by Lucy March
Sunday, June 24. Variation: All instructions as stated, with two exceptions. Replacing distilled with purified water. (Proven error.) Using 150ml Kimax beaker. (Unproven; first attempt.)
And then, I went to work. I moved through the steps on autopilot, I knew them so well, and the rest of the world faded away as I danced from instruction to instruction. Finally, after almost four hours of work that passed like minutes, I’d come to the pivotal stage. In the beaker, the liquid turned amber and the single bubble appeared, rising slowly from the bottom to the top, where it made an almost inaudible pop at the surface.
Here we go. I shut off the burner and used tongs to pull the beaker from its holder. I set it on the workbench to cool, right next to the Edison vial. I waited ninety seconds, then picked up the beaker.
Swirl. Swirl. The liquid inside went from amber to a cool, swirling blue. That had never happened before, but just because it was pretty and appeared pourable didn’t mean success.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t whoop. I didn’t rush to pour, either. There was still one more step before then.
Remain calm. Breathe 2x. I did as instructed, willing my calm to come to me. I opened my eyes and carefully poured the swirling blue liquid into the Edison vial, up to the first etch mark, measuring exactly one ounce.
No sludge. No turning black.
I poured more of the potion into another Edison vial. It had never occurred to me to do more than one at once, considering everything pretty much went to hell by this point. There was enough for three in total, and I filled the last one, too.
I put the top on the first vial, swirled it once clockwise as the instructions demanded, and did the same with the other two, then waited for another ninety seconds. The blue color deepened in all three, but kept swirling. It was working! I glanced at the instructions and stuck my tongue out at the nameless conjurer who had written them.
“It was the stupid flask,” I said. “Jerk.”
The timer dinged, and I turned my attention back to my beautiful Edison vials. The liquid was still swirling, as if on its own power. I picked one up, stood in the middle of my shed, and threw it to the ground, where it smashed, dissolving the glass and sending the liquid seeping into the packed dirt at my feet. For a moment, there was a hint of a stain, but then nothing to indicate that anything had happened at all, except for the metal cap that rolled on its side for a moment before falling flat on the dirt.
I waited, watching the space where the potion had sunk in, but still … nothing.
Huh. The recipe must still be wrong. The nameless conjurer had put another bad detail in? Sadistic bastard.
Disappointed, I sat down and pored over the recipe again. Maybe I’d added too much Persephone root. Maybe the Persephone root I had was too old, and had lost its efficacy. Maybe it wasn’t even real Persephone root. When you worked rogue outside the mainstream magical world, those were chances you took, and I had gotten this stash from a traveling carnie before I found Desmond. Maybe I’d put in too much, maybe not enough, maybe it was old, maybe it was just dried lavender and I’d been had. Who the hell knew? There were a lot of charlatans in the magical world, just like the non-magical. I turned around and started typing notes into my MacBook.
And then I heard it, a subtle thud behind me. I turned to look, and there was still nothing. I thought maybe a bird had accidentally flown up against the Plexiglas windows I’d put in the shed—novice conjurers were known for blowing glass out of work spaces, it was a rite of passage, and I’d destroyed two sets of traditional windows before wising up—but then I saw dirt starting to displace at my feet, creating a small anthill, as though something were trying to burrow its way out.
Something was.
I knelt down by the space, watching in fascination as it grew, glowing green and yellow, the stalk pushing up first to about four inches above the ground, at which point the twinkling petals spread out as the blossom opened. I blinked a few times, to be sure I wasn’t imagining things, then looked down at my denim-covered knees, which reflected the green-yellow glow. Then the petals started to turn as the tiny sunflower danced.
“Oh, my God!” I jumped up to my feet, looking around for someone to share this with, but of course, no one was there, so I spoke to the shed. “I did it! I did it! Physical magic! Holy shit!”
I hadn’t brought my phone with me, and I didn’t keep a camera in the shed. I glanced around me a little bit, in a panic to record the moment, but there was nothing. I had done this amazing thing; Stacy Easter, failed librarian, town slut, and mother’s shame … I had created physical magic, on my own, without a mentor to guide me or years of training, and I hadn’t thought to bring a stupid camera. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would ever succeed. I had created a dancing, glowing sunflower, and no one would ever—
The MacBook! It had a webcam. I grabbed it off the workbench and sat down on the ground, keeping my eye on my sunflower as I tried to launch the right program. Photo Booth? Argh! The sunflower slowed down. In seconds, it would be nothing more than a puff of smoke. The fact that it had lasted this long was a damn miracle. The little beach ball spun on the screen, and finally, Photo Booth launched and the camera came on. I moved it out to the other side of the sunflower, leaned my face down so I’d be in the picture, too, grinned like a fool, and hit the button.
And it began to count down: 3, 2, 1 …
The screen flashed, and by the time my eyes adjusted, the sunflower was gone, leaving nothing behind but its tiny little anthill. I glanced at the screen, and there it was: the faintest outline of a glowing, miniature sunflower next to my soot-smudged, ebullient face.
What are you getting so full of yourself about? It’s just a sunflower.
The voice in my head was cold and sharp, just like the bony limbs of the woman it emulated.
It’s physical magic, I thought back. It’s a big friggin’ deal. It means I’m good at what I do.
It’s stupid and pointless. You can’t even tell anyone about it or you’ll get in trouble for doing this unsupervised. What’s the point if no one can even know?
I’ll know.
Yes, just you. Alone. Like always. I wonder why that is?
I shook my arms out, trying to push the bad energy away. The voice was cruel, and it lied. I knew this. But when I heard it, cold and poisonous in my head, I couldn’t help but believe it, at least a little, just as I’d believed my mother for all those years. Hell, part of me still did believe it. No matter where I was, no matter what I was doing, some part of me always knew I was ugly, unlovable, selfish, mean, and heartless, and that was just my nature.
That’s why Leo left, and that’s why he’ll leave again.
I closed my eyes and released a breath through my nose as evidence of all my failures as a human being circled around me, like hunters coming in for the kill. My harshness, my coldness, my thoughtlessness, my cruelty. I remembered the night Leo had told me about sleeping with that girl at school, I had said horrible things to him, things that weren’t even true. I’d just wanted to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me, and I’d succeeded. I remembered that night I’d slept with Tobias, years ago, when deep in my heart, part of me knew Liv liked him. I remembered that morning, how casual and curt I’d been with Desmond about our night together. And then there was the way I’d handled my mother after the rehearsal dinner, pushing her into the car, looming over her physically, bullying her.
If you think that pushing us to make a choice is going to end in your favor, lady, then you’re gonna want to take a moment to think again.
“Oh, she deserved that,” I said out loud to no one.
Maybe, the voice answered coldly, but you enjoyed treating her that way, didn’t you? What does that say about you?
I didn’t know. I looked at the picture of myself on my computer screen. Face flushed with happiness, a trace of soot from the bottom of the beaker streaked across my cheek, hair out of place, no makeup. But there was a glimmer in my eyes, something genuine and happy and
proud, and I didn’t see the meanness, the coldness, the anger. It was just me, the real me, right there for no one but me to ever see.
Classic Stacy Easter. Ugly, cocky, and dangerous. All that risk, all for ego, and damn the consequences.
I took a flash drive out of my back pocket and backed up the picture to it, just in case something happened when I shut my computer down. Carefully, so carefully, I put the two remaining Edison vials on the shelf. I had no idea how long the magic might last, if it was even still good now, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t intend to ever smash them. They were going to stay there, on that shelf, always reminding me that no matter what else I might be, I was also Stacy goddamned Easter, and I was good at what I did.
Surely that had to matter for something.
* * *
By the time I got back to the ’Bago, night had officially fallen. I still had a buzz on from my success with physical magic, but as soon as I returned to real life, the tension started to creep in. Deidre Troudt still had power nearly three days after taking her potion, and those bluebirds, translucent and cartoony though they may have been, didn’t have the sputtering quality of waning magic. But that didn’t mean that my—or for that matter, my mother’s—powers were going to hang around. The three potions had no ingredients in common aside from water. So if I was going to figure out what was creating this magic, I was going to need more data.
Which meant I was going to have to pay a visit to my mother. I took a quick shower, got in my car, and headed into town.
My first thought when I saw the small crowd of maybe fifteen people standing on her lawn holding candles was that she had died or something, but if Lillith Easter ever bit it, the town reaction would be closer to celebrating in the streets, since she had a habit of working her unique charm on pretty much everyone. I drove almost a full block past my mother’s house before I could find a parking space on the normally quiet, dead-end street. I got out of the car and rushed to her house, wedging myself through the crowd, my heart in my throat.
Because there, on her darkened porch, stood my mother, glowing like a stoner at a Phish concert. She wasn’t giving off quite enough light for her to illuminate the yard, but the crowd held candles, and the atmosphere was creepily reminiscent of a vigil.
“I don’t have all the answers,” she said, smiling as she held out her hands to her followers in a beatific pose, “but I do have one: Love one another, as you would love yourselves.”
Never heard that one before, I thought, and pushed through another line of followers. I got to the front and found Gladys Night—no connection to the singer, although she did like to warble off-key during services whenever possible—handing out candles from a wicker basket at the base of the porch.
“Here you go,” Gladys said, holding a candle out to me then smiled as she looked at me. “Oh! It’s Stacy!” She stood up straight and waved her arms. “It’s her daughter! It’s her daughter!”
The crowd, most of whom had either ignored or resented my pushing to the front, now all oohed at me. It was extremely creepy.
I walked up the steps and took my mother by the arm.
“Tell them to go, Widow.”
“Oh, my beautiful daughter!” She put glowing hands on each side of my face, little ropes of smoky green light dancing over them. I pulled back and jerked my head toward the door.
“Inside. Now.”
The Widow hooked her bony arm through mine and turned to the crowd. “She doesn’t want me to exhaust myself.”
The crowd gave a low, disappointed moan, and I inspected the candlelit faces. Most of them were older, members of my mother’s church, and as I far as I could recall, none of them had ever much liked the Widow. Even for Christians who tried to keep their hearts open to everyone, the Widow was hard to like, the kind of ranting hypocrite who gave normal, sane religious people a bad name. But still, here they were; a little glowing and a few creaking clichés and my mother had gone from a harridan to a saint.
My mother held out her hands to quiet the crowd. “Now, now. She’s right. I should rest. But before I go, remember that one day, I will make the ultimate sacrifice to save you all, and when that day comes, don’t be sad, but remember what an incredible blessing it is to witness a miracle firsthand.”
The crowd broke into cheers and I muttered, “What the hell does that even mean?”
My mother smiled at me, as warmly as she had ever smiled at me. “It’s okay, darling. I forgive you.”
Slowly, she moved down the porch toward the front door, her glow reflecting on the windows as she passed. I stared after her until she disappeared inside, then looked back at all the people dripping wax on my mother’s lawn.
“Go home,” I said. “You got five minutes. If you’re still here then, I’m calling the cops.”
One by one, the candles were blown out, and the crowd began to disperse. I went inside and found my mother staring out the back window by the dining table. The glow was starting to fade, and her shoulders slumped a bit as she began to fall to the ground. I managed to get to her just in time, catching her and putting her in one of the tall-backed dining room chairs.
She smiled and let out a breath. “Thank you. It is exhausting, keeping that going.”
I felt a twinge of nervousness at that. “You … you can control it?”
She put her hand to her throat. “Darling, would you get me a glass of ice water, please? I’m feeling a bit parched.”
I was a little stunned by her easy use of both darling and please, but did as she asked. Once she’d taken a few sips of her water, she looked at me and smiled. “I’ve finally found it.”
So far, even with as little as we’d said to each other in the last few minutes, this was the most tender moment I’d ever shared with my mother, and it put me off my guard. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“My purpose,” she said. “Why I’m here. What I’m supposed to do. I’ve seen the future, and I know what’s supposed to happen, and now it all makes sense. Everything I’ve been through, all the ways in which I’ve been tested and suffered…” She smiled at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Now I know why.”
And it’s still all about you, I thought, but said, “Yeah? So what happens?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. Not yet. But when it all falls together as it has been planned, you will understand.” And then she put her hand over mine and squeezed it. “You are such a beautiful girl.”
I don’t know why that got me, but it did. I pulled my hand away, remembering that whoever this woman was on magic, the Widow Lillith Easter was somewhere underneath, fangs primed and ready to strike.
“Look, Widow, you’ve gotta stop this. We need to keep this glowing thing under wraps until I figure out what’s going on. You’re not a prophet, and you’re not a saint, and you’re sure as hell not a martyr.”
“And how do you know that?” Her voice was calm and happy, just innocently asking a question. She didn’t appear angry in the least that I had contradicted her, and it was creeping me out.
“Go to bed,” I said, speaking slow and in soft tones, as if I were talking to a child. “Stay behind doors for a few days, okay? Just until I get this all figured out. No more speeches, no more candlelight vigils. Can you do that for me?”
Before she could answer, the front door shut, and heavy footsteps thunked through the living room and into the dining room, where Gladys Night, round cheeks flush with pleasure under a helmet of steel-wool hair, set a plastic planter on the table that had sat empty on the porch since my mother’s doomed attempt at porch gardening in the summer of ’ought-seven.
“Oh, my goodness, Lillith!” she squealed. “I haven’t been able to count it all, but there are thousands of dollars in here!” She reached one hand into the planter and pulled out a handful of wadded cash, and then with the other, she pulled out a check. “This one alone is for five hundred dollars!”
“No.” I stood up like a shot and took the check from Gladys. It was
from Nat Payne, owner of Nat’s Dry Cleaning and Spray Tan, and it was made out directly to my mother. Crap. “No. No, no, no. You can’t do this. You can’t take their money. You have to give it back and tell them all it’s a terrible, terrible mistake.”
The Widow stood up and walked over to peek into the planter.
“Oh, my,” she said. “That is a lot.”
I waited for it, heard her voice in my mind saying, Enough to go to Switzerland and get all the plastic surgery my body can bear, but then she said words I never thought I’d hear, words that took me a moment to fully comprehend.
“Stacy’s right,” she said.
“What?” Gladys said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
The Widow shook her head. “It must go back. I don’t need their money. All I need is their faith. That’s what sustains me.” She looked at me and added simply, “That’s what makes it possible for me to control it.”
“But … but…,” Gladys blustered, looking down at the money. “Think of the good you can do…”
“Wait.” I held up one hand, my mind racing. “What do you mean, that’s what makes it possible for you to control it?”
Gladys shook her head, staring down into the only green that planter had ever seen. “We can return or rip up the checks, but the cash…”
“Mom,” I said, and that got the Widow’s attention.
“Yes, dear?” she said, doing her best June Cleaver.
“What makes it possible for you to control the magic?”
“Faith,” she said, but I heard what she really meant, Their faith in me, and it all fell into place.
Of course. That made complete sense. What fuels a narcissist more than attention and adoration? It wasn’t being beautiful that had made her glow; it was attention. That was her hook into the magic, the thing that was most important to her: her.
“I mean, people just threw the cash into the planter by the handful,” Gladys was saying, still focused on the money. “I didn’t have time to keep track of who gave us what…”