She repeats the word in my head, and I do my best to mimic it. In answer, the dish of water catches on fire.
I immediately shriek and swat it into the sink, breaking the dish. Maggie squawks and flaps into the bathtub, screeching in parrot. I turn on the sink faucet, but the fire is already out.
“What are you doing, you goose?” she asks in my head, still clattering around in the bathtub. “It wasn’t real fire!”
I stare down at her. “How would I know? You didn’t tell me what it was! I was not expecting literal flames!”
She flaps up and struggles to sit on the edge of the tub. “I thought you’d be smart enough to know!”
“My intelligence is not the issue here!”
There’s an annoyed pause in which, in perfect time, we both mutter, “Lordy!”
And then, against my will, I laugh along with her.
“Got that from your mama, didn’t you?” she asks softly.
I nod.
“And she got it from me, and I got it from my mama. It’s as close as she would come to cussing. Nice to know it’s still in the family. Same auburn hair, too.” A sigh. “Lordy, I missed out on so much. Look at you! You’re fully grown already. We never even got to make cookies.”
I smile and help her out of the bathtub. “But we can apparently make magic, and that’s even better. What else can I do? What are the rules? Is there a book? Do I get sorted into a house? Where do I buy my pointy hat?”
Maggie settles on my arm. “No hats. No schools. Let’s say it’s like cooking. There are all sorts of recipe books but no Bible, you know?”
“There’sJoy of Cooking,” I start.
“And how many editions does that thing have? Lordy, you’d argue with a post.” She clucks. “There is no formal study. Everything is inherited. The rest of the world has no idea.”
“So I don’t get to go to witch college?”
“This isn’t some ridiculous story, Rhea.”
It’s weird, hearing such an annoyed, human tone coming from the comical pink parrot who usually just sings show tunes.
“It’s real, but magic…well, it’s imperfect. It keeps itself a secret. You’ll see.”
“But you’re telling me there are witches all over the place?”
Maggie flutter-jumps up onto the windowsill, nearly falling over before finding her feet. This window has no ivory blinds; itlooks out on the alley, showing only a wall of kudzu peppered with tiny purple flowers.
“Witches cluster together along magical bodies of water. You can’t cast a spell at all without the right water. And if you get too far from the wellspring of your magic, it fades. Our wellspring is the falls.”
I consider the dish in the sink. “So that’s one spell. What else can we do?”
She sighs, and even in my head, her voice sounds very old. “I can’t teach you much. Not without my grimoire.”
At that word, I perk up. “A grimoire? Like a magic diary? You have my full attention. Where is it?”
“Lost.” She fidgets on the windowsill, weaving her head. “Like so many other things. I remember a few everyday spells, but without a grimoire, you might as well have infinite monkeys trying to write Shakespeare. And if they write it incorrectly, things get…explosive.”
I can’t believe I’m disappointed about magic, but here we are. “So I can do magic, but you can’t teach me much. There is no cool book of spells. I don’t get to live the witchy life and make potions and, I don’t know, dance around under a full moon and curse people?”
Maggie flutters to the ground and walks past me into the hall. “I’m afraid not. Magic isn’t what it once was. Most of the young folks moved away, after it began to dry up. You might have a knack—just something you can naturally do—but you won’t know until it decides to reveal itself.”
“You mean like levitating?”
She sneezes like this is ridiculous. “No. Nobody levitates. What’s the point? Ladders exist. More like being able to figureout what’s wrong with a car or having horses love you or never getting lost.”
