The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  After several more minutes of quiet passes, Ashby rises, lays a sunflower, his mother’s favorite, on both his father’s and mother’s graves, then returns to the manor.

  He enters to find people milling about his home, Abigail flitting from person to person, her sadness exaggerated, her movements flighty. He shakes his head, making his way to the staircase. He just wants to go to his room, and put this day behind him. He’s almost there, when he’s stopped by one of the King’s servants.

  “My lord, the King bid me give you this missive.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. Please give my regards to the King,” replies Ashby, taking the rolled up piece of parchment.

  He’s curious about what’s written on it, but wants to wait until he’s alone to read it. He continues towards the stairs, only to find his way impeded by Abigail. She reaches out and snatches the parchment from his hand.

  “What do we have here?” she hisses in a low voice.

  She unrolls the parchment and reads the contents. Sneering, she tosses it back at Ashby, who barely has time to catch it, caught off-guard as he was.

  “You? A scribe in the royal court? Unheard of. What is the King thinking?”

  “You know very good and well my father was the royal scribe. I apprenticed at his side and am quite adept at the family business. If the King wishes me to take my father’s place, then I will do so. Now, excuse me,” retorts Ashby, his anger barely contained.

  He quickly moves around Abigail before she has a chance to stop him and storms up the stairs. Those closest to the pair, overhear their argument, feeling pity for Ashby, while others snicker at his discomfort.

  Abigail, seeing their eyes upon her, blushes a bright crimson, deciding to use Ashby’s outburst to further her station in the kingdom.

  “You must forgive his outburst. He’s just lost his father, you know,” she says, smiling sweetly. The people nod and return to their conversations as if nothing happened.

  THE NEXT DAY, THE LOCAL solicitor, Mr. Canton, comes round to the manor to read Danville’s will. The lawyer sits behind the desk in the study, papers spread out on its top. Abigail and her sons sit before him in seats of prominence, while Ashby is forced to stand behind them, even though it’s his house and his father’s room.

  The solicitor begins, “In the matter of the Last Will and Testament of Danville Scofield, I bequeath the following. To my wife, Abigail, I leave the sum of 100 pounds per month. This stipend should be sufficient for the needs of her and her sons, Wilmont and Ferrant. She may also remain in the manor house, until such a time as Ashby weds, then she must vacate so he and his wife can continue to make their home in the family manor.”

  “How dare he?” snaps Abigail, enraged. “Just what did he do with the rest of his money, and who does the house belong to?”

  “If you will let me continue, you’ll find out,” replies the solicitor calmly. He’s dealt with people like Abigail before, and he is no longer surprised by their greed and sense of entitlement.

  “As to the manor house and the rest of my money, it is to be placed in a trust for my son, Ashby. Mr. Canton will ensure the monthly bills are paid from it, then when Ashby marries, the money remaining in the trust and the manor house will revert to him. No one will have access to the trust, except for Mr. Canton. If he should pass before such a time as Ashby’s marriage, arrangements have been made for another solicitor to take over as trustee.”

  “Is that all?” asks Abigail in clipped tones. As soon as this buffoon leaves, she’s taking a copy of that will to another attorney and finding a way to break it.

  “No, there’s one more bequest,” answers Mr. Canton.

  “Well, get on with it. What is it?”

  Mr. Canton leans down and pulls something from his satchel. It’s long and wrapped in a black cloth. He unwraps it, while reading from the will.

  “Ashby, your father wanted you to have his sword.”

  Ashby steps forward and takes the sword, still in its sheath, from the solicitor.

  “Thank you, sir,” he replies, grateful to have something of his father in his possession.

  He picks up the black cloth and gently rewraps the sword. Once the solicitor leaves, he plans to hide it, so Abigail or her sons can’t find it. If they get their hands on it, they’ll sell it to get more money. He can’t let that happen.

  “Now,” says Mr. Canton rising, “I’ll leave you both copies of this will.” He hands one to Abigail and one to Ashby. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going. Ashby, if you should have need, you know how to reach me.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Let me show you out.”

  Ashby walks Mr. Canton to the door, the sword tucked safely under his arm. Once outside, he walks to the barn with Mr. Canton and helps him with his horse. Then, after the solicitor is gone, Ashby slips into the storage shed unnoticed, and pries up a loose floorboard. There, he places the sword for safekeeping, then returns the piece of flooring to its original position, nailing it into place. He then puts a small, unassuming mark on it, so when the time comes, he’ll know where to find it.

  THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS go by, and try as she might, Abigail cannot find a way to break Danville’s will. She soon realizes she hadn’t fooled the old man at all. He saw right through her and ensured she couldn’t get her hands on the house or any of his money, except for the small pittance she receives every month. That is nowhere near enough for her to live the life she’s always wanted. She must find a way to coerce the house and money out of Danville’s brat.

  Ashby, now a fine young man, spends his days working as a scribe in the royal court. When he comes home, Abigail, having fired the cook, maid, and gardener, forces Ashby into servitude. It’s her hope he’ll grow so tired of his enslavement, he’ll give her whatever she wants.

  However, the months pass, leaving Abigail no closer to getting what she wants. Ashby fulfills his scribe duties during the day, then returns home and cheerfully cleans and cooks without complaint. He’s happy to still have his home. If he has to keep it clean and cook the meals, he doesn’t mind, just as long as he can keep his stepmother and stepbrothers from stealing it from him and destroying his father’s legacy.

  This further infuriates Abigail. Realizing Ashby will never cooperate, she sets out to find another way to get what she wants. Under the guise of bringing lunch to her stepson, she visits the palace one day. While there, she catches a glimpse of Princess Avicia in the royal gardens, and a new plot pops into her mind.

  That’s it. That’s what I’ll do. The royal palace is a much more fitting residence for my sons and I, than that broken-down manor house where I currently reside. I must find a way to make a match between the Princess Avicia and Wilmont. But how to do so?

  She rushes from the palace, handing the lunch she packed for Ashby to one of the servants on her way out the door. The servant, new to the palace and unsure what to do with it, tosses it in the trash, going about his business without another thought to the strange woman rushing from the palace.

  Meanwhile, Ashby, unaware of Abigail’s visit, sits in the royal study, penning the latest proclamations and orders made by the King. He enjoys his work and is quite engrossed, ensuring each letter is annotated properly.

  He doesn’t notice Princess Avicia standing in the doorway, watching him intently. If he did, he’d see how her blonde hair glimmers in the sunlight, giving the impression of molten gold lying against her ivory skin, the sparkle in her blue eyes, and the brilliance of her smile.

  But the King sees her and realizes it’s time to find a mate for his only daughter. He looks at her, then at Ashby, deciding he would be a suitable match. He slips away unobserved and begins planning an elaborate ball, hoping his daughter and Ashby connect during the dance.

  ABIGAIL, RETURNING home, calls Wilmont to her.

  “Yes, mother? You wished to speak to me. Tell me, did you convince Ashby to give us the house and money? Please say you did.”

  “I did not. However, I think
it’s time to abandon our quest for this simple house and mere pittance of money Danville had,” she says.

  “I don’t understand,” whines Wilmont. “The whole reason we’ve stayed here was to rob that snotty brat blind. Now you say we aren’t going to?”

  “How would you feel about marrying Princess Avicia and living in the palace?”

  Wilmont’s eyes widen, as he contemplates his mother’s suggestion.

  “Ooo, that would be so much better. How do you propose to pull this off?” he asks, grinning.

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, try to find that damn sword Danville left to Ashby. Once we have it in our possession, we can sell it. We’re going to need the money, if we plan to pass ourselves off as well-to-do and worthy of marrying into the royal family.”

  “But we are connected to the royal family through marriage. Surely that will be enough to form a match with the Princess?” declares Wilmont.

  “We can’t count on that. We must appear to be more than we are to ensure our plan goes off without a hitch. Now find the sword.”

  “Yes, mother. I’ve searched Ashby’s room and his father’s old study many times, as well as the rest of the house. I have no clue where he put it.”

  “Well, search again, including the barn and storage shed,” she orders.

  Wilmont, sensing his mother’s growing anger, rushes from the room to do as she bids.

  Chapter Four

  A few days later, the King enters the study, handing a piece of parchment to Ashby.

  “I need you to scribe fifty royal invitations. This is the text that’s to be included. Oh, and you are invited as well,” he says.

  “I’d be honored to attend, my lord. What is it I’ll be attending?” asks Ashby, curious.

  “I grand ball to introduce my daughter to the young men of the kingdom. It is time she marries,” replies the King with a wink, leaving Ashby even more puzzled.

  “I’ll get these scribed right away, my lord.”

  “Excellent. When they’re ready, give them to Simon. He’s already been informed of their creation and will deliver them when they are completed. Along with the inside of the invitation are the addresses of the recipients. There is one for you. However, I know when it’s delivered, your stepmother and stepbrothers will assume it’s for them. I can’t stop them from showing up, as it’s addressed to all individuals residing at the address, but know it’s specifically for you.”

  “I understand. Is there anything else, my King?” asks Ashby, eager to get started on his new task.

  AFTER A LONG DAY OF penning the invitations to the ball, Ashby arrives home to see a flurry of activity. Ferrant runs up to him, his face flushed with excitement, and thrusts his worn sword into Ashby’s hands.

  “Sharpen and polish this. I want to be able to see my reflection in the blade. Then when you’re done, my boots needed polished and shined as well. I want to look my best for the ball. I’m going to win the Princess’ hand,” he declares.

  Ashby sighs. He should have known this would happen. How’s he supposed to get himself ready, if he’s busy doing everything his stepbrothers should do for themselves? Still, he doesn’t say a word, just turns and heads for the kitchen to prepare the evening repast, while working on Ferrant’s sword.

  While he’s cooking and polishing, Wilmont comes into the kitchen and tosses his blade and boots on the table, dried mud flying everywhere. Luckily, Ashby was between the table and the food cooking over the fire, or he would have had to start dinner over.

  “Let me guess,” says Ashby. “You need me to polish and sharpen your blade, then polish and shine your boots, so you can look your best and win the hand of the Princess at the ball.”

  “Why, yes. How did you know? Surely Mother didn’t tell you about the invitation?”

  “No, she didn’t. I’m the royal scribe, remember. Not to mention, the King invited me personally.”

  “You? He invited you? I think not, and you’re not going! Now get these things ready for me, and they better be perfect,” yells Wilmont, his face flushed with anger.

  He rushes from the kitchen in search of his mother. Finding her in the parlor, he rushes in, stopping in front of her, his teeth clenched, and his eyes flashing with rage.

  “Ashby just informed me the King invited him to the ball. That invitation was meant for him, not us. Please tell me we’re still going, and that you will make the match between me and the Princess. The sooner we’re away from that, that, ogre, the better!”

  “Don’t fret so,” coos Abigail. “You are clearly the better man, most suited to marry a Princess. All we have to do is ensure Ashby is so busy, he doesn’t have time to prepare for himself.”

  “But his boots are always shined and his clothes in pristine condition. They have to be. He works in the palace,” whines Wilmont.

  “Yes, but he only has one outfit suitable for a ball. That pale yellow monstrosity hangs in his wardrobe. We just have to ensure something happens to the outfit. Which reminds me, the invitation spoke of a sword. Have you found his father’s blade, yet?”

  “I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “When’s the last time you remember seeing it?” asks Lady Abigail.

  “In the forest, when Danville took us hunting and was killed,” answers Wilmont, smiling at the memory of the spell he cast. “No, wait. Remember? The last time any of us saw it was when Mr. Canton gave it to Ashby at the reading of the old man’s will. He has definitely hidden it from us, but where?”

  “That sword must be found. Search the outer buildings again. Now that I think about it, Ashby had it with him when he escorted Mr. Canton to the stables. It must be in there somewhere. While you do that, I’ll ensure remains in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and I’ll slip up to his room and destroy his dress clothes,” orders Abigail, an evil smile on her face.

  True to form, over the next few days, when Ashby wasn’t at the palace attending to his scribing duties, Abigail and her sons run him ragged, giving him task after task. By the time the day is over and he retires to his room, he’s so tired, he has no energy to even consider preparing his own outfit for the ball. He drops into bed, slipping into a dreamless sleep, only to start all over again the next day.

  The following morning, he rises early, washes, and dresses, ready to face the day. As he has a few minutes before he must prepare breakfast and take trays to each of their rooms, he opens the door of his wardrobe, and reaches in to grab his formal attire.

  When he pulls it out, he sees it’s in shreds, as if someone took a blade to it and deliberately destroyed it. He wads it up and tosses it into the corner with a sigh.

  “I should have known they’d do something like this. There’s no time now to acquire another. Looks like I won’t be going to this ball.”

  Dejected, he heads downstairs to prepare the morning repast, his disappointment weighing on him greatly.

  THE DAY OF THE BALL dawns. Abigail and her sons continually issue order after order to Ashby. He continually polishes and re-polishes both pairs of boots for Wilmont and Ferrant, until finally, there’s no time left, and the trio must leave for the ball.

  As Abigail lifts her dress and steps up into the rented carriage, she calls over her shoulder, “I want every single fireplace cleaned out. Not a single bit of ash or soot left behind, or they’ll be hell to pay. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Abigail. I understand.”

  “Good, now get on it. I want it done before we return from the ball. And know this, I will check every single one to see that you’ve done your work properly.”

  “Yes, Abigail,” answers Ashby, sighing inwardly, hoping his frustration doesn’t show on his face.

  Apparently it doesn’t, for Abigail steps inside and the footman closes the door, while Wilmont and Ferrant sit astride Ashby’s and his father’s stallions, the saddles gleaming from Ashby’s hard work. Ashby watches, his anger hidden deep, as the carriage driver flicks the reins, an
d they pull away, the stepbrothers following along behind, both grinning broadly at Ashby. It’s the last thing he sees before turning and heading inside.

  Chapter Five

  He kneels down before the fireplace in the kitchen and begins sweeping up the ashes. He’s fastidious, ensuring every small bit of ash is cleaned up. Then, he grabs a bucket of soapy water, and washes down the brick, making sure there’s not a single bit of soot left behind.

  Finished with the one in the kitchen, he makes his way to the parlor, his face, hands, and forearms black from the soot and ash. At his side, his faithful dog, Sam. It’s the only time Sam is allowed in the house anymore. Abigail hates pets of all kinds. Since his father’s death, Sam has had to sleep in the barn.

  Kneeling before the second fireplace, Ashby pauses in his task to stroke Sam’s head.

  “There must be some way to rid myself of Abigail and her sons. They don’t care about me. They just want this house and father’s money. I don’t really care about the money, but it doesn’t seem right to turn everything my father worked so hard for over to someone who’ll just blow through it in a matter of months, if not weeks. I think Father knew that, and that’s why he set up his will the way he did. So, how do I get Abigail and her sons to move on, while leaving Father’s legacy intact?”

  He continues to stroke Sam’s head, while pondering his situation.

  “Oh well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. Back to work, so Abigail doesn’t scream when they return.”

  Grabbing the small broom and dustpan, Ashby begins sweeping up the ashes in the parlor fireplace. He’s so intent on his work, he doesn’t realize he’s no longer alone. But Sam does. He jumps up, his nails clattering on the tile, as his four paws hit the marble floor. He begins barking furiously, his gaze focused on the darkest corner of the room.