"What are you going to be teaching me?"
"I’m going to teach you about you."
"I already know about me."
"Do you? You didn’t even know you had magic until a few weeks ago. Sure, you know your ownself, you know what has happened in your life, but you really don’t know why, do you?"
This was getting too metaphysical for such an early hour of the morning. Needing something to tamp down my hunger, I spooned two spoonfuls of sugar into my tea as Banna began her lecture.
"The Mauvais has been a part of your life far longer than you’ve known. Do you understand how magic works? No, let me rephrase that. I know Fiona is a very good teacher, and I’m sure you have a decent grasp of the physics of magic, but what I’m asking is, do you know the mental components of magic?"
This all seemed a bit mental to me, but I merely said I didn’t and took a sip of tea. My mouth puckered. The brew was horribly bitter and I almost spat it out. Instead, I forced myself to swallow, then heaped a couple more scoops of sugar into the cup.
"To know your magic, to access it, you must have a sense of self-worth and confidence. The Mauvais did all he could to keep you from gaining either."
"How?" I asked, curiosity instantly shoving aside the foul taste of the tea lingering on my tongue. Then I remembered how evasive Magics could be regarding important questions. "Or is that something you’re not allowed to share with me?"
"It’s never been a secret. See what I mean about you not knowing yourself." After a short pause and an adjustment to the light orb to keep it out of her eyes, Banna continued. "You went missing as a small child. You were four, I believe." I nodded in agreement. "Lola LeMieux was meant to watch over you, but one day she got distracted. Even she can’t recall what it was that stole her attention that day, but she swears it was only for a moment. When she turned back, you were gone." I knew this much and feared Banna was just going to tell me the same slim information I’d already gleaned. That fear turned out to be entirely misplaced as she added, "This was terrible news because only a year before a curse had been put upon you."
I’d always joked that I must have been cursed to end up with my lot in life, but to have truly been cursed? Doesn’t that just figure.
"How? I mean, how could my parents let anyone curse their kid?" Maybe I didn’t want to save these people.
"I’ll make a note that you need to study curses," Banna said contemptuously. "But let’s just say, curses do not have to be made in person if made by a strong enough Magic. In that case, the very writing down of the curse is enough. Your parents, on your third birthday received a card stating if you remained with the Magics, you would be loved but you would die young.
"On the other hand, if you ever fell into the hands of the magically challenged, you would survive, but you would never know love, you would never feel wanted. That curse made certain that if you left the community, you would end up with families who would be harsh on you, who would treat you like dirt, who would unwittingly repress your magic."
"There was one good family," I said, thinking of the Roberts who took me to museums and gave their twins a perfect Christmas.
"Norms?" She spoke the word referring to non-magical humans as if it tasted of moldy kippers. I nodded. "And what happened to them?"
Images of a mangled car hooked onto a tow truck, of a social worker coming to the door, of finding myself in a new home and on a dirty bed that very night. My chin trembled.
"But Mr. Wood?" I said shakily. He had shown me kindness, and now he was in a wheelchair. "I felt wanted with him."
"Again, you need to study. Curses have expiration dates. Thirteen years is the maximum. You were sixteen when it ended, an age when, if your average Magic hasn’t been trained yet, he or she is unlikely to be able to master any spells."
"Why wouldn’t the Mauvais just kill me?"
"In Rosaria, in the magic world, when the Mauvais was at his height of power, you were guarded. As with most magic children, you were well-protected. As soon as possible, mothers take a lock of their baby’s hair and place it in a charm. This charm, a symbol of maternal love, is kept closely guarded by the mother, or other caretaker, until the child reaches age twelve. That’s when training begins and the child can learn to defend his or herself. Most mothers choose to put the cutting in—"
"A locket," I said, my voice full of awe and my gut full of apprehension. Yet again, I had to wonder if Alastair had told me the truth of how he’d obtained the locket that was now dangling from a slim chain under my shirt.
"Correct again. And as to why the Mauvais didn’t come after you once you’d left Rosaria, by then, thanks to your parents," she said, with a slightly critical tone under her lilting accent, "he had lost the strongest aspects of his power."
I didn’t want to ask the next question, but at the same time I had to know.
"Who took me? Did they ever find out?"
Banna spoke as if choosing her words carefully.
"It was never determined with any certainty."
"How can you know all this?"
"It’s what I do. I know all Magic history. I know the stories of the Magics. Even the stories they don’t know themselves. I’ve had quite a few centuries to study up." She paused a moment, then said, "By the time you took the job with your Mr. Wood, the Mauvais’s curse had already worked to plan. You had a landlord who hated you, you had a shoddy apartment, and you had no friends. You did have yourself a defensive sort of confidence, but not the self-worth that could bring forth your magic which seemed to be fully suppressed before you ever reached adulthood.
"But not everything can fall into line. Who would have known that you’d enjoy the work at the funeral home, or that Mr. Wood would be kind to you, or that that job would stir something in you."
"I thought it was the watch that did the stirring."
"The watch helped, but it wasn’t everything."
"But why would the Mauvais care? Just to be a jerk?"
"We have as many prophecies running around the magic world as mice scuttling through a cat-free grain silo. He may have heard one regarding his own end. These things can be vague, but he must have tied the words to you."
"That’s ridiculous. He ruined my life for that, for a suspicion? And what exactly am I supposed to do with this knowledge? I mean, it’s pissed me off, but anger’s not going to help me contain my magic, is it?"
"It’s just a reminder of how far you’ve come and that you can go much farther if you think you can."
Great, so I was the Magical Little Engine That Could. "Can you teach me that?" I asked, pointing at the orb. Banna hesitated, perhaps at the abrupt change in conversation. She then grinned as if I’d asked exactly the question she’d been hoping for.
"I can. It won’t look quite like mine. What color are your eyes?" She leaned forward and the orb shifted with her. "Hazel. Yes, that will do. People with very dark eyes can’t perform the spell, it runs the risk of creating black holes. They have to find other means of illumination, but you should be able to produce a nice, warm light with the Solas Charm."
"Is there any danger, you know, with my extra-strength version of magic? I’m not going to burn the place down, am I?"
"It is possible, but your first orbs won’t be much to worry about. Once done with practiced skill and control, it’s similar to LED lighting. There’s no heat, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to stand it, but if you have a pair of sunglasses, you may want to slip them on."
I went into the bathroom and scrambled through my bag because even though I may come across as completely pessimistic, I had enough optimism somewhere in my bones to dare to bring sunglasses to London.
"Practice saying the word," Banna said once I’d rejoined her. "Then imagine the orb. Don’t try to go as big as mine, just picture something the size of a marble."
I slipped on the sunglasses and did as she said. Nothing happened. On the brigh
t side, I hadn’t blown up the room. I tried once more. Again, nothing, not even a spark, which was really frustrating because I’d been able to do most other spells — or at least ones that didn’t involve a potion — quite easily, even if I hadn’t done them with much finesse.
"This is stupid. Couldn’t I just use a Shoving Charm to flip a switch if I need to turn on the lights?"
"Confidence, Cassie. I may have thrown you by telling you about your past. Try not to think about that. Think only of something that’s made you happy, made you feel worthwhile."
Irritatingly, I had a sudden image in my head of Tobey coming to help me clean my apartment after it had been ransacked and I’d nearly been killed. An odd choice of memory, but it was the only one sticking. Holding onto the moment, I said, "Solas." My heart thudded in my chest, waiting, anticipating, expecting nothing. But then, twelve pounding beats later, a small pinpoint of light appeared just above my palm. I tried not to shout with delight. I tried not to let doubts about Alastair creep in. In another few seconds, a luminescent, gold-green ball the size of a pea hovered above my hand.
"Well, done, Cassie." Banna circled around my tiny orb, scrutinizing it. "It will get larger and come more quickly with practice, but it’s tight and compact, not misty and loose like some first efforts. Very promising. That must have been a good memory."
Not really. Very soon after that evening, Tobey had proven himself a complete jerk by pressing himself up against Vivian in an alleyway of MagicLand. But I had the orb now. I wondered what might happen if I hurled it at him. At that thought, the orb faded away.
16 - ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
BANNA HAD ME practice turning my light orb on and off several times before declaring our lesson was done for the day.
"So what’s next?" I asked, removing my sunglasses as she slipped hers back on. My eyes had grown sensitive by this point and I noticed the room darkened slightly once the tinted lenses covered her eyes.
"Well, you’ve had enough of me. I believe Olivia wants to meet with you in her office. I’ll leave you to finish getting dressed." Even with the sunglasses on, she managed a skeptical glance at my hair.
Half a second after Banna left, I darted into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and groaned at the horror show looking back at me in the mirror. Even though my straight, in-need-of-a-trim hair doesn’t take a lot of work, trust me when I say I can achieve some impressive bedhead tangles.
Since I hadn’t been able to see what my brush had been doing when I got dressed, my whole lesson with Banna had been spent with the left half of my bangs sticking up at strange angles like some sort of modern art sculpture. Using a comb and cold water, I dismantled the disaster and reshaped it into my usual forehead-hiding fringe.
The work with the orb hadn’t been too strenuous, but I also hadn’t had a proper meal since leaving Portland the morning before. The whole way down the winding stairs, the sound of my growling stomach echoed off the cool, stone walls.
The idea of facing Olivia didn’t exactly comfort me. She had been easy to talk to, but she carried the cool demeanor of someone who could be harsh if you did something wrong. Really harsh. With hunger and nerves gnawing outward from the center of my gut, I entered Olivia’s office.
Did I say she could be harsh? Not at all, she was a wonderful person who clearly understood my needs, because on her desk was a full English breakfast. Not just beans and toast, but eggs, fried tomato, the British form of bacon, and rounds of sausages that Olivia called puddings.
"Why call them puddings?" I asked, taking a seat and barely refraining from picking up the plate and dumping the entire contents into my mouth. "They look like sausage."
"Because they’re pudding," she said as if this should be obvious.
"Then what’s the sweet, goopy stuff old people eat for dessert?"
"Pudding."
I let the argument die in the firm belief this was a language conundrum that would never be solved, but I reminded myself to always clarify what exactly I might be getting if someone offered me a pudding cake.
Olivia poured us tea and my hand once again thought it was fully functional. As I reached for my saucer, I bashed the stupid appendage into the front edge of Olivia’s very solid desk. Grunting in pain and biting back a scream, I clutched the hand to my chest.
Olivia watched me with a mixture of sympathy and consternation.
"This will not do." She pressed a button I hadn’t noticed on her desk. A crusty sizzle of electricity came from what sounded like the teapot. Then, on the teapot’s shiny metallic surface appeared the face of a man with rich, warm-toned skin and prominent cheek bones. "Rafi, is Chester handy?"
"Sure, he’s in here with me."
In the teapot? Was this Rafi a genie?
"Good, send him in." Olivia pressed the button again and Rafi’s face vanished from the pot.
I stared at the teapot, half expecting Chester to come crawling out. When the lid failed to rattle, I looked up at Olivia.
"Have you never seen a tea-lephone?" she asked.
Before I could answer, Chester thudded his way into the vast office.
"You needed me, sir?"
Olivia bristled a little, but only said to him, "Ms. Black could use a little help. Cassie, let Chester see your hand."
Chester was big, looked more than a little clumsy, and well, didn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer. Plus, he seemed to really enjoy breaking the bones of the Tower’s rat population. So I might be forgiven for being a little hesitant to let him handle an already delicate part of my body. I clutched my hand tighter to my torso.
"What’s he going to do?"
"Among other talents, trolls have healing powers. Some have been instrumental in our Medi Unit."
I thought of Morelli. I thought of Mr. Wood’s abnormally brief trip to the emergency room and of his being able to stand after only one night at Morelli’s apartment. I slowly released my protective grip and held out my hand.
Which Chester shook as if in greeting. And he had a very firm handshake. I shrieked in agony.
"Chester, no!" Olivia cried out, then fought to bring her voice down to a normal level. "You’ve already met her. Heal it, don’t shake it."
"You could have told him that first," I grunted.
Chester, flummoxed now, eased his hold on my hand as he bubbled out several apologies. His cheeks and ears burned red and I thought he might spontaneously combust with embarrassment. Once Olivia convinced him it was alright (it wasn’t, I wanted to throw up with the pain throbbing from my fingers to my shoulder), he took my hand in both of his, gently this time, and scrunched his face up with concentration.
Within seconds, the pain subsided. I was about to call that a job well done, no more need for any further Troll Triage, but Chester held on. It was like our hands had become two strong magnets that couldn’t be easily pulled apart. A strange sensation hummed from my finger bones to my wrist bones. Almost as if they were moving. It felt good, but it also felt incredibly creepy.
When the sensation stopped, so did the magnetic hold, and Chester held up my hand. He gave a confident nod and peeled open my cast to remove it. I flexed my fingers, as amazed at the movement as I would have been if I’d suddenly sprouted daisies out of my fingertips.
"Thanks, Chester," I said.
"No problem, sir." I gave Olivia a questioning look.
"It’s a habit he can’t unlearn. You’ve done very well, Chester. You can have an extra TV break today."
Chester’s eyes went wide and he even clapped his three-fingered hands with glee as he thanked Olivia and told her there was a Black Adder rerun he’d been hoping to catch.
Once he’d gone, Olivia said, "They’re so easy to please. I can’t think of why Morelli didn’t volunteer to take care of your injuries." Before I could respond that Morelli had probably enjoyed watching my misery, Olivia indicated the pile of food. "Go on. I’m sure
you’re starving by now."
I gave my newly-healed hand a test run by spooning beans onto my toast. Olivia spoke of the weather while I maneuvered the crisp triangle of bread to my mouth. I then bit into my toast, spilling most of the beans I’d piled on top of it back onto my plate. Olivia had the poise and manners to ignore my idiocy and continued on discussing the tides of the Thames.
Once the food was gone, Olivia flicked her hand as if shaking water from her fingers. The plates disappeared and she pulled out a file from a desk drawer. She then flipped open the file and ran her index finger down a list.
I say list, but the sheet was blank until her fingertip slid over it. Then, line by line, words would appear. They’d stay on the page long enough for her to scan them (and not long enough for me to read the jagged handwriting upside down) before disappearing again. She closed the file and rested her hands on it with her fingers entwined.
The Uncanny Raven Winston Page 11
