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Certainly not because she wanted the truth from the grumpy arborist.
As he made his way into the spellshop today, he glared up at the bell ringing above the door as if it were as loud as those in a clock tower, and before he even reached the counter, he apparently felt the need to point out the obvious. “You’ve got a huge crack in the front window.”
“It happened last night,” Fia said, almost telling him about the appearance of the rook and the delivery of that awful letter, but Dermot hadn’t come to listen to her sob story—that chore would later fall to her good friend, Grace—and so she left it at that. The last thing she needed to do was chase away her only customer.
“You should fix that up,” he said with a frown, knowing nothing of her ever-unreliable magic and the terrible secret that she didn’t trust herself to mend the crack. “It looks a sight.”
A quiet “I know” was all Fia could manage in response to Dermot’s blunt truth, because every time she looked at the glass, she thought again of her mother. Could picture her outside, arm raised, streaking a paintbrush across the window with a confident hand. She wasn’t the sort who’d unknowingly rub a spot of paint on her cheek as she worked. That was more something Fia would absently do, and so, even though she’d offered to help her mother with the touch-up, Sable had done it all herself. Just as she’d always kept the books, and talked to the customers, and written the majority of the spells.
No wonder Fia was having so much trouble with the shop now—and it didn’t help that in letting her thoughts wander, she’d missed hearing Dermot’s next words.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?”
“I need a spell,” he repeated, prickly as ever. “I’ve got a song stuck in my head, going on and on, and I want it out. It’s an awful annoyance.”
Fia nodded, her mind already whirring. “Let’s see. A spell to erase, or maybe to banish… No, nothing permanent.” She considered, then decided. “A spell to lure a song from your thoughts.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Irritably, he scratched his stubbly chin.
“Um, yes.” Fia didn’t bother explaining how much the words themselves mattered. That the way they were strung together made all the difference, and that was why she had a job—however tenuous—at all. Yes, anyone might write a spell, just like anyone might design a dress or bake a cake. But just as no one would want to eat one of Fia’s burnt confections, she suspected no one would want to use a clumsy spell written by and infused with the gardener’s ever-impatient and sure-to-be-grouchy magic.
“Don’t suppose it will take too long, will it, with nobody else here?” Again, Dermot unnecessarily pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll get started right now,” she said, smile tight as she drew a thick sheet of paper from a drawer in the counter and lifted the pen from the inkpot. Fia hardly ever wore shoes in the shop—a habit carried over from when she was small—and she tapped her stockinged foot as she considered.
A spell to lure a song from your thoughts.
It was far from the most exciting enchantment she’d ever written, but still, there was nothing she enjoyed more than finding the right words to call forth magic. Despite her habit of rambling when she spoke or going overly quiet once she’d said too much, she wrote the most careful of spells. At least in this she didn’t feel like a disappointment.
Twirling the pen between her fingers, she watched golden dust whisper up from the tips as she ruminated. Spells were delicate things. Like moth wings. Or transient breezes. All the makings of a spell hovered at the periphery, and she had to be quick enough, and gentle enough, to capture their pieces.
At least, that was what spellwriting felt like to Fia. Her mother had always described it much differently, though no less thoughtfully. “It’s like diving into the sea and stealing a pearl.” And she’d smile so wide and victoriously.
Wearing a grin that looked much like Sable’s, Fia spun the spell, her mind a jumble of ideas that slowly twined and intertwined. She ignored the passing of time, marked by Dermot’s persistent sighing, until a familiar dizzy feeling swept through her—a sign she’d caught hold of the right bits of magic. Her hand scribbled faster, letters slanting across the page in her pointy script, ink smearing on the tips of her fingers—though she didn’t fret over the mess. The lines of the spell dazzled inside her, a gentle threading of intention that spilled out into words. She couldn’t write them down fast enough as another dizzy wave washed through her.
“Done yet?” Dermot asked.
Startled, Fia lifted her head, hair flying, then falling, the end of one long curl plunking into the inkpot. Frowning, she lifted the strand from the pot and looked at it hopelessly, then tossed the lock over her shoulder rather than fuss with it. Her hair was nearly as dark as the ink anyway.
“Almost,” she promised, dashing off the final line with a flourish. Then, after silently reading the whole thing through and feeling satisfied with its composition, she said, “It’s done.”
She passed the paper to Dermot, who—always one to ensure he got what he paid for—immediately began casting the spell.
Fia didn’t mind. She liked the sound of her words spoken aloud and the way they clicked so perfectly together. The way she could feel the magic responding even if it wasn’t her own.
“Come,” he began in his gravelly voice, “my sweet song.” Dermot’s mouth puckered on the word sweet, as if he wanted to reject the sentiment.
“Go on,” Fia encouraged, too pleased with the spell to take offense.
With a huff, he started again.
Come, my sweet song,
to where you better belong.
Dancing among the honeybee swarms,
spinning with the thunderstorms,
