How Hard Can It Be?
Milo
I squeeze the small soft toy in my hand. This little witch on a broomstick keychain used to be Anabelle’s. I found it tucked away in the bag of vintage clothes when I finally made myself go through and sort them. Since then, it’s become a sort of stress toy.
Up goes the little witch on a broomstick. Catch.
Up goes the little witch on a broomstick, again. Catch.
Squeeze. This stuffed keychain used to be Anabelle’s.
Throw. Catch.
Despite Brightview Court already calling to inform me that Ethel made a full recovery by lunch time—before her poker game started—I can’t shed this itching feeling that’s under my skin. There’s something about today. Something other. I need to be here, in my room, but I don’t know why.
Up goes the little witch on a broomstick. Catch.
I’ve been here all day and still can’t figure out what’s guiding me.
Throw. Catch.
The aggressive vibrating of my phone on the nightstand cuts through my fizzing thoughts like unscrewing the cap on a bottle of shaken-up soda, and I drop the stuffed keychain on my face.
Stretching for my phone, I blow out a long breath when it’s Ray’s caller ID on the screen.
“Hey, Miles, I thought you were coming over for dinner tonight?”
I smile softly at my nickname; Ray’s the only person who’s ever given me one. Well, except Anabelle—but Millie-Moo wasn’t really all that great when she would yell it out loud to get teenage Milo’s attention in a crowded space.
“Hey right back, I thought dinner was Wednesday?”
“Yeah, and it is Wednesday.”
“Oh. Shit, sorry Ray-Ray… I forgot.” I roll over, swing my booted feet out of bed, and scrub my free hand down my face where it catches in my septum piercing and scrapes over my stubble. Ugh, I need a shave.
“No worries. Are you… okay? You don’t sound like your usual chaos-gremlin self.”
“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I mean, not fine fine. But good. Nothing’s happened.” I search out my little stuffed keychain from in the tangle of sheets.
“Milo… talk to me. Either over the phone, or come around for dinner and let me feed you while you talk.”
I’m so glad I found Ray—he’s the best best friend ever. I slip my finger through the keychain loop and spin it around my finger. It’s not that I can’t tell Ray about this strange feeling that’s cost me the day, it’s more that I don’t have the words to describe it yet.
Instead, I ask, “Do you think I need a keeper?”
There are some shuffling noises through the open line, then the glugging sound of pouring liquid. Wine. The answer to this question evidently requires wine. But also, Ray is older and much more sophisticated than me, the type of man who drinks a glass of wine with dinner just because.
“Did you, by any chance, visit Ethel today?” he ventures.
“Mhm, yeah. We had breakfast together. But I don’t see—”
“You know when she says that, she’s not being condescending, don’t you? She doesn’t want you to have a keeper because you’re not great at adulting…”
I snort out a laugh.
“You know what I mean…”
He’s right, I do. I nod, even though he can’t see me.
We’re very different in many ways, probably wouldn’t ever have become best friends if I hadn’t caught my boyfriend cheating with him and decided we should unite as allies against him.
Ray had really appreciated the kindness behind the fruit basket I’d sent him, and we’d nursed our broken hearts together.
“Ethel worries, Milo, that’s all. Like I do.
Anyone who truly knows you only wants the best for you.
” Ray pauses to sip his wine. “And having a keeper isn’t a bad thing.
I mean, imagine it. Someone who cares for you so completely that they remember the foods you don’t like, when you have an important meeting at work, can tell when you’re stressed and know how to defuse it, and will listen when you talk. ”
Ray gives a wistful sigh, and I stop spinning my keychain in favour of squeezing it. “Sounds too good to be true.”
“Only because you haven’t met him yet, but you will. That person is out there, waiting for you. That’s who Ethel wants you to find, Milo. It’s who we all want to find.”
“Yeah,” I say. Ray and I are also different when it comes to this topic too.
He’s in love with the idea of love—a hoper and a dreamer.
I’m a little more practical. If it sounds too good and looks too good, then there’s probably something off with it somewhere.
Besides, after the damage Andrew did to us both, I’ve sworn off dating for a little while.
“This isn’t what’s got you down, though, is it? Not really. That’s a me thing, not a you thing. So, come on. Allow me to be your keeper for the evening. Tell me what’s on your mind, and I’ll listen.”
I don’t answer right away, instead looking down at the aged little witch keychain that I’m squeezing the life out of in my lap. Maybe I could try and give voice to whatever this insistent feeling is, even if it’s clumsy. “How did you… when your grandma died the other year, how did you cope?”
“Ah,” is all Ray says.
For the longest time, we sit in companionable silence.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” I offer.
At the exact same time as he says, “Ethel’s not… declining, is she?”
“No, no. She’s as feisty and spry as ever. It’s just…”
“Don’t apologise, Miles, it’s okay to talk about Nana’s death. It doesn’t upset me.”
Another silence. More squeezing of the poor witch in my hand.
“Ethel’s great—it’s me,” I admit. “I don’t like the idea that she won’t always be there.”
I form a fist around the keychain and use the back of my hand to wipe away my tears.
“But it feels a bit like standing on a beach and watching a tsunami approach. No, actually it’s not like that at all, because I know enough about spell casting to successfully divert that—probably—but I can’t cast any of the spells that will stop this.”
“No, you can’t!” Ray whispers. Vehemently. “Death magic and shadow work is forbidden by the Witches Council—and for good reason. Milo, please tell me you’re not thinking of doing anything like that?”
“No. I mean, I’ve thought about it. Of course I have. Ethel’s all I have left, and the idea that she… It literally makes me sick. But no. I get why I can’t—”
“Good. Good, Miles, listen to me. That kind of magic is old and dangerous. You really don’t need to be mixed up in anything to do with it.”
Ray’s exhale is long and weighty.
“But I hear you; I’m listening. I think I’ll go and speak to our Coven Leader—again—about you. You need to be with those who can help keep you tethered while you work through this. And if I can get you back into the coven, then you might also be able to get caster’s insurance.”
I snort out another laugh. This one in derision.
The Witches Council is a bureaucratic joke, and the bane of my existence.
They’re supposed to support witches in a modern world, in a world where scientific reasoning rules and the paranormal has to stay hidden.
To this end, they bought a series of schools in the nineteen fifties and opened them “for witches only,” but this designation was hidden behind entrance exams and fees.
It was also heavily attached to an individual’s Family Line.
When my parents died unexpectedly in an accident, even though Great Aunt Anabelle stepped in and adopted me, I was deemed too high risk to continue to be taught.
A knowledgeable witch, who lacks the grounding and support of their family, is considered a potential threat.
Add to that how I also wouldn’t be able to get caster’s insurance, and that no coven would legally be allowed to take me in as a practicing member, and my entire value as a person vanished overnight.
“How would caster’s insurance help me with this? Like you say, shadow work is forbidden, so…”
“Because then you’d be able to cast curative magic.”
“Oh…”
“See, this is what worries me, Milo. Your brain automatically threw up shadow work but not heart-opening spells or rituals of release. This is the whole point of a coven. They’re meant to be a family, of sorts, and maybe if you felt that you had others to help guide you, then you’d feel better when… you know. When the time comes.”
When the time comes. Ray didn’t mean those words to be heavy, objectively I know that, but they sit on my chest like a nightmare where they suffocate and paralyse me.
“When the time comes,” repeats in my mind.
I don’t want the time to ever come.
“Will you let me speak with the Coven Leader? See if I can at least get you affiliated?”
“Hmm?” Ray’s question is earnest, but my mind is already drifting. “Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Ray.”
The keychain slips to the floor. Forgotten.
“Anything for you, Miles. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to repay you ever since you saved me from Andrew, so this is something I’m passionate about. I’ll go first thing in the morning, before breathworks starts. Will you be alright tonight?”
I slide onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Always am. Like a cat, I think. I’ll land on my feet.”
Ray hums.
“I’m sorry about dinner. I didn’t mean to forget,” I add.
“Don’t worry about it, it was only chicken pasta. We’ll rearrange it. Will you eat something tonight? Do you have stuff in? I can order you something if you like? There’s still time.”
Ray’s concern is touching, but there’s that word again. Time. “Mhm, yeah. I’m sure I can rustle something up.”
“Okay, well, if you’re sure you’re okay, then I’ll hang up so you can order. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how it goes with the Coven Leader. And Milo?”
“Yeah?”
My gaze catches on the reflection of my white-blond hair in the full-length mirror opposite, except it’s not my image that I’m drawn to, but the small bookcase beside it.
The bottom shelf is full of Family Line books and grimoires I inherited, and soon they’ll be all that’s left of the Tobitts. Because we’re out of time.
“I always have time for you, you know that, right? You’re not alone, and you won’t ever be, because you’ll always have me.”
I smile, my eyes roaming over the aged spines of the magical tomes. “Thanks, Ray.”
“I mean it. Now, go on, order something before you’re too late.”
Before I’m too late. “Yeah, ’kay. I’m going.”
“G’night, Miles.”
“Night, Ray.” I end the call.
Time: twenty-two minutes.
Time.
When the time comes.
The dark green binding of Liber Magiae looks almost black in the low light of my room, the sun having set long ago.
I crawl forward to flick on the lamp that barely fits on top of the bookcase, its wonky shade angled down because it’s too close to the wall to rest neutrally.
The yellow light immediately reflects from the gold lettering on the spines of the other grimoires: Liber Magi and Liber Spirituum et Animalium, but it’s a smaller journal-type book by Rosa Fidelis that holds my attention.
Tempus Vitaque Magae Lunaris. The Life and Times of the Moon Witch.
Time.
Carefully, I ease the book out from its tightly wedged spot on the shelf. Despite these books having been in my family my entire life, I’ve never actually read them. Never had enough time.
One of the very first things a child witch learns is to listen to their gut.
Intuition is the foundational practice upon which all other casting is built.
Grimoires aren’t just fancy recipe books, where as long as you follow the instructions on the page, you’ll always cast the perfect spell.
Magic is unpredictable. Intuition guides us, and something in this book is screaming at me; it has been ever since I came home from visiting Ethel this morning. I was just too distracted to hear it.
Crossing my legs under me, I tuck my hair behind my ear—finger catching in my tunnel piercing as it always does—and scan the contents page: A History of Witches, The Lunar Phases, Practical Magic, Protective Magic, A Note on Time…
Time.
Flipping the pages unleashes a waft of fragranced air, not quite stale and dusty but almost spiced, like cinnamon or nutmeg. It’s warming and somehow familiar—nostalgic maybe, except for something I’ve never known. Whatever it is, it feels right.
“Temporal magic is complicated, and is best performed by those whose Family Lines are tied to the Temple of the Moon.”
I shrug. I have no idea if my Family Line is tied to that or not, and there’s no one left to ask either. Because we’re out of time.
I chew on my bottom lip. Ray is right, shadow work and death magic are strictly forbidden, and no matter what, I don’t want to attract the attention of the Witches Council. But temporal magic isn’t forbidden… so could I try to slow down the time Ethel has left?
Is that why these books have been calling to me?
All I wanted when I left Brightview Court earlier was to get to my room as fast as possible, where I’d be surrounded by the last remaining items from my Family Line, where I then lost track of time, missed dinner with Ray, and discovered a book of temporal magic.
My heart does this excited little pitter-patter thing while thoughts all fall into place around me. Time magic is trickier than most because there are lots of moving pieces—even the duration of the cast itself is a factor, but it’s not prohibited. Not monitored. Not traced.
Not traced.
It’s not traced by the Witches Council because only high-level practitioners would even consider themselves capable of chronomancy, but the spells themselves—the ingredients—they’re regular, everyday items. It’s purely the skill of the witch that transforms them.
I’m not a high-level practitioner, I didn’t even graduate from the Academy, and I don’t have a coven—or caster’s insurance—but I do have my intuition.
And really, how hard can any of this be?