The Mudpuddle Manual of Natural Magic (Natural Magic #1)
1. Strange Bedfellows
ONE
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
Guardianship of arcane items and magical artifacts is a role that should only be entrusted to pure blood witches and wizards.
In order to ensure they are neither misused nor diminished, these relics require carefully vetted caretakers. A curator’s magic must be untainted.
To place our history in the hands of the impure is to risk irreparable harm to our magical heritage. It is the duty of the pureblooded to safeguard the power and legacy that our kind has maintained for generations.
–EXCERPT FROM THE ARCANE ELITE: PRESERVING THE SANCTITY OF WITCH BLOODLINES
The night before the Mudpuddle Bookshop and Cafe mysteriously vanished, Minerva Lathrop threaded her way past a rusted, green dumpster and into the narrow brick alley that hid the entrance to Primrose Court.
The fog was so thick she could barely see past the end of her long, pointed nose, upon which a pair of round wire spectacles balanced.
The glasses looked charming on her, lending a sweet granny effect to her pink apple cheeks.
But they were just part of her costume. Her vision was still as sharp as her mind.
The fog blurred the texture of the brick-and-mortar walls that loomed close on either side. The gloomy, wet mist nearly extinguished the limited light in the alley. Ominous shadows crawled into every crevice, like pill bugs nestling under rocks.
None of this bothered Minerva one bit. She was familiar with the repelling wards in this alley and didn’t spook easily. The shadows, creaks, and howls didn’t faze her. She could have found her way home with her eyes closed.
She desperately wanted to close her eyes. Her lids were heavy after a long day of travel.
Over one arm, Minerva carried a handwoven straw bag.
It contained her passport and a shiny new T-watch Minerva was determined never to use.
If she was being honest, fear kept her from turning it on.
She had no desire to take a dip in the well of collective consciousness.
Keeping track of her own thoughts was plenty.
Struggling with an external device that all the young folk seemed to wield like an extension of their own selves was unsettling.
It made her feel incompetent. So she simply avoided it, carrying it only because she was told she must. For emergencies.
Though she could hardly imagine what emergency might be that dire.
She was also dragging a simple, brown, mid-size leather suitcase, strapped to a metal trolley.
The heavy bag wobbled and thumped along behind her in the alley, trolley wheels catching on the cobblestones.
Minerva grimaced as the bag toppled. Wrestling with it reminded her that witches are flesh, like all mortals.
She lived with the indignity of arthritis.
It was worse when she left home and couldn’t simply pop by the apothecary to pester her niece Lucretia for a remedy.
Minerva used to anticipate international travel eagerly, but it was getting harder and harder to bounce back from her annual procurement tour of the continent.
Several times on this trip, she’d wondered whether it might be the last one.
And what a shame if it was! This trip wasn’t the victory lap she’d envisioned for her final mission.
This trip had been nothing but an exhausting waste of her time.
She’d failed to locate a single item to add to the Arcane Archives.
She was returning home empty-handed and baffled.
Abandoned grimoires and discarded supernatural artifacts weren’t tricky for conservationist witches to come by if they knew where to look.
And even if they didn’t know where to look.
Those sorts of things were always turning up at auctions and estate sales.
She’d also had great luck in lost luggage warehouses, flea markets, and thrift shops.
Minerva knew all the best and worst places to find enchanted items. She’d had a knack for it even before she’d accepted the critical duty of securing objects for safekeeping. She’d never failed before.
She wasn’t sure if it was her or something else. It made little sense. The sudden dearth of magical relics at home and abroad was disturbing.
Minerva now regretted subjecting herself to commercial transportation. Moving through Logan and Heathrow Airports, blending in with the ordinaries, was no way for a witch of her vintage to travel. She should have sprung for a private porter to take her directly to her destination.
At least she hadn’t had to resort to an elaborate disguise. Her age did have some advantages. She did not need to waste any of her precious energy conjuring glamors. Older women were naturally invisible in modern Ordinary society.
Reaching the final stretch of the long, lonesome alley, Minerva dropped the pretense of being an Ordinary elderly tourist and released the handle to her roller bag.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the suitcase continued to trail behind her, much like a pet.
It paused obediently and hovered just above the cobblestones when she stopped to shake the broken cracker bits out of her pocket.
The mice would appreciate the airline snacks far more than she had.
The crumbs the Ordinaries had to make do with! Barely fit for her rodent friends.
Finally, Minerva turned sideways and shimmied behind a rusted metal sign hiding the arched entry to Primrose Court.
As soon as she stepped into the tunnel-like brick passage, she could see the moonlight streaming in from the other side of the bricked passageway, not more than ten feet away. She couldn’t wait to return to the Mudpuddle bookshop, head upstairs, and crawl into bed.
The night sounds in Primrose Court were gentle as she emerged at the center of a large urban park.
Pitch pine needles were tapping out a gentle rhythm.
Ruffled oak and elm leaves danced in the wind.
In the distance, she heard the distinctive trilling warble of an eastern screech owl singing along.
The night sky was clear and bright. The silvery light from the full moon bathed the path ahead. The fog was gone.
Home at last. It could have been another world.
Exiting the park onto a wide tree-lined street, Minerva drank in the sight of the Mudpuddle, a three-story Queen Anne-style house comprising architectural bits and whimsy.
It included a round turret, a widow’s walk, and a wraparound covered porch.
All the railings and posts were elaborately carved and detailed.
The house greeted her with a wink from one of the two eyebrow windows set into the sloping shingled roof.
A sign, illuminated by a streetlamp, was posted near the front gate.
It welcomed shoppers to the Mudpuddle Bookstore and Cafe.
The Arcane Archives, hidden in the vault below the house, warranted no advertising.
Visitors were few and far between and required special clearance from the Society for the Protection of Natural Magic.
As it was the wee small hours the house was completely dark and silent.
Minerva snapped her fingers at her roller bag. She smiled indulgently as it flew ahead of her, rushing down the path and up the front stairs to land with a soft thunk on the porch.
Hopefully, the sound wouldn’t wake Zephyr. He wasn’t expecting her home till tomorrow, but she’d switched to an earlier flight. There was no point in disturbing Zephyr’s rest. She didn’t need him to let her back in. The Mudpuddle never failed to unlock itself for her, its caretaker.
Minerva had known Zephyr since they were childhood sweethearts.
Once upon a time, she’d been confident they’d have a future together.
And then he’d been called away on a special mission for the Société pour la Protection de la Magie in Quebec.
That decades-long mission had kept him away from Primrose Court ever since, with only the briefest of exceptions.
The Society, as the agency was known in the United States, had appointed Zephyr as the secondary guardian of the Arcane Archives.
This meant that Zephyr minded the Mudpuddle Bookshop and protected the relics whenever Minerva traveled.
It was an awkward, bittersweet arrangement that kept him in her life while ensuring they could never really be together.
It would have been much simpler if the Society had let her niece Lucretia be the guardian.
But the Mudpuddle tended to disapparate whenever Minerva left Primrose Court.
Lucretia wasn’t about to risk being inside the shop when this happened.
The Mudpuddle only stayed put for her or Zephyr.
And Zephyr only stayed put for the duration of his assignments.
He’d be gone first thing in the morning, probably before she woke.
Minerva let herself in and shuffled wearily past the dusty, cluttered shelves in the foyer gift shop.
How quickly the dust gathered in her absence!
She paused briefly to cast a cleaning spell and slipped in an overnight baking charm.
The clock on the mantel chimed a reminder of how late—or early—it was.
Four a.m. It would be nice to wake up to familiar smells and to replenish the bakery case in the morning.
She didn’t have to check to see that Zephyr had barely kept the place in cookies while she was away. Baking charms were not his forte.
Her bedroom was on the third floor of the turret.
It was at the front corner of the house, aligned with the street corner, and boasted the best view possible, save for the widow’s walk.
Minerva accessed this private chamber via the spiral staircase hidden behind a revolving bookcase in the corner of the coffee shop.
Absent-mindedly, Minerva kicked off her pointed boots in the vestibule at the top of the stairs.
She placed her hat and traveling cloak on the coat rack.
Moonbeams streamed through the large, curved glass windows.
They bounced off the mirrored glass ball on her nightstand and sparkled like stolen starlight when they hit the many mirrored shapes embedded in the midnight blue plaster walls.
At the center of the circular room, a round cloud-like bed beckoned.
Her bedroom really was the perfect peaceful, celestial dream space.
Minerva was startled as an unexpected exhalation ripped through the silence. She wasn’t alone in the room! She felt the floorboards shake gently beneath her feet, humming along with the solid, even brushstroke of Zephyr’s raspy snoring.
He was sleeping in her bed. Not in the guest room that she kept ready for him. Her bed. In her room. Whatever for?
He looked so peaceful. Once again, Minerva thought it would be a pity to wake him.
It was late, and Minerva was tired. Too tired to kick Zephyr out. So she unpinned her long braids, shook out her wavy gray hair, and crawled beside him fully clothed. Who cares anymore? We’re both too old to worry about silly things like etiquette.
It wasn’t just the cold that made Minerva shiver as she pressed closer to the ambient warmth of the old but solid man in her bed. She had to admit that for once in her life it was nice not to go to bed alone.