A Spoonful of Magic

by Irene Radford

  “Daffy, please. I’m sorry. My impatience made me put a little too much force into my magical call.”

  Or perhaps some of Ted’s nontalent was helping me recognize magic, and once acknowledged, remain impervious to it.

  I continued walking down the stairs.

  “Daffy?” This time G sounded a bit panicked.

  “I’ll be back when I’ve had a chance to set the kitchen,” and myself, “to rights and start lunch. The soup needs to simmer a bit longer and I need to put the bread into the oven.”

  I also needed to close and lock the back door, put my purse in my office, and use the restroom (panic does that to a person). I began to wonder if G had done something to lighten my chores at Magical Brews so I would come home when he needed me to, not when I needed to. It would be just like him.

  I seethed while I made a pot of coffee and another of tea, and—of course—a plate of cookies to take up to the attic, a full half hour after I’d left it.

  The full magnificence of the pentagram hit me as I set down my tray and took in the awesome glow of the pale oak inlaid into the dark red mahogany. Whoever had set this up had spared no expense or loving craftsmanship. Not only did the lighter wood shimmer in the dim light, it pulsed. I stared gape-jawed for several long moments until I recognized the beat of the glow matched G’s heartbeat, so familiar from many years of falling asleep with my ear pressed to his naked chest.

  We were safe here. Protected and cherished.

  G might be a manipulative bastard, but everything he did, he did out of love of family and community. He was indeed the ideal candidate to reign as Sheriff of the Guild of Master Wizards, protecting all those with magical talent, worldwide.

  “Okay, I’m glad you thought of fortification. We’re likely to need it,” G said, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Let’s get started. I will take east, the director’s place.” He walked to the point straight ahead of me, at the far end of the large room—as big as the original portion of the house, the living room, dining room, and kitchen combined. “Daffy, if you will, please sit to my right, where you have always been, and always should be.” He gave me one of his endearing smiles, the smile I fell in love with oh those many years ago. This time I sensed no magic, no manipulation behind it. Just appreciation and partnership.

  And love.

  Oh, boy I was in trouble. There is no aphrodisiac like being loved.

  We each took places on a point of the pentagram, within the wooden lines but as close to the junction as possible.

  “Um . . .”

  “What, Daffy? Now is not the time for hesitation,” G sounded impatient again, not angry, just anxious to get on with a complex working.

  “It won’t work.”

  “Of course it will. I’ve taken a week to design the spell.”

  “G, will you hear me out?” I made sure my feet stayed outside the pentagram, even though part of me needed to be inside it.

  “Daffy . . .”

  “Listen to me for once rather than proclaim your superiority.” I sounded like a bitchy ex-wife. Maybe that’s what he needed to hear in order to penetrate his hard head. “G, this is the Deschants family home and it has been for four generations. At least. Your family. All that accumulated cast-off furniture and boxes piled up against the far wall belonged to your ancestors and relatives. Your family crafted this pentagram and built up generations of wards and other protective spells. You need your family to work this spell.”

  “Raphe can’t come inside the house until I sink the pentagram and the wards so deep they won’t repel him. We need to get this done so that it is fully settled before the party Saturday evening.”

  “You have three talented children who will be home and without after-school activities by three, and your ex-wife. As much as I respect Zebediah, George, and Sing, they are not related by blood. And Zeb isn’t even talented. You said yourself, he’s mundane muscle, aware of reality, and backup protection. You need me and the children to work this spell and reinforce whatever other wards you’ve set.”

  Silence reverberated around the room. The thunder on G’s brow deepened to a grimace, then gradually eased.

  Sing bowed to me. “She is right, young master.” He spoke for the first time since I’d met him.

  “Let’s eat lunch,” Zeb said, pointedly stepping outside the pentagram.

  “Sing and I will provide drum and flute to keep your mutterings on time and in tune,” George said. “While we wait for the next generation of Deschants, I believe there is chicken and brown rice soup and fresh bread. I’ll encourage Keeli to rest a bit, too. She can aid Zeb in keeping watch while we all work.”

  Three o’clock, and the girls tumbled out of the school bus in front of the house. They raced each other to the back gate, neatly avoiding the faux cemetery on the front lawn. Laughing and poking each other in some sisterly competition, they flung their backpacks on the kitchen table and grabbed cookies while they raided the fridge for milk.

  “It’s getting cold out, Mom. Can we have hot chocolate?” Belle called to me.

  I was lurking in the dining room. G had returned to the attic after lunch and continued working there. His guests had retreated to Raphe’s house for some time away from their brooding boss.

  “Yes, you may have hot chocolate if you fix it.”

  “But, Mom,” they protested in chorus.

  “Make enough for everyone, including your father’s guests. Though I doubt Mr. Wu will drink it. He prefers tea. Jason will probably gulp down the extra portion.”

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Belle asked, coming to stand in front of me, making sure the swinging door to the kitchen closed.

  “Yes, dear. Why do you ask?” I remained in my chair with my elbows on the table.

  “You aren’t doing anything and you aren’t rushing to make sure Shara and I clean up the kitchen after we make the chocolate.”

  “This has been a disconcerting day. But my doughs are rising at the shop and dinner is in the oven, so as soon as Jason gets here, we’ll all go to the attic and consult with your father.” I shooed her back into the kitchen.

  Twenty minutes later Jason clomped into the kitchen through the back door. His backpack landed on the dining table right in front of me. “Belle says I need to talk to you,” he said abruptly. “She says you look scared. And I agree. Pale and shaky. Talk to me, Mom.” He knelt in front of me. “Let me help.”

  As if he could help anyone, with a headache pounding behind his eyes. I could see it in the texture of his skin and the squint above his nose.

  I drew in a deep breath. “We are skipping a few magic lessons and diving right into ceremonial spell work headfirst without knowing how deep the waters are. Get something to eat, take some pain pills, and meet us in the attic.”

  “Will this help my headache?”

  “I don’t know. It might make it worse, or it could banish it altogether. I just don’t know, and it worries me. You’ve never had an allergy or a stress headache last this long.”

  G added the last piece of kindling to the five-sided teepee of twigs and grasses on a flame retardant sheet in the middle of the pentagram. He lit it with a snap of his fingers. Then he drew in a deep breath, allowing the cleansing sage, the actinic scent of copper shavings melting into the mix, and other minerals and herbs blended with it, including blackberry leaves, to invade every crevice of his body.

  Entangling blackberry canes and desiccated leaves comprised much of the combustibles. This trap required deviousness. Most people underestimated the near sentient lethalness of the native blackberry. Not the big juicy Himalayan berries. They were invasive and non-native. But the little mountain blackberry, with its smaller and sweeter berries with tiny thorns growing backward, were the devil to get out once entangled in the skin. A lot like magic spells.

  George began chanting in the most ancient form
of his native language. He beat steadily on a small leather drum, alternating the flat of his palm with his staccato fingers.

  “I, Zebediah, guardian to this conclave, enclose you. None shall enter or disturb you except upon my death or your direct, uncoerced invitation.” His pronunciation carried the weight of formal ritual. He’d done this before. G’s grandfather had taught him these duties within a week of Zeb arriving in the household. The door at the bottom of the stairs clicked shut, and the latch engaged.

  Sing picked up his reed flute and played an Asian counterpoint to George’s rhythms.

  G joined in with his bass voice, intoning an obscure dialect of Old French from the Languedoc that was no longer legally spoken in France. The French had a governmental bureau to keep the language pure. Outlawing regional dialects with different roots—especially in areas with a volatile and rebellious history—was their chief hobby. G’s family had brought this language with them when they emigrated centuries ago.

  When he’d sung all the necessary words, as intended, he translated for the family, though he suspected Jason had absorbed much of the meaning. “We gather in all humbleness to mask the nature of our previous workings. Highest spirits of power guide us in drawing mists and misdirection to our enemies. Help us trap the perverters of truth and justice so that they may no more use their God-given powers for the sake of more power and harm to others. Protect us as we protect others. So mote it be!”

  He clapped his hands above his head once and stepped into the pentagram, sinking to the floor and crossing his legs. He placed his extended wand on his thigh, then signaled each member of his family to copy his movements exactly. As they took up the points of the glyph inlaid into the wooden floor, Jason kicked off his shoes and socks so that his bare feet had contact with the floor within the pentagram, his wand. Immediately, the strain across his brow eased, and he drew a deep breath. The girls’ eyes grew wide and wondrous as a frisson of power greeted each wand in turn. This was their first major working. They had to be nervous. G nodded to each of them with pride that they remained calm.

  He stretched out his hands, as if to clasp hands with Daffy and Jason on either side of him. They likewise reached toward the girls. The points of the pentagram were too far apart to allow them to actually hold hands. The symbolism of the gesture was more important than physical touch.

  A tingle began in G’s fingertips and traveled to his toes and up to lift the top of his head from his consciousness. That same energy spread out from his hands to Daffy and Jason and continued on to the girls, connecting them all in a circle with a visible braid of golden light.

  The flute and drum intensified.

  The energy thickened and rose to form a dome over them, shielding those within the pentagram from outside influences and interruptions. The air within the dome grew denser. The smoke from the ritual fire thickened, invading every opening, including the pores of their skin.

  G fought back a deep racking cough and noticed the others also working their throats, seeking control. He found himself floating above his seated body, still cross-legged, still reaching outward as if holding hands with his closest relatives, but connected only by that pulsing braid of bright light. The others, too, floated above their bodies, eyes closed, mouths moving with their wordless chants. His own ancient syllables poured forth.

  Somehow, the music grew to a rousing crescendo. With a crack as loud as a rifle shot, the dome, the light, the smoke, and the pulsing pentagram all sank beneath them, embedded into the floor, a faint echo of its previous dominance.

  They all collapsed sideways, panting and exhausted. All he could do was make sure he fell toward Daffy and clasp her hand.

  Forty

  I WOKE UP KNOWING exactly what drove G to find sex with other women. Once I’d replenished my reserves with food and good coffee, I was ready to grab any male in my vicinity for a quick, hot, and satisfying tryst.

  I am better than this! I insisted over and over as all the adult males at the dining table flicked wistful glances in my direction. G’s gaze bored deeply into my soul.

  I will not reduce something beautiful, meaningful, and filled with love to mere lust. Instead, I took a cold shower, gave the kids permission to skip school tomorrow—they were all hollow-eyed with exhaustion—and went to bed, alone, with a book.

  Surprisingly, I slept like a rock. But I awoke with the alarm from an amazingly detailed sex dream with a faceless partner. I needed another cold shower before daring to go to work. Small business owners don’t get to take sick leave just because they worked deep ceremonial magic the day before.

  I managed work with no problems, too busy to even think about magic and the consequences.

  Then Ted walked in for his usual coffee and cinnamon bun and I was back to square one. Without thinking twice, I dragged him behind the counter and into my kitchen. In the dark corner by the cooler I pushed him up against the wall, wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him soundly, deeper and hotter than ever before in our tentative relationship. He returned my caresses and held me tight. He didn’t accept my invitation to explore even when I had his shirt half unbuttoned and contemplated his belt buckle.

  “You worked magic yesterday,” he said when we came up for air.

  I felt like he’d opened the shower valves on me at full frigid.

  “As much as I want to make love to you, Daffy, this is not the time or place. Or the reason,” he said gently, disengaging his hands to redo his shirt.

  “You’ve seen this before.” I backed away from him, aghast at my wanton behavior.

  “A time or two. I catch the aftermath of strong magic in my duties. I see what real magicians go through. I’m sorry, but—like I said—not now. Not until we both have full control of our senses and go into it with eyes wide open to the commitment and the consequences.”

  I took a deep breath, and then another until my head stopped spinning.

  He ran his hands through his hair, also taking deep cleansing breaths.

  “Rumor has it that G tinkered with the pentagram and collapsed it,” Ted said, taking our conversation away from the immediacy of my need. But back to the cause of it.

  “That’s what it’s supposed to look like.” I tried to smile but couldn’t look him in the eye. “We’ll know for certain how complete the working is tonight when Raphe tests it.”

  “What do you need me to do Saturday night?”

  “Aside from be my date to the party?”

  “Aside from that.”

  “Zeb and Gayla are running interference at ground level, to keep mundane witch hunts under control. You should coordinate with them once the party guests leave.”

  “I’ll make sure Tiffany and her friends don’t stay to help wash the dishes.” He grinned.

  “We’d like the house cleared by eleven, definitely before midnight.”

  “Gotcha.” He grabbed me around the waist and kissed me again.

  “Ahem,” Gayla cleared her throat. “The Beast is acting up again. We need you to tame it into making espresso rather than merely making growling noises.”

  “Later, love.” Ted kissed my nose and made to leave.

  “The water line is probably clogged again. Let me get my wrench.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You go back to making the best cinnamon buns in town.” He ducked out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

  Gayla raised her eyebrows. “This getting as serious as it looks?”

  “Maybe. What about you and Zeb?”

  She had the grace to blush. “Can’t be serious. After Halloween, he has to go back to his day job in Brussels.”

  “Until then?” I teased.

  “Until then, you don’t need to know. And I don’t need to know about you and Ted. Though I really, really want to know all the gritty details.”

  “Same here. I’ll let you know if there ever are any
gritty details that aren’t the aftermath of magic.”

  And then there was nothing to do but wait. And repair and clean costumes. And bake. I couldn’t put on a party without presenting something spectacular. I do not carve and decorate cakes into masterworks of art. That requires an entirely different skill set from what I do.

  The Christmas decorating magazines hit the grocery store that week. Three of the six I bought featured gingerbread houses. I hadn’t done one of these since the kids were little. They had thoroughly enjoyed applying gumdrops and mints to the exterior, and eating more than they used for decorating. One look at the recipes for gingerbread and I knew I had some tinkering to do to the rather bland, beginner ingredients and plans.

  By Thursday afternoon, when Jason insisted on going back to dance class and rehearsal, despite his continuing headache, and the math club and computer hackers convened in my dining room, I had the blueprints laid out, with a few corrections on ratios from the math club.

  G and his three friends had seemingly disappeared. I had no idea what they were up to, but I did hear a word or three about warrants and observation equipment. The big computer on the dining table bristled with gadgets while satellite laptops hummed merrily. I ignored the high tech and concentrated on my party.

  Friday evening, Gayla helped assemble a replica of my twin tower Edwardian home that really was an homage to Victorian Gothic. By that night it stood tall and proud, but not yet solid. We had to let all that frosting mortar set. At midnight, unable to sleep, I sent an email to Belle’s ophthalmologist requesting an appointment for Jason ASAP.

  Then I began applying icing roof tiles, cobwebs, bats, and ghostly eyes peeking out of the windows to the gingerbread house.

  On Saturday morning the girls made fondant trees, also dripping with cobwebs and other decorations. Royal icing became a backyard pond with more otherworldly beings wafting toward the surface. I had other baking to do if I hoped to catch the final ballet performance Saturday afternoon. Red velvet cupcakes with buttercream and fondant ghosts, witches, bats, and pumpkins. Shara wanted Dracula, complete with bloody fangs, but I drew the line at that. Beyond my artistic ability and my motherly sensibilities.