by Sarina Dorie
“Do you believe in unicorns?” I asked.
“Do you?”
“My mommy says there are no such things as unicorns. My daddy says I can believe in anything I want. I want to see a unicorn.”
He crouched down between the shelves, his face level with mine now. His eyes were the color of the stormy sky outside. His shoulder-length hair was wavy and beautiful, like dark water. Everything he wore was dark blues and grays: his long coat, his pants, and the neckerchief tucked under his collar. A little line crinkled between his eyebrows. He didn’t look sad, but I could feel it weighing down his frame, tugging at his heart. A black cloud was stitched to his soul. I wondered if he realized it.
“Unicorns don’t look like those pictures with rainbow manes and tails.” He nodded to the book.
“Yes, they do!”
He went on. “The feral ones are brown and gray, dappled like wild horses, and their horns are sharp.”
I balled up my fists at my sides. “You’re a liar. Unicorns have rainbow tails. They aren’t gray.”
He lifted the black hem of his pants and showed me a white line on his ankle. “A unicorn gave me this scar when I was seven because I tried to pet one. Unicorns aren’t nice. They like the taste of blood.” He said it with certainty.
I looked to the illustration of the sparkly unicorn and shivered. Maybe the unicorn scar was the reason his soul was so dark and sad. I felt bad for the man. I wanted to make him better.
I slid out of the beanbag chair and returned the book to the shelf. I picked out a happier book. “I can read to you about fairies.”
“Do you think fairies are any nicer? You should be afraid of Fae. They steal human children and drink the blood of witches. Hasn’t your mother properly educated you on this matter?”
I wasn’t exactly sure why I thought so, but this adult was more like me than the other children were. He was like my mom, the air around him humming with the scent of herbs and perfumed with notes of music. My senses got all confused when I tried to focus on any one sound or smell.
I hugged my arms around myself. “Do you want to come inside the book nook? It’s safe inside here.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He stood abruptly. “As you said, Mrs. Phelps wouldn’t want anyone writing in there.”
“I won’t tell.” I crossed my heart to show him I meant it.
He said nothing.
He was so alone outside the book nook. And I was so alone inside of it. I didn’t want him to ache inside. I rushed forward and hugged him around his knees, trying to infuse love and healing inside him. Electricity prickled under my skin.
“No hugging,” he said, prying my hands off him. “You need to learn to control yourself. Suppress those feelings inside you.”
“Why?”
He pushed me back into the book nook. “You might harm someone.”
“Hugging? Does hugging hurt you? It makes me feel better when my mommy hugs me,” I said. I could feel a million tiny wounds, raw and painful all over his body. Scars perhaps. I thought back to the unicorns, but this wasn’t the same as the scar on his ankle. These were deeper. They sank below his skin.
He went back to writing in his book. I stood on the other side of the bookshelf feeling lost and uncertain.
“Why are you over here instead of playing with other children?” he asked.
I made a face. “They’re loud and bossy.” That wasn’t the only reason, but it was hard to explain the other reasons. “I don’t like the things they like. I just don’t… .” I struggled for words.
“Fit in?” he finished.
Mrs. Phelps’ friendly smile was fixed in place as she came up from behind him. “This is your third observation, sir. You’ve taken such an interest in our little Clarissa.”
The man tugged at the bottom of his blue vest, lifting his chin and looking down at her in a superior sort of way. “This one was marked as being a potential concern for autism.”
Mrs. Phelps wrinkled eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t have autism, and we both know it.”
“Indeed. Most of the children I’m sent to observe have been mislabeled. This one should be placed in a Talented and Gifted program.” He closed his book and shoved it under his coat. Even though it was far too big to fit, it somehow did. I didn’t see his quill anymore, only a stick of twisted black wood he slid into a pocket.
I’d heard the words autism and disabilities, but I didn’t understand all of what they were talking about.
He strode toward the door with long confident strides.
“I know who you are,” Mrs. Phelps called after him. “Professor Thatch.”
His footsteps faltered, but he didn’t look back.
She scurried after him. Out in the hallway, I heard her whisper. “I was a student at Womby’s School for Wayward Witches forty-two years ago. You taught me wards and self-defense.”
I crept out from behind the bookcases, wanting to hear what they were talking about. Miss Diane sat next to a crying boy, trying to wipe his nose. I snuck closer to the door. Mrs. Phelps had to be joking. She had gray hair and wrinkles. She was the teacher. This man couldn’t have been her teacher. Even so, she had piqued my curiosity.
“Did you pass my class?” he asked.
I spied on them from the doorway.
Mrs. Phelps’ voice was a whisper. “Magic isn’t easy.”
I wasn’t certain I’d heard her correctly.
“Hence the reason you’re here living amongst Morties instead of in the Unseen Realm.” He looked her up and down. “Who made the wards around this child?” His gaze flickered past her to me. He scowled.
I ducked back inside. The door slammed closed immediately after, separating me from them. I tried the knob, but it was locked.
Good children didn’t eavesdrop, but I wanted to know what they were saying. I sat down at my desk and took out the markers. Sometimes unexpected things happened when I used them. I suspected it was because they were called magic markers. I drew a picture of the man with a blue pen. I used pink to draw Mrs. Phelps’ dress and captured the essence of her hair with gray spirals. Another child wandered by and said something to me, but I ignored him. I concentrated on the ear I drew in the corner. My ear.
My hand slid over the paper, the pen making Mrs. Phelps’ mouth move. Her high, sweet voice sounded sharp, confused. “What wards?”
“They’re subtle. Expertly made. Obviously not your doing.” I could hear the sneer in his voice. “Tell me, did they drain your powers after you left our school?”
“I didn’t have much magic to begin with.”
“Do you have enough skills left to recognize subtle energies? Have you seen any manifestations of magic in this child? Necromancy? Blood magic? Pain enchantments? Other forbidden arts?” The circle of his mouth opened and closed as the drawing spoke. I couldn’t tell if what I was hearing was my imagination or what they were really saying.
“At this age?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “That would be unheard of. Only the child of a great and powerful witch might show that kind of magic this early. Her mother possesses little bit of garden magic and some kitchen witchery. Her father is a Morty. I’m surprised they could even conceive a child, let alone protect her with wards.”
I didn’t understand many of the words they were saying. There was only one word I understood and it was enough: magic. He wanted to know if I could do magic. I’d read Matilda. Maybe I was like her, only with nicer parents.
The man grunted. “Has she given any indication she knows what she is?”
“Her sister, she knew what she was when I had her. She’s the one you should be observing. When she was five, she animated water from the drinking fountain and made it chase after a group of sixth grade girls. I had to hush the whole thing up so the Morties wouldn’t suspect her. That girl is an obvious water fury, if I ever saw one. She’d be a candidate for Womby’s if only her mother would—”
“What do you mean? Isn’t that why you’re here? Recruitment for the school?”
“Tell me more about this one.”
“Why do you want to know about her? She’s far too young to be of interest. She’s nothing special.”
I clenched my fists at my sides. Mrs. Phelps had told me I was advanced. I could read and do math the other children couldn’t do. Didn’t that make me special?
“The fewer questions you ask, the better.” His footsteps echoed away. “I’ll return in a few months for another observation.”
“I might have flunked out of your school, but that doesn’t make me stupid.” Her voice rose. “If you’re not here for recruitment, there’s only one other reason you could be here. The rumors are true. Loraline had a daughter. This sweet child came from the evilest witch in hist—”
“Don’t say that name,” he hissed. “Someone might hear.”
Loraline. That was a name? When I heard that word I saw long spindly branches and cold winter nights. It gave me the shivers. Loraline wasn’t my mom’s name. Her name was Abby. Obviously they didn’t know what they were talking about.
He whispered, “You don’t understand the risk if someone finds out. The Fae would torture you if they thought you knew anything about Loraline having a child.”
“Forgive me, professor. I heard how she—is it true?” She coughed. “She tortured you? How could the headmaster assign you to investigate her daughter? After all that witch did to you.”
“I have classes in a half hour. I should be on my way soon. You know how to contact me if there are … manifestations.”
“The headmaster doesn’t know about this girl? Does he?”
“Were you this trying forty years ago as a student? No, don’t answer that. I already know the answer.”
I could barely follow this conversation with all the strange words. When the man spoke fast I couldn’t understand his accent. Sometimes he reminded me of the character from the Doctor Who program my dad watched. This man should have worn a cheery bow tie.
“The headmaster doesn’t know,” she repeated.
“No, and it will stay that way,” he said. “It’s safer for Witchkin and Morties alike if the Fae think her bloodline has died out. It’s safer for you. You will never repeat this conversation. Do you understand?”
“I give you my word,” Mrs. Phelps said.
“That isn’t good enough. You know what I need to do.” The man in my drawing held up his stick.
“Yes, sir.”
Pink and yellow magic marker flooded over the drawing, dripping out of the pens and covering the people. The colors grew brighter. The air smelled like burnt hair and autumn leaves. Snowflakes danced before my eyes and then faded. Mrs. Phelps came back into the classroom a moment later.
She looked at me and blinked. I crumpled up my drawing, afraid she would know what I had done. I didn’t want to get in trouble for eavesdropping. Mrs. Phelps smiled at me, her eyes dull. “There you are, Clarissa. Aren’t you a special girl?”
If you enjoyed this Cozy Witch Mystery in the Womby’s School for Wayward Witches Series please leave a review on the online retailer where you purchased this collection. You might also enjoy free short stories published by the author on her website: http://sarinadorie.com/writing/short-stories.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarina Dorie has sold over 150 short stories to markets like Analog, Daily Science Fiction, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Orson Scott Card’s IGMS, Cosmos, and Abyss and Apex. Her stories and published novels have won humor and Romance Writer of America awards. She has sold three novels to publishers. Her steampunk romance series, The Memory Thief and her collections, Fairies, Robots and Unicorns—Oh My! and Ghosts, Werewolves and Zombies—Oh My! are available on Amazon, along with a dozen other novels she has written.
A few of her favorite things include: gluten-free brownies (not necessarily glutton-free), Star Trek, steampunk aesthetics, fairies, Severus Snape, Captain Jack Sparrow and Mr. Darcy.
By day, Sarina is a public school art teacher, artist, belly dance performer and instructor, copy editor, fashion designer, event organizer and probably a few other things. By night, she writes. As you might imagine, this leaves little time for sleep.
