Morgan is practically halfway across the table, so far is heleaning toward him. “Sir. You have no idea how grateful I would be if you’d give me a power, too.”
“It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid.”
Morgan’s energy is palpable, a froth of fear, distress, hope. “But you gave some of your magic to Zelda. Couldn’t you do that again? It doesn’t need to be big. I’d be happy with elemental magic, or divination, alchemy, healing. Knotting. Water-bending. Whatever you’ve got on hand.”
The witch cuts off his plea. “I’m sorry.”
Morgan’s hairline is slick with perspiration. He has to hold himself back from desperate begging, as it might put the witch off more. “Please.”
I slide an arm around Morgan’s shoulders. “Can’t you give himsomething?” I ask. “We came all this way, looking for the Black Bear Witch. And that’s you, right? You know how the legend goes: you find the lair, the witch gives you magic. Well. Morgan found the lair, so…”
The man shakes his head at him sadly. “It isn’t your time.”
Morgan badly wants to argue. I can see it. But he resists. “What does that mean?”
“It means that your time hasn’t come yet.”
“But it will? When?”
“If it does, you will find out then.”
Morgan sinks a couple inches, not saying a word as he frustratedly combs over this, twiddling with the frayed stitches of the carpetbag.
“And this is not the lair,” the man adds carefully, watching us. He folds his hands behind his head, reclining. “When the town was young, my lair was disguised as an ordinarystagecoach inn. The family inhabiting that building now is rather unusual, and I suspect it’s because of all the magic I left behind.”
I’m confused. “So this village isn’t your lair?”
“No. It’s an experiment I had to abandon, unfortunately.” His mouth twists, wry. “I’d intended for it to be a ghost town in the literal sense. A place where ghosts could come and be corporeal again. Eat and drink and live satisfying lives. But it turns out that the magic in this place can only work for the person who created it, and the poor old ghosts who find their way in are still as invisible as ever.”
He rises to his feet, draining the last of his tea. The man is tall and well-built, clothed in older fashions: a loose linen shirt with a dropped shoulder seam, twill trousers held up by leather suspenders. “Now. I’m very sorry to cut this short, but I have some business to attend to.” He gives me an evaluating look, a small smile lifting his lips. “It feels nice that you believe in me again.”
Thirty-Four
After the third frost, if you see a pile of brightly colored fallen leaves, step around them and not over. It could be a goblin trap.
Legends and Superstitions, Expanded,
Tempest Family Grimoire
“Where are wegoing?” I ask as the man herds us out of The Drowsing Dragon and down the path into an evening that hasn’t changed in spite of all the time we’ve passed. Surely it should be night by now, but the boxwood bushes along Hither’s paths still twinkle golden like lucky coins.
He whistles under his breath, strolling briskly along. “To Whence.”
“What’s Whence?” Hither and Whence. I like the sound when I roll them up together:hitherandwhence.
“It’s where you came from.” He checks his pocket watch, a soft wave of his hair slipping wayward over his forehead. “I’ll head there soon, too, but I’ve got a nice potion on the boil here, and it’ll misbehave if I’m not watching.”
“Wait. You’re kicking us out?”
“That’s right.”
Morgan and I put up a fight, babbling over each other. “But we just got here! You’re not going to scrub our memories, are you? Since we’re technically not at your lair?”
The witch sighs. “Morgan, you’re an amiable gentleman, but I know about your podcast. I know you write for the newspaper. You enjoy talking too much, and I can’t take any chances; I need to protect this space from prying eyes.”
Morgan clutches the man’s arm. “You know about my podcast? Do you like it? Which episode’s your favorite?” I elbow him before he can ask if the witch subscribes to his Patreon. “We won’t tell anybody, we swear. I won’t post about this online, I won’t write about it. You can trust me.”
“I truly am regretful that this is how it must go.”
