Little Black Grimoire
Charlotte Wilde flung off her too-pointy, too-tall, too-black funeral shoes. She sighed and rubbed at the corners of her eyes, rotating clockwise until she reached her temples. She had told her family she just needed a minute to collect herself. The Wildes understood. Charlotte had been closest to Beth. Luckily, she only had to cross a white pebble driveway to reach solitude. She lived above the generous carriage house on their sprawling estate. She jammed her favorite glass under the ice maker and let her eyes wander across the refrigerator surface. They fell on a playful magnetic kitten pad. Like her favorite glass, her aunt had given her it to her as a joke about a year ago. Kitten had been Beth’s nickname for Charlotte her whole life.
