When Zelda comes to her senses, she feels sweat drip down her forehead and wipes it away with a disgusted sigh. She spies Salem rolling on the floor dramatically.
"I'm wasting away to nothing, and you're just sitting there!"
"Salem, you could have gotten the kibble yourself or asked Hilda to help you rather than waking me up," Zelda scolds, suddenly annoyed. She brushes sweaty palms on her jeans and stands up, stretching out a painful kink in her neck. Of course, she can't just be heartbroken right now because she's always the responsible one. Always taking care of everyone else.
"It's not my fault I have to eat. You put that lock on the fridge, and now I can't get into it," Salem retorts and rolls to his feet, stretching as cats do.
Zelda rolls her eyes and starts to walk through to the kitchen, cat just behind her feet. Something is strange about the house this morning, Zelda thinks, and she stops just before the kitchen. Salem walks into her legs and hisses.
"What was that for?" he asks angrily and swishes his tail behind him. He jumps to the dining room table and away from Zelda's dangerous feet.
"Did my sister ever come home last night?" Zelda asked aloud. It was odd for Hilda to neglect Salem in the morning. She turned to the cat.
Salem sits on the table and curls his tail around his paws. "I don't recall," he lies as he thinks about playing in Sabrina's closet and staring in the enchanted mirror as his reflection tell him how fabulous he looks in a feather boa. And boy, did he look good.
Zelda's hands find their comfortable place on her hips, and she stares down the cat. "You're lying, Salem. You've got that vacant look in your eyes. Where is Hilda?"
Salem's eyes widen, and Zelda notices a line of fur raising on his neck. "I don't know," Salem says, and it's a half-truth. The witch across from him narrows her eyes in that scary way that suggests magical punishment in the form of extra limbs or just regular loss of snacks for the day.
"Salem," Zelda warns.
The cat eyes a small crackling at her fingertips and decides on self-preservation over whatever magical outburst might happen. "She went to Saturn for their Festival of Rings, but I don't know if she came back last night pleasedon'thurtme," he finishes quickly and cowers.
Zelda closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath. "Of course. She did tell me that she was planning on going out."
She wonders briefly how she could have forgotten. A whole weekend alone would normally have made the scientist giddy with excitement, but lately she's felt heavy and spacey. It's been weeks since her breakup, but she still feels like she's moving through molasses. "Huh," she breathes and turns to her previous destination to feed the cat.
"Zelly, are you okay?" Salem bounces up to his spot on the counter where his food bowl resides. It hasn't been moved since the dog tried to take over and kick him out as a gesture of permanence by the Spellman sisters. Salem isn't always convinced that they'll keep him around, but this helps.
Zelda nods and pulls the bag of food out of the cupboard, scooping food into the ceramic dish. She's quiet as she tidies up the kitchen, wiping a counter down with a rag to clean it of some sticky mess, no doubt Salem's. As she throws the dishrag into the sink with a self-promise to put it in the laundry later—lies—she hears the toaster pop behind her. Turning, she spies a postcard and picks it up, still smoking and sets it on the table while she rinses her hands. It's from Hilda. A picture of her smiling and holding a shiny piece of ice from Saturn's rings.
It brings back memories of childhood and when they'd go as a family. Some good, some bad, but always Zelda thinks of when Vesta tried to dangle them off the edge of Saturn and by some quirk of fate neither girl drifted into space. Their parents found them and got rightly angry at the eldest daughter but ultimately did nothing to help. With a shrug, Zelda zapped the postcard to an empty space on the front of the fridge.
"I'm going to go take a nap," Zelda says and waves a hand to appear in her bedroom. It's dark colors and cozy. She loves red so dark it's almost black. It's still very medieval, but she finds comfort in it. Arthur loved it too when he came to stay the night.
Suddenly Zelda doesn't find it so cozy, but vows to fix it the next morning—not a lie. She finds in her nightstand the bottle of dreamless sleep potion she made last week to keep the nightmares at bay and unstoppers the vial before tipping it back. The tastes of black licorice and ginger assault her senses, and she shudders before conjuring a glass of water to swish away the lingering potion on her tongue. Knowing it won't take long before she'll fall asleep, she sets the vial on her nightstand and crawls under heavy covers. She'll keep the weight of this duvet, she thinks, as she covers her face and hugs the blanket closer.