He shrugs. “Seconds. Hours. Not longer than a day, I’d assume.”
“Do I have to keep holding it? Can I…put it in a bowl or something?”
The orange begins to shift, taking the shape of a bowl I know well. It’s one of my favorites that’s packed away in the shipping container on its way here. It looks like half a cantaloupe carved out, with an orange glazed inside.
It’s hovering just above my hands. I curl my fingers to touch it, but they go straight through.
“Imagine something else,” Bastian says.
“The rose you gave me,” I say, picturing it clearly in my mind.
The bowl collapses in a puff of smoke, then swirls and reforms, recreating the rose in perfect detail. I try again to touch it, but my hand goes right through.
“Illusionist,” Bastian says, smiling. “Your magic is illusionary.”
My brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“This is a revered magic,” he says. “Kings would hunt across their lands for magic wielders like you. You can transform your appearance into something else. You can make voices of those longdead speak through your lips. You can project an army of thousands where there are only three.
“If you can fathom it, it can be created. The possibilities for your creations are boundless.”
“But, it’s not real like your creations?” I ask.
“My creations aren’t real, either. They just have density,” he says. “And that’s the limitation.”
“How so?”
“I cannot bring something into being without putting equal magic behind it. You can take a drop of magic and create an entire scene.”
“And making books is what fuels my magic?”
“One powerful thing of many. As a human witch, you’re blessed with multiple modes of regenerating your essence. As a dragon, I have only two.”
“Stories and?”
“And we should practice more,” he says, standing. “I want you to replicate the place you used to live in this room.”
I grimace. “Deflecting…”
“It’ll be known to you when it’s your business to know,” he says.
My frown deepens. “When’s that?”
He extends his hand to me. “When you’re ready.”
I blow a raspberry and accept the offer. He pulls me to my feet easily, and then turns me toward the kitchen.
“Show me your previous home.”
I take another deep breath and imagine a surf swell at high tide, gathering its power. At the top of the breath, I paint my mind withthe visage of my old kitchen; the little microwave over the ancient stove, the fridge with a dented handle, the mismatched cabinet knobs.
When I exhale, an explosion of color flies from my lips. Ropes of smoky power spill over the wood burning stove and the ice box, revealing a very close match—at least from my memory—of my kitchen. The edges are blurry, like how my peripheral vision isn’t as clear as what’s in front of me. But still.
“I did it,” I whisper.
“You’re incredible,” Bastian says, his hand lingering on my hip. “Now, imagine what you can do with this power when combined with triggering incantations, or delayed spell effects.”
The opportunitiesareboundless. Not only for protection, but for entertainment. I can create an effect that no other bookshop will have. I can pass it off as projectors and holograms with state-of-the-art computer rendering, and people will buy it because who even believes in real magic?
