When Ma stopped the cart in front of the gate, all twelve of us mobbed her.
“Did you get my new blade?” Ry asked, digging through the sacks at the back. He pulled a sheathed sword from the pile and drew it. “Yes!” he breathed, grinning at his reflection in the polished metal.
“The dragon chow is back there, Tomas,” Ma called to me. “And there was a letter for you.”
“A letter?” I paused with the sack of dragon food just hoisted to my shoulder. Who would be writing me a letter, except…
Ma jumped from the cart and came toward me, all smiles. She gave me a big hug, then handed me a very official-looking parchment scroll with a wax seal, with the insignia of the Royal Academie of Magiks impressed in it.
I should have been thrilled. Absoutely giddy.
“Thanks, Ma,” I bent down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, then walked off toward the back of the house. Glancing back once, I saw her watching me with a puzzled expression.
“All right, everyone help me unload the cart!” She clapped her hands sharply and all my brothers and sisters stopped admiring Ry’s new blade and jumped to help.
Slowly I trudged toward the stone pen out back, balancing the heavy sack on my shoulder and prying open the scroll with my other hand. My breath came faster as I read, “Your recommendations and submitted spellwork were most impressive, however, we will not be able to give a final decision on your admittance unless we conduct a personal interview and entrance examination to be held the week following this upcoming summer solstice. You will please report to the academy at that time if you wish to continue to be considered for enrollment.”
It was what I had always wanted. A chance at being a mage. Everyone had always said I had the talent for it.
As I came to the wall of the pen, Aspen crawled from inside the rock house I’d built for her and looked at me with her wise, golden eyes. I remembered a premonition I’d had the day I got her. “If you buy this baby dragon, you’ll never be a mage.”
Ridiculous, I had thought. Lots of mages keep dragons.
But I wasn’t a mage, not yet, and I knew I couldn’t take Aspen to school with me.
Even if I went, even if I took the entrance exam, what were the chances that I would pass? I was only a country boy, only sort-of apprenticed to the village wizard on the days he had time to bother with me.
Aspen’s long neck snaked over the wall. She sniffed at the sack on my shoulder and made her purring sound. I scratched the fur around her antlers, then set down the sack and opened the top. Ma had made it plain that she didn’t have time to care for a dragon. If I went away to the academy, I’d have to sell Aspen, or give her away. And then, if I failed to get in, when I came back, Aspen would be gone. I’d have lost everything.
“Here girl,” I said, holding up the scroll. “Ready? Fire!”
Aspen shot out a spurt of flame. The scroll caught and sizzled into ash in a few seconds.
read the next part
Monday, January 12, 2015
Sunday, January 11, 2015
#79 Carried Away
Glori brushed one of the fuzzy pink flowers with the toe of her shoe as she marched out onto the playground field, following the rest of her class in line. The playground was covered with them, little pink puff-balls, where there used to be dandelions. A few spots of yellow still remained, but they looked like they were having a hard time of it. It had only been a year since the Sera had come, but already those fuzzy pink flowers they had brought were everywhere.
Most of the school was already out there, all the younger grades seated in rows. Glori’s heart skipped to see the silver bulk of a small Sera ship resting in the grass, out in the middle of the baseball diamond. There was a Sera standing next to the open hatch, looking about as human as Glori had ever seen one. His hair was still brilliantly white, but his face wasn’t glowing and he was wearing an ordinary human business suit. Glori wondered where he’d gotten one large enough. He was so tall he would have bumped his head on the ceiling of her classroom if he’d come inside the school.
The principal didn’t have a microphone, but her voice was being magnified somehow anyway. Sera technology. “Please be seated everyone, I have an important announcement to make.” She sounded excited, nervous, and sort of fake happy. Like she always did at an assembly.
Glori sat down in the grass next to her friend Birema. Birema was scowling. “I know what they’re going to do,” she said. “My daddy told me this morning. It happened yesterday in some other countries.”
“What are they doing?” Glori asked.
Birema shook her head as the principal’s voice boomed out over the assembly.
“Our friends the Sera have generously offered to take some of our best students in order to educate them. If you choose to go, you will be leaving immediately. You will have no need for anything, everything will be provided for you. All you need to do is get on board the shuttle. Once again, this is an invitation. No one will be compelled to go. When I call you, you may come forward.”
No one moved at first, then several students raised their hands. “When are we coming back?” “What about our families?”
“No questions, please,” said the principal, and started reading off names.
One by one, a few children stood up and moved toward the front.
I whispered to Birema. “Those little kids, do they understand they’re not coming back?”
“If they call you, go,” Birema said. “Daddy told me everyone who stays behind is going to be burned.”
I stared at her. Her brown eyes were dead serious, her face a hard crust over soft, sick despair. How did her father know that? Was it true?
“Glori Pace” the principal called my name.
I didn’t move. I didn’t care what happened. I wasn’t going anywhere with the Sera.
Most of the school was already out there, all the younger grades seated in rows. Glori’s heart skipped to see the silver bulk of a small Sera ship resting in the grass, out in the middle of the baseball diamond. There was a Sera standing next to the open hatch, looking about as human as Glori had ever seen one. His hair was still brilliantly white, but his face wasn’t glowing and he was wearing an ordinary human business suit. Glori wondered where he’d gotten one large enough. He was so tall he would have bumped his head on the ceiling of her classroom if he’d come inside the school.
The principal didn’t have a microphone, but her voice was being magnified somehow anyway. Sera technology. “Please be seated everyone, I have an important announcement to make.” She sounded excited, nervous, and sort of fake happy. Like she always did at an assembly.
Glori sat down in the grass next to her friend Birema. Birema was scowling. “I know what they’re going to do,” she said. “My daddy told me this morning. It happened yesterday in some other countries.”
“What are they doing?” Glori asked.
Birema shook her head as the principal’s voice boomed out over the assembly.
“Our friends the Sera have generously offered to take some of our best students in order to educate them. If you choose to go, you will be leaving immediately. You will have no need for anything, everything will be provided for you. All you need to do is get on board the shuttle. Once again, this is an invitation. No one will be compelled to go. When I call you, you may come forward.”
No one moved at first, then several students raised their hands. “When are we coming back?” “What about our families?”
“No questions, please,” said the principal, and started reading off names.
One by one, a few children stood up and moved toward the front.
I whispered to Birema. “Those little kids, do they understand they’re not coming back?”
“If they call you, go,” Birema said. “Daddy told me everyone who stays behind is going to be burned.”
I stared at her. Her brown eyes were dead serious, her face a hard crust over soft, sick despair. How did her father know that? Was it true?
“Glori Pace” the principal called my name.
I didn’t move. I didn’t care what happened. I wasn’t going anywhere with the Sera.
Friday, January 9, 2015
#78 Always Do Sound Checks
I couldn’t help sneaking a grin at the audience as I set my laptop down on the media cart. They were out there, waiting, waiting for my moment to shine.
“Just plug this in here?” I asked as I picked up the flat end of the HDMI cable. The student tech crew guy nodded, and I stuck the end in the slot. My fingers flew over the touch screen as I brought up the slide show presentation. I’d spent half the night putting it together, hunting all over the internet for the perfect images. I glanced at my dance crew, they were ready, we’d practiced all afternoon yesterday while everyone else at drama camp was at the lake. Once everything was all cued up I showed the tech guy what button to click and then picked up my microphone.
So what that my demo video didn’t upload correctly last week? So what that all the talent scout at this year’s Junior Rising Stars Drama Camp had to see of me so far was digital garble. Right now I was going to wow everyone in this room with my genius. My group had worked the hardest, and I had definitely written the cleverest lyrics. We were going to win the song parody competition for sure.
I gave tech guy a nod.
Sound came blasting in over the speakers. So loud that several audience members covered their ears. Someone needed to turn that down. I glanced up at the soundbooth, sending them a silent plea.
The soundbooth was empty. Black windows. No lights on in there. There was nobody in the soundbooth of this auditorium! How could that possibly be?
That meant all I had was tech student guy. He looked pretty pathetic down there, frowning at the screen of my computer. He glanced up, his eyes a perfect mirror of the horror and confusion inside me.
Later, even years later, when I would run through this agonizing scene in my head, when it got to this point I’d yell CUT! Then I’d stomp up on the stage and tell myself to put down the microphone, shut off the track on the computer, adjust the volume, apologize to the crowd and start over.
That’s not what I did.
I started to sing.
Smile on, dance moves going full swing, I belted out my lyrics, the ones I’d worked so hard on. I didn’t think anyone could hear me. I certainly couldn’t hear myself. I could only hope my dance crew was moving behind me, just like we’d practiced. My eyes somehow found the talent scout out there in the audience, we locked gaze. He didn’t have his ears covered, but his face was a perfect mask of pain. Pain for me, pain for the fool I was making of myself, pain for his injured artistic sensibilities.
I saw the agony in his eyes, put on my biggest smile, and kept right on singing.
Just when my head was getting used to the numb pressure around my ears, the music cut out. I gave tech guy a murderous glance, but he didn’t seem to care. He was probably just thinking that he’d saved everyone from premature deafness. My voice rang out, the only sound in the auditorium, and I realized I’d been singing flat. Just barely flat. Enough to give anyone with a decent sense of pitch that fingernails-on-the-chalkboard feeling.
I kept going, but only to the end of the second verse. Then I stopped with my slide show still blinking pathetically behind me, as if it was hoping that somehow the music was going to start again. That I’d get another chance.
Not happening.
After a while, a few people clapped. A little bit. If only to thank the tech guy for ending the torture by pulling the plug on my music.
I smiled, gestured for my dance crew to come forward, and we all took a bow. A little more applause, and a lot of giggles. I snapped my laptop shut, ripped out the cable, and marched from the stage. That was it. I knew it. I was feeling kind of plucky and defiant right now, but that was just the high of being on stage. It would wear off, and then I was going to be through. Totally through. I was never, ever, going to show my face in showbusiness, not ever again.
“Just plug this in here?” I asked as I picked up the flat end of the HDMI cable. The student tech crew guy nodded, and I stuck the end in the slot. My fingers flew over the touch screen as I brought up the slide show presentation. I’d spent half the night putting it together, hunting all over the internet for the perfect images. I glanced at my dance crew, they were ready, we’d practiced all afternoon yesterday while everyone else at drama camp was at the lake. Once everything was all cued up I showed the tech guy what button to click and then picked up my microphone.
So what that my demo video didn’t upload correctly last week? So what that all the talent scout at this year’s Junior Rising Stars Drama Camp had to see of me so far was digital garble. Right now I was going to wow everyone in this room with my genius. My group had worked the hardest, and I had definitely written the cleverest lyrics. We were going to win the song parody competition for sure.
I gave tech guy a nod.
Sound came blasting in over the speakers. So loud that several audience members covered their ears. Someone needed to turn that down. I glanced up at the soundbooth, sending them a silent plea.
The soundbooth was empty. Black windows. No lights on in there. There was nobody in the soundbooth of this auditorium! How could that possibly be?
That meant all I had was tech student guy. He looked pretty pathetic down there, frowning at the screen of my computer. He glanced up, his eyes a perfect mirror of the horror and confusion inside me.
Later, even years later, when I would run through this agonizing scene in my head, when it got to this point I’d yell CUT! Then I’d stomp up on the stage and tell myself to put down the microphone, shut off the track on the computer, adjust the volume, apologize to the crowd and start over.
That’s not what I did.
I started to sing.
Smile on, dance moves going full swing, I belted out my lyrics, the ones I’d worked so hard on. I didn’t think anyone could hear me. I certainly couldn’t hear myself. I could only hope my dance crew was moving behind me, just like we’d practiced. My eyes somehow found the talent scout out there in the audience, we locked gaze. He didn’t have his ears covered, but his face was a perfect mask of pain. Pain for me, pain for the fool I was making of myself, pain for his injured artistic sensibilities.
I saw the agony in his eyes, put on my biggest smile, and kept right on singing.
Just when my head was getting used to the numb pressure around my ears, the music cut out. I gave tech guy a murderous glance, but he didn’t seem to care. He was probably just thinking that he’d saved everyone from premature deafness. My voice rang out, the only sound in the auditorium, and I realized I’d been singing flat. Just barely flat. Enough to give anyone with a decent sense of pitch that fingernails-on-the-chalkboard feeling.
I kept going, but only to the end of the second verse. Then I stopped with my slide show still blinking pathetically behind me, as if it was hoping that somehow the music was going to start again. That I’d get another chance.
Not happening.
After a while, a few people clapped. A little bit. If only to thank the tech guy for ending the torture by pulling the plug on my music.
I smiled, gestured for my dance crew to come forward, and we all took a bow. A little more applause, and a lot of giggles. I snapped my laptop shut, ripped out the cable, and marched from the stage. That was it. I knew it. I was feeling kind of plucky and defiant right now, but that was just the high of being on stage. It would wear off, and then I was going to be through. Totally through. I was never, ever, going to show my face in showbusiness, not ever again.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
#77 The Hairless Hares
There was once a tribe of hares that lived high in the snow-covered mountains to the north. They had the most wonderful coats of warm, soft fur to protect them from the chill, and so they lived quite happily in a place that most creatures would find too cold. Year by year the tribe prospered and grew, until men discovered that the warm, soft coats of the hares made excellent coats, hats, and mittens. Trappers and hunters began coming up into the mountains, catching and killing the hares for their fur.
When the hares saw that their numbers were dwindling, they chose the swiftest and bravest hare among them and sent him down into the valleys below to ask the help of the fairy queen. The fairy queen heard the hare’s petition and granted his request. “Return to your home,” she said. “Your tribe will no longer be hunted.”
Joyfully, the hare bounded all the way back up to the mountain and burst into the snug warren where all his kinfolk lived. To his surprise, instead of the beautiful white, furry faces he knew so well, he saw a horde of ugly, pink, scrawny creatures huddled in the corners. “Who are you!” he demanded. “What have you done with my family?”
One of the strange creatures came shivering up to him. “I’m not surprised you do not recognize us. I am your brother, we are all here, but we’ve changed. So have you, if you haven’t noticed.”
The hare gasped when he looked down at his paws. Bare and pink they were, the fur he had been so proud of had vanished.
“It’s the fairy queen’s magic,” one of the elder hares said. “She has protected us by taking away the thing that the hunters prized, but without our fur we shall surely freeze in the cold. Hurry back down, and ask her to give us our fur back again.”
And so the hare bounded out of the warren again, shuddering in the cold, and went as swiftly as he could back to the court of the fairy queen.
“We thank you for your assistance, your highness,” the hare said, “but we humbly ask if you could please restore our pelts, for without them we will freeze.”
The fairy queen laughed. “Your fur is still there, if you will bother to close your eyes and feel it. I have only made it invisible.”
The hare closed his eyes and nibbled at his paw. Sure enough, he felt the long strands of silky fur still there. With a joyful leap, he thanked the fairy queen again and returned to his home. Once there, he explained what had happened. All his kinfolk came creeping out of the corners of the warren, laughing at themselves, for now they realized that they had only imagined that they felt so cold.
The hares were no longer hunted for their fur, and every year when they shed their winter coats they collected the cast-off hairs and sent them to the fairy queen in tribute, as thanks for her help. The fairies used them to make wonderful invisible things, like ropes and stockings and felt hats. I have one of those hats myself, and as you can see, I’m wearing it right now. The tale ends well, that’s all there is to tell.
When the hares saw that their numbers were dwindling, they chose the swiftest and bravest hare among them and sent him down into the valleys below to ask the help of the fairy queen. The fairy queen heard the hare’s petition and granted his request. “Return to your home,” she said. “Your tribe will no longer be hunted.”
Joyfully, the hare bounded all the way back up to the mountain and burst into the snug warren where all his kinfolk lived. To his surprise, instead of the beautiful white, furry faces he knew so well, he saw a horde of ugly, pink, scrawny creatures huddled in the corners. “Who are you!” he demanded. “What have you done with my family?”
One of the strange creatures came shivering up to him. “I’m not surprised you do not recognize us. I am your brother, we are all here, but we’ve changed. So have you, if you haven’t noticed.”
The hare gasped when he looked down at his paws. Bare and pink they were, the fur he had been so proud of had vanished.
“It’s the fairy queen’s magic,” one of the elder hares said. “She has protected us by taking away the thing that the hunters prized, but without our fur we shall surely freeze in the cold. Hurry back down, and ask her to give us our fur back again.”
And so the hare bounded out of the warren again, shuddering in the cold, and went as swiftly as he could back to the court of the fairy queen.
“We thank you for your assistance, your highness,” the hare said, “but we humbly ask if you could please restore our pelts, for without them we will freeze.”
The fairy queen laughed. “Your fur is still there, if you will bother to close your eyes and feel it. I have only made it invisible.”
The hare closed his eyes and nibbled at his paw. Sure enough, he felt the long strands of silky fur still there. With a joyful leap, he thanked the fairy queen again and returned to his home. Once there, he explained what had happened. All his kinfolk came creeping out of the corners of the warren, laughing at themselves, for now they realized that they had only imagined that they felt so cold.
The hares were no longer hunted for their fur, and every year when they shed their winter coats they collected the cast-off hairs and sent them to the fairy queen in tribute, as thanks for her help. The fairies used them to make wonderful invisible things, like ropes and stockings and felt hats. I have one of those hats myself, and as you can see, I’m wearing it right now. The tale ends well, that’s all there is to tell.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
#76 Truth or Lie
There was once a king who was very clever. In fact, he was so clever, it was said he could always tell whether someone was lying or telling the truth. The king himself was proud of his cleverness, and offered a reward for any man who could come and deceive him. The king promised a bag of gold to anyone who could tell him a truth that the king would take for a lie, or tell him a lie that the king would take for truth.
Many long years passed, and though the king heard outlandish truths of all kinds, brought to him from many lands, and also the most fiendishly cunning lies, he was never wrong in discerning what was true and what was false.
One day a young peddler who was passing through the kingdom heard of the king’s offer, and decided to try his wit against the king’s cleverness. There was a set day each month when the king would hear those who wished to win the bag of gold, and when that day arrived the peddler stood in line with the rest of the hopefuls. The morning wore on, one person after another tried to fool the clever king, but to no avail. The king could see through their lies or spot the truth every time.
At last it was the peddler’s turn.
“First, let me thank you, your highness,” the peddler man said, “For permitting my presence in this great and marvelous audience chamber. In all my travels I have never seen one so magnificent, truly befitting a king as clever as yourself.”
The king smiled and nodded, waiting for the peddler to go on.
“And these lovely young ladies, your daughters I presume? Why they are fairer than a May morning.”
The three princesses giggled to each other, then waited eagerly to hear the peddler utter his truth or his lie.
“And you, yourself, your majesty, what an honor it is to be in the presence of the cleverest man on the earth.”
“Yes, yes, enough with all of this. What story do you have to tell us? Get on with it now.”
The peddler bowed again and said, “But your majesty, I have already told you three stories, all of them lies, which you most willingly believed. I am sorry to report but this is not the most magnificent hall I have ever set eyes on, and your daughters, while fair, can’t really compare to Lady Springtime, and as for you, sire…”
“Enough!” the king rose, furious, from his throne.
He would have ordered the peddler executed at once for his insolence, but his three daughters fell at his knees, begging him to have mercy. Their pleas calmed the king, who sank back into his throne wearily.
“It seems you have won the bag of gold,” the king said, and ordered it to be brought from his treasury. It was given to the peddler from the hand of the eldest princess, and the king promptly sent him on his way. He left as quick as he could, lest the king change his mind about that execution!
So the peddler man got his gold, and the king got a bit of wisdom to go with his cleverness. The tale ends well, that’s all there is to tell.
Many long years passed, and though the king heard outlandish truths of all kinds, brought to him from many lands, and also the most fiendishly cunning lies, he was never wrong in discerning what was true and what was false.
One day a young peddler who was passing through the kingdom heard of the king’s offer, and decided to try his wit against the king’s cleverness. There was a set day each month when the king would hear those who wished to win the bag of gold, and when that day arrived the peddler stood in line with the rest of the hopefuls. The morning wore on, one person after another tried to fool the clever king, but to no avail. The king could see through their lies or spot the truth every time.
At last it was the peddler’s turn.
“First, let me thank you, your highness,” the peddler man said, “For permitting my presence in this great and marvelous audience chamber. In all my travels I have never seen one so magnificent, truly befitting a king as clever as yourself.”
The king smiled and nodded, waiting for the peddler to go on.
“And these lovely young ladies, your daughters I presume? Why they are fairer than a May morning.”
The three princesses giggled to each other, then waited eagerly to hear the peddler utter his truth or his lie.
“And you, yourself, your majesty, what an honor it is to be in the presence of the cleverest man on the earth.”
“Yes, yes, enough with all of this. What story do you have to tell us? Get on with it now.”
The peddler bowed again and said, “But your majesty, I have already told you three stories, all of them lies, which you most willingly believed. I am sorry to report but this is not the most magnificent hall I have ever set eyes on, and your daughters, while fair, can’t really compare to Lady Springtime, and as for you, sire…”
“Enough!” the king rose, furious, from his throne.
He would have ordered the peddler executed at once for his insolence, but his three daughters fell at his knees, begging him to have mercy. Their pleas calmed the king, who sank back into his throne wearily.
“It seems you have won the bag of gold,” the king said, and ordered it to be brought from his treasury. It was given to the peddler from the hand of the eldest princess, and the king promptly sent him on his way. He left as quick as he could, lest the king change his mind about that execution!
So the peddler man got his gold, and the king got a bit of wisdom to go with his cleverness. The tale ends well, that’s all there is to tell.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
#75 The Amateur Detective
[embedyt]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9hZnUP_GG-0[/embedyt]Mrs. Diggory Frances Algernon III corrected a small smudge in her lipstick with the tip of her pinky finger. “I hope you don’t mind, dear, but I’ve taken the liberty of inviting my friend Clara for the weekend.”
Diggory threw his head against the tall back of the velvet chair and groaned, then shook out his newspaper and sulked into the pages. “Didn’t I ask you not to, Millie? Didn’t I? After the last time?”
“Did you?” Mrs. Algernon blinked her long eyelashes in ignorant surprise. “I have no recollection of such a thing. Why should you object to Clara? She’s quiet and sweet and ever so clever.”
“This is Clara Masterfeld, correct? The amateur detective?”
“The same. And so what if she has an unusual hobby. We were schoolmates, Clara and I. She was up to it back then too, always finding stolen pens and catching people who were cheating on tests.”
“Pencils are all very well,” Diggory turned a page of the newspaper. “But now the quiet, sweet, and clever thing is into murders.”
“Really, Diggory! The way you say it, one might think that you thought she was the one murdering people.”
“Maybe she is,” Diggory said. “Maybe she hires people to murder people, and then she pretends to solve the mystery, just so she can get to be a famous amateur detective.”
“I can’t believe you! All those people she’s helped, how can you possibly think of such a thing?”
“Well, why not. Think about it, Millie. Every time she goes on a trip, someone gets bumped off, and she has to work out who-done-it. What happened when she went on a cruise to Spain? Someone got murdered. That train tour of Egypt? Someone got murdered. It was all in the papers, Clara Masterfeld has done it again, huzzah, and all. Getting highly suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Ridiculous! Now you’re just teasing me.”
“Mark my words,” Diggory said, folding down the paper so he could more easily get at the crossword puzzle. “If she’s here for the weekend, someone around here is going to kick the bucket, and there’s going to be foul play involved, and she’s going to be too busy scampering around after clues to sit and chat with you, darling.”
Mrs. Algernon pouted into the mirror and fussed with one of her ringlets.
There was a light tap at the door. “Mr. Algernon, sir?” the butler said.
“Yes, what is it?”
“There’s a message from the vicar. He won’t be round for tea. Poor Mrs. Mayberry has passed on rather suddenly, and he’s assisting with the arrangements.”
“Oh, how dreadful!” Mrs. Algernon cried. Then she rounded on her husband. “Now don’t give me that look! Clara isn’t even here yet!”
Mr. Algernon sunk his face down behind his newspaper so that all she could see were his raised eyebrows.
Diggory threw his head against the tall back of the velvet chair and groaned, then shook out his newspaper and sulked into the pages. “Didn’t I ask you not to, Millie? Didn’t I? After the last time?”
“Did you?” Mrs. Algernon blinked her long eyelashes in ignorant surprise. “I have no recollection of such a thing. Why should you object to Clara? She’s quiet and sweet and ever so clever.”
“This is Clara Masterfeld, correct? The amateur detective?”
“The same. And so what if she has an unusual hobby. We were schoolmates, Clara and I. She was up to it back then too, always finding stolen pens and catching people who were cheating on tests.”
“Pencils are all very well,” Diggory turned a page of the newspaper. “But now the quiet, sweet, and clever thing is into murders.”
“Really, Diggory! The way you say it, one might think that you thought she was the one murdering people.”
“Maybe she is,” Diggory said. “Maybe she hires people to murder people, and then she pretends to solve the mystery, just so she can get to be a famous amateur detective.”
“I can’t believe you! All those people she’s helped, how can you possibly think of such a thing?”
“Well, why not. Think about it, Millie. Every time she goes on a trip, someone gets bumped off, and she has to work out who-done-it. What happened when she went on a cruise to Spain? Someone got murdered. That train tour of Egypt? Someone got murdered. It was all in the papers, Clara Masterfeld has done it again, huzzah, and all. Getting highly suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Ridiculous! Now you’re just teasing me.”
“Mark my words,” Diggory said, folding down the paper so he could more easily get at the crossword puzzle. “If she’s here for the weekend, someone around here is going to kick the bucket, and there’s going to be foul play involved, and she’s going to be too busy scampering around after clues to sit and chat with you, darling.”
Mrs. Algernon pouted into the mirror and fussed with one of her ringlets.
There was a light tap at the door. “Mr. Algernon, sir?” the butler said.
“Yes, what is it?”
“There’s a message from the vicar. He won’t be round for tea. Poor Mrs. Mayberry has passed on rather suddenly, and he’s assisting with the arrangements.”
“Oh, how dreadful!” Mrs. Algernon cried. Then she rounded on her husband. “Now don’t give me that look! Clara isn’t even here yet!”
Mr. Algernon sunk his face down behind his newspaper so that all she could see were his raised eyebrows.
Monday, January 5, 2015
#74 Fair Trade
Today's story by the amazing Susan Kaye Quinn is set in the future world of her upcoming "Singularity" series. Visit her website, www.susankayequinn.com, for more about her and her bestselling books.
Risha hurried through the entrance of the market, grasping her satchel of paintbrushes in one hand and pushing aside the rough canvas flaps of the tent with the other. The thick smell of human-made foods and human-type stink reassured her. After her encounter on the tram, barely being saved from the virtual reality addict by a handsome boy several years older than her, it was good to be back where the dangers were more familiar. And less likely to end up with her dead.
Plus she was a whole chit richer than when she left!
She had no idea why the boy bought her gray-market brushes for a full chit— any fool could see they were worth less than half that. It left a weird feeling in her chest: kindnesses weren’t the kind of thing you traded in Seattle. The city was filled with bots and left-over humanity and the occasional ascender, with their super smart nanotech brains… humans were at the bottom of that pile, and you had to fight to even get a fair trade half the time. At least the gray market was better than the black, where a reasonable bit of bargaining could still get you dead, if you angered the wrong types.
But the boy had given her a kindness… and now she had a whole chit riding in her account. It was a full half-chit more than her uncle would expect back for the two brushes she’d sold. Risha wound her way past heaps of clay pots and woven throw rugs, her fingers crossed. Maybe Tuval would have one of his amazing chocolate pastries in his stall today. Why… for a half chit, maybe she could even bargain him for two! But she’d have to eat them quickly. Destroy the evidence, before her uncle found out.
“Hey Risha!” The voice stopped her dogged search for the smell of chocolate buried in human odors. It was Samuel the Orphan. His parents had been exiled by the ascenders. The bots took care of him now, but Risha only ever saw him at the market.
“Hey Samuel.” She gave him a tight smile, but her eyes were still hungry for Tuval’s stall.
“I found something perfect for you.” Samuel was her age, fourteen, but he acted like he’d been a grizzled trader all his life.
“I don’t have money for shells,” she said, absently, still peering through the bustling commerce for Tuval’s stall. Samuel haunted the beaches where the ascenders won’t go, scavenging seashells then trying to sell them. It’s not much of a business—although she’d seen a few of the girls use them to decorate their hair.
“Not for sale,” Samuel said as he dug through his bags. He had dozens of them, small and large, all carrying his worthless bounty from the sea. “This one’s special.”
Risha frowned. Not for sale? Was this some kind of new trade gimmick? Samuel’s face lit up as he found his prize: he pulled an unbroken shell the size of Risha’s thumb from his weathered paper bag. It caught the dim light of the market and gleamed blue.
He held it out to her. “It’s perfect. Not a scratch. And the pearling on it is blue. Very rare.”
She took it, just to be polite, and turned it over, admiring it. “It is pretty, Samuel. You should be able to find a buyer for this one.”
He looks disappointed. “No, it’s for you.”
She tried to hand it back to him. “I told you—I don’t have chits for shells.” Although a twinge in her chest nagged at her: she was dying to spend a half chit on a pastry that wouldn’t last the next five minutes. The boy on the tram hadn’t hesitated to help her when she needed it… and now she was hoarding her windfall like it belonged just to her.
Samuel took her hand but just folded her fingers over the shell. “And I told you—this one’s for you. I knew it as soon as I saw it. It’s pretty and different. Unique.” He dropped her hand, his gaze suddenly intense on the bags before him.
Risha’s face heated as she stared at her fingers closed around the shell. Another kindness. “Thank you.”
He nodded but kept his head down.
She wished she hadn’t been so adamant about not having chits for shells… but now it was too late for that. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
Samuel peeked up. His gaunt cheeks spoke of an ascender-allowance-only diet—the kind that barely kept you moving. She had never noticed it before. The heat in her cheeks grew stronger.
“Come on.” Risha held out her hand, the one not holding the shell.
Samuel shuffled around his barricade of sacks, and she towed him toward Tuval’s stall. If he was still open, she reckoned a kindness would taste even better than his famed chocolate pastry.
Risha hurried through the entrance of the market, grasping her satchel of paintbrushes in one hand and pushing aside the rough canvas flaps of the tent with the other. The thick smell of human-made foods and human-type stink reassured her. After her encounter on the tram, barely being saved from the virtual reality addict by a handsome boy several years older than her, it was good to be back where the dangers were more familiar. And less likely to end up with her dead.
Plus she was a whole chit richer than when she left!
She had no idea why the boy bought her gray-market brushes for a full chit— any fool could see they were worth less than half that. It left a weird feeling in her chest: kindnesses weren’t the kind of thing you traded in Seattle. The city was filled with bots and left-over humanity and the occasional ascender, with their super smart nanotech brains… humans were at the bottom of that pile, and you had to fight to even get a fair trade half the time. At least the gray market was better than the black, where a reasonable bit of bargaining could still get you dead, if you angered the wrong types.
But the boy had given her a kindness… and now she had a whole chit riding in her account. It was a full half-chit more than her uncle would expect back for the two brushes she’d sold. Risha wound her way past heaps of clay pots and woven throw rugs, her fingers crossed. Maybe Tuval would have one of his amazing chocolate pastries in his stall today. Why… for a half chit, maybe she could even bargain him for two! But she’d have to eat them quickly. Destroy the evidence, before her uncle found out.
“Hey Risha!” The voice stopped her dogged search for the smell of chocolate buried in human odors. It was Samuel the Orphan. His parents had been exiled by the ascenders. The bots took care of him now, but Risha only ever saw him at the market.
“Hey Samuel.” She gave him a tight smile, but her eyes were still hungry for Tuval’s stall.
“I found something perfect for you.” Samuel was her age, fourteen, but he acted like he’d been a grizzled trader all his life.
“I don’t have money for shells,” she said, absently, still peering through the bustling commerce for Tuval’s stall. Samuel haunted the beaches where the ascenders won’t go, scavenging seashells then trying to sell them. It’s not much of a business—although she’d seen a few of the girls use them to decorate their hair.
“Not for sale,” Samuel said as he dug through his bags. He had dozens of them, small and large, all carrying his worthless bounty from the sea. “This one’s special.”
Risha frowned. Not for sale? Was this some kind of new trade gimmick? Samuel’s face lit up as he found his prize: he pulled an unbroken shell the size of Risha’s thumb from his weathered paper bag. It caught the dim light of the market and gleamed blue.
He held it out to her. “It’s perfect. Not a scratch. And the pearling on it is blue. Very rare.”
She took it, just to be polite, and turned it over, admiring it. “It is pretty, Samuel. You should be able to find a buyer for this one.”
He looks disappointed. “No, it’s for you.”
She tried to hand it back to him. “I told you—I don’t have chits for shells.” Although a twinge in her chest nagged at her: she was dying to spend a half chit on a pastry that wouldn’t last the next five minutes. The boy on the tram hadn’t hesitated to help her when she needed it… and now she was hoarding her windfall like it belonged just to her.
Samuel took her hand but just folded her fingers over the shell. “And I told you—this one’s for you. I knew it as soon as I saw it. It’s pretty and different. Unique.” He dropped her hand, his gaze suddenly intense on the bags before him.
Risha’s face heated as she stared at her fingers closed around the shell. Another kindness. “Thank you.”
He nodded but kept his head down.
She wished she hadn’t been so adamant about not having chits for shells… but now it was too late for that. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
Samuel peeked up. His gaunt cheeks spoke of an ascender-allowance-only diet—the kind that barely kept you moving. She had never noticed it before. The heat in her cheeks grew stronger.
“Come on.” Risha held out her hand, the one not holding the shell.
Samuel shuffled around his barricade of sacks, and she towed him toward Tuval’s stall. If he was still open, she reckoned a kindness would taste even better than his famed chocolate pastry.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
#73 Magical Aptitude and Interest Survey
Plop! The stack of papers slapped down on top of the spell diagram I was sketching on the back of yesterday’s homework. “Magical Aptitude and Interest Survey” It said. “Is a magical profession right for you? Find out by answering these 50 questions.”
I scowled down at the paper. Like I needed a survey to tell me something I already knew. My economics teacher moved through the room, cheerfully explaining the instructions as she put a packet on everyone’s desk. I was only half paying attention, my mind still on that spell I was trying to work out. I glanced at the first question.
I smirked and circled “Never”
Are you afraid of snakes. Never. Do you prefer cooking in a cauldron over an open fire to baking in an oven. Always.
This might be kind of amusing. I worked my way through the questions. Can you sometimes tell what other people are thinking. Are your preminitions about the future turn out to be correct? Do inanimate objects talk to you? Can you see things that no one else can see?
I finished the survey and followed the instructions for calculating my score, wrote it in the correct box on the back page, and then went back to diagramming my spell. I erased one of the pentagrams and moved it closer to the center of the pattern, then added a circle of power. It was just about right, but it was still missing something. Maybe some vortices.
While I pondered on that, I noticed the teacher up at the front of the room doing something at the whiteboard. There were three students’ names written up there, and numbers beside them. Oh, she’d been asking the class for the top scores. The highest score up there was Jared Bingham, that boy who had a crush on me, tiresome kid. That was a little surprising. I checked my score again, I had completely forgotten the number. Twenty points higher than his. I shrugged.
“If you scored well on this survey,” the economics teacher said, “You might want to consider pursuing a magical profession.”
Garbage, I thought. Baloney. I raised my hand.
“Grace?” the teacher called on me.
“Well, I was just thinking, this survey isn’t really all that valid.”
There was dead silence in the room.
Thinking they didn’t understand me, I went on. “I mean, the questions were obviously kind of slanted. You could tell what you should answer if you wanted to seem magical, so if you think of yourself as a magical kind of person, you’d get a better score, whether you were or not.”
The teacher was looking at me as if I’d just turned into a toad. Or maybe a snake. She didn’t seem to know what to say. “Well, you’re right, but I would hope that people would answer the questions honestly.”
And then I realized it. I knew why everyone looked so awkward. They didn’t know I’d scored the top score in the class. They thought I was complaining about the survey because I had been beaten by Jared Bingham, Sun Won Lee, and Coral Bates on a magical aptitude test, when everyone in the school knew me as the girl who was always showing off her latest spells. I’d been so busy working on one of those spells, I’d neglected to share my score with everyone, and now it was way too late. I couldn’t tell them now. That would look even worse.
My face felt hot. I wanted to disappear. No one would ever believe a word I said, ever again.
I never could remember exactly what happened after that, but I think I did disappear. At any rate, the teachers in my next two classes marked me absent, even though I was in the room both times, I swear. I tried and tried afterwards to figure out how to go invisible like that without being royally embarrassed first, but I never could manage it.
I scowled down at the paper. Like I needed a survey to tell me something I already knew. My economics teacher moved through the room, cheerfully explaining the instructions as she put a packet on everyone’s desk. I was only half paying attention, my mind still on that spell I was trying to work out. I glanced at the first question.
- Is it difficult for you to stay up all night?
I smirked and circled “Never”
Are you afraid of snakes. Never. Do you prefer cooking in a cauldron over an open fire to baking in an oven. Always.
This might be kind of amusing. I worked my way through the questions. Can you sometimes tell what other people are thinking. Are your preminitions about the future turn out to be correct? Do inanimate objects talk to you? Can you see things that no one else can see?
I finished the survey and followed the instructions for calculating my score, wrote it in the correct box on the back page, and then went back to diagramming my spell. I erased one of the pentagrams and moved it closer to the center of the pattern, then added a circle of power. It was just about right, but it was still missing something. Maybe some vortices.
While I pondered on that, I noticed the teacher up at the front of the room doing something at the whiteboard. There were three students’ names written up there, and numbers beside them. Oh, she’d been asking the class for the top scores. The highest score up there was Jared Bingham, that boy who had a crush on me, tiresome kid. That was a little surprising. I checked my score again, I had completely forgotten the number. Twenty points higher than his. I shrugged.
“If you scored well on this survey,” the economics teacher said, “You might want to consider pursuing a magical profession.”
Garbage, I thought. Baloney. I raised my hand.
“Grace?” the teacher called on me.
“Well, I was just thinking, this survey isn’t really all that valid.”
There was dead silence in the room.
Thinking they didn’t understand me, I went on. “I mean, the questions were obviously kind of slanted. You could tell what you should answer if you wanted to seem magical, so if you think of yourself as a magical kind of person, you’d get a better score, whether you were or not.”
The teacher was looking at me as if I’d just turned into a toad. Or maybe a snake. She didn’t seem to know what to say. “Well, you’re right, but I would hope that people would answer the questions honestly.”
And then I realized it. I knew why everyone looked so awkward. They didn’t know I’d scored the top score in the class. They thought I was complaining about the survey because I had been beaten by Jared Bingham, Sun Won Lee, and Coral Bates on a magical aptitude test, when everyone in the school knew me as the girl who was always showing off her latest spells. I’d been so busy working on one of those spells, I’d neglected to share my score with everyone, and now it was way too late. I couldn’t tell them now. That would look even worse.
My face felt hot. I wanted to disappear. No one would ever believe a word I said, ever again.
I never could remember exactly what happened after that, but I think I did disappear. At any rate, the teachers in my next two classes marked me absent, even though I was in the room both times, I swear. I tried and tried afterwards to figure out how to go invisible like that without being royally embarrassed first, but I never could manage it.
Friday, January 2, 2015
#72 When Momma Has Work
When Momma has work, there’s food in the cupboard. Grapes and apples in the refrigerator. Plenty of milk and even cheese and yogurt.
When Momma has work, sometimes she leaves before we do in the morning. I lock up the house, and make sure my little sister gets on her bus. Then I walk to school. It’s not too far. I used to stay after school, but now that I’m older I come home. I have to hurry, can’t stay and hang out with friends, because I don’t want my little sister to have to wait on the steps for me too long.
When Momma has work, there’s birthday presents, and sometimes even a birthday party. Christmas we get lots of stuff. Things she gets to pick out for us herself.
When Momma has work, if my shoes wear out, we get new ones. When school starts, we don’t have to use last year’s backpacks, and maybe we even get a few new clothes.
When Momma has work, she’s tired all the time. Sometimes she gets home so late I have to do the cooking.
When Momma has work, sometimes we go out for ice cream, or hamburgers, or even to the movies.
When Momma has work, it’s just my sister and me after school. We play the old game system my uncle gave us. It works most of the time. After Momma gets home, she stays up to help us with homework, even if it gets really late.
When Momma has work, we can go places you have to pay to get into, like the zoo. But we still don’t go very much because Momma’s got work.
When Momma has work, the house gets me-eh-ssy! I help sometimes, but it seems like no matter what there’s always clothes baskets and stacks of papers and dirty dishes everywhere.
When Momma has work, she doesn’t look worried all the time. She doesn’t take us out to the park all day and just sit there, staring off into the distance, as if she’s watching out for something bad that might come and get us.
Momma has work today, and I’m glad, I guess.
When Momma has work, sometimes she leaves before we do in the morning. I lock up the house, and make sure my little sister gets on her bus. Then I walk to school. It’s not too far. I used to stay after school, but now that I’m older I come home. I have to hurry, can’t stay and hang out with friends, because I don’t want my little sister to have to wait on the steps for me too long.
When Momma has work, there’s birthday presents, and sometimes even a birthday party. Christmas we get lots of stuff. Things she gets to pick out for us herself.
When Momma has work, if my shoes wear out, we get new ones. When school starts, we don’t have to use last year’s backpacks, and maybe we even get a few new clothes.
When Momma has work, she’s tired all the time. Sometimes she gets home so late I have to do the cooking.
When Momma has work, sometimes we go out for ice cream, or hamburgers, or even to the movies.
When Momma has work, it’s just my sister and me after school. We play the old game system my uncle gave us. It works most of the time. After Momma gets home, she stays up to help us with homework, even if it gets really late.
When Momma has work, we can go places you have to pay to get into, like the zoo. But we still don’t go very much because Momma’s got work.
When Momma has work, the house gets me-eh-ssy! I help sometimes, but it seems like no matter what there’s always clothes baskets and stacks of papers and dirty dishes everywhere.
When Momma has work, she doesn’t look worried all the time. She doesn’t take us out to the park all day and just sit there, staring off into the distance, as if she’s watching out for something bad that might come and get us.
Momma has work today, and I’m glad, I guess.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
#71 Time Witch
The sound of the grate creaking open overhead woke me from my sleep.
I didn’t move, not quite yet. I was still sleepy. I wondered what they had brought me this time? Another scrawny thief? The political executions were often the best, some fat, juicy official who had angered the king in some way. At any rate, the emptiness in my stomach would soon have something to fill it.
My ears twitched at the sound of something, make that someone, falling to the floor. The soft thud betrayed someone light, small. I was disappointed.
I cracked my eyes open. The flickering firelight from the torches held in a ring above the grate showed me that a small girl had been dropped into my pit.
She stared back at me, her dark eyes wide, but not with fear. “Oh,” she cooed, “you’re beautiful”
Angry, I pulled myself up from the floor of my prison. I had been beautiful once, yes, but not anymore. Years of no sunlight, no hunting, nothing but human garbage for food, had left my coat patchy and my muscles weak. How dare this small, impudent creature call me beautiful?
A small meal, perhaps, but an easy one. I lunged forward and clamped my jaws down…
…on nothing.
Was she an illusion? I spun around, searching to see where she had gone. She stood behind me now, in the corner by the wall where I slept, still staring at me with that wondering look.
Time witch! No wonder someone so small had fallen under the ire of the crown. She was a time witch. That meant she’d be a challenge to catch after all, but not impossible. I could wear her down until she was too weary to slip through time and escape my pounces. My tail twitched eagerly. I could catch her. She had been caught before, at least once, or she never would have been thrown into my pit.
I bounded into the corner, staying on my toes, not committing myself, so that I could make a quick turn when she slipped away. She vanished, but a quick thought whispered in my ear, “If you kill me, I can’t help you.”
I growled and twisted my body, sniffing the air to find where she had gone this time.
She still wasn’t afraid. Her face was as calm as if I were a kitten she’d found in the street. This time, before I’d even moved, she had vanished again. Another whisper, “I can help you escape. I can take you with me.”
In a sudden burst of fury, I charged around the edge of the pit, determined to catch her if she was sulking anywhere against the wall. I bounded into the middle, and came close enough to snatch away a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress. Above us, those watching murmured in approval and satisfaction.
“You’ll have to pretend to catch me,” the time witch said, with perfect confidence. “They won’t open the door again unless they think I’m dead.”
I couldn’t so much hear the words, as that they were suddenly in my mind, whispered to me from outside of time as she brushed by, invisible, intangible. I turned my head and snapped at her presence, but she had gone to the other side of the pit again.
“Stand still, then,” I growled. “Let me catch you.”
She vanished once more. Another message, “When they open the door again, I will stop time. Carry me with you, out of the pit, and run while everyone is frozen.”
It was a tempting offer. Freedom. How long had it been since I had tasted freedom? I had forgotten what it meant, but I wanted to remember.
The time witch stood with her back against the wall, her hands gripped the stone tight behind her, as if she had to hold on to keep herself from slipping away from me. She gave me a slight nod.
I lunged, and this time my jaws closed on flesh. Only so tight, though. Not enough to break it. We would make this deal, then, and see if she would keep her bargain.
I didn’t move, not quite yet. I was still sleepy. I wondered what they had brought me this time? Another scrawny thief? The political executions were often the best, some fat, juicy official who had angered the king in some way. At any rate, the emptiness in my stomach would soon have something to fill it.
My ears twitched at the sound of something, make that someone, falling to the floor. The soft thud betrayed someone light, small. I was disappointed.
I cracked my eyes open. The flickering firelight from the torches held in a ring above the grate showed me that a small girl had been dropped into my pit.
She stared back at me, her dark eyes wide, but not with fear. “Oh,” she cooed, “you’re beautiful”
Angry, I pulled myself up from the floor of my prison. I had been beautiful once, yes, but not anymore. Years of no sunlight, no hunting, nothing but human garbage for food, had left my coat patchy and my muscles weak. How dare this small, impudent creature call me beautiful?
A small meal, perhaps, but an easy one. I lunged forward and clamped my jaws down…
…on nothing.
Was she an illusion? I spun around, searching to see where she had gone. She stood behind me now, in the corner by the wall where I slept, still staring at me with that wondering look.
Time witch! No wonder someone so small had fallen under the ire of the crown. She was a time witch. That meant she’d be a challenge to catch after all, but not impossible. I could wear her down until she was too weary to slip through time and escape my pounces. My tail twitched eagerly. I could catch her. She had been caught before, at least once, or she never would have been thrown into my pit.
I bounded into the corner, staying on my toes, not committing myself, so that I could make a quick turn when she slipped away. She vanished, but a quick thought whispered in my ear, “If you kill me, I can’t help you.”
I growled and twisted my body, sniffing the air to find where she had gone this time.
She still wasn’t afraid. Her face was as calm as if I were a kitten she’d found in the street. This time, before I’d even moved, she had vanished again. Another whisper, “I can help you escape. I can take you with me.”
In a sudden burst of fury, I charged around the edge of the pit, determined to catch her if she was sulking anywhere against the wall. I bounded into the middle, and came close enough to snatch away a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress. Above us, those watching murmured in approval and satisfaction.
“You’ll have to pretend to catch me,” the time witch said, with perfect confidence. “They won’t open the door again unless they think I’m dead.”
I couldn’t so much hear the words, as that they were suddenly in my mind, whispered to me from outside of time as she brushed by, invisible, intangible. I turned my head and snapped at her presence, but she had gone to the other side of the pit again.
“Stand still, then,” I growled. “Let me catch you.”
She vanished once more. Another message, “When they open the door again, I will stop time. Carry me with you, out of the pit, and run while everyone is frozen.”
It was a tempting offer. Freedom. How long had it been since I had tasted freedom? I had forgotten what it meant, but I wanted to remember.
The time witch stood with her back against the wall, her hands gripped the stone tight behind her, as if she had to hold on to keep herself from slipping away from me. She gave me a slight nod.
I lunged, and this time my jaws closed on flesh. Only so tight, though. Not enough to break it. We would make this deal, then, and see if she would keep her bargain.
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