Caster

by Elsie Chapman

  My heartbeat runs low and gentle, an idling motor. Even the flow of my blood seems to slow. A soft, steady hum fills my ears.

  But don’t just sit and watch the flames dance, Aza. You have to remember to stoke the fire, too. To keep it going for as long as you need it.

  It’s Shire’s voice in my head. It’s the memory I still go back to whenever I cast full magic, from that day years ago when we were both still kids. How she talked to me about controlling magic while we built a fire in the workroom of the teahouse, a room that’s hidden from the eyes of customers out front. Not just a typical fire but a red fire, the gentlest fire that exists. It’s one of our family secrets, passed down from the ancestors who first created Wu teas centuries ago—that only a red fire be allowed to dry the delicate buds used in a Wu blend.

  My mind reels back in time.

  The workroom still smelled of fresh wood and paint. The new countertop around the open fireplace gleamed. Repairs had just finished days ago and the repairmen were finally gone. My parents and Shire were already back to using the room as heavily as they had before—business went on and teas still had to be blended for sale—but things had changed just the slightest.

  My parents looked at me with fear. I had to tell them whenever I used a fire.

  And Shire had her scar.

  It was still pink and healing as I followed her into the workroom, my arms full of fragrant flower branches—chrysanthemums, wisteria, rhododendrons, jasmine—all carefully preserved as they dried so that smoke from their fires would smell of their blooms. She said it didn’t hurt anymore, but I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “I’m supposed to tell Mom and Dad,” I said to Shire, “whenever I come in here to—”

  “No, it’s okay,” Shire said, opening up the vents along the wall. “I’m here with you. Want to start up the fire?”

  I set my armful of branches down on the counter beside the fireplace. Some houses had material around to start fires without using magic. But most houses had nothing, because even leftover magic was enough to ignite tinder.

  There was some on the grate already, tufts of shaved-up wood. There was also kindling on the side, ready to be added as soon as the fire began to take.

  “No, you do it,” I said. I hadn’t lit a fire since the accident. Since the workroom had been fixed, I’d barely come in. But I still remembered how the magic had felt. Like I was sick with a bad fever.

  “You’re only lighting it. Use your leftover magic, like before.”

  I shook my head, still unsure. What if it had changed again and I didn’t know it? “Will you do it? Please?”

  Shire knew it wasn’t leftover magic on my mind. “You can’t be scared of your own magic,” she said. “It’s full magic. It’s rare, just like mine.”

  “I can’t control it.”

  “One day, you will. I just know it.”

  The memory of the heat I felt was so strong even then. “Not today, though.”

  Shire was twelve to my eight and still mostly patient with me. She rolled her eyes and cast the fire alight with a breath on her palm.

  We built up the fire slowly, keeping it gentle with the flower branches we chose as its fuel, by stoking it with the fire rod at exactly the right time, and only just so. The flames glowed a red as bright as poppies.

  I asked the question I still hadn’t learned not to ask. “So is Rudy a good magic teacher?”

  Shire smiled. “Rudy doesn’t teach ‘magic’—he teaches control.”

  I picked bark free from a wisteria branch. “That’s what I said.”

  She frowned and poked the fire with the rod. “I can’t tell you anything. I promised Mom and Dad.”

  “A hint? I won’t tell.”

  “Oh, Aza.” I could sense her patience wavering with the flames. She huffed out a sigh and tucked her long black hair behind an ear. “How about I tell you something I got on my own? Something about controlling magic?”

  I nodded, deciding it was a good swap.

  “It’s like stoking a fire. The magic you draw is its fuel, but you control how high you want the flames, Aza.” She took the wisteria branch from my hands, dropped it in, and the fire grew. “What you want it to burn.” Shire poked the bed of wood and it spilled over. The flames shot sideways. “Where you want it to go.”

  I backed up a step. The skin of my arms was hot, nearly as though I were casting magic again. The flames danced closer to yellow than red—too hot for drying stuff for tea now. “What do you mean?” My sister stepped back with me and grinned. The spread of the scar on her cheek went in and out of shadow. “Well, that’s the part Rudy’s going to teach me.”

  The memory ends and time is today again. The medicinal smells of Rudy’s apothecary replace the floral ones—chrysanthemums, wisteria, rhododendrons, jasmine—of the teahouse’s workroom of eight years ago.

  Shire, now I know how, too. If only we could have talked about it together. Maybe we could have made each other stronger. Maybe you’d be alive still.

  I start moving the supplies back into the boxes, careful to keep everything sorted. And just like before, soon enough the work becomes mindless, a pattern of motions I do while barely having to think about it. Green bottles in this box, amber ones here, rhubarb roots in this one …

  When I’m done I return the now re-sorted boxes to the shelf and head out to the shop.

  It’s empty except for Rudy. He’s doing inventory, checking his stock of medicated oils and soaps against information he’s looking at in a binder. The light coming in through the main window is a gauzy dark gray, revealing it’s nearly evening. Which means it’s nearly dinner. I have to get home soon—as far as my parents know, I should have been done with work by now.

  “Why are you still here?” I walk over and pick up a thick bar of black soap. I sniff but can’t place the scent. “Doesn’t the shop close around this time?”

  “Pine tar,” Rudy mutters as he writes something down in the binder. He sounds even more tired than he did earlier. “For rashes.”

  “What?”

  “The soap.”

  I put the bar back, wondering how to say thank you. It should be easy, now that I finally have some answers. But I still have questions, ones about Shire that I’m beginning to doubt Rudy will ever tell me.

  “So I figured out why you’ve been having me do chores around this place,” I say.

  No reaction. He just keeps writing, eyes planted firmly on his paper. It’s like the Rudy from the supply room who gave me back a small piece of my sister never happened.

  “You don’t care that I know now?” My voice is stiff. The note of pleading in there surprises even me, and the skin of my neck burns.

  “Only if it means you’ll stop coming back.” Still writing. “You can practice on your own now. There’s really nothing else you need from me, Aza.”

  The heat around my neck climbs until my face is just as hot. I don’t even mind that much—I’m used to being angry with Rudy instead of grateful. And maybe he’s the same way, too. If my being here keeps being a bother, he won’t have to feel bad about everything he hides from me.

  “Practice on my own or not, I still need to know the spell that killed Shire. Which you know because you were actually there when she cast it.”

  Rudy shuts the binder and finally faces me. He looks like hell. Guilt slips in—I know a lot of that hell is because of me—and I drop my gaze. I can’t let it matter, can’t let it convince me to back off. Just a little more time is all I need, I almost want to beg him. One more week and it’s over either way—Saint Willow pays the teahouse a personal visit or I’ll have made enough marks from magic to clear our debt.

  “I can’t tell you anything else,” he says quietly. He pushes up his glasses and begins to move away. “The shop’s closed now, so goodbye, Aza.”

  He’s already disappeared into the supply room before I can make myself leave. My face is still hot, and an ugly mix of fury and humiliation slicks the back of my mouth,
turning it bitter.

  I yank open the front door and rush outside. Smoke-scented air washes over me, immediately smothering the cleaner scents of rosemary, camphor, and ginger. It’s drizzling and cold out because it’s Lotusland, and I start walking as fast as I can down the sidewalk, like I’m trying to chase something down or maybe even escape from it—Rudy’s secrets, Shire’s, my own, I can’t tell.

  Baseball Cap hasn’t left. At the last second, I remember to turn to check and there he is, still across the street. Except now he’s inside the breakfast-all-day diner that’s opposite Rudy’s place. He’s sitting at a window table, his head turned in the direction of the apothecary. Our eyes meet as I pass, and whatever it is I see in his, I’m suddenly sure that Rudy’s wrong about the cop not keeping watch on him and his shop.

  Sweat pops up on my brow as I swing my gaze forward and keep walking, pretending I haven’t taken real notice of Baseball Cap in any way. And now my thoughts swivel, going from recalling all the reasons why I’m right for resenting Rudy, to breaking down why it makes sense a cop’s on him and how he could be in very bad trouble.

  I have to tell him.

  Shire would want me to.

  And the thing is, if this is about him lying on record about how Shire died, then I’m in trouble, too. And so are my parents.

  I stop abruptly at the end of the block and make a show of searching for something in my pockets and coming up empty. I turn right back around and keep going until I’m once again at the apothecary. I keep from looking at the cop across the street, hoping that Rudy hasn’t already locked up and left. It feels too important to not tell him right away.

  I pull the front door open and call out his name. “Rudy?”

  At first glance, the shop seems empty. He’s not even hunched over behind the counter, counting marks or gathering up the day’s bills of sale.

  But the door wasn’t locked, so he must still be here.

  The supply room.

  I head over, calling out as I stuff my mask away—“It’s me, Aza, where are you?”—so I don’t accidentally startle him into a heart attack or something.

  “Rudy, it’s me,” I say loudly. The echo of my voice rings off the walls, emphasizing how it’s so quiet here otherwise. I go behind the counter and step into the supply room. “Hey, about that cop, I think—”

  He’s on the floor, lying on his back. His eyes are shut and he’s as pale as porcelain. Supplies lie scattered all around him—whatever happened, it was sudden.

  “Rudy!” My pulse is thudding in the back of my throat as I rush over and get down to my knees. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  All I can think about is how I saw that he looked unwell, and still I pushed him. I bothered him and refused to leave him alone.

  How much of this is my fault?

  What if all of it is?

  I’m considering patting parts of his body to see if he’s injured, but I have no idea how to even tell. He’s not awake to scream in pain or anything.

  Panic turns my stomach icy, and I have to shake myself to focus. Where should I start? Torso? Okay, torso.

  His eyes open, but just slightly. “Aza?” My name is a slow whisper.

  “Rudy, what happened? Do you want me to call an ambulance? The shop must have a landline, right?” Full-time casters often have cells just because it draws attention if we don’t, but most of the time, they’re not working; we kill them each and every time. I’ve been carrying around a dead one for months. If anyone asks, I just say I’m on my way to get it repaired.

  “No ambulance,” Rudy says. His words are jagged, full of pain. “Knew … this was coming. Can’t be helped.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sick. Been sick for years. My heart … is bad.”

  Rudy, dying? How can he—? He’s always been—

  “No.” I clutch his shoulder with a cold hand. My blood runs colder. “No, you’re going to be fine. Let me call—”

  “Listen.” A cough, and there’s blood rushing out, and I realize that this is all real. “The cop outside, Aza. He’s here for me, okay?”

  “What? Why? What did you do?”

  “Shire … the night she died …”

  More blood, gushes of it. Panic hits me in waves. “Rudy, stop talking, I have to think. Let me try magic—”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’ll hurt you. And it’s too late. I’m dying.”

  “Rudy—”

  “Listen to me.” He coughs again, and more blood comes. “Wanted to teach you more, but … scared to. Meant to enter … meant to finish what I started.” His eyes drift shut. “Meant it as payback … for Shire.”

  Everything he’s saying is a tangled mess in my brain. “Enter what? What do you mean, payback for Shire?”

  “I’m sorry, Aza.”

  Then Rudy dies.

  For a long time, I just sit there, unable to move because I’ve gone numb. From outside there’s the sound of traffic, the occasional honk of a horn. One of the glass bottles on the supply room floor has shattered open and the entire room smells of rosemary, a scent I might never smell again without thinking of this moment.

  Rudy’s lying on his back, half-covered in blood. He’s still very much dead.

  I stare at him and wonder if I ever knew him at all.

  Wanted to teach you more, but scared.

  Meant to finish what I started.

  Payback for Shire.

  His words flash across my mind, leaving me more confused than ever. And then it comes: guilt, not just slipping in, but in huge washes and waves. Oceans of it, wishing it could revive a secret bad heart.

  “Rudy,” I whisper. “You should have told me. I would have—”

  I would have done exactly the same. I would have kept coming still, choosing a ghost to avenge over the person I wanted to hold at fault for creating that ghost in the first place.

  Shame makes me shiver. So how am I any better than Rudy? Who I resented so much—for all his cruel nonanswers, his cranky evasions to keep from helping me. I couldn’t forgive him for letting Shire die. And now I’m the one here left with his body.

  The answer is, I’m not any better. I’m worse.

  I lay my hand over his heart, despite all the blood. “I’m sorry, too.”

  The cop outside, Aza. He’s here for me, okay?

  Shire, the night she died.

  My stomach twists as I observe Rudy for another long, unmoving moment. I feel sick as the truth sinks in.

  How this whole time, I’ve been right about him hiding something about Shire and the way she died.

  “And so you got caught,” I murmur as I stare down at his still face. “Which means it won’t be long before some Scout comes around asking me about that night. Asking my parents.”

  Something contorts in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Guilt tangles with the same old anger. I might have killed Rudy, but it was from being kept in the dark—while his keeping secrets about my sister dying was absolutely on purpose.

  I have to know what happened. The need for answers burns inside, just as hot as my banned magic does.

  But where do I start?

  “Getting away from here is one idea,” I say out loud. Baseball Cap across the street saw me come in here but not leave. What if he decides to come check out the shop? And here I am with the dead body of the person he’s been staking out.

  I scramble to my feet, terror working like caffeine through my veins. Parts of me are shaking, turning my motions jagged and clumsy.

  There’s some blood on my pants, and it’s not dark enough outside to hide the stains. I grab an acorn from my starter bag and cast the fabric clean. There’s no pain, since leftover magic is enough for the spell.

  How to leave the apothecary is another matter.

  I could leave using the shop’s back door—it’s here in the supply room, between two of the shelves. Or cast myself invisible and then leave through the front.

  But soon enough Rudy’s
body will be discovered, and Baseball Cap will know, and he’ll wonder about the teenaged girl he saw go inside but not leave again.

  Or I could use the front door and just let him watch me leave.

  But that doesn’t erase how I’d still be the girl he saw leave from a shop with a dead body inside.

  So, the only option I have is to make the cop forget he ever saw me come here today, the day Rudy died. There’s no escaping that I’m connected to the apothecary—my prints are all over it—but that’s as a helper. I need to not be connected to his death.

  My head buzzes.

  To cast full magic on a cop is about the most reckless thing a caster could do. But I can’t figure out another way to get out of here without ending up appearing suspicious over Rudy dying.

  For a second I consider taking myself out of the cop’s mind altogether. A total mind wipe, but of a person instead of a chunk of time.

  But just as quickly, I drop the idea. It might save me from being questioned, but it wouldn’t save my parents during his continued investigation of Shire’s death. And to cast enough magic to wipe out all of us—

  Cold sweat rises on my skin at the thought. That amount of magic is dangerous—to me, to the whole sector.

  I leave the supply room and walk back into the shop, still unsure what spell to cast in order to escape. The light’s changed again, and the inside of the apothecary is dim, nearly half-dark. I make my way over to the front window, making sure to stay off to the side to avoid being seen through the glass.

  My heartbeat pounding high in my throat, I crane my head sideways and peek across the street so that the diner is in full view. A more experienced caster could do this while hidden away, but for me to do a mind wipe, I still need the person I’m casting magic on to be in clear sight.

  Baseball Cap is still at the window table. I’d almost admire his doggedness if he weren’t being so careless about showing it. What kind of cop is this, anyway? Maybe I’m worrying way too much about what he could possibly figure out …