Magic and the Modern Girl

by Mindy Klasky

  “Something like awakening a familiar? Is that enough?”

  “You can’t think in terms of ‘enough’!” His shout made me jump. I glanced at Melissa, and she had curled her fingers around the edge of the kitchen counter, as if she were seeking strength in the ordinary, in the mundane. Neko cringed and turned his head away from both of us. David went on. “This isn’t about ‘enough.’ This is serious. You need to grow. Build your powers. Become a better witch. Or you won’t be one at all. And if you aren’t a witch, then Neko won’t be your familiar. I won’t be your warder. We’ll both be gone, assigned to the next witch who claims us.”

  Fear beat in my chest, smothering me with its fluttering wings. “But how can I come up with options, if I can’t even read the books downstairs?”

  “Build a buffer, Jane.” He shrugged as if any idiot could have figured that out. “Work some minor spells. Store the effect and build up a reserve.”

  “Like what? Do the dishes with a water spell?”

  “That could be a good beginning,” he said, with a dismissive glance toward my kitchen counter. My counter, and my morning cereal bowl. And last night’s tea mug. And a plate with toast crumbs from I couldn’t remember when.

  I blushed, and my embarrassment about my housekeeping made me even more terse with him. “But when should I do the real working? The one that will save my collection?”

  “You’re the witch,” he said. “You decide.”

  The raw anger in his voice made Neko squeak with discomfort. I could practically see my familiar offer up his soft underbelly as he interceded between us. “What about a week from Sunday?” Neko said, hopeful as a child begging for a sundae. “That would be a good day, wouldn’t it? Dark of moon?”

  “A week from—” I glanced at Melissa, who remained completely silent. Sunday was the day that she and I were going to be yoga goddesses.

  David spoke to me, following up on Neko’s suggestion without a hint of emotion. “Whatever you work under the dark of moon will be bound to you. Not free to wander, like full-moon creatures.” He glanced at Neko. “I assume that your familiar can make himself available?”

  My familiar scratched at his ear nonchalantly, his momentary bravery in entering our battlefield nearly forgotten. “She said that I could leave here, you know. I didn’t just walk out.”

  But now I wondered about that. Sure, Neko had the right to roam the city; that was the result of my having awakened him on a full-moon night. But there’d been something different over these past months. We’d grown apart from each other. Sure, I said it was because of stolen food and pilfered drink, but there was something more at play. My magical bond to Neko was as damaged and frayed as my connection to my other magical paraphernalia.

  “Well,” David said, silently passing judgment, even if his words stayed noncommittal. “Whatever magic you work this time will have to be explicitly bound to you. To your collection. Right?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Neko nod, and Melissa blinked. I realized that David was staring at me, a question haunting his somber eyes. The weight of the moment settled over my shoulders like a wet wool coat, and I resisted the urge to shrug. Instead, I said, “Yes. The magic will stay. This time.”

  “Fine, then,” David said. “I’ll see you a week from Sunday.”

  And he left. He turned on his heel, and he stalked out of my kitchen, leaving behind a nearly full glass of mojito and a plate with a few cracker crumbs.

  I started to go after him. I started to open the door, to call him back. I started to explain that I had missed him. I’d missed us. I’d missed being witch and warder, but I really, truly had been busy.

  But I couldn’t make myself move. Not to apologize. Not with Neko watching, and Melissa. Not when I hadn’t been wrong. Had I?

  When the silence became so heavy that I thought I might never be able to speak again, I noticed Melissa moving. Shooing Neko forward. Mouthing to him to do something.

  My familiar took a moment to shake himself back to awareness. Then, he sprang over to my cupboards and stretched for the top shelf, for a half-dozen tumblers of cobalt-blue. I’d placed them out of his reach months ago, when I’d realized that every glass he brought down to the basement never made it back to the kitchen.

  “Jane, as long as you’re using a spell to wash dishes tonight, could you clean these up, too? Jacques and I broke our last highball this afternoon, and these will be perfect replacements!”

  I contemplated priming my magic with a spell to shatter all my glasses, just to spite him, but I settled for a sigh. “Sure, Neko. Whatever.”

  He beamed. “Great! They’ll look great with the fish pitcher! Bottoms up!” He drained the last of Melissa’s concoction into one of the blue glasses.

  I drank with both of them, but I wondered what the dark moon would bring. And whether David would truly stand by my side when I faced it.

  3

  I settled into the booth at Whitlow’s On Wilson, trying to squelch my unease at traveling to the Washington suburb of Arlington, Virginia. I didn’t venture out of the city often, and the last time I’d come to Arlington had been a disaster. I thought that I’d been visiting my one true love, but I’d discovered that he was a lying, cheating scoundrel. He now went by the name of the Coven Eunuch, when I brought myself to talk about him at all.

  Live and learn, I told myself. Live and learn.

  And eat.

  A lot.

  The waitress had just brought mountains of food to our table. I had asked for Eggs Nova Scotia—essentially, Eggs Benedict, with lox standing in for the Canadian bacon. I began ordering brunches centered around English muffins when I started spending the first Sunday of every month with my mother and grandmother. When the family tension got a little too thick, I could saw away at the hearty bread, imagine my frustration flowing away to fill the tasty nooks and crannies. After more than a year of our distaff gatherings, I’d made a fine art of Benedicts.

  This morning, Clara had splurged on the bacon and cheddar omelet—her most recent vegetarian phase seemed to have died a quiet death. Gran, though, was going for the gusto; she had chosen Whitlow’s because she’d heard they had an expansive buffet. While Gran ventured over to the sprawling tables of food, Clara and I busied ourselves with our tea.

  I was hoping that tea would help to settle me down. Following David’s instructions on Friday night, I had worked a minor spell in the kitchen, gathering together soap and water to cleanse the dishes that had collected in my sink. I’d managed to keep everything under control, but the astral exertion had left me light-headed and dizzy. I felt as if I’d run a mile after being bedridden for a week.

  Still, I had done what the doctor had ordered. Slow and steady won the witchcraft race. Or so I had to believe.

  And a combination of Eggs Nova Scotia and tea was bound to make me feel better, more grounded. Besides, tea was one of the few things that Clara and I had in common. (The others were our hazel eyes and our stubborn personalities.) We both preferred tea over coffee. The restaurant obliged us in our still-awkward mother-daughter dance; the waitress presented us both with a wooden chest, and we got to study a scramble of tea bags to determine the perfect one for the morning. I began to dunk my Lemon Lift in a clear mug, moving the bag with a vengeance as I tried to think of something to say.

  “I wish they had Raspberry Royale,” Clara said, obligingly filling the silence.

  “That one always smells like Jell-O to me,” I said. “Every time I drink it, I feel like I should be back in Gran’s kitchen, laying out rounds of canned pineapple in the bottom of her ramekins, just before she helps me pour in boiling water.”

  Clara winced.

  Damn. I hadn’t even intended to attack her for abandoning me when I was a child. I really, truly, positively, certainly—well, possibly—was ready to forgive her for that. I’d just meant to fill the silence.

  Bravely, she said, “I remember those ramekins. The brown ones? That always look like they should
be filled with gingerbread?”

  I seized the peace offering gratefully. “Those are the ones!”

  Fortunately, Gran returned before Clara and I could tumble down the cliff of some other conversational chasm. My delicate, octogenarian grandmother had created quite a sculpture, piling a forest of steamed crab legs on top of a neat little village of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and sausage. I thought that the foundation of her building was a raft of French toast, but I couldn’t be sure.

  My stomach growled, and I attacked my eggs, crafting a bite perfectly balanced with English muffin, poached egg, lox and hollandaise. I chewed carefully, relishing the simultaneous salt and tang, and then I placed my silverware on the edge of my plate. It was time to fill Gran and Clara in on the witchy developments in my basement. “I have news,” I said.

  “I have news,” Gran said at the same time.

  “I have news,” Clara said, perfecting our triad.

  We laughed—a simple, unburdened sharing of amusement—and each of us gestured for the other to go first.

  “Go ahead, Gran,” I said expansively. “You’re the matriarch. Your news leads the day.”

  She looked pleased, even as she finished tearing apart a crab’s leg. She took a moment to suck on the sweet white meat, watching our anticipation grow. At last, she smiled demurely and settled her hands in her lap.

  “Uncle George and I are getting married.”

  “You’re what?” I choked out the words past a bite of lox. I couldn’t help myself—Gran? Getting married? At her age?

  “Best wishes,” Clara said wryly.

  “Oh.” I remembered my manners. “Best wishes,” I said, my mouth still full. Gran sat up primly and nodded her thanks.

  Gran and Uncle George. He wasn’t really my uncle. They had been friends for decades, after her husband—her first husband?—died. George had escorted her to countless galas, to endless plays and dinners and parties. She had attended innumerable operas just to be with him, just to keep him happy, even though she had admitted to Clara and me in a rare family bonding moment that she found the caterwauling boring.

  “What took you so long?” I asked, when I had finally chewed and swallowed.

  “For years,” she said, “it just seemed silly to go through the whole thing. Why bother, when our friends all know that we’re together, when our families don’t really care?” She caught the look on my face, and she reached across the table to pat my hand. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing, dear. Really, I don’t.”

  “Then what changed?” Clara asked, quite reasonably.

  “I decided that there are times in life when people should make a statement. When they should stand up for what they believe in. When they should announce to all the world their goals. Their priorities. The things that are important to them. Besides, I never got to plan a real wedding before.” She glanced at Clara. “You eloped, of course. And your father and I got married in the backyard at his parents’ house. I just want to do something grand. Something exciting. Throw a party like no party has ever been thrown before.”

  Suddenly, I felt as if I was sitting on a roller coaster, as if I had just crested a gigantic rise, and I was swooping into a panorama of disaster. “Gran,” I said, forcing my words past the block of ice that was rapidly congealing in my belly. “Are you sick?”

  She blinked and set down the rasher of bacon that she had been lifting to her mouth. “Sick?”

  “Do you think you need to marry Uncle George?” I asked. “To guarantee that someone will be there for you? To take care of you?”

  “Of course not, dear. He’s a man. His idea of taking care of me is bringing me two aspirins and a cup of tea, no matter what’s wrong. For anything serious, I’ll always call on you.” She took a sip of coffee and then added, “And you, too, Clara, dear.” She almost made it sound as if she had intended to include my mother all along. At least she got close enough that Clara did not react visibly. “But, I have to be realistic. Neither George nor I will last forever. I think we both want to make it official—the ‘till death do us part’ side of things.” Contentedly, she forked an entire coopful of eggs into her mouth. She chewed, took a swallow of coffee, and said, “We know that we’ll be there for each other. But we want everyone else to know that, as well.”

  “Well, Mother,” Clara said, “I think it’s wonderful. I’ll call him ‘Dad’ the next time I see him.”

  The absurdity of that statement made me return to my own breakfast, to a steaming bite of home fries. Uncle George would never be “Grandpa” to me. He was…Uncle George. He’d been there my entire life, and if Gran wanted an official document and a little party to say so, who was I to begrudge her?

  Sometimes, Clara tried too hard. (And other times, I immediately thought, she didn’t try anywhere near hard enough.)

  Gran patted Clara’s hand and said, “That won’t be necessary, dear, but thank you for the thought. And what was your news?”

  Clara set her fork down amid the rubble of her omelet and beamed at both of us. “I’m leaving.”

  This time, it was Gran who exclaimed, “What?”

  As for me? I just sat there, staring at my plate, suddenly unable to swallow.

  Clara. Leaving again. I’d always known that she was going to do that. I’d always known that she was going to wait until I’d gotten used to her, until I’d grown comfortable with the notion of my mother being around, day in and day out. She’d lulled me into a false sense of security and now she was going to walk out of my life, the same way that she had when I was a child, when I was four years old and too naive to recognize how feckless she was.

  Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t like having Clara around. I always felt as if I needed to be on my guard with her, as if I might say the wrong thing, that I might make her angry, make her…leave me. But I couldn’t help myself. I said the things that I was thinking. I let my suspicions show on my face. I displayed my heart for all to see.

  For Clara to see, even now.

  “Oh, Jeanette,” she said. Jeanette. The name that she had given me, before she walked out of my life the first time. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “My name is Jane,” I said automatically, retreating into the comfortable, the familiar, the me that Gran had raised.

  “It’s been great,” Clara said, “my visiting, and all. But it’s time for me to move on. It’s time for me to head back to Sedona. To the Vortex.”

  The Vortex. And all the other New Age crap that Clara had sought, to find balance in her life. She, like Gran, bore strains of the witchcraft that was expressed full strength in me. But she had never learned about her powers, never discovered how to harness them. The astral energy had led her to wander, to wonder, to seek out new experiences her entire adult life.

  I searched for a neutral question. “When are you going?”

  Clara puffed out her cheeks and exhaled slowly, as if recognizing the battle we’d apparently decided not to fight. “Not right away, of course. I’d been thinking of wrapping things up in the next month or so. Now, I guess I’ll wait till after Mother’s wedding.” We both looked at Gran, as if we were surprised to find her still sitting there.

  Gran looked up from another crab claw. “Well, George and I haven’t set a date yet. We were thinking that we should wait until after the Concert Opera Gala. We’ll be too busy to do anything before then—the Gala takes so much planning, you know.”

  “I know,” Clara said companionably, and I fought the impulse to flash daggers at her with my eyes. What did she know? She had never helped plan the Gala. She had never attended the meetings in Gran’s apartment, serving coffee and cake to the assembled operaphiles, putting up with their endless prying questions, inquiries they meant as a sign of affection, but which felt like an invasion of privacy.

  Clara merely shrugged and spread her fingers. “Or so I hear. Well, an October wedding should be lovely.”

  “An autumn wedding for two people in the autumn of their lives,” Gra
n said, pushing back her plate.

  “Don’t say it that way!” I said.

  “Now, dear, it’s true. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging the truth. Besides I’ve always liked fall colors. Crimson and gold and orange. Orange is George’s favorite color.”

  I didn’t like it.

  Not orange. Well, I’d never liked the color much, but that wasn’t what I was thinking about now. I didn’t like any reminder that Gran was old, that she was ever going to leave me. But she seemed so perfectly content, chatting about shades of fall, that I could only force a smile and nod.

  Clara set her palms on the table, as if we had just concluded some grand business meeting. “It’s settled, then. I’ll leave on November 1. Winter in Sedona should be beautiful.”

  Of course. This entire conversation was about Clara, wasn’t it? I bit my tongue to keep from saying the spiteful things I thought. In a flash, I thought of old King Lear, before the madness overtook him, asking his daughters how much they loved him. Goneril and Regan lied through their teeth, piling on false compliments, even as they plotted to destroy their father. Only the youngest daughter, Cordelia, spoke the truth, saying, “I love your majesty according to my bond; nor more nor less.”

  Of course, Lear learned all about lies and betrayal by the end of the play, and honest Cordelia died a pretty pitiful death. So maybe I should have lied to Clara there in Whitlow’s. Maybe I should have told her how much I would miss her, how much her departure panged me. Melissa would have been able to quote all of Lear, lay out a perfect argument about why I must make peace with my mother.

  But Melissa wasn’t there. I was. And I wasn’t promising any love to the woman who had borne me.

  Clara, that was, and Gran, who were both looking at me expectantly. “Now, dear,” Gran prompted. “What is your news?”

  I pushed my egg-soaked lox around on my plate. “I’m losing my powers,” I muttered.

  “What?” Clara asked. “I can’t hear you, Jeanette. It sounded like you said that you’re using your powers.”