by Emery Belle
A crack rent the air, followed by a howl of alarm as my garden gnome—formerly ceramic, but now looking as fleshy as could be—landed on his squat little bottom in the middle of the dais. He pushed himself up onto his stubby legs, rubbing his backside, and scowled at the assembled councilmembers.
“Could have used a little warning, don’t ye think? I was eatin’ me mid-afternoon snack.”
He brushed away a few noticeable crumbs on his lips, muttering darkly beneath his breath until he spun around and saw me. His face lighting up, he skipped toward me and saluted, much like he did in the garden.
I saluted back, snapping my heels together, and he broke into a wide grin. “It’s been an honor servin’ ye, Miss Winters. I hate ta see ye go, but ye’ll make a fine hatchlin’.”
“Mister, er, gnome,” the redheaded woman said, looking down at him uncertainly.
“Me name’s Francis,” he interjected, sweeping off his pointy hat and bowing low to her. “Pleased ta finally meet ye, Lady Amabelle. Heard plenty o’ stories about ye.” He gazed up at her adoringly. “Is it true ye were the first to give us gnomes our freedom? I thank ye mightily for it, I do.”
“Enough.” Lord Macon’s voice was steel. “Gnome, did you or did you not interact with Miss Winters yesterday before the clock struck midnight?”
“Aye, that I did, my good sir!” Francis said, looking mighty pleased with himself. He seemed to be oblivious to the snarl curling the corners of Lord Macon’s lips. “She gave me a direct order, and my name would be mud if I didn’t listen, now wouldn’t it?”
He gave me another sloppy grin, two pink circles appearing on his cheeks as he swayed slightly to the left. Just what kind of mid-afternoon snack had he been having?
“That settles it, then. There has been an obvious mistake in Miss Winters’s paperwork, and so I see no reason not to admit her into the academy for further training.” Lady Amabelle looked around at the other councilmembers, who were nodding in agreement. Her gaze fell upon Lord Macon, who also nodded, though he looked as though he’d just been force-fed a poison mushroom.
“Very well,” he said, and the words seemed to cause him considerable effort. “Welcome to Magic Island, Miss Winters.”
His fingers flexed around the grip of his wand. “Now all three of you, get out of my sight.”
“Well that went better than expected,” Glenn said as we stepped back out into the sunshine and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Did it?” I asked, crouching down on the sidewalk to catch my breath.
I had no idea what came over me in that courtroom—never in my life had I been one to stand up to any kind of authority figure—and I was now left with the terrifying knowledge that I had managed, within the first two hours of arriving, to make an enemy out of the most powerful man on the island. That had to be some kind of record.
“Indeed.” Glenn bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and grinned down at me. “He could have turned us both into toadstools. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He held out his hand, and I took it, allowing myself to be pulled gently to my feet. Glenn looped his arm through mine in a fatherly way, and together we strolled down the sidewalk. I didn’t fully catch my breath again until the imposing courthouse had disappeared entirely from view, but once it had, I began studying my surroundings with interest.
“What now?” I asked, stopping to press my nose against a store window. Inside were shelves balancing row upon row of glass vials containing liquid of every imaginable color, some bubbling, others sparking, a few emptying and refilling themselves before my eyes. A young man wearing an apron stood behind the counter addressing the first in a line of customers that wrapped practically out onto the street.
“Now,” Glenn said, stifling a yawn behind his hand, “I drop you off at the adult dormitory for the academy, where you’ll be staying while you complete your studies. You’ll be starting your first lessons in a few days, along with the most recent batch of other adult hatchlings. Since you are of age, though, the IAMB will require that you also contribute to society, so I shall be picking you up bright and early tomorrow morning and escorting you to the employment office. They’ll help you find a job so you can pay for your lessons and living expenses. After that, I’ll be taking my leave of you.”
My stomach dropped. “Won’t you be teaching me how to be a witch, or whatever else I need to learn?”
Despite our rather shaky start, I was beginning to consider Glenn as something of a father figure, which I’d never really had before. The thought of being separated from him, the only friendly face on the island, made a ball of anxiety knot together in the back of my throat.
“Ah, I can assure you, my dear, that there are far better teachers than I. You will be in excellent hands at the academy, learning from the best witches and wizards on the island. Besides, should you ever need me, I’m only a sparrow away.”
He turned toward me and, correctly interpreting the look of fear on my face, gave me a gentle smile. “The day is still young, though, and this beautiful sunshine is making me feel like a boy again, so why don’t we grab a bite to eat and explore a little of what the island has to offer?”
I nodded gratefully and took his arm again, and as we walked down the street, I took a deep breath and prepared to greet whatever new adventures lay ahead the next day.
Chapter 6
I slept fitfully that night, my dreams alternating between visions of Lord Macon’s severe face and the pile of coffins I’d seen on the Magic Island Ferry. Just when I’d finally drifted into a dreamless sleep, an innocent-looking vase of fake petunias on the nightstand began honking and shouting, “Time to get up! Time to get up!” in a sing-song voice.
After knocking them off the nightstand with an angry sweep of my hand—they hit the floor and burst into noisy tears—I dragged myself out of bed and looked around the dorm room, wrinkling my nose as my gaze landed on yesterday’s clothes heaped on the floor. What was I supposed to wear?
By the time Glenn had dropped me off at the dormitory last night after a day of sightseeing and a delicious dinner, I had been so exhausted from all the excitement I could barely see straight, so I’d fallen into bed without having a proper look around my room. Now, though, I noticed an enormous wooden wardrobe in the corner.
I stumbled over to it, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and praying there would at least be some kind of academy sweatshirt I could don for the day… even if it wouldn’t make the best first impression at the employment office.
As I got closer, I noticed a small note from Glenn pinned to the wardrobe door. “Wren,” it said, “a little welcome present from me and my friends at Callista’s Closet. You’ll now be the most well-dressed witch on the island! P.S., kindly throw away that jacket.”
My curiosity piqued, I yanked open the door and gasped in surprise at the row of colorful garments inside, all in my exact size. I pulled out a striking turquoise blouse and a pair of white capris, and I had just finished running a comb through my long hair when I heard a shuffling sound outside the door and Glenn’s voice calling, “Yoo-hoo!”
Grinning, I grabbed my purse and stepped outside to greet Glenn, who was standing next to an airborne tray piled high with breakfast sandwiches, donuts, and an enormous watermelon whiplash. “It’s always best to start your day with a full belly, Wren,” he said sagely as I followed him down the dormitory steps and onto the sidewalk. “In my opinion, it’s the only way to ward off the grumpies.”
We walked in amiable silence, me sipping my whiplash and Glenn munching noisily on a donut, until we reached a squat gray building with a crooked roof and a fat orange bird preening itself on the front porch. Until we got closer, that is, and I realized that the bird was in fact a…
“Dragon,” I breathed, transfixed by the way its orange and red scales glittered in the sunshine. I frowned at Glenn. “I always thought they’d be bigger.”
“Careful what you wish for. This one’s only a week old, I’d
say. Give him another few months and he’ll be at least a couple thousand pounds.”
Glenn chuckled and leaned down to stroke the dragon under the chin. It closed its eyes lazily and let out a low, rumbling purr as it melted under Glenn’s touch. When I bent over to do the same, the baby dragon’s eyes popped open and latched onto mine before it clamped its razor-sharp teeth over my finger, which I hastily yanked away with a yelp.
With my finger still smarting, and now glowing an alarming shade of green that Glenn seemed thoroughly unconcerned about, I followed him into the building and approached the desk, where a short, squat man with a pointed chin, ruddy face, and thick brown beard reaching all the way to his waist was barking orders into a phone… in a high-pitched, undeniably female voice. Adding to the confusion, he was wearing an emerald green dress that showed off his ample cleavage.
“A lovely lady dwarf,” Glenn muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Trust me when I say she’s one of the prettier ones to grace the island. Misty!” he addressed her in a loud, genial voice as she slammed down the phone and glared at us suspiciously. “I have a new hatchling for you! Allow me to introduce Miss Wren Winters.”
He nudged me forward, and I reached out to shake the dwarf’s hand.
Ignoring my outstretched hand, she crossed her arms over her bosom and narrowed her eyes at me. “You got any talents?” she said, running her gaze over me as I shifted self-consciously from foot to foot.
“Er, I’d like to think so,” I said with a nervous laugh, then took a giant gulp of my watermelon whiplash to calm my nerves and immediately began choking on it.
“Wren here’s a smart cookie,” Glenn said, thumping me hard on the back as I spluttered and wiped the tears from my eyes. “I’m certain she’ll excel at whatever job you find for her, Misty. And now, I leave her in your capable hands.”
He gave my shoulder a little squeeze and whispered, “We shall meet again soon, Wren Winters. Remember, should you ever need me, I’m only a sparrow away.” Then he took two steps, pirouetted in place, and disappeared with one last wave.
Misty, still giving me a dubious look, gestured ungraciously to a stiff wooden chair in front of her desk before plopping into her own much more cushiony one with a loud sigh. “So, what can you do?” Her beady black eyes met mine, and she began twirling the end of her beard between her fingers as she watched me consider her question.
“Well,” I began slowly, “I’m a resume writer—or, I used to be.” It wasn’t the most exciting job, admittedly, but it paid the bills. Sort of.
She pinched her lips together and squinted at me in confusion. “What’s a rez-oo-may? Is it one of those four-legged flying things made out of metal with the spikes on the end?”
I gave her a blank stare. I had no idea what she was talking about, but whatever it was sounded both terrifying and intriguing. “No,” I said slowly. “It’s a document that people send out when they’re applying for jobs that lists their qualifications. I write it for them, help make them sound good so they’ll get the job.”
She continued squinting at me, then lifted the flowery cap perched on top of her hair and scratched her head loudly. A small cloud of fleas fluttered into the air, and I scooted my chair back quickly. Unperturbed, she flapped her hand around her head to banish the rest of the fleas and replaced the cap. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard. Why can’t they just write those rezy-thingies themselves?”
Before I could respond, she heaved a thick file folder from the desk drawer and began pawing through the pages inside. “No,” I heard her muttering under her breath as she shook her head furiously and tossed one of the pages aside. “That won’t do. Nor will that—you need some kind of brains for that one.”
I opened my mouth indignantly, then closed it again as she slapped the folder closed and said, in a voice dripping with impatience, “You got any useful skills? I’m not a magician, you know.”
“Does being able to balance a spoon on my nose count?” I joked, remembering how impressed Jason had been when I’d first performed the trick for him on our second date. Then, with a pang, I banished his face from my mind. Too soon.
The dwarf was not impressed. She gave me a withering look and pulled out another folder, this time much thinner, and began running her finger down the first page. “I’ll start naming available jobs, and you tell me if you’ve got any experience. Hurry up now, I don’t have all day.”
I swallowed hard and nodded, then sat up a little straighter in my chair in an attempt to appear professional and not like the simpleton she so clearly thought I was. So much for making a good first impression on the islanders. First Lord Macon hating my guts, and now this? I guess I wasn’t going to be winning a popularity contest anytime soon.
Without looking up at me, she barked out, “Used broom salesman?”
“Um, no.”
She heaved another loud sigh. “Dragon slayer?”
I gave an audible squeak and quickly shook my head.
“Werewolf shaver? Unicorn wrangler? Ogre de-smeller?”
And on and on it went, each job more disturbing than the last, until finally she closed the folder with a snap and shook her head, her ears flapping. “You’re hopeless. Are you sure you’re not a dud?”
“I—I can write,” I ventured, desperate by now to prove my worth, even to this unpleasant creature. “I’m pretty good at it, and I’ve always wanted to do it for a living.”
In fact, being an award-winning journalist had been my dream for as long as I could remember, and I’d been submitting my resume with increasing desperation to my local newspaper for years, trying to get my foot in the door. I’d never even been called in for an interview, though, which didn’t speak too well of my resume-writing abilities. Still, the dwarf didn’t need to know about those particular failures.
She steepled her fingers under her chin, her beady eyes boring into mine for several long moments. Just as I was about to apologize for wasting her time and slink out of the employment office with my tail between my legs, she gave a curt nod and said, “I might have just the thing. Wait here.”
As I drummed my fingers against my thighs nervously, she grabbed the phone and dialed, then turned her broad back on me and began speaking into it in a low, fast voice. I leaned forward, straining to catch what she was saying, but was unable to make out anything other than “unqualified” and “best I can get you.”
In other words, a glowing recommendation.
Just when my self-worth had plummeted to somewhere near my ankles, she hung up the phone, scribbled an address and some hasty directions on a piece of paper, and shoved it in my face. “Congratulations. You’re the newest journalist for The Islander Gazette.”
I took it from her, hardly daring to believe my luck, and began to walk away. As I reached the door, I heard her mutter, just loud enough to reach my ears, “And don’t screw it up.”
The Islander Gazette offices were everything I imagined a newspaper should be: papers flying through the air (literally), reporters bustling around the room with pens tucked behind their ears, the ringing of multiple telephones clashing in the air, and a distinct odor of day-old clothes.
It was magical.
I hovered uncomfortably near the front desk for a few minutes, watching the chaos unfold around me and trying to look as though I belonged. Eventually, a pretty girl who looked to be a few years younger than me floated over to the desk, her silver and purple wings flapping gently.
“Can I help you?” she asked, giving me a welcoming smile and glancing down at the address still tucked in my hand. “Oh! You must be Wren. Misty told us we should be expecting you. Welcome to Magic Island! I’m Glinna.”
She reached down into the neckline of her sparkly silver dress and pulled out a small translucent pouch filled with some sort of lavender-colored powder, then dipped her hand into it before tossing the powder all over my head.
“To help with your first-day jitters!” She grinned widely at me.
; “What is it?” I asked, attempting to brush some of the powder from my eyes without insulting her. Was it some kind of hallucinogenic drug? I could feel myself getting woozy already. I grabbed onto the desk to steady myself, a ball of panic rising in my chest.
She blinked at me in surprise. “Fairy dust, of course.”
Of course.
Cocking her head, she regarded me thoughtfully. “You still look a little peaked. Another handful probably won’t hurt.”
She reached into the pouch again, but was mercifully interrupted by an enormous, jovial-looking man with blond curls and shockingly blue eyes who was bounding across the room in our direction, calling out greetings to the reporters he passed. When he reached my side, he grabbed my hand, which had been hanging limply at my side, and began pumping it up and down in earnest.
“Wren Winters, I presume! I’m Percival Longlane, editor-in-chief of The Islander. Welcome aboard.”
I cringed as his voice carried across the room and several dozen pairs of curious eyes swiveled in our direction. Being the center of attention always made me feel a little ill, dating back to the time in third grade when I’d had to give a speech about sedimentary rock in front of my entire class and ended up having an accident right there, in the front of the room, with everyone watching. You try being called Wetpants Wrennie for the next ten years and see if it doesn’t screw you up on pretty much every conceivable level.
“Er, thanks,” I said, still blinking fairy dust out of my eyes.
Without warning, Percival spun on his heel and began striding across the room, and I hurried to catch up. I reached his side, panting slightly and still feeling flushed from all the attention, and followed him to the very back corner of the room to a row of brightly lit cubicles with tiny desks and rickety-looking computers, far removed from the hubbub of the main area.
Trying not to let my disappointment show on my face, I smiled politely and said, “Looks great.”
