It was at that moment she caught the fluid movement of a brown feather duster cleaning off ht bookshelves behind the counter. She blinked. There wasn't anybody actually holding the duster—it was just cleaning things itself.
With a slow pivot in her house slippers Brenda saw several other things moving on their own about the room. Window cleaner and a rag moved in perfect counterclockwise circles on the front window. A second duster moved with precision over ht rows of skulls, which now looked as if they were grinning at her, happy to be given some attention.
And in the corner a broom swept several tumbling little mousey things about. They twittered and chattered—reminding Brenda of finches. She moved closer and narrowed her eyes down at them.
"Dust bunnies," Edward said beside her. "Nasty little buggers. They're all over this room. Hiding in the cracks and crevices." He said crevice an "a" sound, much like cre-vace.
She looked up at him. His eyes sparkled as he handed her a white mug. "Tea?"
"We have tea?" Brenda looked at the amber liquid inside. "And bacon?"
"Well, you have an assortment of things—" He winced. "I'm not they'd all qualify for tea—and the bacon came from your neighbor, two doors down. He needed a poultice but didn't have his wallet with him. Oddly enough, his wife returned with a pound of bacon." The grin returned. "Interesting isn't it? But I did find some commercial bags in that little workroom in the corner."
She took the tea. It did smell normal. She sipped it. Mmm. And it tasted normal. Nice and sweet. "Honey?"
"Well, I'm not sure our relationship calls for terms of endearment yet—seeing as how we just met and—oh," he beamed again as comprehension dawned. "Sorry. Yes. I used honey. Don't have much use for sugar—toddles about with the magical lines." He put a hand to his side—the damaged one. "Oh, and nice job you did. Hurt like all rot, but look," he held up his dark shirt, no longer soaked or stained with blood she noted, and revealed a perfectly smooth side.
Pale. But smooth.
She also noticed how nicely lean and muscled he was.
Edward pulled his shirt back down and motioned for her to follow him to the counter. As she moved forward, she noticed the shop was empty, save for the repeated, precise movements of the cleaning objects.
"Now, I hope you don't mind, but as a thank you for helping me out last night, I decided to put my own skills to work for you. I've got all the appliances working—including the bathroom," he frowned. "And I don't mean to sound tetchy, but you might want to use some cleaner now and again in there. It was disgusting."
Brenda was watching him, listening to him, but wasn't sure how to respond. Finally, her brain caught up with her and she said, "I—I healed you? That potion healed you?"
Edward stopped at the counter and took the cup from her shaking hand and set it down. "Yes, yes. Didn't you look when I showed you? Do you want to see again?" He grabbed at his shirt.
"No, no," Brenda raised her hands. "It's just that—I suck."
His excited smile transformed into a confused frown. Edward pulled up his sweater, exposing the empty area again. "You sucked out the poison?"
"No—I didn't suck it."
"Well, I hope not—" He lowered his shirt and arched his eyebrows at her. "You'd get one hell of a negative headache if you did that."
"I sprinkled the—negative headache?"
"Right—nasty thing, those. Buggers up the whole positive aura. Pretty much clogs the magic pipes," he frowned again. "Didn't I say that already? Oh, no—that was sugar wasn't it?"
Brenda blinked.
"But—anyway—you knew what to do. You always knew what to do. I just took something like last night to give you that kick in the backside. Well, so to speak."
"Edward," she held out her hands, palms down. "What in the hell are you talking about? And where the hell did you come from? And what," she pointed to his side. "What thing bit you that badly?"
"Doubt."
Pause. Blink. "What?"
"You asked me what bit me? Doubt. Now that's a corrupt piece of thought, doubt is. It's the single worst thing to come out of Pandora's Box. Loads of people thought famine and disease were the tops—but no—doubt was the worst. I mean, when you really think about it, if you didn't have doubt, hope might have a fighting chance. Hope is so strong and pure—and it was the last thing in the box, did you know that? And if you had hope, you'd know that positive thinking and confidence can win against famine and disease, but there's always that—"
"Edward!"
He cocked his to the side. "Are you all right? You're looking a little flustered Brenda."
She put her hands to the sides of her head. "Edward—were did you come from?" She was thinking since the bite question wasn't getting her anywhere, maybe this question would.
"Back door."
Eh? "Edward, there isn't a back door. Not a real one."
He glanced in the direction of the stairwell. "It's over there. Down those steps. Nice door."
"It opens up to a wall."
He gave her a lopsided grin and leaned in close. "Yeah—for those who don't believe in magic."
Brenda glared at him, and then looked at the stairway. With a sigh she stalked to the stairs, took them two at a time, put her hand on the doorknob, and yanked it open.
Brick wall.
With a growl she slammed it shut and looked up at Edward. "See? Brick. Wall. No back door."
"It's because you have doubt, Brenda. And as long as you doubt who and what you are, then you'll never get it open."
"Oh, this is stupid," Brenda stomped up the stairs. Edward stepped back, and continued to step back as she pushed him back to the shelf with the grinning skulls. The duster cleaning the books moved away, and she could hear the chatter of dust bunnies. "I can't do magic, Edward."
He winced. "Please, Brenda. Don’t say that. Please don't say that."
He looked so serious she took a step forward. "Why not."
"Because when you do—a fairy dies."
With a sigh she threw up her arms. "Edward, I'm serious. I suck at magic. I can't do half of what you're doing right now," and she gestured to all the moving things. "I can't even tease a fire spark."
"Why would you want too? They'll start a real fire if you bend them round the twist, you know."
"Edward."
"Brenda," he smiled, and a small bit of her ire vanished. "Not all wizards and witches can do the same thing. If they were all the same, there would be fewer of you. "Granny Pollsocks—she was the best at what?"
"Well, curses really. Getting rid of them. And amulets. Tokens."
He held up a long, think index finger. "Right. But she couldn't mix potions—just look at her shelves. At her stores of things. Even if you had to have noticed how out of shape everything was."
Brenda took a step back. "Yeah…"
"I'm here to tell you that your strength is in potions. You can heal, Brenda."
"Heal?"
He nodded. And there was an excitement around him that buzzed and sparkled. "Yes. You can heal. I came to you because I knew you'd heal me. You have the gift. You knew what to do with those items. I didn't. Anyone can bake a cake, Brenda. But you—you can make it into a Bavarian crème masterpiece with chocolate sprinkles." He nodded. "Eh?"
She took another step back. Something in what he said rang true—she'd always known how to teat injuries to her pets, to her mother on really bad cases, and even to her friends. She'd even considered going into medical school before Granny chose her to inherit the shop.
"Are you saying that if I change a little of what Granny did—make it my own—I can make this place work?"
He nodded. "And I'll help. It's what I'm here for."
It was right then she knew that Edward wasn't really what he appeared to be—a youngish Englishman with electric eyes and a rather melodic voice. No—he was more, much more. "Edward—what are you?"
He put a hand on each of her shoulders, and Brenda could feel the heat from his skin through her
clothing. "I'm here for you, Brenda." He frowned. "Don't you know?" His smile returned with a radiance to block out the sun. "I'm your Familiar."
<><><>
Edward seemed to know what he was doing—in a sort of ordered chaos. He moved about with a catlike grace, and yet still managed to break a few things. It was like grace, charm, and newborn enthusiasm all rolled up in a very neat and somewhat gangly package. Together—with the aid of the magically touched broom and dusters—they cleaned out the corners, the cabinets, and the shelves.
Tuesday and Wednesday passed with the ever-present ding of the cash register—even as the two of them tidied up. Men and women, old and young, familiar and new, all of them came back to the shop and asked for remedies.
Aches, pains, cuts, bruises, colds.
And it seemed that Brenda could look into the their eyes, into each of them, and know if the remedy was for them personally, or for a friend or loved one. She knew what to do. Brenda had always known what to do.
Late in the evening on Wednesday, and after a rousingly well done day at selling and doling out advice, Brenda settled at the table with one of Edward's cups of tea—apparently the man kept a kettle warm all day.
And without a hot plate.
He stood at the register, tallying up the day and announcing that—as of five—they had two thirds of the money needed to satisfy the creditors. "Ah—so bank that, you scoundrels. One more day and you should be caught up."
"How?"
He frowned at her as he bagged the money. "How what?"
"How is that possible? I mean, as of two days ago, no one would come in here. Suddenly they're all in the out of the woodwork. Did you do something?"
"Well, yeah," and his grin widened. "I sort of spread the word. Offered many of them a back door. Did a bit of advertising. Sort of my job—it's what I do to help you."
"Back door?"
He put the money into a box on the counter and put his hands on the counter, palms down. "Back door—it's what I tried to tell you on Monday. Hrm. Or was it Tuesday. Oh, can't remember. But you have to look at the analogy. A back door means what?"
Going with the first thought in her head Brenda said, "A way out."
He held his right hand in the air. "Exactly. And that's what Granny did for them. Gave her customers a back door. It's hope, Brenda. There's always hope. And my back door was you. I could have curled up in the nothing and simply ceased to exist—and allowed your doubt to become stronger and stronger. But I couldn't. Because I have hope."
A back door. A way out. Hope that there's something better on the other side. Alarmingly, it all made sense.
"Edward—why are you a familiar?"
Waiting until he had the money safely locked in the iron-and-steel safe Granny Pollsocks kept in the broom closet, Edward joined her at the table, a cup of tea abruptly in his hands. "Why? Why are you a witch? Or why does the moon go round the sun? That's sort of rhetorical, isn't it?"
"No, no," she shook her head. "I mean, familiars are usually small creatures—like cats or toads or some such thing. Usually not grown—men."
The left side of his mouth twitched and turned up. "Familiars are a part of lore and myth, just like witches and wizards. And how many of the old books got those facts right? He winked. "If I believed them, you should be some scary old hag with a wart at the end of your nose, sitting about and eating children for breakfast."
She smiled. Point taken.
"Don't give in to doubt, Brenda." Edward sipped his tea. "Believe in yourself."
The front door burst open. Both of them turned to watch Detective Jackie Grafton come in, her boots stomping on the newly cleaned and shiny floor. She wore her usual black pants suit and a tan trench coat. Her eyes were wide as she took in the shop, staring at the improvements, at the working lights.
"What have you done?" Jackie's voice boomed out.
Brenda actually shrank in size in her chair.
"Well, hullo," Edward stood up and walked up to Jackie, his hand extended out. Today he wore a simple long sleeve black button up cotton shirt and black jeans. "You must be Brenda's mother. So charmed to meet you."
Jackie narrowed her eyes at him. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"I'm Brenda's new employee. Edward Darlington." He glanced down at his still extended hand. When it was obvious she wasn't going to shake it, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Care for a cup of tea?"
She moved past him to Brenda and loomed over her. "What is this nonsense about not selling the shop? I got a call from Mr. Bitterman—he was all happy and gushy that you'd nearly paid up your bill? And you'd given him a sachet that completely cleaned out the cat-pee from his house?"
Brenda tried not to laugh—but she did smirk. "Yes mom. I did that. But I told you I didn't want to sell—that was your idea."
"Oh? And you think you can keep this place working with two days of good luck?" She snorted. "Oh please, Brenda. Just give it up. You'll never be as magical as Granny. None of us were."
Just then one of the dusters swished out from behind the bookshelf and started its controlled and precise sweep of each shelf. The broom came from behind the counter, chasing dust bunnies across the floor—though they were much smaller than before.
Brenda liked the look of disbelief on her mother's eyes. It was a look that rarely sat there. "I'm afraid you're not quite right on that mom." She knew Edward wanted to answer her in the same manner, but she felt it was better if it all came from her.
"Oh?" She glanced at the broom and duster again. "Parlor tricks. That's all. You can't do magic."
"Maybe not magic the same way Granny could, mom. But I can. I can heal. I can give advice. And I can even make a great cup of tea." She held up her cup. "Would you like some?"
There was something else happening here, and she didn't realize what until she looked at Edward. She knew it when she looked at his eyes. She knew it when her knees didn't knock. She knew it when her palms didn't sweat.
She was nervous around her mother—but she wasn't doubtful. She no longer worried that this was the right thing to do—she was confident it was.
Jackie whirled on Edward. "This is your fault. I recognize you now."
Edward smiled and put a hand to his chest. "My fault? Though I am rather pleased you recognize me." He leaned forward and his eyes arched in question. "Who am I?"
"You're damned fool my mother always listened to. Yeah—you look different. All young and beautiful just to lure my daughter down the same profitless path my mother went." She took a menacing step toward Jackie, and Brenda felt her heart skip. Her mom had a gun. And she was licensed to use it! "She could have sold this shop—this property—and lived in comfort for the rest of her life. Instead she worked in this shop every day and worked long hours—"
"Doing what she loved."
Jackie blinked and turned a surprised face to Brenda.
Brenda put her hand to her mouth. Had she said that? Out loud?
She looked past her mother to Edward who winked.
"How the hell would you know what my mother loved?"
"Because I was always here with her," Brenda said. Yeah, her heart thundered and her palms were sweating, but she knew if she didn't finally tell her mother what she was thinking, she'd explode. "I worked on those potions night after night. I opened up this shop in the morning and picked up those bagels with the seeds she loved have with cream cheese in the morning. She made tea, and I'd save up and buy lox."
"Mom liked lox?"
"With capers, mom." Brenda sighed. "I knew more about your mother than you did. And she told me that she'd be happiest only when you were happy. But it seems the only thing you're happy with is making money."
"You have to have money to get what you want, Brenda. And you'll never grow up until you realize that."
Edward cleared his throat as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Miss Grafton—what is it you want?"
"Excuse me?" she looked at him.
"It's a simple
question—though I'm uncertain if you've asked it of yourself recently. You said you have to have money to get what you want. What is it you want?"
"I want—" and she seemed to hang.
Brenda sort of knew where Edward was going. She swore she could hear his thoughts. "You want to sell this place because of the money. If you had this money—what would you do?" She took a step closer to her mother. "What is your dream?"
Jackie narrowed her eyes at Brenda and pursed her lips into a small bow. Finally, she said in a low voice, "Charleston."
Brenda blinked. "What?"
"Charleston—" Edward said. "South Carolina?"
"I went there as a kid—your granny had a house there. Then she sold it to buy this place. I wanted that house. And I want to buy it back. It's still there—and it sits on the shore."
"Is it for sale?" Edward asked.
"Yes."
Brenda watched him grin as she got a flash in her mind of the back door.
The door at the foot of the stairs.
Alternatives. Dreams. Wishes.
Hopes.
And then—like a flower opening to the sun—Brenda understood. She reached out to Edward and he removed a hand from his pocket. He held a key in his hand. A key with a rabbit's foot charm.
Brenda took it. She felt the ocean breeze on her skin, smelled the salt air, and heard the seagulls. She heard Edward's voice in his head. Only you can open that door, Brenda. When the need is great, and the time is right.
Brenda took the key and motioned for her mother to follow her down the stairs. Edward gestured for her to follow Brenda as well and came down behind the two of them.
"What are you doing?" Jackie asked as Brenda slid the key into the door lock.
"I'm giving you a back door," she said. "Granny would have wanted it." And with that she heard the click and turned the knob.
The door didn't open up on a brick wall this time, but into a rustically decorated livingroom. Worn hard woods, large windows opened up to the ocean. The sound of seagulls, the smell of the sea air.
Brenda realized she'd been experiencing her mother's memories of this place.
"This—" Jackie stepped through into the room. "This isn't possible. It's just like we left it…just like I remember it."
Back Door Magic Page 2