Ambrosius relaxed, reassured his magical defences operated within what he assumed was Kenneth’s domain. He smiled, picked up one of the custard creams, and rubbed it between the fingers and thumb of one hand, as if he were a spoon bender with a piece of cutlery. It Transformed into a chocolate Bourbon.
Audrey lost it. She threw the contents of the sugar bowl at him, one cube at a time, then the bowl, her mug, teaspoon, a cup and saucer. She threw the biscuits, one after the other. No one tried to stop her. She Apported an antique silver pepper pot from who knew where and hurled it at his head.
Ambrosius caught or blocked them, and, making a show of power, Doubled himself. Audrey materialised more objects to throw, faster and faster, eyes flashing like thunderclouds. A potato, a can opener, a wooden spoon, a sealed deck of cards, a bar of soap, a plush penguin, a small statue of an elephant, a milk pan, a stick of butter, the contents of a box of paper clips, a bicycle bell, a small pot of petroleum jelly, a stick of celery, a fish head, a roll of sticky tape, three live mice, and a surprised frog. A cut-glass fruit bowl containing thirteen grapes, three strawberries, and a lemon.
Two sets of hands could catch more, but were much harder to control. As the fruit escaped from the bowl, forming a cascade of berries and citrus, the doppelgänger faltered. The bowl bounced from its fingers, landing a glancing blow on Ambrosius’s brow on its way to the floor.
Audrey chucked a desultory ball of crumpled plane, then returned to folding, muttering angrily to herself. Ambrosius, livid, jerked to his feet, preparing to retaliate, but Kenneth held up one hand, indicating he should wait.
“Really,” Audrey said. “Does anyone know how to do the plane with the hoops? It’s by far the best design. Someone has to know how to do it.”
“She’s damaged.” Kenneth pointed to his own head, painting his face mournful. “There was an incident. Do you remember the Salamander? She took him on all by herself. I should have been there, and I wasn’t.”
“The Salamander?” Ambrosius eyed Audrey with the kind of expression one might find on a wildlife presenter who has just been told the harmless ground snake he was poking is really a coral snake. “The Thaumaturge who ended him turned a Birmingham multistorey car park into a volcano.”
“She’s had treatment,” Kenneth said. “She was doing her best in a difficult situation. I’m very fond of her and feel somewhat responsible, but she can be a handful on her bad days. I’m sure you understand. If we could show her the making of this paper plane, perhaps she would settle down.”
Ambrosius sat, rubbing the bruise on his head, lips pressed together in a thin, tight smile. “Of course.” Three sheets of paper slid across the table. The roll of sticky tape levitated from the floor and settled beside them. He began folding. “It is sad when someone without the necessary mental acuity explores the further limits of her—or his—talent and ends up hurt.” The ‘or his’ was added as an afterthought, as if it were implausible. “People need to learn to identify their own limitations. If her brain doesn’t work the right way for complex layers of focus and intent, or her psychology isn’t suited to large-scale workings, she should have stuck to table magic and tarot cards. Yet this sort of thing happens all too often. While I’m not at all sexist, I have to say, I mostly see it in women. It’s the magical equivalent of reverse parking.”
Kenneth nodded, hoping Ambrosius hadn’t spotted the expression of disbelief on Laura’s face. “A terrible tragedy. I suppose a dose of reality is the hardest for swallowing.”
“The things that are good for one often taste bad,” Ambrosius said. “Here. For you.”
He slid the paper plane over to Audrey. It was made of a piece of paper rolled tightly into a tube, joining two other sheets of paper folded into strips and rolled into hoops, one bigger than the other.
“What do you say?” Kenneth asked.
“Thank you,” she said meekly, fingertips tracing the folds.
“So,” Kenneth said. He put his hands on the table, palms up, arthritic joints curling his fingers toward the ceiling.
Ambrosius did likewise, albeit with straight fingers. “So.”
“What did you foresee happening next?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, we’ve established your control over stuff and whatnot—”
“The Warp and the Weft.” Ambrosius nodded.
“If you like. We’re a bit less formal. We know you don’t like custard creams—not quite an unforgivable sin—and can manage a bit of maths, but chemistry isn’t your thing.”
“I can access the answer to anything, including how to build paper planes and decode ridiculous videos of pigeons, by consulting the Akashic Record.”
Laura made a note. It read, Wikipedia.
Ambrosius very nearly curled his hands into fists. “I’m not sure how you managed to keep me from finding your location sooner—presumably the same way I prevented you finding me—but I have no need of factual trivia.”
“Mmm.” Kenneth pursed his lips. “As you say. Now you’ve demonstrated all of that, what were you for happening next?”
“I thought it would be obvious to a man of your talent.”
“Humour me.”
“I want to become part of the Great Work and join the Ruling Elite in Manifesting Destiny.” Ambrosius was perfectly serious.
Audrey’s fingers didn’t quite stumble, and no one kicked anyone else under the table.
“Had you considered entering politics?” Kenneth asked, in a tone one might use for suggesting a bathroom colour scheme to an acquaintance obsessed with interior design.
“Politicians are silly little men with no real power, tiny ambition, and no grasp of the whole picture.” Ambrosius was working hard to keep his hands still.
“I can’t argue with that,” Kenneth said.
“I want to be where the real power is. I want you to introduce me to the Great Circle and welcome me with your blessing. I have given ample demonstration of my ability to change the petty, insignificant lives of mortals.”
“Aye,” Kenneth agreed. He took a breath, lifted his hands from the table, and put them in his lap. “You have.”
Audrey flicked the paper plane, eyelids drifting closed. Her shoulders slumped, tension surging from her in a wave that carried the dart, straight and true, aimed right between Ambrosius’s eyes. Irritably, he snatched it from the air.
A crackling hiss filled the room with static. Bewildered shock turned his mouth into an O. He blinked like a toad. The others watched in quiet fascination as his skin charred and crisped to black where it touched the plane. He tried to drop it, and his fingers crumbled to fragments and dust, as if they were burnt wood hit with a hammer. The char spread, smog grey and singed barbecue under a coating of orange fading to silver. His jaw worked, trying to speak.
Once it hit his chest, the char accelerated, rippling, audibly fizzing. Within a few moments, his head was no more than ash held together by memory.
Laura threw one of Audrey’s paper darts at the remains. The top half crumbled into a drift of powder. His lower legs, untouched, remained upright in front of his chair. Steam drifted from the stumps, carrying the unmistakable smell of roast pork.
“Thank you,” Kenneth said.
“Don’t mention it.” Audrey shrugged. “You called it seven months ago. I do listen, you know.”
“And don’t take a risk like that again,” he continued, stern as a disapproving grandfather. “When that bowl hit him, the last person to touch it was his own double. His defences didn’t work because he hit himself. He made the plane for you, but you could have contaminated it when you took it back to charge it.”
“I didn’t touch the plane,” Audrey said, fatigue and indignation giving her voice the texture of crumpled cellophane. “And I spent last night embedding Cremate in every one of those sheets of paper.”
Laura hurriedly dropped the piece she’d been folding into a water bomb, as if it might actually explode. “It’s all ri
ght,” Audrey said. “It needs three sheets.”
She turned back to Kenneth. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to learn how to manipulate paper mentally while making it look like you’re holding it with your fingers?” She clenched her fists and glared at him. “Well, do you?”
Kenneth gave her a tight hug. “Seven months,” he said. “Nonstop.”
“Seven years,” she corrected him, sniffing. “If you’re going to learn restraint, you’re best doing it properly.”
Spare nosed open the door, tail wagging, and ran under the table. They all watched what was left of Ambrosius’s right leg disappear out of the room to the sound of contented growling.
“You don’t have to be neuroatypical to work here,” Audrey said after a few moments. “But it helps.”
* * *
Social Visiting
Sunil Patel
The Seven Trials of Shaila Patel—as Shaila dubbed the most epic social visiting excursion she’d ever been on—began when her mom threw open her bedroom door and told her to get ready. “No warning, no explanation!” Shaila texted her friends as she canceled their Sunday plans.
When her mom told her they were visiting seven motels, Shaila grimaced. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, Shaila,” her mom said. “Today is special.”
But it wasn’t. The day played out the same way it had for as long as she could remember. Whether it happened in her own town or when they were in another state, social visiting was the bane of Shaila’s existence. They always seemed to do it on the hottest days, too, and it was hotter inside the motels than out. Plus ever since she’d gotten her learner’s permit, they forced her to drive. Normally she would be excited for the opportunity, but it felt like added punishment to be an agent of her own boredom.
Her parents had a schedule. Flora Motel, Ray Motel, Ranch Motel, Sunrise Motel, Sunset Motel—she could never remember all the names, let alone the names of the people they were visiting, or how they were related to her. Mom’s brother’s cousin’s wife. Mom’s mom’s sister’s husband’s sister’s son. Dad’s college roommate’s best friend’s wife’s brother. These were the tenuous connections that brought her to each Patel-owned motel. One of the places would serve lunch, she hoped. If she was lucky, it would be pizza. Otherwise, vegetables stir-fried and drenched in oil, the Gujarati way.
At each motel, they walked up to the front desk and were let in to the residential area. The masa and/or masi greeted them, and Shaila offered them the obligatory namaste. She took a seat on the couch in the living room. Her parents usually claimed the swing—there was always a swing. Once they were seated, she remained quiet while her parents conversed with the other adults. Often they talked about her, describing her recent accomplishments. Shaila felt like a houseplant they were showing off. A pretty plant, according to many of the aunties. Her dad said she was pretty under the pimples. Her mom said she was pretty despite the pimples.
Ranitamasi never mentioned her pimples at all. Shaila found it a small comfort that they visited her first.
“You won a lot of trophies, huh, Shaila?” said Ranitamasi.
“Yeah. First place in science, second place in math.” She had been so close at the last competition. Her small comfort faded at the memory.
“You’re a very smart girl. Going to be a doctor?” All the aunties and uncles wanted her to be a doctor (or marry a doctor), but she wasn’t interested in medicine.
“I don’t know,” said Shaila, not wanting to have this conversation so soon after her meeting with her guidance counselor, who provided no guidance or counsel when he admitted that although she was a “bright young girl,” he didn’t know where to apply her “obvious talents.” Shaila knew about her obvious talents; it was the not-so-obvious ones she wanted to discover.
“That’s okay, child,” said Ranitamasi. “It’s far too early to choose.” She sighed and lowered her voice. “Though not to be chosen.”
“Chosen for what?” asked Shaila.
“Chosen for chevdo!” said Ranitamasi as she dashed into the kitchen.
After leaving Ranitamasi’s, Shaila knew to expect the same for the rest of the day. The greetings, the awkward conversation, the refreshments. An endless supply of snacks and drinks, from chevdo to falooda. All of this was familiar to her.
That changed at their third stop. As usual, the auntie—whose name Shaila could never remember—brought out chaa. Shaila preferred coffee, which she’d started drinking to feel like a grown-up, but she couldn’t deny that chaa smelled wonderful. Her dad had let her try some of his when she was a kid, but the taste hadn’t matched the smell. She was never offered any on these trips, however, until now. She stared at the cup.
“Drink your chaa, Shaila,” said her mom. She raised her eyebrow slightly in the direction of the auntie.
“That’s okay,” Shaila said. Though she hadn’t chosen a career, she had chosen a caffeinated beverage.
The auntie glanced at her mom. “Manju said …”
“I know,” said her mom. Her voice became more pleading. “Shaila, it’s good, see?” She took a sip of her own chaa, and Shaila felt like a two-year-old even though she was turning sixteen next week.
She hesitated. The auntie said, “Let me bring out the par vadi biscuits! They taste very good with chaa.” She exited to the kitchen.
“Shailaja,” her mom said, “please drink just a little bit. It’s rude not to.”
“What’s the big deal?”
Her dad responded, “It’s no big deal. Think of it as an experiment.”
He had a point. It had been years since she’d had any, and her tastes had changed, recalibrated. She ought to try it in the name of science, if only to compare it with coffee.
The auntie returned with a plate full of par vadi biscuits. Shaila did love par vadi biscuits, with their crunchy exterior and chewy center. A few years ago, she’d discovered they were nothing more than Pepperidge Farm puff pastries, stuck in an oven and baked on a cookie sheet. She’d thought they were an Indian delicacy, but they weren’t. They sounded special, but they weren’t.
The auntie was right, though: they did go well with chaa. She bit into one and took a sip. The bite at the back of her throat was surprisingly satisfying, an acidic kick without the syrupy sweetness of soda. The buttery dough of the biscuit cut the bitterness of the tea. A smile crept upon her face and she tried to hide it.
“See?” said her mom.
Shaila couldn’t finish a whole cup of the stuff, though. Just a few courtesy sips, enough to accompany one biscuit. Or two.
Not drinking the whole cup proved to be a good move, as she drank chaa at three more motels. By the end of the day, she’d almost acquired a taste for it.
As the Seven Trials of Shaila Patel came to a close, the faint flavor of ginger lingered in her mouth.
* * *
Now here she was again a month later, part of the same routine, though this social visiting trip consisted of only one stop. After offering everyone water—which was offered no matter the temperature but was especially welcome on this hot day—Ranitamasi had taken Shaila’s parents shopping for saris and left her alone. Mostly alone. The uncle was running the front desk. Pratik? Pradeep? Just “Uncle” would do. Although her parents had thought she wouldn’t be interested in accompanying them, she thought it had to be more interesting than sitting on the swing in front of a soap opera on Zee TV. Ranitamasi had the best swing, ornately decorated with a depiction of a savage battle scene on the back, which was also more interesting than the soap.
Shaila pushed gently with her feet and listened to the swing creak back and forth. It was like a squeaky metronome. She measured time in creaks. One creak, two creak. Three creak, four freak. No, creak. She laughed and then felt self-conscious. Luckily, Uncle hadn’t heard her because he was helping a guest. She continued to count the creaks, calmed by the regularity. It reminded her of the wave patterns her math teacher had talked about.
The swing could only enter
tain her for a few minutes, though. She should have brought her homework. She’d told her parents she had homework, but they’d insisted they wouldn’t be long. The soap opera was in Hindi. Even subtitled, it held no interest for her. She didn’t see a remote, and besides, these places only got the Indian channels. Shaila contemplated the emptiness and relative silence, the dialogue on TV occasionally punctuated by a bell as a guest came up. It was the same, she thought. Always the same.
She put her feet down and stopped the swing. It wasn’t the same. She couldn’t deny it any longer. Not after what Divya had said about Ranitamasi and weakening barriers. Shaila would investigate. Propose a hypothesis, collect some data, reach a conclusion. She hypothesized that Divya was telling the truth, even though it made no sense.
Now to look for anything … incriminating? She didn’t want to snoop, but they did leave her all alone here. All alone except for Uncle, and he wasn’t paying any attention.
It wasn’t snooping if it was for science.
She went into Ranitamasi’s bedroom, being careful not to alert Uncle. Ranitamasi had kept the room tidy for her expected guests. Nothing stood out as unusual at first glance, but Shaila doubted what she was looking for would be out in the open. She began with the nightstand and opened drawer after drawer, finding nothing but assorted bracelets on racks and a stash of Cadbury Flakes. She had no luck with the armoire either. If the answer lay in the motel, it wasn’t in this room.
As quietly as she could, Shaila examined the other rooms in the residence. In one bedroom she came across the mandir, a miniature temple that housed pictures and figurines, and scanned it for any pictures of Ravana. She didn’t think Ranitamasi worshipped the demon king, but she needed something, anything, to go on. She found nothing interesting in the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen.
By that time, Shaila wanted to eat something, but not the sort of thing she always ate on these trips. She spotted a box of Special K on top of the refrigerator and laughed. “Special K” had been Ranitamasi’s nickname for Shaila’s mom in college. Whether it was meant as a joke, Shaila didn’t know, but she had found an appropriate snack.
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