11. If Walls Could Talk
ELEVEN
IF WALLS COULD TALK
The public areas of a pure-blooded witch’s home should reflect the grace, heritage, and refinement of her magical lineage. Decorative items featuring the family crest proudly remind guests of the home’s noble ancestry, while portraits of esteemed ancestors and heirlooms take places of prominence.
Velvet, brocade, and silk are ideal for upholstery, drapery, and tapestries, with fur pelts and leather accents subtly reminding bestial visitors of their place. Every aspect should blend luxurious elegance and subtle confidence, leaving visitors with no doubt about the owner’s impeccable breeding.
–EXCERPT FROM THE ARCANE ELITE: UPHOLDING THE SANCTITY OF WITCH BLOODLINES
Minerva was dreaming about Zephyr.
“There’s still sparks in the fireplace!” he joked.
In the dream, Zephyr was lecturing the shifter teenager one moment, and the next they were both gone. All that was left were Zephyr’s flyers, burning in her empty hearth. They curled into long flaming ribbons, sending cinders up the chimney. She felt like someone was tapping on her shoulder.
When she awoke with a start, it surprised Minerva to find she was still in the mudroom off the side entrance.
Examining her hands, she was surprised to find she was still a mouse.
This should have been obvious because she was napping in her knitting basket, but she was always a little foggy before that first cup of tea.
Oh dear. How was she ever going to make tea?
Things could be worse. She stretched out, appreciating the warmth and luxury of her cashmere bedding.
The guilt she once felt for abandoning the dull project was gone.
She was just glad she remembered it was up here when she got cold.
In order to reach the high shelf, she’d had to claw her way up a long scratchy mohair overcoat that was hanging on the wrought-iron coat rack.
A precarious journey, but well worth it in the end.
The single striped mitten she’d swaddled herself into was the perfect size and shape for a mouse’s impromptu camp out. Soft balls of unused hand spun yarn padded out the rest of her nest. She’d been comfortable enough to fall asleep, and she felt much better for the rest.
Minerva disliked many aspects of being a mouse, but it surprised her to find two things that brought her joy. One was having a tail. Who hadn’t wished for an extra appendage on occasion? The other was her much improved senses of smell and taste.
Oh, the glory of that English cheddar! Nutty, buttery and bold, with a burst of peppery zing in the crispy crystals that melted on the tip of her tiny tongue like sparklers.
She could smell it from here. Her whiskers twitched and her mouth watered.
She felt sorry for the squirrels now. They would never get to taste the delicacy.
Although, in retrospect, the squirrels had never once thanked her for the snacks she packed for them each month.
This made her think they were ungrateful wretches.
Much as she wanted to eat more of the stash now, she knew she had to be frugal to make the supply last. She did not know how long she might be here, in this state or any other.
In fact, she did not know how much time had passed since she’d made it back into the Mudpuddle.
Her senses had been quite addled. But now, after eating and sleeping a bit, she felt more like her usual self. Just smaller, and with whiskers.
She was pretty sure the house had disappeared with her inside of it.
There was no mistaking the sudden absence of the windows and lack of light coming from under the doors.
The power must be off as well, otherwise the light in the hallway leading to the Archives would still be visible. She always left the hall light on.
The mudroom wasn’t entirely dark, thanks to the emergency lighting system that was magically spelled into the house.
An intricate celestial pattern of stars glowed all around her.
It was almost as if the light were coming from tiny pinpricks on the walls.
She’d only seen this enchantment unfold a handful of times, during magical power outages.
Such events were rare, usually because of a full eclipse.
She’d always assumed the enchantments were there to keep the customers safe.
It never crossed Minerva’s mind that the backup lighting system might have been created for other kinds of disasters as well. The house hadn’t come with a caretaker’s manual. Only a children’s storybook, penned by her great, great grandmother Flora Lathrop.
As far as Minerva knew, the Mudpuddle had never gone missing for more than a day.
But she couldn’t tell how much time she’d lost since her encounter with the mage.
It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours.
He could still be out there somewhere, which meant that time was of the essence!
She decided her first order of business would be to navigate back to the bookshop to check on the time and date.
Papa Lathrop’s cleverly carved mantel clock would still be keeping time.
She was certain of it. The mantel clock guarded the time, even when the house disappeared.
If she listened attentively, she could hear it even now—a faint distant ticking.
Superior hearing was another benefit of being a mouse, apparently.
But not one that would help her return things to normal.
How was she to care for her home in this state?
The house was clearly unhappy, and so was she.
Oh, how she longed to soothe the Mudpuddle with a warm fire in the foyer hearth.
Surely it was missing her tender touch along its bookshelves, longing for the familiar aromas of sweet milky tea and biscuits baking.
She’d only just returned from her travels.
She knew the Mudpuddle had missed her. It always did.
So it had already been out of sorts. And now, she worried that the poor place was traumatized. That made two of them.
Minerva couldn’t let herself succumb to the overwhelming sense of despair that was threatening to sweep her away.
She had to be brave—for herself, for the house, and for all of Primrose Court.
If she could have done so at this moment, Minerva would have read a storybook aloud to the house, preferably its own.
The Mudpuddle, like most pampered children, adored hearing its origin story over and over.
And like most proud parents, Minerva never grew weary of the telling.
She would have loved to remind the Mudpuddle how Papa and Grandmere Lathrop had built their home as a refuge.
It had been a haven not only for the Lathrops, but for the entire community.
For almost three centuries, the house had served as a safe space for magical creatures of all sorts to gather, seek solace, share and learn.
There was so much history here. Minerva could sing the Mudpuddle’s praises all night long, if only she could sing.
But in her present state, Minerva couldn’t even lift a book, let alone read it. The best she could do was squeak the story out from her memory. Did the Mudpuddle understand mouse language? It was worth a try.
“Once upon a time there was a magical house. A house that was more than a house. She was a special house because she was so full of stories. Some of them were her own, and thousands more from all over the world.”
Minerva climbed out of the basket and surveyed the familiar space of the mudroom, from her unfamiliar angle.
Everything felt strange. Her mouse eyes made everything look blurry.
The tears welling up in them didn’t help with that.
This was just a temporary challenge, Minerva reminded herself.
A situation that she would eventually triumph over.
She was clever, and she was a Lathrop. Lathrops did not give up.
They studied, they learned, they kept their wits about them, and they adapted their practice to fit their challenges.
This was the biggest secret about mental magic. It wasn’t always so magical. Sometimes magic was just a matter of paying close attention to the tiniest of details. Minerva could do this. Even as a mouse. And even without her wand.
“The family that built this special home poured so much love into it. And all the creatures who came to gather under its eaves heaped on extra helpings. They all knew a secret, and the house knew it too…”
The mudroom was a small, simple space with wide wooden floorboards and paneled wood walls.
From where Minerva stood perched on the shelf, there was no practical route back down to the floor.
She could easily make the jump back over to the coat rack, but getting down the coat was going to be far more challenging and dangerous than getting up had been. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before?
The floor was clean and bare, except for the basket full of books and treats by the door, and a rack for drying muddy shoes and boots.
There was also a broom leaned against the wall in the corner beside the door.
Minerva’s broom. No fancy K-bikes for her.
If she was going to ride out into the night, she’d be doing it the old-fashioned way.
Nevermind that it had been decades since she’d flown.
She always kept her wooden handled broom clean, polished, and at the ready?.
A witch never knew when she might need to summon a lift.
Now, for example.
Minerva closed her eyes and waved her hands in front of her in a well-practiced sweeping pattern, willing the broom to rise to her aid. Cautiously, she cracked one eye open.
Nothing.
Once again, she performed the motions, taking greater care to be sure her movements were precise. The results were the same.