“Just what are you implying, Miss Fenady?”

She tossed her head. “Haven’t you been listening? You’re stealing my ice cream flavors. And I want it to stop.”

Indignation joined the anger brewing in Seb’s chest. “I may be a lot of things, Miss Fenady.” A creative genius, if he did say so himself. A walker of the old magical path, a dyed-in-the-wool Wiccan. That meant he believed in putting good out into the world. “I’ve told you, I’m no thief.”

“Then how is it you list, here, flavors I’ve formulated?” She slapped the flyer.

“I don’t know.” He treated her to a snarl of his own. “Maybe you’re stealing my ideas, rather than the other way round.”

“How dare you? I started dreaming up those formulas when I was twelve years old.” She began a recitation. “Pistachio Dream. Whipped Almond Cloud. Both of those—or versions of them—you’ve put out, even while they were still just prototypes in my kitchen. Vanilla Victory, with—”

“With a touch of licorice?” Seb asked, in dawning horror.

“Yes.” Pure fury glared at him from her eyes. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that’s coincidence?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it that.” On the contrary, Seb was starting to think some other force must be at work here, one that fairly lit him with curiosity.