Page 18 of Wizards & Weavers
He had bacon and eggs ready to go in the icebox, a small luxury he could afford after selling the old family house and moving into the shop’s attic. All right, so that made two very important things in the kitchen. A chest with a strong enough ice enchantment to keep food from spoiling? Also priceless.
He flipped through the stack with his thumb, decades of Beadle words and wisdom streaking by on the cream-coloredcards. And there it was: Card No. 63, Bethilda Beadle’s Perfectly Plump Pancakes.
“Baking powder it is, then,” Braiden said, putting away the jar of soda, then tipping some powder into the pancake batter.
Memorizing the rest of the ingredients, Braiden put the cards aside, taking care not to set the stack anywhere wet, never mind that Granny Bethilda had already personalized it with a mosaic of jam smears and coffee stains over the years. It wasn’t just a collection of his family’s favorite recipes, after all. It was also a repository of magical lore.
A witch inscribed her great works in a book of shadows, while a wizard might choose to secrete his spells in an ornate grimoire.Bethilda Beadle’s Book of Everything, as Braiden liked to think of it, was her very own version of a spellbook, a record that included everything from her favorite tea blends to homemade burn ointments.
Tucked among the recipes and random musings on life in Weathervale were lessons on the weaving way, cards that offered practical tips on the arcane arts of fabric and thread. Card No. 37 was a deceptively innocent discussion of how to use magic to tie shoelaces.
Braiden remembered being disappointed by the spell’s simplicity, until he read the part on casting it on someone else’s shoelaces. Someone who needed to be tripped over, perhaps. That made it far more useful and far more entertaining.
As he puttered around the kitchen, he noted all the things that needed replenishing. He might need more sugar by next week, and definitely some more eggs. But he would need to adjust his shopping, if only for the short term. He was heading into a dungeon, after all.
“Oil for a lantern, a week’s worth of rations, a flask for water,” Braiden muttered. He needed to make another list, hopefullyone that a certain wizard wouldn’t ruin with his ostentatious signature.
Where had Braiden even put that thing? Possibly in the garbage where it belonged. He’d memorized all of the important points on his list, anyway.
And you could never go wrong with some rope in a dungeon. Braiden stared at the tip of his finger. Maybe he could save a few coins. Would his spells be strong enough to conjure an entire coil of rope?
“Hello?” came a faint call from outside. “Braid, is that you up there? I hope I have the right address.”
Oh, right on time. Braiden stood on tiptoes as he peered out the window, waving when he spotted Elyssandra standing outside the shop.
“I saw the window was open,” she said, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Do I just — come up?”
She made a vague gesture with her hands, as if climbing an invisible rope. This seemed an opportune time to test his “it’s just a longer, thicker piece of thread” theory, but Braiden didn’t want to risk sending his new friend plummeting to the ground with a hastily conjured rope.
“Be right down,” he yelled, yanking his apron over his head. He dusted his hands off and did his best not to throw himself down the staircase in his excitement.
Elyssandra was his key to finding the Wizard of Weathervale without having to personally scour every inch of town himself. In a way, she was the key to the dungeon, too, and to keeping Beadle’s Needles open.
Above all else, Braiden was thrilled to make a new friend. He didn’t think it was embarrassing to be excited about that. But he did think it best to glance in the shop mirror just to make sure he hadn’t accidentally painted himself a clown face with his floury fingers.
“I mean, I do all right,” Braiden said, pushing his hair back with his fingers. He didn’t think he looked especially remarkable — lanky, skinny, tallish, but not quite tall.
Was it too brazen to consider himself ever so slightly above average, but in an awkward way? Braiden never knew what to do with his hands. His elbows were always knocking into things. At least he had his mother’s hair, in soft brown ripples like waves on a windy sea. And Braiden had the Beadle eyes, blue like his father, like Granny Bethilda, like a clear sky over Weathervale.
Braiden smiled. His reflection smiled back. Braiden trusted that face. It was mostly friendly, and mostly nice. If only it could mostly manage to sell more sweaters. He’d been told he was handsome, one or two times, but every grandmother thinks her grandson is the handsomest boy in the world. Braiden chuckled, wondering whether Elder Orora thought the same thing about Augustin Arcosa.
“Oh, gods,” Braiden blurted out. “The door.”
He dashed for the front door and threw it open, the bell tinkling as he made way for Elyssandra.
“Come right in. I was just making breakfast.”
“Thank you, I hope I’m not too — oh, my goodness. Braid, this place is incredible.”
Braiden led her past the hanging rainbow skeins of yarn, the neatly sorted spools of colorful thread.
“We can look around later if you like. We should eat for now. Looks like we have a long day ahead of us.”
“You’ll hear no complaints from me. I’m starving again, can you imagine? Like I didn’t eat a thing last night.”
“No worries, there’s plenty to eat,” Braiden said as they tromped up the stairs. “Oh, watch your head. This is my family’s shop. I live on the second floor now. Well, it’s more of an attic than a second floor. Had to give up the house when business started going south.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But this is lovely. Truly. I love what you’ve done with the place.”
