Eighteen
A quick records search gave us the location of a new-age shop owned by one Natalia Baptiste nestled amongst the high-end boutiques on Newbury Street. How she managed to afford the space, I had no idea. A tiny bell above the door announced our presence, tinkling in the air with an echo a bell of its size shouldn’t have. Even before I stepped foot inside, I could sense a cacophony of magical scents. Some were soothing like eucalyptus and rosemary, but mixed with other less pleasant ones like sulfur and rotting wood.
“Are you all right?” Jacquie prompted when I halted at the doorway.
“There are a lot of magical signatures in there. Fresh like their owners just left. Either she’s been doing some seriously weird s**t or she’s got a steady stream of customers who all have magic—not a
