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“If you know your name, you know the answer,” Penbrook said archly, making a game of it.
A frown crimped the girl’s lip as she considered, and then she brightened, squealing in delight, “Tally! It’s a Tally flower.”
Penbrook’s eyes practically twinkled. “I couldn’t have named it better myself.”
Elena smiled. “Thank you, it’s lovely. How much do I owe?”
“Ah, everyone else will have to settle their payments with Miss Ives, but I think this very first illusion ought to be on the house.”
A collective ohhhh from the other customers filled the shop, but Penbrook seemed not to notice how he’d impressed them. With his magic. With his small, unexpected kindness.
Fia bit her thumb, wondering how the Madbury could seem so unlike a Madbury.
After Elena and Tally went on their way with their thanks, the two friends who might have gone first stepped up for their turn. “I’d like my hair the color of that flower,” Annalise said, touching one of her curls, which was one shade deeper than her soft brown skin. “Of the darkest ruby petals.”
Norie brushed the ends of her near-white hair, which almost matched her skin exactly. “And for me, I’d like the lighter tint of rose.”
“Excellent,” Penbrook said. He probably saw those bold colors streaked in people’s hair every day, very much in style in Fantillian, whereas it was more a luxury in Trivoris.
Annalise and Norie clasped hands and closed their eyes in some unspoken agreement, and again there was that spark of magic in the air. Penbrook seemed to effortlessly cast his spell—no errant sparks of dust, no struggling to think of just the right enchantment. Fia couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit envious of his ability.
From the roots of the friends’ hair to the very tips, their long strands of blond and brown transformed, as if he were painting each lock from the crushed petals of some impossible Tally flower. Fia twirled her dark hair around her finger, wondering if the girls could feel the soft threads of magic weaving over them.
With a squeeze of their hands, the friends opened their eyes, pealing with delighted laughter as they regarded each other. “How do I look? What do you think?” they asked.
“Amazing!” they exclaimed. “Beautiful!”
Gwendolyn stepped up next, requesting a tiny charm for Rin to wear around his claw, and the bird flapped his bright wings excitedly as Penbrook’s magic fell upon him.
And this was how the day progressed: A whole parade of customers came into the spellshop, so many Fia didn’t know, who might have come over from Harrow or even Glory, and more of those she did, like Agatha Gately, the dressmaker at Shears & Threads, and Skye Blackwood, who, as usual, kept to herself while taking everything in.
Penbrook spun illusions—ones that would last “five to seven days,” he promised—and Fia collected payment, marking every transaction in the ledger. Not all of them were for illusions. Dahl’s Love Drops sold well too, and the dark vanilla candles were snatched right up. Two customers had even come to see Fia—or more likely to gawk at her—so they could cast their own judgment about whether she was guilty of thieving the grimoire from Thistledown. Disliking their scrutiny—and very glad Penbrook was receiving the majority of attention—Fia completed their spells as quickly as she could.
She word-crafted much better alone, in the quiet, late at night when the stars filled the sky, offering their dust and dreams. And when she wasn’t distracted. Like she was today as Penbrook cast illusion after beautiful—truly beautiful—illusion.
You’re an artist, she wanted to tell him, even though he’d probably laugh at her for that too. But there was barely any time for them to scarf down a meal, let alone talk, unless she was directing him to the extra case of those love drops when they ran out or telling him where to find a copy of Wonderspell that a customer had inquired about.
However, it seemed to be taking Penbrook an especially long time to retrieve that last request.
Fia made for the bookcases to grab it herself, only to find him standing—no, he was slouching—against the shelf, head tipped toward his chest, eyes closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks. The fire in the hearth crackled beside him. He let out a soft breath of slumber.
“Madbury,” she whisper-hissed, trying to be stern while holding back laughter. “Are you napping?”
His lids slid lazily open. “Not anymore.”
Although she rolled her eyes, Fia wondered if she ought to ask if he’d overworked his magic, but he was already pushing upright, pulling Wonderspell from where it rested on the shelf, and carrying it out to the customer who’d requested it. So she followed him back into the warm heart of the shop, waiting until he completed the transaction before pushing to her toes and placing her mouth close to his ear.
“Are you feeling all right?” she whispered, aware of everyone in the shop leaning toward her and Penbrook with absolutely too much curiosity.
Again, something flickered in his eyes—fatigue, certainly—but she wondered if it was also something more. If he was thinking of his father and his reasons for coming here.
Penbrook must have felt the weight of everyone watching him, but he looked only at her. “I…” He shook his head, holding back at the last minute, then observed, “You’re chiming.”
And though his words might have been a deflection, Fia realized she was chiming. She’d cast a tiny spell to remind her of the muffins she’d hurriedly purchased from Sugarplum Sweets and set in the oven to warm—a little treat for all these customers she’d never expected—and now the enchantment’s trembling notes drifted through the shop. As did the scent of something burning.
“Oh no!” Fia raced to the kitchen and threw open the oven door, releasing a puff of smoke. The blackened sweets were unquestionably tragic, but she reasoned the middles would still be delicious, and so, after airing the room, she placed the muffins on a tray and brought them out to the shop. Though, as the sun lowered, she might have been the only one nibbling on them.
By that evening, word of the Mad Magician had spread even wider.
