Wizards, Inc.

Brenda blinked a few times in the abrupt darkness before grabbing up the flashlight perched handle up on the table. Since when did elementals have a sense of humor?

The evening shadows elongated at that moment, stretching their hollow limbs into the crevices of the store’s tall shelves. A row of authentic skulls, nestled among a neglected Halloween decoration of dried autumn leaves and miniature pumpkins, all illuminated by the streetlight outside, peered down at her from the top shelf near the cash register.

I never asked Granny to whom those belonged— maybe those are the skulls of hapless idiots like myself who thought they could make money at magic.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing—sitting here in the dark. At least she couldn’t see the deed of sale spread out on the table in front of her. She didn’t really need to see it to know what it said. The deadline to pay the back taxes and overdue mortgage on the shop was Friday, less than four days away.

With renewed anger (masquerading as determination), Brenda attempted again to conjure another fire spark. Nothing answered her call. Empty space and the faint smell of sulfur.

Granny Pollsocks had lit fire with a snap of her fingers—sometimes with only a glare. One look from her violet eyes, and all the fire sparks in the room jumped to do her bidding. Of the six grandchildren, Granny had declared Brenda to be the one gifted to carry on the tradition of magic in the family. None of the others had been interested—or really believed in it.

And before Granny died, Brenda had shown some aptitude for a few spells and potions. Flash powders were a sore subject. She’d managed to blind a store full of patrons one summer afternoon by accident. Granny had made sure Brenda practiced upstairs after that.

But then she died, and left ‘‘Back Door Magic’’ to Brenda. Books, supplies, scrolls, amulets, bills, and debt included. The steady customers, the ones who’d depended on Granny for years came to Brenda at first, hoping she had even the slightest peep of the talent Granny had had. But after six months—the customers dwindled away.

Just yesterday they’d turned off the power. And now she shivered in the November evening, unable to light a simple candle. She couldn’t find the matches— but Granny had never needed them.

She heard the familiar backfire of her mother’s car outside the door, pulling up along the curve in the street outside the shop. Detective Jackie Grafton always parked on the street, in a no-parking zone. Married wealthy, widowed wealthy once, never sick, never injured, always in a good mood. Of course, the widowed wealthy had come after Brenda’s father had died, with husband number two.

Another noise came just as Brenda stood. She stopped and pivoted slowly on her worn sneakers. Most of the shop was dark and scary.

Brenda figured Mom could get in on her own—she had a key. She switched on the flashlight and took several cautious steps to the back of the room, closer to the stairs. ‘‘Hello? Is there someone down there?’’ Her voice echoed in the empty shop.

The front door opened. ‘‘Brenda? You in here? Oh, gawd—where are the lights, child? There’re enough candles in here—hell—light up one of those seven-day candles.’’

Brenda turned at the sound of her mother behind her, and then turned back to the stairwell and shined the light back down again.

The heels of her mother’s boots clacked noisily behind her as Jackie neared. ‘‘What’re you doing? You see something down there? Rats?’’

Her mother sighed. ‘‘Never could figure out why that door was there. Never made sense.’’ She turned. ‘‘Let’s get some light in here. I think there are matches behind the cash register.’’

Brenda barely noticed her mother’s retreat, the clacking of the heels, the faint odor of White Shoulders perfume drifting about the air like an errant ghost. Her mind, her flashlight’s beam, and her gaze focused again on the empty stairwell. Five steps down. To a door that went—nowhere.

She knew that. But Granny Pollsocks never let her get too close to it—and even through these six months alone Brenda hadn’t bothered to go down the stairs. Too dingy. Too grungy.

With a frown she turned and looked at the register counter. Her mother had found the matches and had several different candles lit—one of them a warming candle of red-and-orange-swirled wax. ‘‘Why did Granny keep that door?’’ Brenda moved to the register, switched off the flashlight, and set it handle up on the table beside a frog-kissing stone, guaranteed to turn black the moment a toad—disguised as a gorgeous man or woman—delivered their pick-up line.

Jackie lifted her gaze from the warming candle and shrugged. Her red hair was streaked with white— mostly by choice. She wore her usual boot-cut pants and tailored, thigh-length coat jacket. And, as she’d been doing for several days now, clutched at her left side. ‘‘For years I thought it was the door to the basement. So I went down there and opened it.’’

She nodded. ‘‘Brick wall. Granny laughed at me,’’ Jackie made a face as if she smelled something bad. ‘‘Come to think of it, she called it her back door.’’

Brenda glanced to her left at the front glass with the words Back Door Magic painted backward on the inside. ‘‘You mean like her shop name?’’

But her mother didn’t know, and didn’t care. ‘‘Non- sense. All of this place. Now—you got those papers signed? You know I have to give you marks for trying to keep this place afloat, Brennie. But to think you could do magic like Granny?’’ She gave a snort. ‘‘Disappointing. You just don’t have it, girl. Neither did I. I’m afraid the magic died with Granny.’’

With lowered shoulders, Brenda shook her head. She didn’t want to believe the words her mother spoke—and yet each letter, each syllable burned a mark into her skin and dug deeper into her subconscious, weakening her own belief that maybe—just maybe—she was a magical creature after all. ‘‘No—I have till Friday, Mom. And I’d rather just hang on to things until then.’’

‘‘You’re just prolonging the inevitable, Brenda.’’ Jackie’s hands rested on her hips, and the flickering candles lined up along the counter beside the register cast shadows that only enhanced the no-nonsense look on her face. ‘‘The shop’s going to be sold. And then you can go back to college. You’re not too old to be taught some sort of trade or skill. We might even make enough money to where you won’t have to work—just find a rich man and marry him.’’

That didn’t feel right. It never felt right when her mom mentioned selling the shop. But Brenda wasn’t sure if it was the selling part, or the money part. She suspected if she jumped the broomstick now and sold before the deadline that she’d somehow be missing— something.

‘‘Well, I’m off, then. Got a date tonight—a nice Irish man. Sexy accent. Dark hair and blue eyes.’’ She moved from behind the counter, and Brenda was sure if the register actually had money in it, Jackie would have taken it. ‘‘You’ll be all right? Need groceries? Though,’’ she looked her daughter up and down. ‘‘You could stand to lose a pound or two.’’

‘‘Well, that’s good. Okay—I’m gone. You just go ahead and sign those papers, Brenda, and we’ll both be well in the green.’’ She waved and clacked back to the front of the store where she disappeared behind the door.

Brenda gave a slight squeal and spun around, shoving the edge of the counter into the small of her back—closer to her kidney.

The green eyes were standing in front of her. They belonged to a nice long face, with a perfectly shaped nose and full lips. Pale skin. Very wiry in jeans and an oversized green sweater.

‘‘Oh, sorry, I’m not in the habit of startling my saviors,’’ he said, and she heard the accent that time. English—Surrey? Maybe a little bit of Liverpool? Soft and melodic. ‘‘I’m sorry—it’s just that I’m in the middle of a very—’’ He looked down at his right side, where Brenda saw a red stain spreading over the fibers of his sweater beneath his long-fingered hand. He looked back at her. ‘‘Uhm . . . a very tetchy situation.’’

His eyes glazed over, and he nearly fell. Brenda went out to him and moved under his left shoulder, the side that wasn’t bleeding. ‘‘What happened?’’ She hated the flat, nasal sounding voice she had in comparison to his. ‘‘Were you shot?’’

‘‘Yes, and no,’’ he said and stumbled with her as she guided him to the table she’d been sitting at earlier. With a grunt, Brenda eased him into the chair and then pushed the papers away.

His eyes opened then, and though she saw intelligence there, she also saw the pain she’d seen before at the stairwell. ‘‘Do? Why, my dear Brenda, you can heal me.’’

Heal? Me? ‘‘Heal you?’’ She shook her head and took a step back. ‘‘I’m sorry, mister—’’ Did he say his name? ‘‘Mister, but I’m not a healer. I’m supposed to be a magician, but I’m really not any good at that, either.’’

With a nod the stranger smiled. It was a very nice smile, and would have lit up his whole face if it wasn’t for the shadow of pain she saw just beneath the surface. ‘‘Actually, you’re a lot better than you think.’’ He winced. ‘‘And though confidence is something you do lack the skills in, I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury of time right now to teach it to you, so,’’ he bent over for few seconds.

‘‘Oh, damn,’’ Brenda ran her fingers through her hair. ‘‘Look, what’s your name. I can’t call you ‘hey you’ all the time.’’

‘‘Edward,’’ he managed to say in the middle of another wince. ‘‘Edward Darlington. Yes, yes. That will do this time. Now, speaking of time, we don’t have much. The door is locked and the outside looks vacant. So, grab the wormwood, the St. John’s root, and some of the Dragon’s Blood Rede from that shelf over the necromancer tomes.’’

‘‘Brenda,’’ he smiled again. ‘‘Just let your hands guide you. Please hurry—I’m not going to be conscious much longer.’’

Let my hands guide me? Geez! She turned and ran to the designated shelf. Luckily, Granny had things labeled, and she was able to gather the bottles of each of the items Edward asked for. She set them on the table in front of him.

‘‘Good, good,’’ he said. He was sitting funny in the chair. ‘‘Now—you need a small amount of mandrake oil—and I mean small. Maybe a dab and that’s it. Too much, and I’m dead anyway.’’

She found it on a different shelf and grabbed it— then paused as her gaze rested on a large green marble mortar and pestle, a small grater, and a white-handled knife. Letting her hands guide her, she put the smaller items inside the mortar, dumped in two more ingredients, and carried the whole thing to the table.

‘‘Now what?’’ His eyelids drooped and leaned at an odd angle, nearly out of his chair. ‘‘Now—I lose consciousness. Brenda . . .’’ He tried to catch himself with both hands, but the blood on his right hand slipped on the table. ‘‘It’s up to you . . .’’

And he crumpled to the floor in a heap. Brenda tried to catch him—but he’d fallen too fast. With a sigh she pushed and pulled him, getting him onto his back.

‘‘Edward?’’ She tried jerking his shoulder back and forth. ‘‘You have to tell me what to do. Edward?’’

Oh, no, Brenda’that’s just stupid. But it really did look like huge teeth marks. His skin was slick with blood that pooled on the dingy tile floor.

How am I supposed to heal this? This man needs an ambulance. She stood with that thought and took a single step to the counter where her purse lay tucked inside the lower shelf—and then remembered she’d left her phone at her mother’s.

She turned to the table and the collection of things sitting about the mortar and pestle. He’d said it was up to me. Me. Me how? She’d never been taught any sort of healing magic from Granny. A quick search through her memory didn’t unearth anything about Granny ever using healing.

Brenda looked down at Edward. She knew her mother would yell at her right now, and be on the phone to the hospital. But he had believed in her. And his encouraging words had helped.

After taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and did what he told her—let her hands guide her. She’d known to get the mortar. And somehow in her mind’s eye she could see the potion. Saw it in a pot—over a flame.

She grabbed up the block of Dragon’s Blood and then used the grater on one side. Brenda never opened her eyes—but she saw in her mind what needed to be done—much like a paint-by-numbers canvas. She knew what went in first, and second, like what colors went last. And she knew how much.

Once the St. John’s root was properly ground, Brenda took the mortar to the side room where Granny Pollsocks hung herbs, hex and bless charms and amulets, and microwaved the occasional quick bowl of soup.

She grabbed some bottled water out of the small office fridge and poured in enough to make half a cup of broth. Six turns deosil, six turns widdershins, and then six turns deosil. Clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise.

When the first bubbles came to the surface, she jerked the door open, grabbed a towel, and lifted the mortar out of the microwave, poured the contents into a clean, green ceramic mug with the face of the Green Man on the side, and hurried back to Edward.

With no thought about what she was doing, Brenda grabbed a large, fat kabuki brush from a side shelf of glass pens and cartography books, dipped it into the steaming mess and began painting the wound with it.

The flesh beneath her potion curled, smoked, and then wove together the cuts and tears of flesh into a garish, puckered line.

Light came into her bedroom from the dingy window facing Abercorn Street. Brenda blinked slowly and noticed the oak next door still had its leaves. Orange, yellow, red, and brown. And as she watched, several of those leaves came off in the gentle wind and spiraled around her window.

Brenda stretched as she moved about her room, pulling on her socks, her jeans, shuffling into the bathroom to brush her teeth—and it was at that moment, staring at her reflection in the mirror, that she remembered puckered flesh.

People. There were people inside. Customers, taking a look at things and then actually picking them up! Carrying them to the counter—and handing out cash to—Edward.

She shuffled forward, pausing once to avoid walking into two gossiping little Goth girls. Edward was grinning, his color radiant, and his smile—intoxicating.

When the paying customers were gone, he turned that smile on Brenda. ‘‘Hullo, sleepyhead. You made it up. Cup o’ tea?’’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘‘Or I’ve made bacon and biscuits—real English biscuits, though.’’ He frowned. ‘‘So I’m not sure they’re what you’re accustomed to.’’

It was at that moment she caught the fluid movement of a brown feather duster cleaning off the bookshelves behind the counter. She blinked. There wasn’t anybody actually holding the duster—it was just cleaning things itself.

With a slow pivot in her house slippers Brenda saw several other things moving on their own about the room. Window cleaner and rag moved in perfect counterclockwise circles on the front window. A second duster moved with precision over the rows of skulls, which now looked as if they were grinning at her, happy to be given some attention.

And in the corner a broom swept several tumbling little mouselike things about. They twittered and chattered—reminding Brenda of finches. She moved closer and narrowed her eyes down at them.

‘‘Dust bunnies,’’ Edward said beside her. ‘‘Nasty little buggers. They’re all over this room. Hiding in the cracks and crevices.’’ He said crevice with an ‘‘a’’ sound, much like cre-vace.

‘‘Well, you have an assortment of things—’’ He winced. ‘‘I’m not sure they’d all qualify for tea—and the bacon came from your neighbor, two doors down. He needed a poultice but didn’t have his wallet with him. Oddly enough, his wife returned with a pound of bacon.’’ The grin returned. ‘‘Interesting, isn’t it? But I did find some commercial bags in that little workroom in the corner.’’

She took the tea. It did smell normal. She sipped it. Mmmm. And it tasted normal. Nice and sweet. ‘‘Honey?’’

‘‘Well, I’m not sure our relationship calls for terms of endearment yet—seeing as how we just met and— oh.’’ He beamed again as comprehension dawned.

‘‘Sorry. Yes. I used honey. Don’t have much use for sugar—toddles about with the magical lines.’’ He put a hand to his side—the damaged one. ‘‘Oh, and nice job you did. Hurt like all rot, but look,’’ he held up his sweater and showed her a nearly perfect, smooth side.

Edward pulled his shirt back down and motioned for her to follow him to the counter. As she moved forward, she noticed the shop was empty, save for the repeated, precise movements of the cleaning objects.

‘‘Now, I hope you don’t mind, but as a thank you for helping me out last night, I decided to put my own skills to work for you. I’ve got all the appliances working—including the bathroom,’’ he frowned. ‘‘And I don’t mean to sound tetchy, but you might want to use some cleaner now and again in there. It was disgusting.’’

Brenda was watching him, listening to him, but wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally, her brain caught up with her and she said, ‘‘I—I healed you? That potion healed you?’’

Edward stopped at the counter and took the cup from her shaking hand and set it on the counter. ‘‘Yes, yes. Didn’t you look when I showed you? Do you want to see again?’’ He grabbed at his sweater.

His excited smile transformed into a confused frown. Edward pulled up his sweater, exposing the healing scar again. ‘‘You sucked out the poison?’’

‘‘Well, I hope not—’’ He lowered the sweater and arched his eyebrows at her. ‘‘You’d get one hell of a negative headache.’’

‘‘Right—nasty thing, that. Buggers up the whole positive aura. Pretty much clogs the magic pipes,’’ he frowned again. ‘‘Didn’t I say that already? Oh, no— that was sugar wasn’t it?’’

‘‘But—anyway—you knew what to do. You always knew what to do. It just took something like last night to give you that kick in the backside. Well, so to speak.’’

‘‘Edward,’’ she held out her hands, palms down. ‘‘What the hell are you talking about? And where the hell did you come from? And what,’’ she pointed to his side. ‘‘What thing bit you that badly?’’

‘‘You asked me what bit me? Doubt. Now that’s a corrupt piece of thought, doubt is. It’s the single worst thing to come out of Pandora’s Box. Loads of people thought famine and disease were the tops—but no— doubt was the worst. I mean, when you really think about it, if you didn’t have doubt, hope might have a fighting chance. Hope is so strong and pure—and it was the last thing in the box, did you know that? And if you had hope, you’d know that positive thinking and confidence can win against famine and disease, but there’s always that—’’

She put her hands to the sides of her head. ‘‘Edward—where did you come from?’’ She was thinking since the bite question wasn’t getting her anywhere, maybe this question would.

Brenda glared at him, and then looked at the stairway. With a sigh she stalked to the stairs, took them two at a time, put her hand on the doorknob, and yanked it open.

‘‘It’s because you have doubt, Brenda. And as long as you doubt who and what you are, then you’ll never get it open.’’

‘‘Oh, this is stupid,’’ Brenda stomped up the stairs. Edward stepped back, and continued to step back as she pushed him back to the shelf with the grinning skulls. The duster cleaning the books moved away, and she could hear the chitter of dust bunnies. ‘‘I can’t do magic, Edward.’’

‘‘I suck at it, Edward. I can’t do half of what you’re doing,’’ she pointed to the duster and the moving broom. ‘‘I can’t even tease a fire spark.’’

‘‘Why would you want to tease one? They’ll start a real fire if you bend them round the twist, you know.’’

‘‘Brenda,’’ he smiled, and a small bit of her ire vanished. ‘‘Not all wizards and witches can do the same thing. If they were all the same, there would be fewer of you. Granny Pollsocks—she was best at what?’’

He held up a long, think index finger. ‘‘Right. But she couldn’t mix potions—just look at her shelves. At her stores of things. Even you had to have noticed how out of shape everything was.’’

He nodded. And there was an excitement around him that buzzed and sparkled. ‘‘Yes. You can heal. I came to you because I knew you’d heal me. You have the gift. You knew what to do with those items. I didn’t. Anyone can bake a cake, Brenda. But you— you can make it into a Bavarian crème masterpiece with chocolate sprinkles.’’ He nodded. ‘‘Eh?’’

She took another step back. Something in what he said rang true—she’d always known how to treat injuries to her pets, to her mother on really bad cases, and even to her friends. Skinned knees always healed with no pain around Brenda. She’d even considered going into medical school before Granny chose her to inherit the shop.

‘‘Are you saying that if I change a little of what Granny did—make it my own—I can make this place work?’’

It was right then she knew that Edward wasn’t really what he appeared to be—a youngish Englishman with shaggy hair and a rather melodic voice. No—he was more, much more. ‘‘Edward—what are you?’’

He put a hand on each of her shoulders, and Brenda could feel the heat from his skin through her clothing. ‘‘I’m here for you, Brenda.’’ He frowned. ‘‘Don’t you know?’’ His smile returned with a radiance to block out the sun. ‘‘I’m your familiar.’’

Edward seemed to know what he was doing—in a sort of ordered chaos. He moved about with a catlike grace, and yet still managed to break a few things. It was like grace, charm, and newborn enthusiasm all rolled up in a very neat and somewhat gangly package. Together—with the aid of the magically touched broom and dusters—they cleaned out the corners, the cabinets, and the shelves.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed with the ever-present ding of the cash register—even as the two of them tidied up. Men and women, old and young, familiar and new, all of them came back to the shop and asked for remedies.

And it seemed that Brenda could look into their eyes, into each of them, and know if the remedy was for them personally, or for a friend or loved one. She knew what to do. Brenda had always known what to do.

Late in the evening on Wednesday, and after a rousingly well done day at selling and doling out advice, Brenda settled at the table with one of Edward’s cups of tea—apparently the man kept a kettle warm all day.

He stood at the register, tallying up the day and announcing that—as of five—they had two thirds of the money needed to satisfy the creditors. ‘‘Ah—so bank that, you scoundrels. One more day and you should be caught up.’’

‘‘How is that possible? I mean, as of two days ago, no one would come in here. Suddenly they’re all in out of the woodwork. Did you do something?’’

‘‘Well, yeah,’’ and his grin widened. ‘‘I sort of spread the word. Offered many of them a back door. Did a bit of advertising. Sort of my job—it’s what I do to help you.’’

He put the money into a box on the counter and put his hands on the counter, palms down. ‘‘Back door—it’s what I tried to tell you on Monday. Hrm. Or was it Tuesday. Oh, can’t remember. But you have to look at the analogy. A back door means what?’’

He held his right hand in the air. ‘‘Exactly. And that’s what Granny did for them. Gave her customers a back door. It’s hope, Brenda. There’s always hope. And my back door was you. I could have curled up in the nothing and simply ceased to exist—and allowed your doubt to become stronger and stronger. But I couldn’t. Because I have hope.’’

Waiting until he had the money safely locked in the iron-and-steel safe Granny Pollsocks kept in the broom closet, Edward joined her at the table, a cup of tea abruptly in his hands. ‘‘Why? Why are you a witch? Or why does the moon go round the sun? That’s sort of rhetorical, isn’t it?’’

‘‘No, no,’’ she shook her head. ‘‘I mean, familiars are usually small creatures—like cats or toads or some such thing. Usually not grown—men.’’

The left side of his mouth twitched and turned up. ‘‘Familiars are a part of lore and myth, just like witches and wizards. And how many of the old books got those facts right?’’ He winked. ‘‘If I believed them, you should be some scary old hag with a wart at the end of your nose, sitting about and eating children for breakfast.’’

The front door burst open. Both of them turned to watch Detective Jackie Grafton come in, her boots stomping on the newly cleaned and shiny tiled floor. She wore her usual black pants suit and a tan trench coat. Her eyes were wide as she took in the shop, staring at the improvements, at the working lights.

‘‘Well, hello,’’ Edward stood up and walked up to Jackie, his hand extended. ‘‘You must be Brenda’s mother. So charmed to meet you.’’

He glanced down at his still extended hand. When it was obvious she wasn’t going to shake it, he clasped his hands behind his back. ‘‘Care for a cup of tea?’’

She moved past him to Brenda and loomed over her. ‘‘What is this nonsense about not selling the shop? I got a call from Mr. Bitterman—he was all happy and gushy that you’d nearly paid up your bill? And you’d given him a sachet that completely cleaned out the cat-pee from his house?’’

Brenda tried not to laugh—but she did smirk. ‘‘Yes, Mom. I did that. But I told you I didn’t want to sell— that was your idea.’’

‘‘Oh? And you think you can keep this place working with two days of good luck?’’ She snorted. ‘‘Oh, please, Brenda. Just give it all up. You’ll never be as magical as Granny. None of us were.’’

Just then one of the dusters swished out from behind a bookshelf and started its controlled and precise sweep of each shelf. The broom came from behind the counter, chasing dust bunnies across the floor— though they were much smaller than before.

Brenda liked the look of disbelief in her mother’s eyes. It was a look that rarely sat at home there. ‘‘I’m afraid you’re not quite right on that, Mom.’’ She knew Edward wanted to answer her in the same manner, but she felt it was better if it all came from her.

‘‘Oh?’’ She glanced at the broom and duster again. ‘‘Parlor tricks. That’s all. You can’t do magic.’’

‘‘Maybe not magic the way Granny could, Mom. But I can. I can heal. I can give advice. And I can even make a great cup of tea.’’ She held up her cup. ‘‘Would you like some?’’

There was something else happening here, and she didn’t realize what until she looked at Edward. She knew it when she looked at his eyes. She knew it when her knees didn’t knock. She knew it when her palms didn’t sweat.

‘‘No. I don’t like tea. Well, you’re doomed to fail at this idea as well, Brenda. I’d hoped to spare you from that harsh reality. But those same people who turned on you when you failed them before will turn on you when you fail them again.’’

Brenda stood then and Edward moved a little closer. He held a candle in his hand. A thick, white candle. He handed it to her. ‘‘I won’t fail, Mom.’’

No fire sparks appeared. No wisps. Not even a tinge of smoke issued from the candle. A single spark, and the flame ignited and burned a tall, strong blue. Brenda knew it wasn’t magic—she didn’t know how to conjure fire without a fire spark. But she’d thought of the door, and she’d thought of Edward’s faith in her, and she’d thought about the faith she had in herself.

Jackie’s expression was resigned. She adjusted the purse on her shoulders, straightened her coat, and went back to the door. She opened it and then turned to face the two of them. ‘‘I won’t be back, Brenda. I tried to help you. But it’s all in your hands now. Yours,’’ she narrowed her eyes at Edward. ‘‘And his.’’

Neither of them said a word until Edward moved closer and pinched out the flame. ‘‘You thirsty? I’m thirsty. But not for tea. I know this splendid pub over in Yorkshire—and they have the worst meat pasties— but a fine dart board. Care to come?’’

She grabbed her coat as she followed him down the stairs to the door. It looked different somehow. More alive. Vivid colors that seemed to swirl and move all around.

‘‘Ah—one rule for familiar to witch or wizard,’’ he looked down at her. ‘‘No fraternizing. Can’t be mixing it all up.’’ And with that, he smiled and gave her a soft but firm kiss on the lips.