by Nicole Marsh
Glancing around, I spot a notepad I abandoned last week, on the corner of the table. Snatching it up, I offer it to Leif. He takes the notepad cautiously with a quizzical expression. “What if you just write down the corrections you’d like to make and let me brew the potion? Then you can add the errors I make into your lesson plan,” I suggest. “You could even sit in the armchair opposite of Sylvia, to observe.”
Leif shakes his head. “I’ll write everything down that I see, but it will be easier to observe from over here. Go ahead and brew the potion.”
Rolling back my shoulders I pull the instructions closer.
One drop of Iliad liquid. Done.
One leaf of aspen. Added.
One pinch of prism powder. Check.
Only two more steps remain then stirring and hopefully all the rest will go smoothly.
Reading the next line, I pull over the jar filled with Mandora roots, snap one in half and add it to the mixture in the cauldron. Lastly, I take the glowing rima liquid and shake in two drops from the container.
Glancing at Leif, I pick up the ladle to stir. He gives me an encouraging nod so I proceed to stir six times clockwise and seven times counterclockwise, just like the directions say. Once the liquid stops swirling in the cauldron, I grab the clear vial sitting nearby and add a ladle full of the liquid.
I step away from the table and to a stone portion of the floor, then throw down the glass vial onto the floor. The glass shatters and the liquid puddles on the ground. You could hear a pin drop as the three of us watch the liquid expectantly, like the smoke screen it’s supposed to make is delayed or something.
After a minute of nothing happening, I let out a sigh and throw myself onto the armchair across from Sylvia. Placing my arm over my eyes I groan out, “I’m the world’s worst witch.”
A set of large fingers place a firm, but gentle grip over my wrist and tug my arm away from my face. I look up, expecting Leif to be hovering over me. To my surprise, he’s on his haunches in front of the chair, making himself eye level with my much shorter and seated frame.
“Mira,” He starts in a soft tone, one that feels strangely intimate for near-strangers. “No witch has ever started out as ‘the best witch’. It’s a skill and like all skills, it requires patience and persistence to hone. Becoming an expert potion brewer, or even a novice brewer, won’t happen overnight. That’s why I’m here to train you. I’ve never had a witch that I’ve trained fail their exams, and I’m not going to let you change that statistic.” He finishes his pep talk with a smirk, over the slight dig he ended with.
“I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong, besides pinching too much when I go to add a ‘pinch’,” I say, exasperated.
Leif rubs his chin with his right hand, and I realize his left hand still has a grip on my wrist. I wriggle my hand around, but Leif tightens his hand, instead of releasing me. His gaze meets mine and we stare each other down.
I’m fighting the urge to blink when a sudden crunch breaks the tense atmosphere between us. Startled, I look over Leif’s shoulder and see Sylvia watching us with wide eyes, while shoveling chips into her mouth. Her lips struggle to contain the snack, with a few crumbs flying free as she mumbles out, “Didn’t mean to interrupt, please continue the weird staring thing.” Except her voice is mutilated from her snacks and her words come out elongated and garbled.
I let out a small chuckle at her antics, then turn my attention back to Leif waiting for an answer. I’m hoping that maybe he saw something simple, something he can easily correct, when he watched me brew my potion. When he doesn’t speak, I raise an eyebrow to reinforce my question.
“Witches can be affected by their environment. It’s very common for witches to only brew in one location, become comfortable, then seem unable to brew somewhere new without added effort.” I’m open my mouth to interject, but Leif silences me with a glare. “I don’t think that’s the case for you, since you haven’t been able to successfully brew at all.”
Now it’s my turn to glare at Leif. Obviously if I wasn’t a failure at being a witch, he wouldn’t be here all the way from Canada to teach me how to be a better witch.
Ignoring the look, Leif continues, “I think the issue you’re having, is that your emotions are too close to the surface, which is affecting the effectiveness of your portions. I think that you’re so fixated on the fact that you can’t do this, that you’re rendering your own potions ineffective with that thought/feeling.”
I open, then close my mouth. Thinking on his words, I try to determine whether they could be true. When I made the green smoke, I guess I was a bit nervous. During the process, I did think, “what if I accidentally kill someone” on a couple separate occasions.
Leif’s next words interrupt the epiphany he inspired, “Do you believe you can do this Mira?”
“Well, kind of…” I respond, tentatively.
“Kind of is neither yes nor very confidence inspiring,” Leif quips back.
His words hit a nerve. “I literally just found out magic is real and now it feels like everyone is counting on me. I’m only a girl, one who’s good at art…” I pause, taking a deep inhale before plunging into the thoughts I’ve been too fearful to voice. “I can’t even save myself from being bullied by a bunch of teenagers. Instead I spent years hiding in the bathroom and eating lunch in the library. How am I supposed to save anyone else, when I wasn’t even able to defend myself?” As the words spill out of me, I realize how freeing it is to finally say the truth out loud.
I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I couldn’t save myself, I couldn’t help Vlad, someone I’ve known for years. I don’t want all this pressure, for people’s lives to be ruined if I can’t succeed, because I’m not confident that I can.
Leif stands, releasing my wrist. I think he’s about to agree with me. To say that he thinks I’m not cut out to save the wolves or the town, or maybe even lift the curse from the witches. Instead, he wanders over to a shelf lining the circular walls and pulls down an ancient-looking leather text.
He walks back over to my chair and rests on the arm, opening the book to an almost halfway point before looking down at me. “Do you know what this is?” He asks.
I shake my head to indicate that I don’t.
With a slow nod, Leif shifts the book so I’m able to see the page he’s looking at. It looks like a very old family tree. Pointing to the top he says, “These are the original witching families. It all started with these five.”
My eyes skim across the names and widen.
I receive another slow nod from Leif, when I turn my eyes up to his face. “Your mom and your grandma are from a legacy family. Descendants from one of the original witching bloodlines. Two full-blooded witches came together to create you, one of whom was a legacy. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head again, feeling like I know nothing. The same feeling I’ve had since my world turned upside down on my eighteenth birthday.
“It means, Mira Love, that you are powerful. If any single witch could do this, it would be you. Or maybe me,” He jokes with another one of his signature smirks.
I laugh and, in the background, I hear Sylvia chuckle as well.
“Maybe we could do it together.” I suggest, feeling a bit more confident. From both, the book showing I’m a legacy and the fact that someone with the high caliber of skill that Leif has, has placed their faith in me. He shrugs and I look around the witching chamber feeling a bit uncomfortable now that our emotional chat has finished. “What do we do now?”
“Well, Mira Love. Now that we’ve settled that, I think it’s time to brew some more potions.”
8
The Warning
Mirabella
The next day, I wake up to my alarm blaring. My head feels heavy and my brain groggy, like I got half an hour of sleep. Honestly, that may be an accurate estimate, as I tossed and turned most of the night after Leif and Sylvia went home. Picking up my phone to turn off my alarm, I notice Marc s
ent a message over an hour ago.
A surge of panic flies through me. I check the time on my phone, then double check with the alarm clock I bought when all the weirdness was going on and I was constantly late to work. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see I’m not late for work. Then I laugh at myself when the little calendar on the upper corner of my phone catches my eye.
Today’s Saturday, I must’ve set my alarm by habit.
My curiosity piqued by Marc’s message on a Saturday, I click the icon on my phone to open the text. My good humor instantly turns to anger. I had basically forgotten the brief conversation Leif and I had yesterday, about my job at the Daily, but apparently it was much more serious and meaningful to him than it was to me.
Marc’s message reads: Had a VERY early conversation this morning with your new potion trainer. Wish you would have come to me to tell me the Daily was interfering with your practice. Leif and I came to an agreement for a lighter workload. Your new schedule is 7am-11am M-W. See you Monday.
Although nothing in the message directly indicates that he’s upset, I can tell that Marc isn’t happy that Leif took the initiative to contact him, when I didn’t. I can’t say that I’m very happy about it either. I type out a quick message to Marc, hoping to smooth things over: Sorry Marc. Leif was very persistent that I lighten my workload, but he told me we could talk about it some more before I asked for less hours. Thank you for being understanding. See you Monday.
I open my messages with Leif and start to type a text to let him know how irritated I am. However, when I finish and read it over, I realize how childish it sounds. I delete the words then start over. I do this at least ten times, type a message, read it, delete, and repeat.
With a sigh, I place my phone on the bedside table. I’m still annoyed that he went over my head instead of waiting until Monday to talk to Marc, like we had previously discussed. I know that I need to concentrate on preparing for the witches exams but I wanted more time to negotiate my new schedule at the Daily. The more I think about it, the more I’m able to convince myself that Leif’s heart and head were in the right place.
I turn over and fluff up my pillow before laying back down. Closing my eyes, I try to chase after sleep, since I don’t actually need to be awake before dawn on a Saturday. Instead of sleeping, my mind replays my victory from last night.
After the talk with Leif about being a legacy, we disposed of the dud potion and started brewing the same recipe again, together. Within twenty minutes we had a bubbling cauldron of clear liquid. I bottled a ladle full, threw it on the ground and had a smoke screen like they use in fake magic shows.
Reliving my victory causes me to grin ear to ear and any lingering anger for Leif dissipates. His methods were a bit underhanded, but honestly his advice so far has been accurate. Maybe giving up some time at the Daily is the right next step. And it’s not forever, just until I’m able to get my witching license.
Sighing, I finally give up on falling back asleep. My brain is too awake as I think over last night, and the future, eventually landing on thoughts of Vlad.
Resigned to being awake, I rise from the bed and take my time getting dressed. Choosing a pair of paint splattered jeans and a comfortable pale blue top, I tie my hair back into a ribbon. After one quick glance in the mirror, to confirm I don’t have crusted drool on my face, or anything else equally as gross or embarrassing, I leave my room.
The second my feet hit the wooden floor of the foyer, a knock sounds at the front door. Startled, I walk towards the door and check the peephole. My eye sweeps across the visible areas of the porch, but I can’t see anyone standing there. Cautiously, I open the door and a piece of paper flutters to the ground, like someone placed it in the crevice between the door and the frame. I pick up the sheet of paper, then take a step forward. Looking left, then right, I try to find the person that knocked and/or left the note, but there isn’t a soul in sight.
Our street still appears sleepy, bathed in the dusky morning sun. Porch lights are still on, cars in driveways, and a resounding silence from the neighborhood, all confirm that no one is out and about yet. It’s Saturday, after all. With one last sweeping look, I step back inside and firmly shut the front door.
Once inside, I remember the paper from the door. It’s now a bit crumpled from being clutched in my grasp. I lean against the closed door to fix the wrinkles, then turn it upright. Before I’m able to read the words on the page, a glimpse of Jacob’s gray hair catches my eye.
He calls out “Good morning, Ms. Love” as he walks through the portion of the hallway connecting the kitchen and the sitting room.
“Hey, Jacob,” I call out, my words halting him in his tracks. “Did you see anyone around the house earlier? Or hear a knock?”
“No, Ms. Love,” Jacob replies, a small frown crossing his weathered face. “Is something amiss?”
“No, no,” I reassure him. “Someone just left a note in the door.” I gesture to the paper in my hand. “It’s probably a flier or something, I’ll just throw it away.” I straighten from the door, under the pretense of walking to the kitchen and throwing the paper in the garbage.
Jacob offers a brief dip of his head before continuing to the sitting room.
I walk slowly towards the kitchen until he’s out of sight, then stop in the hallway. I change directions to run back upstairs and make a beeline towards my room. With the door firmly closed, I straighten out the piece of paper.
It’s a plain white piece of paper, like it came from someone’s printer. Scrawled across the page are seven words that appear to be written in black paint. The letters are all capitalized and boldly written, with the paint dripping slightly down the page, as if it were barely given the chance to dry.
I read the message once, a chill sweeping down my spine. Then read it three more times before carefully folding the page into quarters. I open the bottom drawer to my nightstand and pull out a sketchbook, carefully placing the note inside to show Sylvia later today.
Straightening, I shake out my arms, trying to relieve some of the tension that’s built in my body over the last few minutes. With an outward calm, I walk back down the stairs, intent on making something to eat. I walk into the kitchen with the painted words playing on repeat in my head. Their meaning both vague and clear, echoes through my thoughts for the remainder of the morning.
LEIF CANNOT BE TRUSTED. WATCH YOUR BACK.
9
The Toad
Mirabella
In my parent’s witching chamber, I triple check my ingredients on the table with my manual laid out before me. Confirming I’ve gathered the accurate leaves, liquids, powders, and roots, I drop each item into the cauldron, one-by-one.
Within minutes, I have a pale-yellow bubbling liquid, as expected. A grin takes over my face and I bottle two vials of the liquid, before turning off the burner underneath my cauldron. With a deep breath and a small prayer, I throw one vial to the ground. On impact, the glass shatters and the pale-yellow liquid covers the floor. Holding my breath, I watch as the liquid and glass quickly morph into a large, green toad.
Shrieking, I throw my arms up in the air and jump up and down. “I did it! I did it!”
My celebration is cut short when the door to the witching chamber slams open, startling me mid shriek. My dad bursts forward, a mask on his face, wielding a broom like a weapon. His eyes scan the room searching for the threat before landing on the toad. He slowly lowers the broom and pulls off the mask, exposing a delighted expression.
Over my dad’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of my mom’s blonde hair as she peeks into the room. “What did she create this time?” She asks in a tentative voice, her words carried across the room by the circular stones.
“A toad!” My dad exclaims, turning back to look at my mom. His gray eyes flashing with elation. “It’s a toad!”
My mom lets out a gasp of excitement, then steps fully into view. A pair of large gardening shears are clutched in her hands as she rushes forward, towar
ds me. I back up as she approaches, fearing I’ll end up accidentally stabbed by the sharp, bladed ends of the shears in her grasp. My mom’s brow furrows until I give a pointed look to the shears, she’s still holding in a death grip.
“Oh,” my mom says with a chuckle.
She places the shears on the tabletop near the cauldron, before embracing me in a tight hug. She’s not much taller than I am, but she’s always given the best, most firm hugs. The kind that make you feel protected, safe, and loved. I relax into her arms, returning the squeeze happily. I hear my dad’s steps as he strides over to the two of us, wrapping his much longer arms around both of us.
“We knew you could do it, kiddo,” my dad’s voice rumbles through the embrace.
My parents squeeze me tight one more time before we finally break apart. My mom swipes a few errant tears from her cheeks, then gives a self-depreciating laugh. “Oh, my little girl all grown-up. I’m so proud of you. We both are,” she says, her eyes sliding from my face to my dad’s.
He nods when I look at him, “We’re both so proud of you, kiddo.”
As if he’s upset over being forgotten, the toad I created lets out a long, deep, belch-sounding croak. The three of us laugh, the noise relieving some of the sappiness our family hug created. “What do I do with animals created from potions?” I ask. Looking down at the toad, I realize prior to his croak, I hadn’t thought about his fate after being magicked into existence.
“You can release them into the wild, if they’re native creatures that can survive the climate” my dad says. “If they’re not… well it gets more complicated. When I was younger, about your age, I had to drive to the Portland Zoo and tell them I found a wandering penguin, after I brewed a potion without thinking of the outcome.”
“What did they say?” I ask, amused.
My dad thinks for a second before he replies. “I can’t remember their exact wording, but it was clear they thought I bought him from an exotic pet dealer or something. At least they didn’t call the police,” he says.