An hour later, Jane was perched on a sleek black pod chair in the offices of Conran and Associates, trying to ignore the painful blister forming on her right pinky toe. She’d walked up and down the street three times, her suede boots getting less and less comfortable with each pass, before noticing the understated brass C&A plaque on what she was sure was an apartment building.

“So.” Pamela Bronsky, the managing codirector of the firm, looked from Jane to her résumé and back again, her almond eyes hard behind thick brown frames. Her glossy brown hair was piled on top of her head in an odd-looking update of a beehive, and Jane guessed that she considered it an artistic style. She began to second-guess her decision to leave on her blouse, pencil skirt, and pearls ensemble from that morning. She had deemed it businesslike enough for a job interview (especially with someone who sounded desperate to hire her), but maybe it was too businesslike? Clearly, she had done something to put Pamela off because in person, the architect was nowhere near as breathless and bubbly as she had been on the phone. It was as if Jane had walked into someone else’s interview, and that someone was apparently annoying and underqualified.

Pamela clicked the top of her maroon metal pen a few times. “I see that all of your experience is foreign.”

“Well yes,” Jane said, leaning forward, aiming for a tone and demeanor that screamed Hire me! “I interned for Atelier Antoine in Paris; I joined them right out of school. From there I became an assistant, and had just been promoted to designer when I moved. I would love to have the same kind of ground level–up experience here—”

“Of course. But you see, we don’t really have any international projects at the moment.”

An automatic room freshener emitted a puff of vanilla-scented air into the office with a hiss. Jane leaned back, puzzled. I know. That’s why you wanted me. “Well, that’s an area where I think that I could be an asset to you,” she said instead. Just like you said—in that new international division that just has to get up and running? She heard herself prattling on about the cultural differences between America and Europe, giving Pamela a miniature sociology lecture that she couldn’t seem to switch off. By the time she had gotten to the issue of table manners, Pamela looked openly bored, and Jane forced herself to wrap it up. “As someone with a foot in both worlds, so to speak—”

“Do you, though?” Pamela pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at Jane.

Jane stopped abruptly, straightening the cuffs of her Elie Tahari blouse before she could remind herself not to fidget. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you actually have ‘a foot in both worlds’?” Click, click, click, went Pamela’s pen. “Your schooling is French, as are all of your professional credentials, and you’ve been in this country all of a day. Have you even looked into becoming licensed in New York? I don’t believe that your school is accredited here, and the process could take months even if you are eligible. Which I don’t believe that you are.”

Jane inhaled, stung. She hadn’t expected to have a license just handed to her, of course, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t be an asset while she worked toward one. That was fairly standard in an architectural office. She glanced at the downtown skyline visible through Pamela’s charmless square window. An ambulance flashed its way down the street, the pitch of its siren rising and then falling as it passed them. The stuttering whoop was familiar to her only from movies; it was completely different from the steady, two-toned bleat of French sirens. Jane felt a wave of homesickness, but there was no point in nostalgia. She wanted a life with Malcolm, and that life was here. She would just have to fight for it a little harder than she had thought, was all.

Jane perched herself at the very edge of her chair, bracing herself, for an awkward moment, on its Space Age lip before finding her balance. “My understanding from when we spoke”—she couldn’t stop an edge from creeping into the word—“was that you were looking for someone to liaise with potential international clients.” There was a long pause.

. . . just take a hint, Mrs. Soon-to-Be Doran . . .

“Excuse me, what was that?” Jane asked. She was nearly sure that she had never mentioned Malcolm to Pamela—and certainly not by name. She had wanted to at least try to find something on her own, without any of the preferential treatment that a soon-to-be Doran would surely get. She’d wanted her new connections to be something to fall back on, not rely on exclusively.

Pamela’s French-manicured fingers rifled absently through the papers on her desk. “What was what? Look, I’m sorry. You’re simply not the right fit for us. But I see that you’re wearing an engagement ring. Take some time off. Do cake-tastings and bridesmaids’ brunches and spa days or whatever.” Oblivious to Jane’s suddenly narrowed eyes, Pamela leaned forward. “Honestly, I wish that I’d had that kind of freedom when it came to planning my wedding. The DJ was a nightmare.” She twirled a felt-tipped pen through her fingers. “You’re really very lucky, you know.”

Jane forced a tight smile, gripping the strap of her distressed-leather handbag. She tried not to think about its contents—the plans for Madame Godinaux’s renovations, the office building she’d helped design near the Bastille; Pamela hadn’t asked a single question about Jane’s portfolio. “That’s so kind of you to think about my interests,” Jane hissed between clenched teeth, but Pamela seemed not to notice her tone. Instead she continued to nod, glossy brown nouveau-beehive bobbing absurdly, clearly relieved that Jane was finally catching on.

And catching on she certainly was: Pamela was unaware of her slip, Jane realized, because it had been a nonverbal one. So much for leaving my magic in Europe, she thought wryly, but most of her mind was occupied with a much more pressing mystery. How did Pamela know who she was marrying . . . and what did it have to do with this bizarre farce of an interview? She thought about asking, about trying to figure out some subtle approach that would get her more information, but Pamela’s face was shuttered. She had already moved on to a stack of what looked suspiciously like résumés. “I’ll just see myself out,” Jane announced resolutely, standing.

She stalked out of Pamela’s office with as much dignity as she could manage, although she yanked the glass door shut behind her so hard that it rattled ominously in its frame. She tried to control her breathing as she threaded her way through the scattered desks in the main office, but she was too keyed-up to keep her face from flushing crimson. A bulb in an Art Deco shade flickered wildly, and something behind the receptionist’s desk let out an ear-piercing beep. Jane jumped.

“It’s okay,” the mousy receptionist told Jane, although she was clearly just as shaken by the sudden blast of noise. Her small, squeaky voice perfectly matched her looks. “It’s just the intercom from the street. I guess it’s on the fritz. Again.”

She frowned and fiddled with some buttons on her desk as Pamela stormed out of her office, hands over her ears. “For God’s sake, Sally, I thought we had that damned intercom fixed.” She stopped short when she saw Jane still in the office. For a tense moment, Jane waited for the other woman to say something to her—to apologize, even—but instead Pamela just spun on her stacked heel and slammed her office door behind her nearly as hard as Jane had. “Call that worthless repairman back and do not take no for an answer!” Pamela’s voice rang through the door. The receptionist hunched obediently over her phone.

All at once, for the first time since she’d learned that she was a witch, Jane was glad for her powers. She closed her eyes and let hot rage wash freely over her. When she felt good and out of control, she forced her body forward into the stairwell right on cue for the speaker to emit an extra shrill, extra long beeeep. A crash came from the office behind her, and she heard at least two voices shouting.

Oops.