Page 21 of Muddled Magic

“Something you’d like to say, Boar?” my mother asked.

“Nothing, Aunt Forsythia.” He immediately went back to devouring his second stack of pancakes. Mom might be the slightest of all the Hawthorne women, a willow branch compared to the rest of us, but she could cast a spell faster than you could blink. And she knew all the tricky and nasty ones, too.

“When you’re done, Meadow, I’ll be in the main library.” She refilled her teacup from the kettle and left.

Boar was quick to whisper again once she was gone, “You know that’s code for hurry up and finish and don’t make her wait very long, right?”

“Don’t you have pancakes to eat?” I asked, flicking him in the ear as I rose to put my dishes in the sudsy water of the sink. I kissed Dahlia lightly on the cheek as she quietly hummed and rinsed a glass clean under the faucet. The easy chore of washing dishes suited her well, especially since she enjoyed making bubbles that the younger nieces and nephews always fought over to pop. “Thanks, Dahl.”

Boar was right, of course, so I didn’t dilly dally and hustled as fast as my stuffed stomach allowed. Outside the main library, its frame carved to resemble an archway of books, spines outfacing, was a wall fountain. In a scalloped-shaped dish was a bar of special soap, and one was to wash their hands in the steams of water sluicing from the top tier into the basin below before entering the library to better preserve the books. Cotton gloves were available if you had to touch the rarer books, and magic was used to handle the antiques.

After washing and drying my hands on the provided towel, I stole into the library on silent feet. Tall, pointed windows pierced towards a cathedral ceiling, and a second floor guarded by a polished wooden railing could be accessed by a twisting staircase at either end of the long room. There were potted ferns and palms on stands between the windows but nowhere else, lest the moisture of their soil and leaves entice mold to grow along the books. A few mahogany tables with high-backed chairs created research areas; a few padded chairs clustered together made comfy reading nooks.

Across from the library doors was the one source of hearth fire, a single flame contained by a hurricane lamp embedded in the wall between the center windows, furthest from the books. In the case of a true fire, it could be hurled out the windows, but it was kept small, fed with the barest of unscented oil. It had no purpose—not heat nor light—other than to serve as an indicator to what the main hearth was experiencing. At present, the hurricane lamp glowed a warm yellow, as it always did. Rumor had it the fires of a hearth witch could change color depending on the situation, though I’d never seen it them do it outside of testing the health of a witch.

“Up here, honey,” my mother’s voice drifted down from the leftmost balcony.

Climbing the winding stair, I followed my mother to the far wall. Whereas shelves had been built into each of the other walls on both levels, this particular wall had been left untouched by nothing more than a splash of cranberry-colored paint. Instead, it was dominated by what looked to be an antique wardrobe with glass panels in its doors. Except it didn’t hold clothes inside, nor suede or leather shoes, nor expensive handbags.

The rarest tomes of the Hawthornes’ collection were stacked inside and secured there by chains. The rarest, and the most dangerous.

Only Grandmother Iris and Mom had a key to unlock the wardrobe, and presently Mom pulled a chain out from under her clothes to reveal her key.

“It seems since the Circle ceremony that you’ve been struggling, Meadow,” she began, and every sphincter in me clenched, not wanting to discuss that ceremony nor what I’d discovered in the days following. That my own family was under a curse that forced them to feed a parasite in the grimoire and then forget it had even happened.

“Your father and I both agree that a break, maybe some one-on-one time, would be best for a few days to help you adjust.”

She was acting like I was eight again and told I couldn’t have a pony, but I appreciated the sentiment.

Mom gave me a hopeful smile as she opened the wardrobe and swept her hand towards her non-progeny pride and joy. “You’ve always had a fascination with rarer spells and runes. Why don’t you pick a book and we can go over it together? Maybe sneak in a spell?”

“Okay, I’d like that.” I stepped up the wardrobe, linking my hands behind my back so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch the books with my bare hands. I scanned the titles, not sure what I was looking for, but then it dawned on me. Find a spell that will help you get the grimoire and escape!

Nervous anticipation rippled through me. I’d have to be clever and choose something that would help me indirectly, otherwise my mother would start to suspect.

“That one,” I said, pointing.

“Oh.” Clearly it’s not what my mother had thought I’d choose, but she slipped on some white cotton gloves, released the smaller chain that shackled the book’s spine to the shelf, and withdrew it to the side table.

I wiggled my hands into my own pair of cotton gloves as she secured and locked the wardrobe, already starting to flip through the pages by the time she returned. Each page was so old it looked like it’d been stained with tea, but the inked words and diagrams were as bold as ever. For years, Mom had painstakingly restored many of these old tomes, and as she stood beside me, a softness came over her face as she recognized each page like a long-lost friend.

She was astute, like any Hawthorne, and often asked if I wanted to try out the spell written on a page if I examined it too closely. No, Mom, I’m trying take mental pictures of anything useful, which I can’t do if you keep bugging me, so shush!

Taking a tonic of ginseng and caterpillar mushrooms before any strenuous activity would boost your strength and endurance by fifteen percent.

A spell involving red jasper and papaver flowers would decrease your inhibitions while simultaneously increasing your reactivity time, essentially making you fearless for quick bursts. Huh, funny how Grandmother shuns the use of crystals as anything but portable magic caches but this spell is in here.

The Carpet Phlox Potion amplified the effects of whatever spell you performed next, and we had all the ingredients on hand apparently.

That could be handy.

Then I saw it. The Rabbit Step.

“Ohhh,” Mom drawled, pulling the book closer as my gaze riveted on the spell. “That’s a fun piece of magic. Very tricky indeed. We’ll need to go outside for this one.”

Then she pulled out the drawer in the side table and withdrew a sheaf of wafer-thin paper, pressed it to the page with a glowing green hand, and effectively scanned a copy of the spell onto the paper. The letters shimmered green before Mom rolled it all up into a scroll and stuffed it down her shirt. Then she replaced the book in its chained and warded wardrobe and, after a brief stop in the kitchen to raid some of Aunt Peony’s ginger candy, we headed outside to the training yard.

Before Mom unfurled the spell, she spread her legs into a wider stance and bade me do the same. “You need to be well grounded for this one to work,” she informed me. “The Rabbit Step doesn’t make you just fleet-footed; it enables the user an aspect of teleportation. You’ll be moving at very high speeds, and if you aren’t aware of your surroundings at all times, you could end up inside a wall or tree or whatever. Knowing where the ground is, being fastidious in drawing your magic up from your feet and into your core and then using it will lower the risk.”

---