Witches in Flight Page 3
Her pendant vibrated lightly. Great. Even the rock agreed.
It was no surprise to see Lizard wave through the main office window a few moments later. First, they had a client coming in to see a house, and second—karma tended to land with both feet.
The small dish in Lizard’s hands was less expected, however, especially when she slammed it down on Lauren’s desk, along with a fork. “Eat fast. Elsie put some kind of warming spell on it, but she said it probably won’t last long, and cold soufflé tastes like glue.”
It was some sort of puffy concoction topped with browned cheese and smelling of eggy goodness. Lauren didn’t need to be told twice. Three bites in, some of what Lizard had said started to process. “You and Elsie cooked breakfast together?”
Her assistant shrugged. “Is it still breakfast at eleven o’clock?”
Emboldened by the lack of crankiness in that answer, Lauren forged ahead. “You made soufflés? I thought you didn’t like food with fancy names.” There had been a bit of a rant the previous week about Elsie’s weekly menu and words in foreign languages.
“Eggs are cheap, even in French.” Lizard pointed at the dish. “Seriously, finish it. It took about fifteen tries before Elsie got the hang of folding egg whites gently, so appreciate it while it’s warm.”
Lauren was smart enough not to ask how you folded an egg. Or to call her assistant a chef—and clearly one in a good mood, if she was giving Elsie cooking lessons. Which made owning up to meddling an even less happy thing to be doing, but Jennie was right. It was time.
She shoveled in the last bites of yummy soufflé and swung the computer monitor around. “Jennie sent pictures from your Poetry Slam.”
Lizard looked at the screen like it was green, glowing Kryptonite. “Am I going to hate them?”
Lauren didn’t speak—she just clicked her mouse.
Her feisty assistant’s eyes softened as she looked at the solid, fiercely proud face of Freddie Grenadine. “He drove his bus right off his route for me. I hope he doesn’t get in trouble.”
He wouldn’t. Lauren had spent a busy hour on the phone making very sure of it. “He loves you.”
“Yeah.” Lizard waved her hand in a vague “keep going” motion.
Lauren handed over the mouse and resisted the urge to run for cover. She watched the emotions rolling across her assistant’s face—even Jennie’s funny pictures were evocative and made demands of their audience.
And then Lizard got to Josh. Young and handsome, sitting in a dark corner, eyes fixed on something out of camera range. It didn’t take a genius to know what he was looking at. And if you were being honest, it didn’t take a mind witch to know what was pooling behind those intent eyes.
Fascination.
Lauren wondered if Lizard would be able to be honest. And then she remembered the far more pertinent issue with this particular picture—right before her assistant’s mind froze.
Lizard looked at the screen for a very long time, mind barriers down as tight as Lauren had ever felt them. When she spoke, the words were strung steel. “Who invited him?”
Oh, hell. “I did.”
Lizard stared another long moment—and then she turned to Lauren and let her barriers down, just a fraction. Just enough for a sliver of gratitude to leak. “That was pretty badass.”
Now it was Lauren facing Kryptonite. Where was the delinquent storm? The infuriated assistant on a rampage? “I probably shouldn’t have done it.”
Lizard snorted. “Why is it that everyone at Witch Central only says that after they’ve caused trouble?”
This conversation wasn’t going in any of the expected directions. Lauren was tempted to dive for cover just on principle. “Why aren’t you mad?”
“Oh, I am.” Lizard’s lips twitched. “But stomping around this office would just be stupid, and I don’t get to do stupid just because I feel like it anymore.”
She reached for the mouse and flipped to the picture of Freddie, studiously avoiding Lauren’s eyes. “He’s the first reason stupid had to go—but you’re the second. You gave me something important here, something that says ‘not stupid’ every day. You earned the right to mess with my life. Once.” She took a deep breath and stood up. “I’ll go get the paperwork ready for the Madisons.”
Lauren watched her assistant’s retreating back, bewildered—and totally impressed. Both messages received, loud and clear.
Those must have been some soufflés.
~ ~ ~
Elsie opened the door to Spirit Yoga and heard the quiet notes of one of Nat’s favorite tracks for shavasana, the quiet, prone meditation at the end of class. Excellent—she had about ten minutes. That should be long enough to figure out if this was a good idea or not.
For maybe the first time ever, she hadn’t tried to work out the entire answer in her head before taking action. Nat had sent her away—and it might be time to come back, but she wasn’t going to know for sure until she slid back into the role of yoga intern and saw how it felt.
Elsie looked around—and spied the laundry basket, full of clean towels, sitting behind the counter. Perfect. She slid off her sandals and walked around to her old, familiar station, trying to stay open to how it felt. She remembered all too well how it used to feel, the dragging weight of boredom and obligation. The towels hadn’t changed—but perhaps she had.
The towels were still warm. And the little burst of pleasure she got sinking her fingers into their languid fuzziness charmed her. A moment of comfort. Echoes of childhood memory, perhaps, or the hint of safe haven in the everyday.
She grinned. Waxing philosophical about towels was definitely new.
Fingers enjoying the sensations, ears tuned to the lilting notes drifting from the studio, Elsie began to fold. She’d emptied half the basket, enjoying the ritual of the ordinary, before she really looked at the growing pile beside her—and had to giggle. It looked like Aervyn had done the folding.
With one hand, she gently pushed the pile back into her basket, curious. Yoga positions had some very clear forms, and Nat taught that freedom came from the precision of good alignment. Could towel folding be mindful and neat and not become drudgery?
Moving with her breath, she spread a towel out on the counter, lifting one half up and folding it down on the other. Her fingers missed the just-out-of-the-dryer warmth, so she leaked a light touch of magic, smiling as the fabric cozied under her hands again. Just like warming a soufflé.
And then a new thought whispered, and she grinned, enchanted. Towel folding had definitely changed.
She worked through her pile, reaching for the last towel just as the music died away. Perfect timing—her spellwork probably wouldn’t last very long.
Elsie scooped up her neat stack and went to stand by the door. When the first student exited, she dropped a towel in his hands, delighted as he brought the soft fabric to his cheek.
The next student took a towel—and then stopped, a smile blooming on her face. “It’s warm.” She buried her fingers and nodded. “Thanks.”
Ten students. Ten towels—and ten small moments of grace.
Elsie was nearly in tears by the time Nat emerged. She offered up the last towel, knowing the magic waned, even now. She’d have to find a witch with better spell longevity and get a lesson.
Nat reached for the towel, face welcoming and slightly confused. When her fingers touched warmth, the bewilderment grew. Wordless, she glanced around at her class, a few towels still being cuddled, some making their way to the dirty laundry basket. Ever so slowly, comprehension dawned on her face.
Then she looked at Elsie, eyes bright, and held out her arms. “Welcome back.”
Chapter 4
Professor Allard had the kind of look in his eye that had Lizard squirming before she even got into her seat. And unfortunately, in a class of eight people, there weren’t very many places to hide.
She was feeling delinquent this morning, and wearing the torn jeans to prove it. Given what she expected to
happen, that wasn’t stupid—it was an act of self-defense.
Jeremy, on the other side of the table, gave her a quick thumbs-up and slid his glasses back on his head—a total sign of nerves. Lori, sitting beside him, looked as sick as Lizard felt. Huh. Apparently nobody was looking forward to their poetry going under the bright lights of the advanced poetry seminar microscope.
At least the Starry Plough had been dark.
The guy in charge cleared his throat. “You can all relax. What happens at Poetry Slam stays there.”
Jeremy frowned. “You aren’t going to say anything?”
“Only this.” Professor Allard pinned the three of them down with a glance. “It takes guts and a bizarre kind of bravery to empty your soul out on a stage. Some people do it and their poetry totally sucks, but that doesn’t take away one nano-weight from their guts. Sometimes the poetry is sublime.”
He looked at each of the three of them in turn. And then flashed a grin. “Yours didn’t suck.”
Lizard felt relief whooshing through the two across the table—and realized that she cared much less than they did. Her team of judges had already ruled.
And her poetry had never sucked—that much, she also knew. Admitting it in public was a totally different thing from what you knew inside your soul. The words had always come to her, and she had always known they were right.
Jeremy shrugged and wrapped his arm around Lori’s shoulders. “It was her poem.”
“No.” Professor Allard shook his head. “In the most obvious answer, your art made her words live, and that makes it yours, too.” He looked at Lizard. “But I think you know why Lori’s poem isn’t just hers anymore. And why yours isn’t only yours.”
She did. It was exactly why she’d always kept her words tucked away in a dark corner of her head. But there was no freaking way she was going to spout mystical crap to a bunch of brainiacs.
She sat in silence, watching eight sets of eyes stare at hers. Some curious. The professor’s more demanding. And Lori’s, almost pleading.
Frack. She was turning into a total wimp lately. “It also belongs to the audience.”
Professor Allard’s eyes were still demanding. Most of the rest were fairly confused. Apparently braniacs sometimes needed a personal tour. “Words start as ours. Until we say them or write them, they’re just in this little bubble inside our heads, and they mean exactly what we meant them to say because we’re the only audience.”
She turned to Lori, blocking out all the other eyes. “But if we put them out there, words speak to things inside people, things we don’t even know about. You talked about being new—new in this country, new in this culture.” She shrugged. “That’s no big for me—I’ve always been here. But I’m kind of new to the whole grown-up thing, so that’s what I heard in your words. So now they’re a little bit my words too, and they don’t only mean what they meant when you wrote them.”
And wow, that was an arrogant thing to say, even if she was totally right. Someday she was going to find a leash for her mouth.
Lori’s grin was a bit wavery. “Do you want to know what I heard in your words?”
No. A thousand times no. But that wasn’t how grown-ups did business. “I guess.”
“I heard that you don’t win a fight by surviving. You win it by changing the rules, by being smart and being brave enough to look past what you always thought was true. You win by knowing the truth matters, and it’s the truth inside you that matters most.”
Lizard tried desperately to squirm in some direction that wouldn’t make her look into the mirror her new friend was holding up. Dammit, this was exactly what she’d expected to happen when she’d come to class. She glared at Professor Allard, purveyor of broken promises. He just winked and grinned.
Lori looked down at the table, cheeks flushing. “Anyhow, that’s what I heard.”
Lizard yanked down her mind barriers as murmurs of agreement, said and unsaid, started floating around the room. “Don’t we have some dead-poet dude to talk about?”
“In a moment.” Her professor’s eyes had that look again. “But I’m going to break my own rule first. You told us ‘stupid’ wasn’t a name anymore. Just a word.”
Triple fracking hell. She wanted to move back to the planet where nobody paid any attention to the words coming out of Lizard Monroe’s mouth. “Yeah. So?”
He smiled slowly. “It made me wonder what the new name is.”
As she mentally stomped out of class, Lizard could hear the frustrated answer swinging around her ribcage. Sometimes poems lied. There was no new name. She was Lizard. She would always be Lizard.
~ ~ ~
Elsie watched as Helga clambered up the ladder to the trapeze, and prayed that Abe knew what he was doing. The Trapeze Arts trainers hadn’t even blinked when seventy-year-old Helga had shown up, peeled off her warm-ups to reveal a spangly cat suit underneath, and announced she wanted to try flying.
Apparently half the world wanted to try flying. The line-up in their beginner class included a football player, three teenagers, a man with a beard long enough to be a safety risk in the air, and a mom of six. Other than one of the teenage girls, they were all bouncing happily in line and waiting their turn, shouting encouragement to whoever was currently up with the trainers.
Helga waved down as they cheered her on, and then grabbed the trapeze with both hands. Elsie watched in interest and relief as Abe clipped on a couple of additional wires. Good—they were taking extra care with her bold friend’s old bones.
Some students froze when they first gripped the bar, clutched by the exultant terror Elsie remembered all too well. Helga, however, leaped off like she did this every day, swinging her legs back and forth with nicely timed momentum, her spangles turning her into a happy flying rainbow.
Elsie grinned—it was entirely possible this wasn’t Helga’s first time flying through the air. Seventy years of bold living had probably generated a fair list of adventures. Her list was a baby by comparison—but she had a list, and it would get longer.
She ran over to the base of the net to help Helga’s final dismount, and giggled as they collapsed in a pile on the floor. Helga was still gasping for breath. “Sorry, darling. My legs are still trying to figure out which way is up. That’s quite a trip, isn’t it!”
Elsie laughed and logged a wish—please, when she grew old, might it be with even a fraction of Helga’s spice. “Are you going to go again?”
“Goodness, no.” Helga’s voice was tinged with regret. “I firmly believe this old body can do anything it sets a mind to do, but I think once is my limit.” She patted Elsie’s cheek. “But I might just come back again with you sometime.”
There would be plenty of opportunity. Elsie’s second time at Trapeze Arts had blown on the banked embers of joy from her first visit. “I think it could become a bit of an addiction.”
Helga chuckled and slowly got to her feet. “We knitters know all about addiction, dear. The trick is to pick passions that fuel your soul. I think you’ve chosen very well.”
It felt almost like a benediction—or like the easy maternal approval she’d never really known in her life. Elsie moved on instinct, leaning in for a hug. And then giggled as she ended up nose-to-nose with Helga’s spangles. “Can you help me make a suit like this?” Being a flying rainbow had become a sudden personal ambition.
“Of course. Sparkles aren’t just for the little ones.” Helga’s eyes twinkled—and then slid away, distracted.
Elsie turned, looking for the cause. It was time for the one girl who wasn’t at all eager to go to have her turn. She couldn’t make out Abe’s gentle words or the girl’s tearful replies, but everything about her body language proclaimed her fear.
Hazel’s hand pushed her gently forward. “Go on. Help her out, sweetheart. You know what it is to be afraid.”
Elsie wasn’t at all sure that qualified her to intervene, but she walked over slowly. Abe looked up as she approached and smiled in welcome. “Meliss
a here is feeling a bit nervous. Maybe you can tell her about your first time flying.”
Melissa was more than a bit nervous—she looked half an inch away from bolting for the door. “My friends came on a dare, but they do crazy stuff like this all the time. I’m not like them.”
It often sucked to be the sensible one. “My first time was a dare too. And I’m about the least crazy person in the universe.” Elsie breathed and hoped her words were the right ones. “Forget why you came. You’re here now, and nothing before really matters, or anything that will happen after you leave.” She pointed up to the sky. “If you look up there, and listen inside, what do you hear?”
Melissa managed half a smile. “My teeth chattering?”
Elsie grinned and slid an arm around the terrified girl’s shoulders. “Besides that. Listen deeper. Maybe you truly don’t want to go up, and that’s okay. Lots of really interesting people never fly through the air on a tiny little bar.”
Abe chuckled, but said nothing more.
Elsie looked over at Melissa. “But if that place deep inside you really wants to fly, this would be a great time to listen. To discover that about yourself. Even if you don’t choose to go up today.”
Melissa closed her eyes—for long enough that Elsie got concerned. But when she opened them again, it was clear she’d found her answer. She reached out for Abe’s hand. “Help me do this.”
The impressed look in Abe’s eyes made Elsie feel good. The gulping courage in Melissa’s made her feel wondrous.
And when Melissa flew through the air screaming in delight, clipped in to Abe’s harness, Elsie wasn’t entirely sure her own feet stayed on the ground.
~ ~ ~
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To: jennie.adams@bythelight.com
From: Caro Genady
Subject: You’re invited.
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Hey Jennie,
Do they serve up email on airplanes? I have no idea what your girls are up to this afternoon, but they’re busier than an anthill over on the other side of my duplex. And I’m supposed to pass on a message—you’re invited to Sunday dinner. Said with the kind of cackle that would make me entirely nervous.