Page 41 of Marcus-stiltskin

“Yeah.”

Esmer claps her hands together. “Well, let’s get started.”

“Now?”

She nods. “No time like the present.” She digs through her bag and pulls out a huge metal plate and candle. She sets the candle on the plate and looks at me expectantly. “Alright, kiddo, go for it.”

“I-I can’t really control it.”

She smiles. “Of course you can.”

I close my eyes and think about the candle burning. It hasn’t done anything to make me mad or embarrass me, and I’m not feeling super emotional at the moment, so I have my doubts.

“What are you thinking about?” Esmer asks aloud.

I huff a laugh. “That I’m not emotional enough to do this right now.”

“Open your eyes,” she says. I do as she asks and find the candle is lit.

“Did I really do that?”

She laughs, “Nope, I did.”

“Oh.”

She laughs again. “There’s a point, I promise. I’m just sitting here with you and Darla. We aren’t emotional, nothing crazy is happening, no one’s being attacked. We’re just here, sitting at a picnic table, and I’m able to light the candle without even touching it. Yes, magic is easier when you’re emotional, but it’s also very unpredictable. You kinda got lucky, as horrible as it sounds, that you were able to attack that asshole with the magic. What if it had been off and you’d burned down the stage you were on? Or hit some innocent bystander? It can’t be emotion-based. That’s an incredibly dangerous way to work magic. For you to control it, you’re going to have to work on grounding yourself and controlling your inner self.”

“Like meditation?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow at the tone of my voice. “Is that a problem?”

I sigh. “When I was younger, my brain always felt… messy. My thoughts would run and I couldn’t sleep. The therapist my parents took me to tried to help me with meditation, but the thing that actually worked was journaling.”

“Do you still journal?” Esmer asks.

I shake my head. “I stopped after my younger brother got into my things and read it aloud for an audience.”

Esmer grimaces. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…”

“You want me to start journaling again?”

She nods, her lips a thin line. “Yes, please. You’ll need to write twice a day for a while–once in the morning when you wake up and once again before you go to bed. You need to get in the habit of clearing out your thoughts before we get started on anything that remotely looks like control.” She pulls out a plain appointment calendar and flips to September. “We also need to get on a regular schedule so you can practice. Darla says you have a familiar. Can you and your familiar come by my house on Wednesday afternoons?”

“Uh, sure.”

We exchange information as I’m getting ready to leave. “Don’t forget,” she says as I stand from the table. “Journal, every morning and every night.”

I nod. “Got it. Won’t forget.”

When I get back to Marcus’s, he’s doing the sluttiest thing a man can do: he’s making dinner for us–a real dinner, with sides and a salad. He’s standing at the old beige electric range, searing a steak in a cast iron skillet, as Freddie K. watches on. The tiny old man may not be able to see very well, but he can smell just fine. He’s got both tiny front paws on Marcus’s leg, looking hopeful.

Marcus turns to me and smiles. “How was witch school?”

“Good.”

“Are you ready for dinner?” he asks, shutting off the stove.

“I am. You didn’t have to go all out.”

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