“I changed my mind. I don’t think this is a good idea after all.” Margaret Balefire cast a wary eye over the cobbled-together piece of floating death she’d helped her sister build for the town of Harmony’s ‘Anything Goes’ flotilla race. “It doesn’t look seaworthy.”

Hagatha Crow, the third member of their crew, scoffed. “We’re not going to sea, you weenie. We’re just taking a lazy float down the river. You can swim, can’t you?” The ancient witch cackled and completed a hop-and-roll motion onto the precarious craft, leaving her walker, complete with tennis-ball-covered feet, standing on the dock.

She’d probably enhanced the aerial feat with the subtlest wisp of magic, but Mag had to give it to her—it was still impressive. Even though Hagatha was more powerful than any three regular witches put together and about as predictable as a tornado, she was older than dirt; Mag refused to be outdone and boarded the craft.

Mag wished she could tell old Hagatha to take a flying leap off a short broomstick, but it had been her idea to fashion a boat out of an old brass bed and four claw-footed bathtubs in the first place. She figured it would be a good play on their store, Balms and Bygones.

Instead, she climbed into the contraption, scowling when it rocked and wobbled as she settled in. What was the worst that could happen, anyway?

Nothing good ever came of asking that question, but she’d survived much worse in her years as a hunter of rogue magic; surely a flotilla race wasn’t going to kill her.

“All set?” Clara Balefire winked at her sister, tugged at the bottom of her life vest to settle it more firmly into place, and handed Mag a paddle.

Mag glared at her sister as she took it. “If I die, I’m going to kill you.”

Clara smirked, and with more grace than she normally showed, leapt from the dock to the foot of the bed. Springs creaked and Mag didn’t bother hiding a smirk when the bounce-back effect nearly tossed Hagatha into the river.

“Nobody’s going to die, but I might have you fitted for a crown if you’re going to be such a drama queen.” Clara tossed over her shoulder.

Shoving the awkward craft away from the dock took all of Clara’s concentration and a bit of assistance from Mag.

“We’re supposed to paddle across, float past the judges panel, then get ourselves into position at the starting line,” Clara said, focusing on moving in the right direction.

Big Spurwink river, fed by a convergence of smaller tributaries, was wide and deep where it flowed behind the downtown section of Harmony.

Once past the narrows just south of town, the banks spread in a gentle curve to create a slow-moving basin making that section the ideal spot to hold a flotilla.

The requirements for inclusion were simple: If it floated and had at least a three-person crew, it qualified. The tendency to stray toward the ridiculous was one of the things that made Harmony special, and the event drew tourists and residents alike.

Hunkered down on her side of the bed, Mag dipped her paddle into the space between the two bathtubs on her side and waited for Clara to settle into a similar, opposite position. At the head of the bed, Hagatha manned the tiller.

“Easy now,” Clara grinned at Mag, “and go.” It took half a minute for the motion to smooth out, and then the boat settled and they were off.

“This first bit is the tricky part.” Shoulders bunching, Clara paddled harder to help turn the craft upstream. “There’s just enough of a current to make it a chore, but after that, it’s a walk in the park. She’s going to float better than that raft of trash Penelope and her minions entered.”

For the past few years, Penelope Starr had been gunning for the position of High Priestess of the Moonstone Circle, a public organization instituted by Hagatha during the pre-suffrage era. Despite her best efforts, she’d only managed to take over the civic side of the organization.

The Circle’s counterpart, the male-run Brotherhood of Badgers, was established by one Evaniah Johnson shortly after the Moonstones came to prominence because he couldn’t stand the thought of a group of women having any true voice in town proceedings. Being a strong woman and an even stronger witch, Hagatha retaliated and cemented the dynamic between the two organizations.

The current leader, a man named Perry Weatherall, wasn’t a complete jerk, but he hadn’t done anything to reduce the friction, either. There was always a level of rivalry going on behind the scenes.

After hearing Hagatha’s firsthand account of the inception story, including the part where she’d hexed old Evaniah’s droopy doo-dahs off, Mag declared her solidarity to the cause.

This year, the Badgers went all-or-nothing with a canoe crafted from duct tape and paper, while the Moonstone Circle boasted two entries in the flotilla. Hagatha captained one with the Balefire sisters as crew. Penelope captained the other.

Mag raised a brow, her doubts fading when the other witches floated by on a disaster made from empty milk jugs and laundry soap containers tied together with cotton clothesline.

Penelope and her bikini-clad cronies perched on top of the recycled raft, each wearing a wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun from pinking her smirking face.

Mag felt the tingle of magic lifting the hairs on the back of her neck and pointed a finger at Hagatha, “Don’t do it. We’re going to win this thing, and we’re doing it without casting hexes at the competition.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Hagatha hmphed, but let the power subside. She did conjure a Viking hat, slapping it on her head as they made the final course corrections to pass in front of the tent where the judges waited.

Typically, the flotilla served as the morning appetizer for the main event, the Backcountry Paddle, a three-mile canoe race through the faster-moving waters between Dover and Harmony, but this year, things were different.

Kevin Cardiff placed second in this race ten years ago. As executive producer for the Trek Network, a low-budget Travel Channel imitator, he’d convinced his bosses to provide national coverage for the event. They were featuring Harmony, the flotilla, and the Backcountry Paddle on a special two-hour episode of Round-Trip Ticket, the network’s highest-rated show that covered unconventional events in out-of-the-way destinations.

Footage of the flotilla would provide color for the canoe race coverage. Past national winners, including Kevin, had been drafted to judge.

And so, when the bathtub-pontooned bed boat passed by the cameras that were recording the action, Hagatha, in all her wrinkled glory, rose to her feet between the pillows, placed a hand on the arched brass headboard, and gave America her best Napoleonic pose.

“Sit back down, you old coot,” Mag spoke from between clenched teeth, turned her face away from the judges, and contemplated diving overboard. “You’re rocking the boat and you’re supposed to be steering, not mugging for the cameras.”

It didn’t help her mood when the loudspeakers mounted on either side of the tent boomed out the commentary delivered by the co-hosts, a man’s man named Matt Chase and his perky, blond companion, Grace Abbott.

“Here comes number seven,” he said, mugging for the camera worse than Hagatha had. “Let’s hope no one rolls out on the wrong side of that bed.”

The joke wasn’t funny, but Grace laughed at her partner as if he’d said something witty. Clara had read that the co-hosting pair were romantically linked.

It was her turn to speak, and she gestured toward them Vanna White-style. “Lucky number seven is sponsored by the Moonstone Circle, and also by Balms and Bygones, Matt. And two of the lovely ladies manning her are the owners. Looks like they’ve taken the bed-and-bath concept to a new level, Matt.” Grace beamed, her tanned, glowing face lighting up the stage as Matt flashed her a besotted glance.

“The final entry of the day is made out of—I’m not sure what I’m seeing, Matt.”

“PVC tubing, styrofoam, and tractor seats is what it looks like to me,” her manly sidekick replied, squinting toward the next contraption. “Manned by Harmony’s own Mayor McCreery, along with Chief Cobb and Officer Nye of the local constabulary.”

Grace let loose a laugh that teetered on the precipice between genuine and rehearsed, “A formidable team, certainly. You’d know a little something about that, wouldn’t you Matt?”

The next few announcements blurred past as Clara and Mag paddled like crazy to get into their starting position. If Penelope got splashed by some errant water, it wasn’t on purpose. Much.

“Now,” Matt continued, “when the race starts, contestants will have to paddle hard to get momentum. Once they pass the buoy marker, it’s all about the steering. There’s just enough current to carry through to the finish.” He explained.

“Right you are, Matt. If they hit the marker with enough gusto, anyway. This is going to be fun to watch. And, here we go!”

At the crack of the starter pistol, Mag and Clara applied paddle to water with zeal. But no magic—that would have been cheating.

Mag was only eight years older than Clara, which is nothing in witch time. Usually. Mag had been a warrior and nearly died when an encounter with a rogue magical beast had gone horribly wrong. In an instant, the Raythe had stolen Mag’s youthful appearance and a fair share of her vitality as well.

As she knelt on the colorful quilt, wisps of age-whitened, fuzzy hair fluttered in the wet wind where long, dark tresses should have blown, and wrinkles lined a face that should have been like Clara’s, easing toward the lower end of middle age.

But Mag was stronger than she looked, and determined not to let Penelope Starr win. Penelope had tried to push her fanatical views on hiding magic from Harmony’s non-gifted mortals so insistently onto the coven that she spurred Hagatha into rebellion—and Mag understood why. For thousands of years, witches had managed to live among humans with only a few, albeit famous, slip-ups.

How Penelope had garnered such support behind their coven leader’s back was a mystery Mag intended to solve. She smelled a story that had nothing to do with Hagatha and everything to do with something Penelope didn’t want made public knowledge.

Coven politics aside, Penelope just rubbed Mag the wrong way, and she delighted in torturing her in any way possible, big or small.

“Go, go, go,” Mag urged needlessly and paddled for all she was worth.

“Whoops folks, we’ve got a sinker.” The male announcer’s voice came over the water, and Clara only had time for a quick glance to see which boat was out of the race.

It looked like the space-saucer brigade had capsized. Tied together by the handles, and wrapped in aluminum foil, the four saucer-shaped winter sleds weren’t deep enough to keep from taking on too much water. An air horn sounded to let everyone know the rescue team had been deployed, and Clara kept on paddling.

“Don’t worry, folks, everyone’s safe and sound,” Grace told the audience a few moments later, just as the final entry passed the buoy marker.

Tossing her paddle into the middle of the bed, Clara scrambled up to sit next to Hagatha. “It’s all down to handling the rudder. Need any help?” Discretion might be enough to keep her from spending the next week as a frog.

“Take over if you’ve a mind to, little Balefire.” The gleam in Hagatha’s eye boded ill. “I’d rather sit up front anyway.” The wizened old crone eased her way toward the footboard, leaving Clara to wonder if she should have left well enough alone.

Watching for subtle changes in the current that might push them along faster, Mag ignored Hagatha and kept an eye on the competition. “Jig left when I tell you,” she said.

With Perry Weatherall at the helm, the Badger’s canoe had shot ahead at the beginning of the race but was now a soggy mess and dead in the water. Hagatha chortled and flipped Perry the bird as the bed boat slid on past.

“You mean to port.” Unlike Mag who cared little for sailing, Clara lived for the feel of skimming over the water.

“Whatever,” Mag snapped. “Just do it. Now!”

Clara gave a little yank on the tiller, which angled the rudder—a toilet seat in its former life—turning the boat into the current. A gentle pull would have been better than the yank; a few gallons of river water poured over the edge of the port side tub.

“Jig right to even it out,” Hagatha barked, leaning over the brass footboard to reach for the tiller.

Clara sucked in a breath, visions of the old witch falling overboard dancing before her eyes. “No! I’ve got it,” she said, her heartbeat slowing a little when the old crone sat back down.

“We’re good,” Mag said. “I prepared a little something for emergencies.” She flopped on her belly, reached up under the edge of the bed, and pulled out a battered, long-handled saucepan and a roll of duct tape. She grabbed Clara’s discarded paddle and fastened the pan to the blade.

“I’ll bail. Hagatha, you navigate.”

“Let me.” Clara made to leave her post, but the look Mag flashed warned her off. She took both hands off the tiller to turn them up in a gesture of surrender. “Hurry up, though. We’re losing momentum.”

“Trouble ladies?” They’d been so busy looking to port, they didn’t notice Penelope and crew three lengths back on their starboard side.

“Why? Looking for some?” Clara retorted, an uncharacteristic bit of malice creeping into her tone.

“Hard right. Now!” Mag shouted over Clara’s loaded response, and Clara yanked the tiller. The bed heeled into Penelope’s path and picked up speed without taking on more water.

“That was just plain mean,” Mag commented, but Clara couldn’t hold back a little smile. A glance over her shoulder revealed a fuming Penelope and her befuddled crew.

“What? There was a branch in the water. Getting Penelope’s feathers ruffled was just a nice side benefit.”

A glance showed only one other contender for the win. McCreery, Cobb, and Nye looked like they were part of a three-man bobsled team. Tractor seats mounted on blocks of foam lined up one behind the other. The plastic tubing cut through the water with ease.

A full length behind, Clara steered the bed deeper into the middle of the river where the water ran the fastest and closed the gap by half, but she could tell the extra push wouldn’t be enough to take the trophy.

“This race is turning vicious,” Grace commented over the loud speaker, “And it’s not over yet.”

“It sure isn’t,” Matt replied, keeping his eyes trained on the remaining crafts, “One of them is going to win it by a hair.”

“Ease her around that little eddy,” Mag said, “and then keep the rudder straight. It’s our best shot.” As the girls navigated, Hagatha did the unexpected. Rising, she planted her feet, rested her thighs against the tall footboard, and leaned forward, still wearing her Viking hat, posed as if she were the figurehead of a ship.

A beautiful mermaid, Hagatha was not. Although her face did look like something dredged up from the bottom of the ocean.

“Where was she hiding that cape?” Clara asked, risking a glance at Mag. Deep blue velvet flowed off Hagatha’s frail body and she assumed she’d conjured that, too. But there wasn’t time to worry about it.

“We’re witnessing showmanship at its best, folks,” Matt announced with a smile on his handsome face, pointing to the old, fearless woman. “Now let’s see them bring it home.”

When the makeshift rig dumped out of the last of the rushing water and made for the finish line, McCreery and his crew looked to be only a few feet in the lead. The plastic pontoon boat hugged the water, skimmed across the surface where the bed-and-bathtub boat settled in deeper but had the benefit of weight giving it momentum.

“Watch out!” From her elevated height, Hagatha saw it first, a jagged stone just peeking above the surface and right in the path of her competitors. Clara caught sight of it, but could only cringe as events unfolded.

The plastic boat hit the rock, flipped up, and dumped out its passengers right as the Balefires and Hagatha eased across the finish line.

Air horns went off simultaneously, one signaling the end of the race, another alerting the rescue crew.

“Hagatha, take over here so I can paddle, please.” Clara dragged on the tiller to heel the boat around and point it toward the dock, then scrambled into position opposite her sister.

Momentum had carried them too far to get back to the capsized craft in time to help, so they paddled toward the dock while watching to make sure everyone else was okay.

“Quit worrying,” Hagatha said, waving a dismissive hand in the Mayor’s general direction.

“Crap always floats.” Whether she was referring to McCreery or Cobb was anyone’s guess.