“I guess,” Sasha says, sounding unconvinced. “But it’s still kind of problematic.”
I sigh. “I know. Anyway, you’ve done a marvelous job up here.”
“I had a thought,” she begins, and I nod, encouragingly.
“My mother,” she says, a little shyly. “She’s in a book club. I thought, perhaps…you could invite them to hold their meetings here? There’s enough space now, and they’d probably like to sit around a table and yell at each other.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” I say, smiling. “If the Lord Mayor and her friends haven’t got a problem coming into my bookstore, then surely that’ll reassure everyone else that it’s safe.”
“It would mean staying open late,” Sasha says. “I know you like to go to bed early.”
Being a teenager, Sasha is constantly in awe of my adult habit of going to bed at a reasonable hour and getting up at sunrise. I, as always, have to bite my tongue to keep from reminding her that I’m only twenty-two.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I say.
“And they do get a little, well…rowdy,” she adds. “Mrs. Masichord brews mead, you see. Ferments mead. Makes mead. Whatever you do with it, anyway. She experiments with spices and creates new bottles for every book they read. They drink them during the book club.”
I pause. “Bottles for every book…you mean, one bottle perbook read? That they all then share at the book club that night? Or a lot of bottles for every session?”
“Yeah, like, alot,” Sasha says. “One for everyone at every meeting.”
“Good grief,” I say. “Does she have time to do anything besides make mead and participate in a book club?”
Sasha shrugs.
A load of drunk townsfolk, led by the Lord Mayor, carousing in my bookshop after hours. Well, at least it’d be interesting.
“Let’s give it a go,” I say. “Tell your mother to invite them.”
Still feeling a little melancholy after Sasha leaves, I potter around the shop until darkness falls and my stomach growls, and finally make my way back to my apartment for dinner. Only to make the terrible discovery that I left a window open and my fire has gone out.
“Damn,” I say, still tasting the word with relish. “Damn.”
I’ve been so careful about keeping the fire banked during the day, when I’m in the shop, popping back in to check on it every few hours to ensure the embers are still glowing. And now the bedeviling thing’s died and I’m going to have to relight it. By myself. Which I’ve never done before. I clear out the ashes and set up the tinder, kindling, and logs in preparation for relighting, and kneel before the fireplace.
My first impulse is to use my candle-lighting spell on some tinder, hoping to get away with not invoking the first magic. This results in nothing more than an acrid puff of smoke. I then light a candle and hold its flame to the tinder; the flame dances as though actively avoiding the tinder, and I have to admit defeat. No shortcuts. I’m going to have to try proper fire-lighting magic.
I’m not sure why I’m so intimidated by the idea of it, other than that it’s the oldest magic in the world and meant to be practiced by two people together. I think back to Honey’s lesson, and then decide to try it my own way.
“Hearth,” I say, feeling only a tiny bit foolish, “I apologize for letting the fire go out. I was busy feeling sorry for myself rather than keeping an eye on you, which is a good lesson for me. You’ve kept me warm for more than two weeks, you’ve boiled my water and toasted my crumpets and consumed the inedible remains of several of my experiments with turnips.” I pause. “Sorry about that, by the way.” Burning turnips, it turns out, don’t smell nice.
“I’ve never lit a fire by myself before, and it might take me a couple of tries. Please be patient with me, and I’ll make a better effort this time round to keep you well-fed and happy.”
There, that felt right. I lean forward and strike my flint and my steel. A spark flies up and lands on the back of my hand. I shriek and drop my flint, and it cracks in half when it hits the hearthstone.
“Oh, sevenhells,” I breathe. Now there’s a little pink welt below my second knuckle, and my flint’s broken.
“Sorry, hearth,” I say, after a deep breath. “That wasn’t aimed at you.” I set one half of the flint aside and try again with the other.
After several more goes, I’ve got several more tiny burns on the backs of both hands, and no fire. I huff out a frustrated breath.
“This’ll be my last try,” I tell the hearth, “since you clearly don’t want to get going tonight. Which is fine; I can manage.” It’s notthatcold and I can eat apples and bread for dinner. Maybe I can ask Sasha to help me get one going tomorrow. I strike the flintagainst the steel, and this time a spark actually lands in the little nest of tinder and starts glowing. Thrilled, I lean forward and blow on it, gently, and the fire catches.
“Oh, thank the great dragon,” I breathe, sitting back. I give it a moment, then take the poker and adjust the kindling a little—more to feel as though I’m contributing than anything else. Which is the exact moment everything goes terribly wrong: A gust of wind rattles the door and blasts through the open window, scattering the burning tinder—which is only lit strands of flax anyway. I leap backward to keep my skirts away from it, and it lands on the little rug just beyond the tiled hearthstone and starts smoking. In a wild panic, I grab the little mound of burning flax and toss it back into the fireplace and then stamp the rug where it had landed. I don’t feel the pain of the burn for a heartbeat or two after I’ve tossed the tinder back into the hearth, and then it hits,hard. I curse again and fold my burned hand against my chest; the pain is like…like I’ve just grabbed a handful of stinging nettles. Which were on fire.
“Ugh!” I yell, more at myself than anything else. The fire has definitely gone out and now I’ve burned myself, possibly badly. I pull my hand away from my chest and examine my palm: red, a few blisters. At least it doesn’t looktoobad. It sure doesn’t feel great, though. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel the unmistakable sensation of tears building up behind my eyelids, and take a few deep breaths. This is fine. I’ll be fine. After a long moment, I open my eyes and get up.
Household Magicdoesn’t have any remedies for burns—I’m beginning to suspect there’s a third volume to go along withHouseholdandGarden Magic, one which I haven’t yet found a copy of, but which speaks to health and hygiene. In any event, I eventually gather my wits; the bluecaps lead me to some tiny volume ofremedies for minor injuries, and I wind up washing my hand carefully in cool water and wrapping it in a clean cloth. I don’t have any of the herbs nearby that the book suggests for healing salves, alas. My ministrations don’t make my hand hurt any less, but at least I feel as though I’ve sorted myself out somewhat.
