A Spoonful of Magic

by Irene Radford

  Jason shrugged, just like his father, threw his bags and boxes into the back of the van, then immediately claimed the shotgun seat. Belle huffed at her demotion to the backseat.

  “Can you drop me at the studio, Mom. I need some practice time,” Jason said.

  “It’s Sunday afternoon. No one will be there.”

  “That’s okay, I know how to jimmy the lock. Shara showed me.”

  “What is so crucial about dancing now? You have stuff to do at home.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s just that I’ve been walking on those awful tile floors all day. I need to feel wood beneath my toes.”

  I had to stop and breathe, holding the key halfway to the ignition.

  “Wood,” I whispered. The rain on the van’s roof muffled my voice. Tiffany’s words about Jason’s power jumps and leaps. Wood. Wooden floors to give him power.

  Jason’s wand wasn’t a stick or something he could hold. His source of power was a wooden floor. Probably any wooden floor. I wondered just how high he could jump and how far he could leap, as long as he had a wooden floor to propel him.

  “Compromise,” I said, jamming the key into the ignition and setting the wipers to high. “The attic has a wooden floor. It’s also full of junk and dust and cobwebs. Clean it up, and you can set it up as your own private studio.” Where I could monitor his progress with those power jumps and talk him down if he found himself stuck on the ceiling.

  I wasn’t very anxious to see what kind of wand Shara had found at the antique mall. Maybe the rain would change her mind.

  Not likely. Nothing ever made that child change her mind.

  Jason threw his bags and bundles on his bed, not caring that half of them fell to the floor. His athletic shoes bounced against the closet door while his ballet slippers flew neatly to his hand from their place of honor on top of the bookshelf. One deep breath of relief and he was halfway up the enclosed attic stairs. Who cared if the door at the end of the upstairs hallway slammed closed?

  His feet were free, and he was headed toward a solid wood floor. The hard work of clearing the attic meant nothing. He’d get that done in a couple of weekends. Then he’d have his own studio. All his own. And he could lock the door to the stairs to keep his sisters out.

  That thought sent him spinning on one foot at the landing and moving in the new direction the stairs led.

  His gaze went first to the ceiling. A good twelve feet at the center, sloping down to about four feet at the outside walls. The room covered the same area as the central portion of the downstairs: living room, dining room, and kitchen. The original part of the house that dated to long before the addition of the den, downstairs bath, and sun porch/office along with the turrets. Mom’s bedroom and bath rested atop the addition. His and his sisters’ bedrooms and their shared bath were original.

  As soon as he stepped off the last stair, his feet automatically raised him onto the balls of his feet. He stretched up and down several times, letting his toes get used to the idea that this floor belonged to them. He had to let them get used to the uniqueness of the boards. Every floor was different. But this was his!

  His nose tickled. He scrunched his face to suppress a sneeze. He had no time to indulge in such mundane itchiness. He had a floor to explore.

  Then he did sneeze. Not just a little release of an irritation. This was a full-blown explosion of dust and old perfume lingering on vintage clothing in the trunks. His eyes watered, and his head ached.

  Damn. He added a few other words he wasn’t supposed to know, but everyone in school said them when adults weren’t around.

  A quick look at the actual space, not just the height of the ceiling above the exposed rafters, told him exactly what he had to deal with. Boxes. Dozens of cardboard boxes, old trunks, heavy antique furniture, and oddments scattered haphazardly all over. Old sleds, bedding, dolls, clothes. Anything and everything his family had discarded over the last century. Or more.

  And all of it covered with dust.

  His nose itched again and his eyes watered. Pressure pounded from his sinuses to his temples.

  Shit.

  No time to deal with it. He had to bring order to the mess. Maybe Belle could help him find the most logical organization of the discards. Little sisters had to be good for something.

  “He’s almost fifteen. He needs to be a slob for a while,” I repeated to myself over and over. “He’s fourteen. Almost fifteen. Shouldn’t he have outgrown this phase by now?”

  I vowed once again that I would not hang up Jason’s new clothes, put away the new underwear, or stow the shoeboxes in the closet for him. The packages lay strewn from one end of his room to the next. A part of me craved that the children would keep their space as neat as I demanded of my own kitchen. The mother part of me knew that they needed to learn to pick up after themselves. I would not restore order to Jason’s room. Where was he anyway?

  A thump and the sound of heavy things being dragged across the wooden floor of the attic answered that question. The promise of his own dancing area was much more important in his mind than any other aspect of normal living.

  “Jason! That will wait.” I marched upward.

  “But, Mom. You promised.” His dark head appeared at the top of the stairs overlooking the landing on the staircase. Of course, he’d slammed the door hard enough that it bounced back open, not latching. That left the access to the attic wide open, allowing the hot air stored up there all summer to flow down into the living area.

  “Now. You have chores, starting with picking up your room and making your bed. And don’t stuff your new clothes under the bed because you are too lazy to find hangers for everything.”

  Bang, clatter, slam. His noise now drowned out the sound of the diminishing rain. “Can we have a garage sale and get rid of some of the crap up there?” he asked as he stomped into his room and clung to the door in preparation for slamming it in my face as soon as I answered his question. “I could use the money to buy a mirror and compact speakers for the music on my phone.”

  “Ask your father,” I replied. “Most everything up there is from generations of his family. I have no idea what is valuable, or just sentimentally important.” Since I’d moved in with G when I started my senior year at the University of Oregon and married him the same week I’d graduated, I hadn’t much to bring with me in the way of stuff. Just clothing, books, and a few mementos that had worked themselves into the household décor rather than gone into the attic storage. I think there was one box of college pennants and movie posters in my walk-in closet (originally it had been a large nursery or spare bedroom attached to the master bedroom. We’d made a nice master bath out of part of the space).

  Slam.

  Teenagers!

  I now knew that a wand was important to each of my children, and they needed to learn to use them properly. But they also needed to learn how to be ordinary people. That was my job.

  That was why G had married me in the first place.

  Belle, at least, had inherited my craving for neatness and order. Her room was set out like a mathematical equation or a chessboard. She hummed an old movie tune while she reorganized her closet, neatly folding the things she’d outgrown and would either pass down to Shara or donate to charity.

  Alakazam. Magic Slam! Followed by a dozen half nonsense words that sort of made sense in context of the movie the music came from. I could see her bouncing from foot to foot and hopping back and forth from her stack of clothes on the bed to the closet.

  The first time Jason and I had watched the movie when he was about three and I was heavily pregnant with Belle, I’d found “Alakazam, Magic Slam” cute and endearing. I think I was an emotional mess with pregnancy hormones.

  A thousand times later as each of the children watched the DVD over and over and over again, it lost a lot of its charm. I now found it more irritating than fun. Of cours
e, it stuck in their brains as the ultimate song of magic.

  Maybe if I made them eat the DVD . . .

  G needed to broaden their musical education before they drove me crazy. Crazier?

  I shook my head, trying to clear it of Belle’s song. A few steps down the hall I peeked into Shara’s room.

  Shara? Was in transition. I decided to wait until she got home and see how she treated her purchases before helping or leaving her alone.

  Nine

  G STUFFED HIS HANDS in his pockets to keep his itching fingers from touching everything in the antique mall. He knew this place. It had been here for at least twenty-five years, maybe longer, under different names and owners, but always specializing in oddities, collectibles, and a few genuine antiques.

  He took a deep breath, savoring the familiar scent of dust and old bricks that reminded him of his grandparents, his foster brother, home, and safety. Childhood memories. Adult memories tended to cloud his emotional attachment to the place.

  Nothing specific called to him today. He sensed magic wands that had been here. He bought most of them for study and evidence of how they came to be separated from their owners. Most were ordinary household items, favored by minor practitioners. Most of those practitioners did not have enough talent to register with the Guild.

  Sort of like Daffy with her wondrous baking and gift for herbal remedies. He’d have sworn when he first met her that she had a talent just waiting to burst forth. Separating her from the soul-shriveling control of her parents should have allowed her to manifest. But in fourteen years of exposure to him, she’d done nothing more interesting than bake and cook exquisitely and know instinctively what herbs worked best in combination for whatever she needed at the moment. Not enough for her to register with the Guild. Or to need a wand.

  And, frankly, that satisfied him nicely. He’d grown to love Daffy the way she was, not what she could be. The thought of his first wife’s power and the insanity that followed scared him to his bones, shaking every bit of ethics and morality his Nana had pounded into him. She and G-Pop had died too young, from wounds inflicted upon them by his insane wife. His parents had died in South Africa, trying to rescue a tribal shaman from murderous state police when he was an adolescent. In a way, he was thankful they didn’t have to experience D’Accore’s depravity.

  But then, his dad had been savvy enough; he might have recognized the signs of an untrained talent eating away at her brain. She was a siren and had trapped him. She was also a fire wizard. Her wand was a Zippo lighter.

  Over a lifetime of use, wands absorbed quite a bit of power that had to be grounded and needed to be destroyed to keep them out of the hands of rogues. Unfortunately, mundane families didn’t know that and took a deceased magician’s belongings to antique malls or sold them at garage sales.

  Something special called to Shara. Was it someone else’s discarded wand, or something unique to her and her budding talents? She’d spent approximately ten seconds sniffing right and left, then ran two aisles to the left and down all the way to the back wall of displays. She knew what she wanted and where to find it.

  G followed her at a more relaxed pace, knowing that the farther into the mall they traveled, the cheaper the rent and therefore the price of the goods. He removed his hands from his pockets and flexed his fingers, letting the nerve endings on each digit sense anything untoward. He’d been trained for this when he was recruited as a deputy. When the Guild elevated him to Sheriff, he’d undergone a long and grueling process to enhance every nuance of his multiple talents. Except for the judges on the Board, he was now one of the most powerful wizards on the planet.

  And his youngest daughter was manifesting her talents long before she should. Girls often matured at ten, but her older sister had waited until she was twelve. He’d have to keep his eyes open to guide both of them, and teach them control. Especially Belle’s siren enchantment.

  But he also needed to keep some distance from the family before his greatest enemy discovered their presence. Only the knowledge that distance between him and his family would save them kept him from fighting to regain his place in their home.

  He found Shara rummaging around in a bowl of oddments; sleeves of hairpins, compacts missing powder and puff, mechanical pencils, and bunches of old keys. Twenty or more of them bundled together with a disintegrating twist tie. She held each one of the keys up to the light, examining them closely, sniffing them, and running her fingers along them.

  Then, halfway through the bunch, she paused and went back to the previous key. It looked dull and lifeless to him. She pulled it free of the bunch easily, without damaging or opening the twist tie and laid it flat on her small palm. She’d have long and nimble fingers one day, but for now they were still a bit pudgy and unformed with childhood vagueness. Still growing into herself.

  “This one, Dad. This is the one that has been singing to me in my dreams for weeks now.”

  G’s knees felt watery and unstable. He wanted to scream You’re too young for this! He’d been fourteen when he found his hand-turned wooden fountain pen in this very booth. He suspected that Belle’s hair sticks also came from here.

  “And look, Dad, the sign says everything in the booth is seventy-five percent off. That means I can afford it. I have two dollars in change left in my purse. I only need a dollar and a quarter. Isn’t that great! It’s almost like I was meant to have this key. This one and no other.”

  “May I see it?” he asked, trying to hide his hesitancy.

  “O-oo-kay.” She handed it over reluctantly.

  He’d only be able to touch the thing with bare hands for a little while. Soon it would link to her and her only. Anyone else, even a master wizard, would feel a shock or a burn when touching another’s wand. A really powerful magician’s wand would repel the touch of another like a force field.

  G examined it much as Shara had, holding it up to the light. Her little fingers had already burnished off bits of the tarnish. She’d found silver. He looked for the sterling stamp. Not much of it left, but as he narrowed his focus and touched his pen with his free hand, the tiny, stylized S jumped out at him. He handed it back just as his skin began to warm and tingle with warning. The key wanted Shara.

  “I think you found the right wand, Little Bit.”

  “No. It found me.” She danced back toward the cashier at the front.

  They’d been inside for all of five minutes.

  Out back, a car door slammed, followed by little feet pounding on the paving stones between the detached garage and the back porch. G and Shara must be home.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom!” Shara called as she ran through the mudroom into the kitchen and stood at the base of the back stairs. “Look what I found!”

  She nearly glowed with happiness as I descended toward her. “What did you find that Daddy bought for you?” I asked, warily looking toward G as he emerged from the mudroom.

  “Show her, Shara. I had little to do with this other than driving her to and from. She found what she needed inside five minutes and paid for it with her allowance. It was marked down to what she could afford,” he replied, bestowing a fond smile on our girl.

  “Look, Mom. A key. A real skeleton key. You know—the kind they show in old movies for opening dungeon doors.” She held out her hand, palm up. Across it lay a metal key about three inches long. It shone as if just polished inexpertly, bits of tarnish clinging to indents and crevices.

  “Um . . . is that silver?” I asked. Iron, the usual material used for keys, had ancient legends that said it was anathema to witches and negated magic.

  “Probably,” G admitted. “More ornament or jewelry than utilitarian. But she zeroed in on it like a bee to a rose.”

  “Fitting,” I muttered. Each of the children seemed to have adopted something aligned with their interests and personalities for their wands.

  “Shara, please go put away y
our new clothes and wash up for dinner. We’re having leftovers in an hour.”

  She scampered up the stairs, eyes glued to her new purchase.

  “G, before you go, we need to talk. About Jason.”

  His head reared up from his study of his car keys. He’d been stalling, as if waiting for an invitation to stay for dinner again.

  I couldn’t let that become a habit. The divorce was almost final. I needed space and time alone, without a man making decisions for me or acting as a safety net if I made a mistake.

  I’d never had to survive on my own before. The time had come that I needed to find out if I could.

  “What’s up with Jason?” he asked.

  I led him into the dining room, away from the open sound channel provided by the kitchen stairs. “He found his wand.”

  “Oh?” He cocked one eyebrow in curiosity.

  “Any wooden floor, like in the dance studio or a stage, or even here. His feet hurt after walking the linoleum floors of the mall. They hurt every day when he came home from school last year. But the hurt goes away the minute he kicks off his shoes and steps on a wooden floor.” I looked at the old hardwood beneath the Oriental carpet beneath the dining table.

  A loud bump and drag punctuated my words.

  “I guessed something of the sort. Is he practicing leaps in the upstairs hallway? Only an eight-foot ceiling there,” G said. He looked like he was trying for amusement but was really appalled.

  “No, he’s rearranging the attic to turn it into his own studio. He wants to host a garage sale to get rid of a bunch of stuff and use the money for a mirror, barre, and sound system.” I pulled out one of the straight-backed chairs and flopped into it, suddenly aching with exhaustion.

  “Jason, stop what you are doing,” G yelled as he raced through the living room and up the front stairs. “You might damage something valuable.”