Chapter 9
The next day, Talula had shut the blinds and left a Closed For Inventory sign on the door.
She sat cross-legged in the center of the café as Simon paced like a fluffy general.
In front of her were four bowls—one filled with water, another filled with soil and rocks, another that held kindling, one that was empty—and an ancient book.
“A sorceress is a living embodiment of the universe’s magical forces,” Simon lectured.
“We begin with elemental abilities because they put you in tune with the earth itself through the in-between spiritual forces that bring the physical and magical world together. While this skill is something better suited for magical children to learn, we can’t turn back time. ” Simon sighed despairingly.
“I mean, why couldn’t we turn back time?” Talula teased. “Magically?”
“WHAT?” Simon snarled, staring at Talula like she’d just suggested slitting the Easter Bunny’s throat during a Sunday school egg hunt.
“Our first lesson and you already want to disintegrate the fabric of reality? Time magic is rare for a reason. Not even your mother, not even I can manipulate time, and even if we could—”
“Sorry, sorry!” Talula cut him off, hands up in surrender. “I was just joking.”
Simon took several deep breaths, shook out his fur, and continued with a foreboding hrmph. “Your mother tells me you have the most affinity with fire. Meditate on the meaning of fire, its heat, its power to give life and take it away. Think of raging wildfires, the searing burn of the sun—”
“Excuse me?” Talula raised her hand like a schoolkid. “That’s not really how I do it.”
Simon reared back. “Am I or am I not the master sorcerer who read the secret history of the constellations in the dregs of stardust? Who brought an age of justice to a world under the thumb of chaos and blood? Who tamed the haunted wildebeest of the sacred mung bean fields?”
“You are…?”
“Precisely.” Simon puffed up his chest. “So do as I say. You’ll make fire, like Prometheus’s own kin!”
Do it for the Magical Destiny. Talula focused.
Meanwhile, Simon continued his litany. “Think of the way fire roars in a pyre, how it crackles and devours. Think of flames towering around you like you were in the pits of hell itself…”
Talula tried to connect his words with her power, tried to use Simon’s descriptiveness to tap into her inner fire, but it was like striking dull rocks together, hoping to see sparks. Finally, Talula squeezed out a flicker of flame.
Simon frowned. “That’s disappointing.”
“You saw me create flames when Kiki was here,” Talula reminded him. “Let me try it my way. I know I can do more than this.”
“Your way is questionable. You need discipline. Here, look at this.” Simon moved the ancient book closer to Talula, scooting it with his snout. “Turn to page twenty-four. Read it out loud.”
Talula obliged, carefully handling the thin pages covered in curling calligraphy.
“ ‘Lo, yonge sorcerer, if thou seken to master the capricious flame fixen thy mind on its nature and thee shall eek mastery forthwith…’ ” Talula stopped reading.
“This is almost word for word what you’ve been telling me to do.
Give or take, like, a thousand years of linguistic evolution. ”
Simon nodded enthusiastically. “This is how sorcerers have been mastering magic for generations.”
“There has to be more than one way to master magic,” Talula insisted.
Simon’s ears pressed against his skull. “Then show me your way.”
Talula inhaled deeply and shook out her shoulders, trying to loosen the grip of the day’s frustrations.
She opened her hand and imagined it was a burner.
Heat gathered in the center of her palm.
Rainbow-hued flames flickered in a tiny ball over the intersection of the heart and fate lines on her hand. Talula enjoyed a brief, smug smirk.
“Now make it bigger,” Simon ordered coolly.
Talula pressed her will to the fire, imagining it unfurling like a rose. It grew a few centimeters, then sputtered. Sweat pearled on Talula’s forehead as she concentrated. The flame shrunk to a meager blue. Then, it vanished.
“Here’s the problem.” The judgment in Simon’s black eyes was unrelenting. “You know you can do things, but you don’t know how. You’re fumbling around in the dark.”
“You’re the one using textbooks from the actual Dark Ages!” Talula snapped.
“Do I need to remind you again with whom you’re dealing?
” Simon growled. A faint buzz of magical energy stirred, emanating darkly from the dog.
His eyes became deep, hypnotic voids. Phantom shadows stretched and crawled over the walls and ceiling, crowding the air out of the room.
Talula could smell burning and brimstone.
“I get it.” She gritted her teeth.
“Good.” Simon barked a word, and the illusions vanished. “Now focus.”
So Talula focused on elemental magic. But her witchfire was barely a flicker. She could hardly manipulate a drop of water. The wind she summoned had less force than a sneeze. Talula thought she’d shifted the earth a bit, but it was actually just a big truck driving by.
Finally, Simon decided to call it quits. “We have more work ahead of us than I thought.”
Talula turned off the lights and locked up, trying to swallow down her frustration and shame. “Maybe I just need more time with your methods.”
“I suppose, but I’d expected to see a bit more of your mother’s natural talent in you.” Simon huffed.
Talula winced—Simon, without realizing, had found her deepest insecurity and jabbed at it with a pointy stick.
“Perhaps you’ll be better at conjuring,” he mused. “You know, summoning something from one place to another.”
Talula doubted it.
Later, at home, Talula heated up leftover pork chops and canned green beans for dinner. She lay a plate down for Simon, then took her meal up to her room, where she promptly face-planted into her bed. Talula hadn’t felt this sulky since she was a teenager. Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Hey! How was inventory?
Talula sat straight up and studied the text with a grin. Her thumbs tapped out a response.
Fine! How are the short stories going?
The next text appeared almost instantly.
I only managed to write 10 words today.
Were they ten *good* words?
“It was a dark and stormy night…or was it?”
…Ah.
Maybe your hot chocolate is the only thing that lures my muse into my brain.
Like muse catnip.
MUSE NIP.
Actually! Your muse stopped by, she said she’ll see you tomorrow. Dionysus threw a rager so she lost track of time.
That bitch was HUNGOVER, wasn’t she?
Talula laughed out loud.
If you write as funny as you text, you don’t need her. I promise.
but fr I got so desperate for cocoa inspo
I tried to make it myself with MIXED RESULTS
Dahlia sent a selfie. She was wearing what looked like pajamas—a camisole, boxer shorts, and over-the-knee fluffy socks.
In the picture, she stood in front of a stovetop covered in milk foam, her face half covered with an embarrassed hand.
There was something a little…undressed in the photo that made Talula’s face go hot. Another text came through.
Send reaction pic please
I wanna see your face
…and anything else you want to show me
Self-consciousness duked it out in Talula’s head with her desperate need to do anything Dahlia asked—especially if Dahlia was sending adorably sexy PJ selfies.
So Talula turned the camera on herself and posed her reaction.
Her hair fell in messy waves around her face, the loose neck of her sleep shirt exposing a tasteful bit of shoulder and collarbone.
She hit send, hoping her cheeks didn’t look too flushed in the photo.
Dahlia’s reply came instantly.
OMG, it’s like “the scream” but make it hot chef
Talula laughed as another message appeared.
What was YOUR worst cooking mistake?
It’s always when I try to bake!
They went on, chatting back and forth long after Talula tucked herself into bed and closed her eyes between texts. She didn’t think about the clock until:
It’s CRAZY late!
Should I let you sleep so you can help me do some muse-luring tomorrow?
Probably. But it was nice to get a dose of Dahlia.
Doctors recommend 8-10 servings every day
You’ll need to make up for missing your dose today…
Good night!
See you tomorrow/today!
Talula stared at her phone for a while longer, her eyelids feeling heavier with each blink.
Just wait, she thought to herself drowsily. She might respond.
But Talula was asleep when Dahlia’s last message glowed on her phone.
I can’t wait
Simon and Talula arrived at the café early the next day to practice conjuring. Simon asked if she had an apple on hand. Talula opened the Voltlette.
“What is this?” Simon gaped.
“A pocket dimension I made by accident while using the Volta.” Talula dug around her fruit shelves.
She had a few apples, but which variety was the best for magical training?
The Honeycrisp? The Granny Smith? The Jazz?
While Talula pondered, Simon stuck his head in the Voltlette.
Then a paw. Then the rest of him. Apparently, the Voltlette’s loose definition of gravity did not apply to dogs.
Simon floated aimlessly amongst the shelves, legs desperately kicking in midair.
“HELP!”
“I got you!” Talula caught Simon by the scruff of his neck. She clutched the dog to her shoulder, snatched up a random fruit, then rushed out of the Voltlette. She set Simon down gently. He flopped into a heap.
“Why is there a pocket dimension in a pantry?” Simon blustered.
Talula shrugged. “I like it.”
Simon hrmphed. “Did you at least get the apple?”
Talula held up the fruit she’d grabbed at random. It was a persimmon. Simon rolled his eyes.
“Conjuring is not simply calling something from one place to another. It’s about will,” he began as Talula sat cross-legged on the floor. “You can force things that are on the edges of the world to be within your reach.”
“Theoretically, I could conjure Excalibur?” Talula cracked a smile, trying to lighten the mood.