Then she added, “Can we just talk about my wish now? Because I don’t know what to wish for.”
Of course she didn’t: anything is possible. True love, peace on earth, teleportation, a graduation trip to Paris. Anything.
Just difficult, that’s all.
“I’ve got my Dogma hat on now, dear.”
“But I passed Wonderworking with straight As!”
“And now, by law, it is my privilege to be your final obstacle to adulthood.” He looked at her, straight-faced. “From time immemorial, that’s what daddies are for.”
Alanna sighed and held his gaze.
“All right,” Daddy said. “A practical test. Turn on the reading lamp.”
Alanna loved Daddy’s reading lamp. Its delicately cast ironwork supported a reservoir of cinnamon-infused oil and a copper wire holding up its wick. A shade of thin paper covered all, and all made fireproof by a Class D wish. The lamps in sconces along the wall were cold light lamps; but she loved the cinnamon scent of the oil, and the alertness it brought.
“Daddy!” she said. “I’ve been turning on that lamp since I was four years old!”
“Well, at your advanced age, senility may have stolen your talent.” His eyebrows drew down. “I intend to do my duty, young lady. Maybe some teenagers tell lies about serving their hundred hours of practice. Maybe their parents let them get their license without testing them personally. But I’m not that kind.”
Alanna smiled her winningest smile. “I know, Daddy. ‘Anything worth wishing for is worth working for.’”
Usually Daddy melted when she quoted him but not this time. “And also ‘true power comes only to the wise.’ Turn on the light.”
Easily done. Her quick ritual: a breath, an image, such a little ritual that it took almost no time, then the wish: I wish the lamp may burn brightly. And it did. It drained her only a little bit.
She gave thanks afterwards. The universe could withhold wishes, and it appreciated thanks. It wasn’t magic, you know!
“I guess you’re not so old after all,” Daddy said.
The rest of the test? Not so easy. Exhausted, she went to bed. She believed she would get her wish tomorrow.
Daddy had given her a Class D wish the day after she had graduated from elementary school and another the day after middle school. Yesterday she had graduated from high school. She could herself do Class D wonderworking, once licensed, and work toward Class C. She knew the theory already. In practice, it might take a couple of years.
She didn’t expect anything, not really. Daddy did not have to give her anything, she knew that. But if he moved up to a Class C wish, well, properly phrased, that might get her a semester’s tuition at Columbia State College.
She lay in her bedroom, warm under covers, and lit her bedside lamp.
Such a little ritual, lighting lamps, so easy a child could do it.
So hard, the great wishes.
Alanna had ambitions to be a wonderworker herself, though she knew her disadvantages. Like, she excelled in school. The great wonderworkers usually didn’t, because everyone knows that school is there to close your mind, not open it. Why, the greatest of them all, Master Einstein, almost didn’t get through high school.
And the great wonderworkers usually came from bad families. When they said “I wish,” their neediness held real power. But Alanna’s daddy always made sure she lived a comfortable life.
Except for Mom’s death, of course. Nothing he could do about that. He had some modest talent—he could fireproof lampshades—but a Life Wish was Class A wonderworking, and uncertain even then.
And even the great masters were very cautious about Class A wonderworking. If the wording of the wish were just a little sloppy, great harm could come of it. So you had to be very rich to afford a Class A, and Daddy just wasn’t. Class A was way more expensive than Class B, just like it was way more difficult. “Difficulty is exponential,” and you paid for difficulty.
She turned the lamp off with a quick ritual: A breath, mental image of her mom’s face, and a wish. Alanna got out of bed.
Daddy had gotten up before her and was cooking omelettes. He’d been a fine cook before Mom died, and actually until Alanna had been twelve or so, when he more or less quit and just did the basics. Usually he would wish a Class D omelette, which would taste perfectly okay, but this one he made by hand over the wood stove.
He used to do that on Saturdays for her and Mom.
Alanna must have looked sad, because he said, “Hey, none of that, this is a celebration. A graduation celebration!”
He tipped the second omelette out of the pan onto a warmed plate, and carried the two over to the dining room table. Alanna rubbed the tabletop, smooth under her hand with oil worked in by generations of her ancestors. The table had been built by her great-great-grandfather.
Such a home her Daddy made, not made with wishes but with heart. She’d never thought of it that way before. It had always been just home. Soon enough she’d be leaving, to Columbia State College.
Almost she wished she could stay home. Carefully she firmed up the barriers against that wish: though she probably wasn’t capable of a wish that difficult anyway.
Her eyes filled and she felt tears flow down the cheeks, which were warm, warm with embarrassment. She prided herself on her control, you had to have control as a wonderworker. But she just couldn’t stop, and strange hiccupping noises were coming out of her mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her face.
Daddy seemed to have trouble speaking but at last he said, “Let’s, um, let’s not let the omelettes get cold.”
They ate in silence. The omelette was warm and good.
“I’m proud of you, sweetie,” he said finally. He cleared his throat. “Nice job on the wonderworking exam, and, well, and everything.”
“Thanks.”
“You know that when you graduate I buy you a wish?”
“I remember.”
“Well, I did that this time too.”
Her face brightened.
“But sweetie, you know that it hasn’t been the best year, and I couldn’t do as well for you as I wanted.”
Her heart sank. Class D, coming my way. That’s not a worthy thought, she thought, but she thought it anyway.
“This is all I could afford,” he said, and handed her a linen envelope with elegant thin script in the upper left corner: “From the workshop of Master Steve Corwin.”
She looked at Daddy. Master Corwin was the most proficient wonderworker in the entire state of Columbia.
“It’s a wish certificate,” he explained.
“I know, Daddy,” she said. She turned the envelope over and grabbed a butter knife. Carefully she worked the wax seal off. Little crumbs of wax broke away but she wanted to preserve Corwin’s seal.
Inside—
“Class B! Class B?” she cried.
“A Class B wish for a Class A person!” Daddy beamed at her surprise.
“Oh, Daddy—How could you afford it?”
“I have my mysteries and my resources.” He wiggled his fingers in a magic way and Alanna giggled. “Besides, that’s not the proper question for a daughter to ask.”
“I wish you hadn’t.” But of course she didn’t really wish that wish. She didn’t focus her attention, let alone begin the elaborate Class B ritual, which she had only ever practiced in school, anyway. Still, she’d been taught since childhood not to throw the word “wish” around.
And sure enough, Daddy looked at her sternly, perhaps with a touch of fear. “None of that, ma’am. Certainly I can afford an appropriate gift for my daughter’s graduation.”
She bit her lip to keep from crying. Then she thanked her daddy and she thanked the universe.
But she also thought, we’ve been scratching for money for a year now. There’s something wrong here.
As a wonderworker of minor abilities, Alanna discovered that even Class D wishes were really he
lpful for an amateur investigator. They couldn’t bring an answer to the wish “tell me what’s going on here,” which would be an incredibly sloppy wish anyway. But they did fine for “I wish to know what mail arrived today,” and for “I wish to know where Daddy is.” If he knew what she was up to, he would put on his “I’m so disappointed” face, and she couldn’t stand that.
She really felt curious about his bank account balance, but she had no access to it. The bank had a blanket Class A wish that only authorized persons could access that information.
But there were clues. When she wished to know what mail arrived, the answer included something from ThaumaHealth Medical Center.
“Daddy,” she said that evening, “Did we get any mail today?”
“Sure,” he answered. “It’s on the dining room table.”
There was nothing from ThaumaHealth on the dining room table.
That could be bad, she thought. Perhaps it was a fundraising letter and Daddy recycled it, or maybe a flyer advertising some health clinic or class. But maybe it was a bill.
That night she lay in her room under the blankets, and worried, and turned the lights on and off until she grew tired enough to sleep.
Next morning she slept in until the summer sun’s beams through the draperies woke her up. And her waking thought was: I don’t have access to Daddy’s bank account. But maybe I can find out how much he’s spent!
And though she felt guilty, dishonored in the eyes of the universe, she wished it. That was a tough class D wish, almost a Class C, which she was not certified for yet with the state Make a Wish Department. His spending: very, very frugal expenditures for food; that made sense, Daddy either cooked basic dishes by hand or wished them up himself. Maybe that’s why he looks so tired all the time. He’s behind on utilities, which explained why the garbage hadn’t disappeared as usual. But...
Whopping big expenses at ThaumaHealth.
Either he was still paying off the expenses of Mom’s treatment, ten years later; not likely. Or he was sick.
He had stopped sending money to ThaumaHealth a month ago. If he had been sick, perhaps he now was okay. Or not.
She got out her image album and found his page. Ten years ago, just before Mom died, he looked like a young and vibrant man. Five years ago, care-worn by grief over losing his wife, lines etched into his face. But...still heavier, more muscular than he was now. She was shocked at how frail he seemed now.
“What’s your wish, sweetie?”
“I’m saving it, Dad. A Class B is a big opportunity and I don’t want to misuse it.”
He didn’t meet her eyes but watched his forefinger draw pictures with water on the tabletop.
Casually, he said, “Well, I can’t wait to see what you do with it.” He looked up. “Pretty exciting.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, Daddy, come clean.”
He looked startled. “What?”
Alanna worried for a moment: she’d been jumping to conclusions, no doubt about it, but the conclusions seemed right. Drop it, Alanna, she told herself.
But she didn’t. “You’re sick,” she said bluntly. “Aren’t you?”
He looked down, intensely interested in the pictures his forefinger drew. “What makes you say that?”
“Aren’t you? Just answer yes or no.”
“Alanna.” He got a napkin and wiped up the water, still not looking at her. “When your mother died, you and I agreed that we wouldn’t lie to each other. So I won’t lie to you now. But I’m asking you not to ask that question.”
“That’s an answer. You might as well tell me everything.”
Now he looked right at her. “I’m asking you to drop it.”
“I won’t. I’m an adult now. Treat me like one.”
“All right.” He took a deep calming breath. “I’m sick. I’ve got the same damn disease that killed your mother.”
For a moment Alanna only heard the swear word; her daddy never swore. Then she heard what else he said.
“So it’s contagious?”
“You won’t get it from me.” He hesitated. “First thing we did, we wished to be not contagious. A class B wish. But healing it would have been Class A, and we weren’t covered for that.”
“And now you’re dying.”
He flushed.
“Um, yes. It attacks the inner organs and they atrophy one by one.” He reached out and laid his hand on hers. “For five years I’ve bought wishes to stretch out my life. That’s where my money went, everything except your Class B wish. My parting gift! I wanted to see you graduate. I won’t see you enter college, but I’ve seen you as an adult. That’s enough.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know you’d be such a tough adult. But you always have had your own mind. I’m proud of you.”
And you never could stand up to me, she thought. Sometimes she’d been, honestly, a bit scornful of his weakness. Now she was not.
“Well, I want you to see your grandchildren!” A thought struck her. “I’ll use my wish!”
“If it could cure me I’d have done that myself. That’s a class A job. The best you could do would be to buy me a month or two. Not worth it.”
“It is to me.”
“Hear me.” His voice strengthened, cut sharp. “I swear, if you spend that wish on me, I’ll fight it with all my power. Which isn’t Class B, but if I resist, the universe will honor that.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I’m sure. And if not—hear me now—if not, I will take my own life.”
Alanna gasped in a painful breath. “You wouldn’t!”
“Promise me you won’t spend your graduation wish trying to heal me.”
“Daddy...”
“It’s a waste of a wish. Promise.”
He’s got some steel after all, she thought. “All right, I promise.”
“Thank you. Well!” He rubbed his hands, pushed himself away from the table. “Now that we’ve got it out in the open, we can enjoy our remaining time together!”
Alanna sprang up from her chair and ran to her room, crying.
But she hadn’t given up. On her bedside table, she saw the linen envelope with the script address in the corner. She meditated long and hard and thought she saw a way.
Corwin’s workshop was housed in an elegant office building, rectangular, five stories high, clad with luminescent steel and waterfall glass. She pushed on the front door and it disappeared, a Class B effect at least. Automatically she gave thanks. And thought, what kind of wonderworker could waste a Class B wish on such trivia? Someone for whom it was trivial wishery, I suppose.
The spectacular door led to a plain room with marble floors, two wooden straight chairs against the wall to her left, and a desk straight ahead, blocking a single door in the far wall. Behind the severe desk sat a severe woman who looked at Alanna, smiled like a shark, and said politely, “Yes? May I help you?”
Alanna resisted the urge to inspect her own dress for grease spots or fingerprints. “I wonder if I could see Mr. Corwin.”
“May I ask what your business is?”
“I have been the recipient of one of his Class B certificates. I would like to talk to him about it.”
“Ah! He actually has left orders always to grant interviews to young customers. He has an opening”—the receptionist looked at an old-fashioned paper calendar, flipped a page, then another, then another—“in three weeks.”
Alanna could feel her heart rattling her chest. “I was hoping for today.” Her voice sounded firm, to herself, at least.
The woman seemed impervious to firm voices, though. “Not possible.”
Alanna prepared her backup plan. Looking as desolate as she could, she said, “May I sit for a moment?”
Unaffected, the woman said, “Certainly.”
Alanna took one of the straight chairs. She breathed deep. She pulled the image of her mother into the forefront of her consciousness. Then she laid in place what she thought of as the Neediness Drill, connecting her conscious m
ind with the roiling grief that drove her.
She took out the Class B Wish certificate, formed the words in her mind, and said aloud: “I wish to be tutored for the rest of today by Mr. Steve Corwin.”
The certificate shriveled and turned brown.
The door behind the desk banged open. “Come in here, you idiot.”
She thanked the universe.
Corwin was a short, stocky man who looked like he should be throwing crates around on a dock somewhere. His workshop actually looked like a dock somewhere: wooden boxes stacked along the far wall, a cabinet with half-open drawers, a battered desk pushed against the wall piled high with papers waiting for his signature; the raw material for wish certificates.
It surprised Alanna, how the disorder comforted her.
He looked her over, head to toe. Alanna had still neglected to search her dress for grease stains. Well, she had never depended on her looks anyway. She carefully did not fidget.
“Sit,” Corwin said.
“No chairs,” she said in the same clipped tone of voice.
“Crate,” he said. He pushed at some papers near the desk and sure enough, there was a crate underneath.
She sat.
He sat on a corner of his desk, ignoring the clutter he sat on. “Of course you know I can simply wish your wish away,” he said.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, with a tentative smile.
“Don’t be cute. I’m mad at you.”
“Then why invite me in?”
“I’m also curious as to whether you are gutsy or just stupid.”
“Can’t I be both?”
Corwin paused. Then he said, very softly, “You have five minutes. Tell me what this is about before I wish you into the shape of a horned toad.”
“My dad is dying.”
“Oh.” Corwin bowed his head a moment. “And you knew the Class B wish would not heal him, so you came seeking a Class A wish. I’m sorry, but the consequences of Class A wishery are just too uncertain.” He stretched out his hand. “Also, more practically, there are lots of people who die and limited energy for wonderwork.”
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