled again.

“O-kay then,” I said brightly. “Well I guess I’ll just start looking. Any suggestions on where to start ... ?” I asked, turning slightly, ready to rummage.

“There is a small collection of keys on the marble-topped console by the door.” It clearly pained her to offer up even this stingy bit of information. “And a few scattered about in various vignettes around the shop. Enjoy.”