6

Fix

“I’M GOING TO BE HONEST with you, Witfirth. This is a really, really bad break,” Dawnri said.

Calla winced. Dawnri never addressed her by her last name unless she was serious.

She watched as the lea-wik, a leaf green lark with long grass-like hair, raised up the poorly tied remains of her staff and shook her head, causing the spiky thistle-like hair to rattle as she did so. She placed it back down on the desk in front of her. Near the staff’s remains lay a small magnifying glass Dawnri normally used to inspect minor fractures and breaks. The moment Calla had plopped down the pieces of her staff, she’d scooted the tool aside. She didn’t need it.

The lark looked sympathetically at Calla, who gave a nervous laugh. “I’m guessing it’ll take more than binding it with marbled willow-sap like last time.”

The lea-wik shook her head and tightened her brown shopkeeper apron. “Yep, this is the worst staff split I’ve seen since—well, now,” she admitted.

Calla’s eyes drifted to the shelf, lined with different-colored corked glass bottles and liquid elixirs, including a familiar square green bottle of sap.

“Is there anything else back there you could use to bind it back together?” she asked.

Dawnri shook her head again.

“Even if I could bind it with sap again like before, the minute you try to cast a spell, it’ll splinter—and that’s dangerous. I’m afraid it’s unusable now.”

Calla looked at her in disbelief, a flutter of panic in her chest. “What? So, what will I use to practice spells with? I have trials coming up, and I can’t go to them staffless. I’ll fail.”

“Calla,” Dawnri began.

But Calla continued, distraught. “I mean, are you sure nothing can be done?”

Dawnri shook her head again and placed a hand on Calla’s shoulder, who met her calm black gaze. “It’s time to let this staff go, young caster.”

Calla felt a wave of sadness. “It was my mother’s staff,” she admitted. Six years later, she could still clearly picture the older flower-elf squatting by her in a field, handing the staff to her as she gently encouraged her to try casting her first spell. Calla could still see the curled silver wisps, like a thread from a spool, spring forth from the staff as she carefully raised it above a small leaf. She could recall the joy she felt when finally, she summoned a small gray flame to erupt from the edges of the leaf.

Calla felt a pang of guilt as she stared back at the fragments of wood that sat on the counter. And now it’s reduced to nothing.

Dawnri nodded. “I know it’s hard to let go. But truly, it’s time for you to get your own. If you wish to grow into a strong caster, you must accept this harsh truth.” She let go of Calla’s shoulder and pointed to the back wall of the shop, past shelves of trinkets, bottles, and barrels sitting amid neat rows of different woods and bark cuttings.

“I know a good craftsman in Belchthicket who weaves staffs together,” Dawnri said. “He works with staffs and all kinds of magical oddities. If you could choose the wood in the back, I can ship it and send a word out to him. We have twisted-rosewood, charred-elm…”

Calla frowned as she eyed the wood on the back wall. “I can’t afford a new one,” she said flatly, looking up at Dawnri with hope. Are there any used or old ones?”

Dawnri shook her head. “Sorry, I can only get you a freshly hand-woven one.”

Calla furrowed her brow. “Maybe I can weave my own,” she said. “Can’t be too hard, right?”

Dawnri laughed and Calla frowned.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dawnri said. “Oh if only it were that easy, Calla! It takes proper time, and years of training and experience. That is, if you don’t want it to fray or sever immediately.”

Calla sighed. She leaned against the front counter and looked up at the ceiling, defeated. “Then I’m out of luck.”

Dawnri shook her head at the flower-elf. She bent down and scooped up a bundle of sticks wrapped in parchment paper. “When did you become so pessimistic?”

She handed Calla the sticks.

Calla blinked; it was cellowood.

Dawnri had saved some for her!

Dawnri grinned. “I can’t give you a staff. But, I may be able to help you get one.”

“Sweeping?” Leigh asked, picking up a mottled-bell from the bag on the floor. She yanked the spindly stem from the flower, placed the stem on the table and the bud in a long wooden box. All around them in Leigh’s family kitchen hung old pots and pans.

“Sweeping, stacking, dusting, packing dried herbs,” Calla told her, as the two sorted through the bags of mottled-bells that sat on the ground.

Across from the two, the front door to the cottage was wide open, letting in a cool breeze that ruffled the long petals atop Calla’s head. Pye was napping below the table while Mischief searched for the wooden post of the fence outside.

“Not every day, but a few hours a week to help raise money for a new staff,” Calla explained. She picked up a crinkled bud, and its petals slowly fell to the ground. Calla frowned and placed it on the table near the disheveled and broken flowers. It, like many of the others, had suffered from its tumble down the ravine.

“It’s been a rotten week,” Leigh muttered. “First, my pa found out thatchet-voles have been digging up our garden. Then we bump into a dead winged-moose, and now your staff splintered—achoo!” She sniffed, specks of pollen drifting through the air. “Anyway, it’s like a string of bad—achoo!”

“Luck,” Calla finished, reaching for another flower with tattered petals. “Honestly, you may be right…”

“Heads up!” said a voice. They turned as an older sprig-wik with a curly tendril-like mustache dropped a large wooden platter of red and blue jam tarts before them. Sweet steam wafted from the warm flaky treats, filling the air with a delicious aroma.

Leigh beamed at the plate. “Thanks Pa!” She grabbed one and hastily blew on it before taking a bite.

“Thank you, Mr. Briar,” Calla said, taking one.

He waved and walked out to the front porch.

As they paused to enjoy the tarts, Leigh looked at the wrapped bundle of sticks near Calla’s arm. “What’s that you got wrapped up there, by the way?”

Calla untied it, revealing the bundle of sticks. “It’s cellowood, all the way from Tallstalks. Turns out Dawnri put some aside for me before it sold out.”

Leigh responded through a mouthful of tarts, “Hey, guess it’s not all bad!”

Calla frowned as she tied it up again. “I was going to use it for spells, but now, it might as well be a pile of pebbles. It’s hard to cast spells without a staff.” She picked up a small tart, studying its wavy bread-like sides. “I just wish there were some way to earn my staff faster.”

“Oh!” Leigh’s eyes widened. Pye leaped up, startled by the sound. He saw a tart in Calla’s hand and whined.

“You burn your tongue?” Calla asked.

Leigh shook her head excitedly. “You just gave me an idea.” She hopped out of her seat and rushed outside to the front porch. “Just wait here!”

As Calla waited, she fed bits of her tart to Pye, who gobbled it up greedily.

Minutes later, Leigh returned, grinning, and plopped back down at the table. “I’m back!”

Calla blinked, bewildered. “From what?”

“From discussing!” Leigh said. “I talked to my pa and my ma, and then my aunt who was visiting, and my grandpa who’s working out back. Anyway, my ma and pa think we may be able to help you get your staff…”

Calla felt more confused. “How?”

“You could help us,” Leigh said.

Pye hopped up on an empty chair, the tall plant on his head bobbing as he eyed the plate of pastries. Calla scooted the plate away from him as Leigh went on.

“Nothing too big,” Leigh offered, “but every once in a while you could help us with small stuff like sorting vegetables, or selling stuff in the market. In fact, helping out next afternoon would be appreciated.”

Calla looked at her. “Really?” she said eagerly.

“If you’d like!” Leigh said. “I know Dawnri is probably a lot of work already, so I’d understand if—”

“Leigh, I’m in!” Calla said.

Leigh grinned and gave Calla a hug.

“Oh, I’m so excited!” Leigh said. “Think of it, the two of us working a booth. We’ll be booth buds!”

There was a yell and the sound of a shovel clattering. The two exchanged a glance, then ran outside to the front porch, Pye following.

They saw Mr. Briar run past them, as Mischief walked up to the porch, carrying a dead thatched-vole by its tail.

Leigh leaned over and muttered, “My pa is squeamish about that stuff.” She turned to Mischief and praised him, “Good job, Mischief! Just next time…” She glanced back at her Pa, who watched him nervously from inside. “Don’t bring it to the porch.”

CALLA STARED AT THE BLANK page before her.

Orange light from her lantern danced across the paper as she sat at the small wooden desk in her room, holding a quill freshly dipped in ink.

Nearby, Mischief, Pye, and Thimble snoozed in a small pile on her thatched rug.

She glanced silently at the open envelope that sat on the corner of her desk, its bright red circular seal long broken. Lines and lines of looped cursive filled every corner of the folded letter peeking out from it.

Calla looked back at her empty paper and gave her head a shake.

It’s just my sister, not a test. I just need to tell her something interesting that happened.

Her mind whirled with events of last week. I could talk about that winged-moose we found… But just thinking about it made her stomach turn. Too morbid.

She thought of how funny it was to see Leigh’s pa dash into the cottage over the dead vole Mischief had caught, but as she began to write, she furrowed her brow.

It just doesn’t sound as funny on paper. She stopped writing and stared at her writing. Does she even remember who the Briars are? She hasn’t been to Red Heath in nearly a year.

Calla crumpled up her letter and tossed it to the floor. It rolled next to the shattered remains of her staff. She frowned. I could tell her about my staff.

But immediately, she felt a wave of guilt. She could already imagine the angry letter she’d get in response to breaking their mother’s staff—something she had promised to take care of so many years ago.

Calla placed the quill back in the ink jar, folded her arms, and rested her head on her desk.

A pang of grief nipped at her as she gazed out her round window. Outside her small poppy-themed curtains sat the thin white crescent of the moon.

A real caster would have taken better care of their staff, she thought. They would’ve been taught how to. But she no longer had anyone to teach her. Not since her mother failed to return one morning with her breath still in her chest.

Since her sudden passing, Calla had found that empty pang in her chest near inescapable. Usually in quiet moments when she remembered she no longer had anyone to console her when learning difficult spells, nor rejoice when she finally got one right. There was no one to regale her with tales of magic that could grow mighty forests, crumble the tallest of towers, or turn the fiercest of rivers into large beds of dust.

It was in these moments that only one thing would keep her going.

It was the knowledge that somewhere out there was probably an academy buzzing with excited young casters laughing, hollering, and learning about the wonders and strength of magic. And the knowledge that she had the chance to join them.

Or at least once I get a staff.

Calla’s eyes drifted to a familiar spell book that now sat to her left. She picked it up and plopped down on her bed. As she flipped to a page, something wiggled in the corner of her eye.

She looked up to see the thing drift below the shadow of her desk. A feather. She glanced back to see her white quill still sitting in the ink jar. Curious, she put her book down and got up, bending over to scoop up the small object.

She held it in the light of her lantern.

It was a curled violet feather.