of the fire mouse incident, Poppy insisted I should be examined by the head honcho of her witches’ club. It wouldn’t be my first trip to the League of Women’s Welfare, also known as the Ladies Who Witch, but it would be the first time I’d be officially introduced.
Tourists crowded the path as we crossed into Central Park. We dodged the photo-takers and continued on our way.
“I don’t see why your boss needs to see a fire mouse,” I said. “I mean, she must see all kinds of things. It’s practically normal to her. Boring, even.”
“It isn’t,” Poppy insisted. “I’ve never heard of anything like it. And she’s not my boss. She’s—she’s my friend. I did a favor for her once. Then she let me join the LWW.” She did a little twirl on the sidewalk.
“They sure put on one hell of a charity bazaar,” I said, remembering the day Jester ate magical good-luck clover.
“Wait until you see the rest of the building. It’s marvelous, I tell you. Simply marvelous.” Poppy stopped walking to watch a gaggle of small children playing on the grass.
I stopped, too, shading my eyes from the sun. New York took summer seriously, collecting the heat in all the concrete and then radiantly blasting it back. As humid as Florida, but somehow even more stifling.
The little monsters were maybe around seven or eight years old, that last age when they’re not quite self-conscious yet. Girls and boys held their hands up like they were holding reins, then galloped across the grassy field, whinnying and snorting all the way.
“Oh, that looks like fun,” Poppy said. She grabbed hold of my arm. “Come on.”
“You’re not serious.” A second look convinced me that she was. “I don’t gallop. Also, it’s five hundred degrees out here.”
“Don’t be scared, Zelda,” she said, with the air of an aristocratic nanny. “Playing horsey can’t hurt you.”
“I’m not scared—hey!” Her grip tightened on my arm, and Poppy launched into the field, dragging me along with her until I had no choice but to match her gallop for gallop to avoid falling on my face.
“Tally-ho!” shouted Poppy.
Suddenly, the momentum kicked in and I was galloping along like Black Beauty, laughing helplessly, as we scattered the kids in all directions. We thundered onward, two grown women with more momentum than they knew what to do with, until Poppy’s straw hat blew off and a set of tall boulders blocked our way forward.
Poppy doubled over, breathing hard but triumphant. “See? I told you it was fun.”
With the magic of the Blessed still flaming its way through my veins, I was barely winded. “You were right.” When Poppy straightened, I gave her a light punch on the shoulder. “You great big galloping idiot.”
“Who’s big?” she cried, pretending to be offended. “I throw down the gauntlet to you, sir.” She looked down at herself, as if to find a gauntlet to throw, then fixed her gaze on my head right before neatly knocking my black West Side Sandwiches ball cap off with her hand. “Aha!”
I lunged at her, and she galloped off, laughing, to retrieve her own hat, which was now tumbling in a welcome morning breeze.
I scooped mine up and replaced it. Of all the things I hadn’t expected to happen when I moved to Manhattan, galloping through Central Park with New York’s sunniest English fire witch would have been the least expected. The season hadn’t even changed yet, but everything else had.
Poppy’s voice came from behind me. “I got my hat.” She brandished it triumphantly, then tugged it onto her head. “Onward!”
We reached the eastern edge of Central Park and crossed 5th Avenue to enter the Upper East Side.
The wrought iron gates of the League of Women’s Welfare were closed and locked, unlike the day when the red carpet had literally been rolled out between the ornate gold-painted iron LWW monogram.
Poppy pressed the call button on the speaker mounted by the door.
We waited as fancy people with fancier dogs strolled past.
Finally, the speaker squawked. “League of Women’s Welfare. May I help you?”
Poppy pushed the button, her manner becoming haughty even before she spoke. “Poppy Spencer-Churchill. I have an appointment.” She winked at me and the aristocratic veneer instantly fell away.
The gate buzzed.
Poppy pushed it open and gestured for me to go first.
Without crowds milling around, it was even easier to appreciate the grandness of the building. The courtyard wouldn’t have been out of place in the heart of old Paris. Inside, the echoes of our footsteps bounced off marble floors and soaring marble-covered walls. Every direction held something beautiful or luxurious.
What was behind that set of grand doors? What was up those sweeping staircases? What other mysterious events were held here?
And did they need catering?
“Zelda?” Poppy’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
I had stopped to gawk without even realizing it. “Coming,” I said, jogging to catch up. I followed her out of the marble ballroom and into another room that would have held a decent-sized wedding reception. Instead of round banquet tables, though, chairs in rows faced a podium. Red velvet curtains hung over all the windows, leaving the room to be lit by yellow light from golden sconces along the walls. Red carpet covered the floor.
And above it all, the most over-the-top ceiling I’d ever seen in my life. There wasn’t a square inch not completely covered in carvings, gilt, and paintings. Angels with torches and wheels. Horses on clouds surrounded by cherubs. Like an art museum exploded.
“Through here,” Poppy said, indicating a side door.
I followed her.
The smaller door opened into a cozy library lit with similar sconces to the red velvet room. Four walls of dark wooden bookshelves framed a large rectangular table. A standing globe took up space off to the side along with a pair of wingback chairs. Old portraits hung above the bookshelves.
Then a section of the bookshelf swung open with a jingling noise—like the West Side Sandwiches door but much lighter—and a woman dressed in a blue and silver caftan emerged.
The bells I’d heard were the ones in her long twists of hair, along with other gems and silver charms. She was average height, but solid build. “Poppy!” she said, with arms outstretched.
Poppy bustled forward and embraced her. When they released each other, Poppy turned to me. “Azure, may I present my roommate Zelda Hawkins. Zelda, this is Azure Washington, Witch Presiding of the League of Women’s Welfare.”
“Or the Ladies Who Witch,” Azure said. Her voice was almost gravelly, but pleasantly so, with a familiar New York accent. She aimed a smile in my direction. “We’re all friends here.”
I held my hand out. “Nice to meet you, Azure.”
She held her hand out, then pulled it back. She nudged Poppy. “She doesn’t actually take your magic, does she?”
Poppy fluttered her hands. “Oh, no. She just copies it.”
“And only if I hold on for more than a second or two,” I added.
Azure chuckled, then gave my hand a hearty shake. Her hand was strong and warm. “Pleased, I’m sure.”
“Where’s Aloysius?” Poppy asked.
“He’s with my assistant.”
“Aloysius is her familiar,” Poppy added, to me. “He’s an owl. Air magic familiar. Wings as big as tree branches.” She turned to Azure. “Something happened to Zelda that was almost like a familiar—very strange—”
“Really?” Azure looked me up and down, as if reassessing.
I described what happened at the shop, from the griddle fire, to the appearance of the mouse, right up to the peeps, and then how I made the odd little creature disappear into my hand.
“Have you tried to summon it again?”
I shook my head.
“Interesting,” Azure said. She peered over her gold-rimmed spectacles. “Let’s have a look at you.”
“What, here?”
“No, at Mount Sinai. Of course here, where did you think?” She shook her head with amusement, and her hair charms jingled. “Hands, please.”
“If I touch you for more than a few seconds—”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I want to see.” She grasped my hands and turned them over like she might read both my palms.
I held still, expecting the cold swirl of air magic like my brother’s. And it was, at first, a cool ticklish feeling accompanied by silver motes that stuck to my skin like glitter. But the temperature alternated, like a magical current, first cool, then warm, then cool again, not dissimilar to sitting in front of a fire while a door to the outside opens and closes repeatedly, causing the drafts to twine around each other. “I wonder why everyone’s magic feels so different.”
Azure raised her gaze briefly before returning it to my hands. “Why wouldn’t it? If we were all the same, what a boring world it would be.” She passed the pad of her thumb over my palm. “See this, Poppy? I think our magics are interacting. That’s your fire magic, if I’m not mistaken.”
Poppy leaned in and watched closer.
“Normally it takes a great amount of intention to transfer magic from one person to another. But here it is, hopping to your friend like fleas.” Azure slid her hands up to my wrists, raising my arms higher. “Your grandmother was magical, Poppy said?”
“Yes. The same as me. She could copy magic, too.”
“What about the rest of your family?”
“Mother and father, no. My brother, my maternal aunt and my cousin are all elemental witches.”
“Type?”
“Air.”
She released me. “Poppy, get a book.”
Poppy hurried to the shelves and grabbed a book bound in tattered leather with gold lettering faded to the point of unreadability.
“Put it on the table and open it.” Poppy did so. “Zelda, turn the pages with air magic.”
I lifted my hand and sent drafts of air flying toward the book. Silver lines traced the air where they passed, then caressed the pages as they flipped over.
“Stop.”
I lowered my hand. The pages fluttered one last time before going still, and the silver air magic disappeared.
“Conjure a fire in your hand.”
I turned my hand palm-up and concentrated. A silver spark flickered, then a small yellow flame rose.
“Other hand, too.”
I glanced at Poppy, who shrugged. I did as Azure asked.
“Malkin!” Azure called. “Bring me a candle, please.”
A rustle of papers and a clatter came from beyond the open bookshelf door. “Coming, Azure,” an unfamiliar voice replied.
Malkin emerged from the adjacent room. She was young, around Lily’s age, twenty-something, with dark hair in a boyish cut, side-parted; a men’s suit cut to fit; highly polished leather shoes; and an old-fashioned watch chain attached to a buttonhole on her vest. Dashing, like a modern Indiana Jones minus the hat. Malkin lifted a candle in a stone vessel. “Got it.”
“Thank you. Put it on the table, away from the book. Poppy, you know Malkin. Zelda, this is Malkin. Assistant to the Witch Presiding.”
Malkin raised a hand and gave me a casual salute.
“Malkin is a water witch. It helps to have one around if something goes wrong with fire.”
“Why would something go wrong with fire?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to bring out that fire mouse of yours, and in case you hadn’t noticed”—she gestured to the room—“we’re in a library full of old and rare books. Now, I want you to concentrate on that candle. Specifically the wick. And I want you to think about that fire mouse you saw. Remember what it looked like. How it felt. What it sounded like. You’re going to follow those feelings to wherever it went when it disappeared from your hand.”
“And then what?”
“And then you’re going to call it back. You’re going to tempt it with this candle. With the wick. Fire wants something to burn, the same way you or I might want a snack after ten hours with no food.”
I nodded. Azure was speaking my language.
“Hold your hand right next to the candle.”
I stepped within reach of the candle, which looked oddly ordinary in the setting, and held out my hand. Malkin moved closer. “Can I close my eyes?” I asked.
“Whatever you need to do,” Azure said.
I closed them.
There, in my mind’s eye, was the fire mouse. It was crouched on its funny back legs, its front paws up, and its head was cocked, giving its oversized ears a quizzical tilt. Though it didn’t make any particular sense, I pictured the fire mouse diving down the back of my neck and flying down my arm like a tiny roller coaster car to land in my palm. I pictured the unlit candle as its reward.
SNAP.
I opened my eyes at the sound. The whole top of the candle was burning, not just the wick, and the fire mouse was sitting in the melted wax.
“Ooh,” Poppy said.
A ball of water floated over the candle. Malkin held both hands out, controlling it.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Hush,” Azure said. She was feeding small streams of air toward the fire.
“If you give a mouse a cookie,” I said, “he’s going to ask for a glass of milk.”
“Stop talking and think of a name.”
“A name?”
“For the mouse. Name it.”
I was not good at naming things. It had taken me ages to stop calling my dog “Boy” and settle on “Jester.” And even then, it was only because it was so obvious that he was a clown.
“Fire Whiskers,” Poppy said. “Or Fire Paws!”
“Fire-iana Grande,” Malkin offered.
“No offense,” I said, “ but those are terrible.” Meanwhile, the mouse had melted the wax all the way to the bottom.
Melt. The word conjured its own magic—that hot diner classic of hamburger, sauteed onions, and melted cheese on grilled bread. “Patty Melt!”
All three of them looked at me. No, four of them. Patty Melt, or Patty for short, turned her little mouse head in my direction, too.
“Patty Melt?” Azure said, her disbelief written in raised eyebrows.
“People who name their owls ‘Aloysius’ don’t get to judge,” I said.
I would have enjoyed delivering that retort even more if it hadn’t been punctuated by a sudden, high-pitched, ungodly sound halfway between a hiss and shriek.