Chapter Four

“Vina?”

The voice was thick was sleep, and sounded disoriented--but, ultimately, sounded like her own Zel. “What is it, sweet?”

Rapunzel shuffled in, still clad in her nightgown. Dark bags lined the area of her eyes, as if she had been wearing the heavy cosmetics favored by the occasional noblewoman who showed up on Vina’s doorstep, and had forgotten to wash it off the night before. It had obviously been a sleepless night (no doubt furthered by the tea, however comforting, thought Vina) and her heart ached at the sight of her foster daughter. Rapunzel was usually bright and sunny in the mornings, more so than her guardian, and was always dressed by the time she’d reached the kitchen.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what, sweet?”

“You know, last night, you were talking about magic,” said Rapunzel, pouring water into a kettle, “and I got most of that down pat. I mean, I have been living here for my entire life, I know a good bit about it from . . . well, from osmosis, I suppose. And I understand the theory. But I don’t understand what this has to do with me ; I mean, all right, so somehow I have this power, or so you say, since I don’t even know how to tap into it. I don’t even feel anything different, but it must be there. But how?”

The kettle whistled, loud and shrill, while Vina thought about the answer. It seemed scant seconds later that Rapunzel was setting down two huge mugs of tea, one of which she accepted gratefully. No, she was not a morning person.

“Well, your mother was the youngest daughter of seven, yes?” Rapunzel nodded. “And your youngest sister is also the seventh daughter. And I explained last night about how the theory of magic works--sort of; any human has the potential, but so few are ever interested, or in the right place at the right time, or get full-trained that we don’t have legions of magic-users, as it should be. Because of tradition, and some sort of ancient magic, for some reason the number seven responds best; and the seventh of the seventh is usually like a lantern for moths, if moths were magic.”

“There’s a proverb in there, somewhere,” said Rapunzel.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Vina said, laughing weakly. “But there’s a set amount of magic in the world, so far as those who research such things can tell it, and that magic is shared among us all; some have more than others. And we can store it and collect it and share it, we magic-users, particularly if there’s a strong emotional or familial bond. Magic usually goes where it is needed; it’s a peculiar thing, and no one knows so much about it. What all that theory amounts to--and there are a great many theories, and several schools, where such a thing is studied, along with the great radicals who discover useful but controversial things like electricity--is that there is a great cloud of magic that surrounds you and your sisters. It should really be the youngest girl’s due to tradition, but as I said last night, that doesn’t always happen.

“I don’t think the magic would have gone to you but for this Bard. I know nothing about him, save that he is just about your age and in desperate need of help, and for some reason it calls to you .”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s a gift.”

Rapunzel snorted.

“I’m entirely serious! It goes along with the bigger, flashier things; one can usually sense someone else’s abilities, on a vague, impersonal sense, unless that person is masking it for one reason or another.”

“Why would they?”

“If their intentions were totally pure, they probably wouldn’t.”

“Like many things.”

“Yes, o wise one.”

Rapunzel sipped at her tea. “Is there anything I can do to get rid of it?”

“The magic? No, I don’t think so. But since you can’t even sense it, I wouldn’t worry for the time being; certainly, without feeling that it’s there, I can’t teach you. Perhaps somewhere, there is a wizard or a mage who could, but I wouldn’t know where to look, and I’m not going to bother trying. We’ll just have to wait.”

Vina and her foster daughter sighed in tandem, causing the younger girl to giggle, if rather hysterically. “This should be interesting, if nothing else.”

The witch rolled her eyes. “Indeed.”

--

Bard could remember the last conversation he’d had with Jill; she’d assured him she wouldn’t be gone long, that he should just ‘stay with Maggie’ until her business was concluded.

That was three years ago, and since she and her enigmatic brother had left, he had grown seven inches and gained several pounds--but still was as skinny as a stick from an undernourished tree. Whatever powers his position had granted him seemed to have grown with, even exceeded, his size, and it itched under his skin. He didn’t know how to control it anymore; the last exercises he had learned under Jill’s care still tamed the uncomfortable burning, but it was no longer safe inside his head.

It leaked, every so often, and that scared him.

Maggie didn’t know; he didn’t let anyone know that he could see it escaping, slowly, ever so slowly, a torturous trickle. It wasn’t random, either; it was steadily working its way in one direction, almost a path, one that he longed to follow, almost a physical ache--but his life was centered here, and he lived in constant hope that Jack and Jill would reappear.

He learned to ignore it, focusing instead on building a life for himself here: it would not do to not be able to support himself, not in a city like this, where trade was bustling and a hired hand was always a help. Boys his age, and certainly boys younger than he, had already started apprenticeships: he knew it was too late to ever be a really fine craftsman. Still, there was always a need for grunt work, and though he was bone-skinny, he was quite strong--something he attributed the the medallion he never let anyone see, under his shirt, always in direct contact with his skin.

It wasn’t what he wanted , no; he wanted the training that the appearance of Jack and Jill had promised and, maybe, just a little bit of the prestige. The city had gotten used to life without a Bard, who had never been much of a public figure, anyway: an old man who appeared at festivals and presided over the little-used court of magical justice, correcting spells gone awry, ending feuds between witch and wizard. With the disappearance of the Bard, the magical activity, or, at least, the obvious magical activity, had died down greatly.

He lifted another box with an undignified and involuntary “hmph” as the heavy crate temporarily knocked the air out of him. The hairs on the back of his neck were just stirring when--

“Well, fancy that.”

He whirled around, both shocked and thrilled at the familiar white hair and pale skin. “Jill?”

“Is there any other?” She smirked. “I never thought I’d see you, my dear protege, lifting boxes for employment.”

He shrugged. “Well, what else was there to do? You were gone, and I hadn’t any idea of where you were or how to get hold of you, and I couldn’t keep eating Maggie out of her house and her home.”

“Hey!” cried Bard’s employer. “Are you gonna keep talking or do you want work?”

“He’s with me,” said Jill. “He’ll not be back.”

“Fine!” the man said, “But you ain’t gonna get no more work from me! I got a good eye for faces, you know, I ain’t gonna forget you!”

Jill took hold of his arm and pulled him away from the man and his wagon.

“Where were you, anyhow?” asked Bard, honestly curious.

She looked at him, obviously amused. “Since when have my doings been your business?”

Bard looked away, sheepishly.

They walked in companionable silence for some minutes before, looking surreptitiously at him, Jill asked, “You haven’t been getting any--feelings--lately, have you?”

He swiveled his head, fast, to look at her. “What?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just feelings . Like a string pulling you? Or . . . or a path of some kind? Or something?” He was more startled than he’d been even at her sudden appearance, and it must have showed on his face, because she continued, “You have, haven’t you? Well, why on earth haven’t you followed it?”

Bard blinked. “Isn’t this rather sudden?”

“Perhaps. But spontaneity is one of the joys of life! I definitely followed most of my whims, and look where I ended up--happy and fairly wealthy and most certainly quite healthy. You come with me, lad, and we’ll go see Maggie, and then we’ll see about this trip of yours.”

He could only wave his hands ineffectually; the meeting with Maggie was duly set, and went over well, and then Jill hauled him to her big house, which he had last seen three years ago, when he was eleven; and three days later, after a few more rushed lessons on centering and controlling, he found himself tracking after the line of magic he had started to lose a couple months ago.

And, frankly, he didn’t think he’d ever been happier in his life.

--

This came out in one creative rush. Took about two hours, and while it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written, I don’t think it’s too bad.

Is the meeting between Bard and Jill TOO rushed, or does it seem in character for Jill, who is this very willful, go-getter-be-a-doer lady? Ah, well, it’ s written, finally. Though I do believe there are too many italics. Ah, well.

Sweet dreams, everybody, it’s like two o’ clock in the morning and I shouldn’t be up. Five pages and 1,569 words. I need to work on length of chapters. Man.