A/N: Well, here we are, so many months later. Actually, when I was finished with this chapter, I had the hardest time uploading this onto fictionpress. I changed everything that I could think of, and finally found that any Comments I had made on my work (in MicrosoftWord) were hindering my progress. I had to let them all go. '( Those comments were so handy.

Rosin Eftifar is the author of a book. He's an interesting guy. If you read further, please review! Grazie.

Stealing

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”

-Carl Jung, Swiss Psychologist

Suddenly, there were fourteen different types of cookies and at least five different kinds of milk sitting in front of him. “I don’t know what you like,” Isabelle insisted, as she placed said trays of dessert on the table. “I figured that I would just get you everything I had,” she added, smiling thinly. James could see that she had forced that smile—there just didn’t seem to be any warmth in Aunt Isabelle at all.

After eating a few cookies and drinking a little milk—the one beverage James despised—he settled back into the hard wooden chair and sighed. Today had most definitely been an odd day. And it was far from over. What was to say that the next day would be any less weird?

He mused silently over all of the things that had gone on the past few hours. He had already been fought over for most of what he thought was going to be a very normal morning. Then, he was dragged through an alleyway only to end up practically next door to his own house. Not to mention that his new guardian, Aunt Isabelle, was a very mysterious creature, whom he had never seen before in his life even though she had lived so close for so long.

Again he sighed. There was no way he would survive if everyday would be as weird as this one was turning out to be. He was just too accustomed to being normal.

But in the present time, James was feeling a little bored. He was glad to miss school for the day, but with no one around, James began to find his whole existence a little futile. When left to his own devices, James’s thinking could go a little too far, which is why he constantly needed someone like Conor to divert his attention. Sitting alone with cookies and skim, soy and whole milk, being bored to death seemed to be the only thing that James was capable of feeling.

As he thought and thought of all the things he should have been doing that day, he desperately wished for something to do. He knew that Aunt Isabelle probably didn’t have video game consoles, but he secretly held onto the hope that she might have some paints and a canvas.

Another little known fact about James was that he enjoyed painting. He wouldn’t come out and tell you that, though. The only other person who knew that James was an artist—excluding his parents—was Conor. It was not that James was not proud of his work, quite the opposite, but he felt that painting made him less of a man. If people knew, he thought, they would call him weird and freakish, and he wouldn’t fit in. They might even think he was girly. Being a Thinker will do that to you. People just don’t understand where you’re coming from and then they misinterpret you entirely. As the ideal man lives off of his masculinity, a Thinker lives in harmony with his dreams.

He continued to think until he came upon a conversation Edgemont and Aunt Isabelle had had earlier that morning. James had found it extremely odd when they talked about “willing” things so that they became true, but now it didn’t seem that weird at all. Hadn’t it been studied how the mind affected the world around it? He glanced around the room and, finding that he was alone, decided to try Isabelle’s idea of willing. He willed quite hard in fact, and he could almost feel himself making the pallet, choosing his brushes, mixing the paints…He willed so hard that Isabelle reentered the kitchen. Or so James liked to think it was his thoughts that brought her in, looking slightly distressed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to be amiable. As if in a daze, she shook her head clear of all dominating thoughts and proceeded to look at James intently. The way her eyes stared at him made him feel uneasy, and he shifted nervously in his chair.

As if to answer his question, she took a seat next to him and clasped her thin hands on the table in front of her.

“I’m feeling quite normal,” she said finally. Still she stared—James averted his eyes as if she were the Medusa, whose gaze would turn him to stone.

“Oh James,” Isabelle said dreamily, resting her palm under her chin, “What shall I do with you?”

James looked at her with an expression that suggested confusion. “Excuse me?” he asked, trying to be polite.

“Exactly what I said, James. What am I going to do with you now that you’re here? Grenja and I only planned on extracting you from school…”

James felt worse than ever. They had only planned? Only planned? What was going on? He knew that he had to get some information out of Isabelle, but he wasn’t sure exactly how to do it. Suddenly an idea hit him, as they always seemed to do when he thought to deeply about something.

“Aunt Isabelle,” he began slowly, “Why don’t we play a game of Twenty Questions, so that we get to know each other a little better? Maybe that will help us decide what to do next.”

Isabelle was no longer staring at him. As she stared dreamily at the sink she said, “It won’t be physically exerting, will it?”

“No,” James replied, puzzled, “I should think it’s more of a mental game.”

Instantly, she sprang to life: “Mind games are my favorite.”

James smiled thinly at her and waited patiently for Isabelle to begin. He felt that maybe she would give away more secrets if she was more comfortable with him. When she continued to stare at the sink, he said, “Well, the rule of the game is just that you must tell the truth.”

“That all?” she asked, “Not much of a game.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll begin then,” he said, “What is your full name?”

“Isabelle Jennifer Carolyn Tori Reid.”

James furrowed his brow. She said her name quite fluidly, so he knew she must be telling the truth. Still, it was an odd name to have. He did not voice this thought, but said instead, “Now you may ask a question.”

“But I know everything about you, James. It’s me you want to know about, correct?”

He tried not to show his astonishment, but failed. He was thwarted by his daydreaming aunt. She turned to him and smiled. Her eyes were full of mischief.

“Fine,” he said, “When is your birthday?”

“April 16th.”

“What is your favorite color?”

“I’m quite partial to blue.”

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“I don’t like animals.”

“But Aunt Isabelle, if you had to choose—“

“Fine! A snow leopard. Next question.”

She was fiddling with her hair now, occasionally pressing a couple of strands against her lips in boredom. They shot through the next few questions quite quickly, with answers ranging from rhododendrons to eel sushi. Isabelle’s tastes were widely varied and she seemed to encompass the entire planet in her choppy, precise answers.

“What do you hate most?”

“Edgemont.”

“Besides Mr. Edgemont!”

“Cats.”

“What about…love?”

“I like pastries quite a lot, and I particularly fancy yellow vases.”

“No, I mean, do you love a person?”

Isabelle seemed taken aback by such a question, as if James had asked her something vile. James could see she was uncomfortable on this subject, but all the same wanted an answer. He forced his features to resemble those of a cherub.

“Why would you ask something like that?”

“I just want to get to know you better, Aunt Isabelle.”

Her face flushed, and she gave James a searching look before answering:

“I have a boyfriend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Oh it’s really none of your business.”

James smiled. So Isabelle was capable of affection, or so it seemed. Her boyfriend could be one of the soft men who take abuse liberally, but upon James’s better judgment, he thought this was not the case.

Aunt Isabelle, it seemed, was looking at James in a new sort of light as well. Her eyes were scratching at the door of his soul again, patiently trying to squeeze answers out of his expression. James gave her a look that suggested he was nothing more than a simple-minded child. He should have known—Isabelle was just too good at reading people to be fooled.

“I have a question for you on that subject, James,” she said, quirking her eyebrow in an amused fashion.

James swallowed with difficulty. He knew exactly what it was she was going to ask, but he was less than certain how he should answer. And he wanted to stay away from ‘those’ conversations. He had had to talk with his father once, and it had been the most uncomfortable thing. It was not something he needed twice in his lifetime.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Isabelle’s eyes flashed with the mischief her face would not betray. James cringed unintentionally.

“No,” he managed to squeak.

“Ah, but from your tone I assume there is someone you fancy. Tell me her name.”

“S-Samantha.” James closed his eyes and felt his cheeks go red. Samantha Briora—the most beautiful girl in the world.

He had first met Samantha in the sixth grade, when he got into the middle school. Because both of their last names began with a ‘B’, they ended up in the same room. He would never forget the first day, when Samantha was assigned the seat next to his.

James had been drawing a rough sketch of something he had later painted, when he heard her sweet little voice:

“Why, that’s really lovely.”

His eyes found her crystal clear ones, and he managed to utter a small ‘thanks’ in his admiration of her. She had giggled, he remembered, because in his nervous state he had broken the tip of his pencil as he was drawing. There was a clear black imprint in the middle of a sunny sky.

Later that day, she had invited him to eat lunch with her and some other girls, but that had not gone so well. He had put an elbow in the stew, trying to get her a napkin. Then he choked on the juice he was drinking because all of the girls began to laugh at his stew soaked sleeve. But, he remembered fondly, Samantha had not.

After the incident, he sat with Conor and some other boys at another table. Samantha didn’t seem to mind. Still, he apologized about the incident, and Samantha told him not to worry. She had said that it was no one’s fault.

“James,” he remembered her say, “The most important thing is that you find your own way. If you follow for the sake of having company, then you’re lost.”

He remembered the way that she had smiled at him, her eyes widening. There was no doubt in his mind that her eyes could see the entire world for what it really was. More than anything, he loved to get lost in her eyes, made out of the clearest pieces of sky.

“James, darling, you need to snap out of it.”

Aunt Isabelle’s smooth but penetrating voice tore him from his thoughts. Isabelle had propped her chin on her hands and was staring at him thoughtfully.

“Feeling okay?” she asked, smiling.

“Quite,” he responded, “Just thinking.”

“I thought so. I do endorse a good daydream once in a while.”

James smiled and leveled his gaze with the carved table. He had begun to feel that Aunt Isabelle was not so bad at all. In fact, she was quite pleasant once you got past her wit, and James rather liked her. There was something about her…Maybe it was the way she didn’t press a conversation and let James sink into his own thoughts. Maybe it was the way she acted less her age. In fact, she didn’t look her age, and James felt weird every time he called her “aunt” for this reason. Everything about her was young. From her messy chestnut hair that was clipped up hastily, to her bright blue eyes that obviously held vast amounts of knowledge but glinted with childish mischief. The things she said, the way she expressed herself; it made James feel as if he was talking to a particularly old cousin. Or friend. But most definitely not an aunt.

After James had assured himself that the ocean carved into the table was not real, he turned his gaze back to the newly befriended Aunt Isabelle, who was currently absent from her seat. He looked around in surprise. Has he fallen into one of his “good daydreams” again? Had Aunt Isabelle decided to leave him this time?

No, she had not. James turned around and found Aunt Isabelle standing before the oddly placed bookshelf, muttering crossly to the musty spines.

James had assumed, naturally, that she was not normal when they had first met—no one in his family was stereotypical—but he had not thought her crazy.

Of course, he had some clinically insane relatives, but they weren’t seen at parties and family functions. Plus, everything James had just learned about her hadn’t suggested that she was out of her mind. For the most part.

“Aunt Isabelle,” he called to catch her attention, “What are you looking for?”

She froze mid-sentence, but didn’t turn to look at him. “Just a book,” she stammered, “Would you like one as well?”

James voiced an affirmative and Isabelle returned to the table after carefully selecting two books. In front of him, she placed a newer book with a velvety red cover. Across the front, there was the title Impressionism embossed in gold, scrolling letters. James knew instantly that he was going to enjoy this particular book. It was about painters.

“How did you know I like to paint?” he barely whispered absentmindedly. He was still staring avidly at the cover.

“I told you before,” she chuckled, “I know basically everything there is to know about James Matthew Barnes.”

He looked at her and smiled. She gave him one of her famous thin smiles in return, squinting.

“I admire your love for art,” she said sincerely. Her face was scrunched up now, as if complimenting someone like that would ruin her brain.

James blushed at such a compliment, and his eyes sought out Isabelle’s book so that he might find something with which to compliment her. It was the thick blue one from before. This time he could make out the cover, which had some kind of black runes on it. James couldn’t make out what it said because Isabelle had immediately opened to book, beginning to read again. He watched her for a few minutes, but again, he couldn’t see her eyes scanning the pages at all. Before he had a chance to study what she was reading, Isabelle glanced up at him.

“Something wrong?” she asked, “Is that book not good?”

He hastily opened his book and turned the pages to the first chapter. There was a picture of one of Monet’s paintings with a little caption at the bottom. “No, I love it,” he muttered. James continued to stare at the book, as he could feel Isabelle staring at him for a few seconds. Then, with a sigh, she returned to her own reading.

A while later, James was in the middle of a chapter devoted to Mary Cassatt, there was noise from upstairs that brought James out from the haze of words. In the beginning, he wasn’t quite sure what the sound was. As he brought himself to pay attention to the noise, he noticed that it sounded like several pairs of footsteps. He looked at the ceiling, puzzled.

It didn’t seem like Isabelle had invited anyone over prior to him getting there. Isabelle. He turned to his odd aunt and was astonished to find her reading as if nothing unusual was going on. Dourly, he noticed that her eyes were still not moving at all, and she was not turning any pages.

“Aunt Isabelle!” James touched her lightly on the shoulder.

She gave a little jump and slowly turned to James, bewildered. “What’s the matter?” she managed to say. Her voice sounded strained and far off, as if she were just waking from a particularly peaceful nap.

James did not have to answer because she suddenly heard the sharp clicking of people moving around upstairs. She tilted her head towards the ceiling then back to stare at James. Her face held no acknowledgement of the wandering trespassers, making James very nervous.

“When did this begin?” Now she sounded anxious.

“I don’t know. Maybe a minute ago?”

“Whoever is up there has been walking around for a while now. They’re just making themselves known.” Isabelle said it more to herself than anyone else, but James had a strange feeling that things were not as they seemed around the house.

“I’ve got to tell Grenja.” Isabelle had jumped from her seat, her book propped open, forgotten.

“What’s going on?” James asked desperately. Isabelle looked at him strangely, as if he were intruding on her thoughts.

“James, there will be time enough to explain later, but not now!” Her voice had grown louder, as the chorus of footsteps grew in number. For the first time, James was truly scared of whatever was up there. What if there were men with guns? James’ stomach gave a turn. He hated guns.

“Grenja!” Isabelle called loudly. Instantly, Grenja ran into the room, out of breath.

“What’s going on?” Grenja’s face had gone blotchy.

“I think he’s on the fourth floor.” Isabelle’s face betrayed the worry that James felt.

“But there must be hundreds of them!”

Isabelle ran to the wall opposite the stove and sink. “There’s only three of them!” she said, practically screaming. The cacophony of footsteps was growing louder all the time.

“What are you talking about?” James yelled. Three people could not make this amount of noise!

“I’ll explain later, James! Trust me! They’re just trying to confuse us!” Isabelle had pressed the palm of her hand against the wall. James could faintly make out the sound of a number of disturbing crunches coming from the wall. Isabelle closed her eyes and muttered quietly; over the noise of the feet, James could not make out what she was saying.

As she took her hand off of the wall, a giant green plant burst through the wall where her hand had been. James could only stare, sucking in air in noisy gulps. He had to take Isabelle on her word that she would explain things, but he sincerely hoped she would have enough time to cover it all.

“Grenja!” Isabelle called without turning away from the plant, “Wake up Laura!” James watched quietly hyperventilating as Grenja made her way over to the bookshelf. Was there another plant in the bookcase? Was that who Isabelle was talking to when he has caught her muttering at the books? James tried to breath in steady, deep breaths, but his lungs would not permit anything more than the tiniest intake of air. He knew he was starting to get really out-of-hand scared. James finally decided to sit on the floor with his head propped up on his knees, in case he fainted.

Meanwhile, Isabelle was busy with the flowering vines sprouting and twisting up her walls. “Roots,” she addressed the plant in a very serious tone, “I need to know where they are!”

To James’ wavering astonishment, the plant answered her in perfect English from some unseen mouth.

“They were headed for the Fourth Floor last I checked. I do suppose that you would rather they went somewhere different, and have deterred them here, to the Second.”

Isabelle looked immensely relieved despite the situation. “You’re amazing,” she told the plant, “but I’ll need you to secure the other floors and keep the furniture stable for me. I don’t need them leaving pieces of themselves here.”

It seemed that Roots obliged, because seconds later, it disappeared back into the wall. James watched as the stucco magically repaired itself. ‘Magic,’ he thought to himself, ‘Is that what all this is?’ His better logic argued that magic was a thing in storybooks, but his imagination retorted that life played out like a storybook sometimes.

As James turned his attention to Isabelle, he saw that she and Grenja were struggling to get a silvery apparition out of the bookshelf. ‘So it’s not a plant,’ he thought dryly, ‘It’s just a ghost.’ And the ghost named Laura was giving Isabelle all sorts of trouble. She had no intention of leaving her cozy bookcase to help stop burglars.

“Laura!” Isabelle screamed furiously, “Get out her immediately!”

“All right, all right! Cool your horses, Izzy. He’s not here yet.” The voice yawned, and at once the silvery apparition took the shape of a young girl robed in a silvery nightgown. She did not look pleased to be awake.

“Don’t you understand the brevity of the situation, you dolt? I need you to seal the closet door! I don’t need reinforcements marching into my kitchen!” Isabelle had to yell louder all the time—the footsteps were becoming deafening.

“Right-o, captain…” Laura raised her translucent hand in mock salute before sliding back into the wall.

Isabelle raced to the circular table and turned it on its side, revealing a network of intricate runes that looked burned into the surface. She yelled quickly at Grenja, but James could only catch things like “copper pots” and “good conductors” because the footsteps were deafening him. Finally, she turned to James, wrinkling her eyebrows as if she had no clue why he was still there.

“I’m glad you didn’t run away,” she said when she got close to him, “And now, I need you to do a little disappearing act!” Her steady blue gaze searched his own, full of hardness and the smallest hint of masked mischief. “You’re going to hide under the sink.”

The footsteps were receding slowly, bringing more hardness and anxiety to her eyes. “But I won’t fit!” James protested before he could think clearly.

“My dear boy, if you haven’t already noticed, I don’t think that will be much of a problem.” Her tone was cold and severe. She meant business.

James crawled slowly backwards until he felt the edge of the cabinet. Still staring at his Aunt, he backed himself up into the cubby, waiting to bump his head on a pipe or two. But it never happened—Isabelle was good on her word once more, and James found he had quite enough room to stretch out. Isabelle began closing the door, but James stopped her.

“There’s no light,” he managed weakly.

Isabelle gave him a searching look but didn’t say anything further—the footsteps were almost gone. She left the door ajar and quickly waved shimmering threads over the open space. James assumed that it was some kind of magic. He felt a little guilty; she was putting the spells there to protect him.

As much as James’ thinking mind wanted to make him feel horrible, it didn’t have time to think much of anything before a handsome figure walked into the kitchen. It was Edgemont.

Through the almost closed door, James could see Isabelle and Edgemont facing each other, like wolves preparing to fight. Edgemont had two scruffy looking men with him, and Isabelle only had a fierce looking Grenja. They were obviously outnumbered. James wanted to jump out and even the odds, but he knew that two women and a boy were no match for three potentially powerful men. Isabelle eyed all three of the men with obvious disgust, as if they were tracking mud all over her immaculate kitchen.

“Isabelle! It seems fate has brought us together twice today.” Edgemont’s voice was smooth and frighteningly cool, as if he had not just broken into her house.

“What are you doing here?” Isabelle’s voice was quite the opposite of Edgemont’s. She was trembling with fury and loathing.

“And where is my darling nephew, James?” It was if he hadn’t heard her at all. ‘At least he doesn’t know where I am,’ James thought.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again. Her voice had not changed the slightest bit.

This time he obliged her: “Isn’t it obvious yet?” James watched as Edgemont placed his hand on the overturned table to lean casually. As soon as he touched it; however, the table emitted blue and green sparks along with an ear-splitting scream. Edgemont hastily took his hand back, giving Isabelle and the table cold looks in succession. James clamped his hands over his ears until the noise stopped.

Once the scream had subsided, Edgemont remarked dryly, “Isn’t that a lovely piece of furniture?”

“You could see the spell clear as day, stupid. You knew it would do that.” Isabelle could not pour more venom and disgust into her words.

Edgemont chuckled slightly and his two companions followed suit. “Isabelle, darling. Precious,” he said striding over to her as if she were a child, “Whose scream is part of that lovely spell? Yours? You sounded beautiful.” His voice grew steadily tenderer with each word as he reached out to stroke her cheek with his hand. James could see that his eyes were absolutely smoldering, and despite himself, he blushed. It was thoroughly awkward.

But Isabelle was not reacting as Edgemont had obviously wished she would. Furthermore, Grenja came to her immediate rescue, banging Edgemont on the head with a broom. Edgemont looked surprised for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. He glanced at the broom casually, and it became a viper, right before James’ eyes. Grenja let go of the ex-broom hastily and Edgemont grabbed it. Instantly, the hissing reptile became a bouquet of astonishingly beautiful red roses.

“Mademoiselle, pour vous,” Edgemont crooned, extending the roses to Isabelle. She kept her fists clenched at her side, her knuckles turning white. She looked ready to punch him. Instead, Isabelle stared at the roses with such intensity that they wilted.

Edgemont looked at the dead flowers with what looked like regret, and they turned into gold dust in his hands. He let it swirl up from his palm and fill the room with gleaming bits of light. James longed to touch it even if it was the work of an evil man, but Isabelle’s charms prevented even a flake from reaching him.

Isabelle had crossed her arms over her chest expectantly. It was obvious that Edgemont was wasting his time with such flattery. All the same, he gave her a sincerely bitter smile.

“Nothing I do will ever impress you, will it?”

For a second, it seemed that Isabelle pitied him, her face was so moved with anguish. But it only took a second—this was no exaggeration—and she was back to being Isabelle.

“No, unfortunately, it will not. Especially if your idea of impressing me includes breaking into my house and dragging your filthy necromancers all over the place.”

Edgemont gave her a nasty glare and returned to his companions. Negotiations were over, as far as he was concerned.

“I will ask you once more—Where is James?” His voice lost all of its smoothness. Now he sounded thoroughly agitated; James swallowed hard. He was very afraid that Edgemont would find him, and very afraid of the things that might happen after he was found.

“If you expect me to tell you, then you’d best lower said expectations.” Isabelle’s voice was higher pitched, but it never lost its flowing rhythm. James found that it eased some of his fear; Aunt Isabelle sounded more than annoyed now. She was downright angry, and James knew that she was not going to deal with Edgemont any longer.

“Shall I tear the place apart? Really, Isabelle, you know just how dearly I wish to speak with James.” His tone caused James to shiver, but he did not intimidate Isabelle at all. She was amazingly strong and James felt his admiration for her leap.

Edgemont closed his eyes and stood very still. James could see from the way he was fidgeting that he was trying not to lose his cool. It was also sadly apparent that he was losing such an intrapersonal battle. The room was chilly, and Isabelle’s charms were not able to stop James from feeling as though he were in a blizzard of sorts. For, it wasn’t the kind of cold that was normally associated with frozen bits of water. No, it was an entirely different feeling. It was kind of like drowning in cold sadness, anxiety and anger. James felt it was safe to assume that this new chill was Edgemont’s doing. But why? As James looked at the rivals, he could only see astonishment on Edgemont or Isabelle’s face.

No one said anything for a long, tense moment. But then, something very strange happened that made James flinch farther back into the cabinet. Isabelle gasped, putting a hand to her ivory cheek. Something red trickled slowly from in between her fingers. Had James been in any other situation, perhaps watching this scene as a movie on the television, he might have thought it was beautiful. There was something about the contrast between her delicate skin and the violent red blood that reminded James of a painting. It seemed entirely surreal that Isabelle could be bleeding.

But this was no time for romanticizing. Isabelle glared menacingly, in a way that James had not yet seen her glare. Edgemont could only look terrified as a deer caught in a pair of headlights, his face going whiter than marble. James watched carefully, waiting for Isabelle to make the next move.

When she did, he missed it, but heard a small intake of breath from Edgemont, and there it was: and identical cut. He made no move to cover it, and it bled freely down the side of his face. For James, there was nothing really artistic about Edgemont’s cut, but he couldn’t say exactly why. Maybe it was the fact that he liked Isabelle over Edgemont?

Isabelle cursed lightly, removing her hand from her face. James gaped in astonishment—there was no sign of a cut, or even a scar! Edgemont did the same, and he too was unmarked once more.

“I didn’t think you were capable of black magic, darling,” Edgemont sneered. The cold was rapidly vanishing from the room, as if Edgemont was bottling up all his anger again.

“I didn’t know that you were capable of performing magic.”

Edgemont smiled smugly, but there was something like impatience hovering in his eyes. “Really now, why don’t we stop arguing and focus on our dear nephew, James. He’s the one we should be arguing over.”

At his words, James felt a pang of guilt shoot straight into his heart. This whole encounter was about him, and if he had never come to her house, Isabelle might have been safe right now. He hated being the cause of pain. He fought frantically with his over-developed conscience—part of him wanted to jump out of the cabinets and surrender, but the other half told him to stay put and avoid being killed. But what about Isabelle, his thoughts raged on, What if she dies? The other side of the argument was silent for a few seconds. We should break through these spells and save Isabelle, the first thoughts continued. The other half finally voiced its opinion: Don’t stupid, because then you’d just be ruining the spells that Isabelle spent so much time putting up. James agreed enthusiastically.

“James will never speak to you again. He’s my nephew, under my protection.” Isabelle’s voice trembled with fury as she spoke.

“Then I shall just have to break through your maternal shield first. Believe me, Isabelle, this is not what I wanted to have to do.”

The room was cold again, but this time in the literal sense of the word. It was as if the two combatants were sucking the warmth out of the air for other uses. It was so cold that James could feel it even through Isabelle's spells. James shivered, and not because it was freezing. Although there was no sword-and-shield battle going on, he could tell that there was something fierce happening mentally. He only had to look at Isabelle and Edgemont’s faces to see that. They stood impeccably straight, with their hands clenched into fists at their sides.

It was hard to tell when it had ended, but James started to feel the air become warm again after a few moments. There was still something different about the atmosphere; it felt empty, but nothing was missing that James could see. He looked with alarm at Isabelle, who was whiter than a sheet.

Edgemont chuckled pleasantly, motioning his two lackeys toward the arch separating the kitchen and the living room. “I’ll come back for James at another time. I can see you’re feeling a little…under the weather.”

With a quick smile, he turned his back on her and strode calmly over to the archway. “I’ll give you some time to recover—I’m sure you won’t be feeling well for a long time. Do try to use your investigative skills to figure out what I’ve taken,” he said without turning to look at her. Was that regret in his voice?

Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, along with Edgemont who vanished when James blinked.

James burst out of the cabinet as if he were on fire, bits of the maimed spell clinging to his shirt. “Aunt Isabelle!” he called to her. It surprised him how hoarse his voice sounded—as if he hadn’t used it in years.

Grenja was fussing mightily over her. Almost immediately, there was a chair for her to sit on, and a cup of tea in her hands. James decided to make himself useful by righting the table and dragging it noisily to where she sat. He flinched at the sound—it was like a trio of cats dying.

Isabelle did not seem to notice any of this. Her focus continued to be on the place where Edgemont made his departure. James let the table go with a sigh, and at the same moment, the teacup slipped from Isabelle’s trembling hands. It shattered into a million pieces of fine porcelain and its contents spilled across the tiled floor. James looked at her face intently, hoping to see some kind of emotion, but there was nothing there. Her face was completely smooth.

James could not help but panic—What was going on with her? So Edgemont had stolen something from her! James thought that Isabelle would be a little more proactive in searching for whatever was missing. He shared a glance with Grenja who looked just as panicked as he was.

“Are you all right, James?” she asked him. He nodded an affirmative. In truth, James felt a little sick, but he thought that one ill person was enough to worry about.

“What should we do, Grenja?”

The stocky woman set her lips in a thin line and thought for a moment. “We need to wake her up somehow. If she continues to mope in this manner, we shall never get a clear insight into what just happened.”

“Then how do we do that?”

Grenja’s eyes took on a little of the mischief that James had seen in Isabelle. It was almost relieving to know that maybe Grenja might have a plan.

“I have a hunch as to who is outside Isabelle’s closet door. If I’m correct, then she’ll spring to life the second that we let him in.”

Him? James was instantly suspicious. Who is ‘him’?

“I’m going to continue to take care of Isabelle,” Grenja continued unopposed, “So you will have to ask Laura to open the door.”

James nodded slowly, wondering vaguely how he was going to go about doing that. Grenja smiled sweetly at him and began rushing about, getting cool compresses and an assortment of other things James did not recognize. He tore his attention from Grenja’s motherly care and made his way over to the bookcase. He stared blankly at the musty books, not knowing what to do with himself.

After a few moments of thought, James muttered: “Abracadabra.” Noting that this had no effect, he rattled off a few more so-called ‘magical words’: “ Hocus Pocus. Open Sesame. Presto Change-o.” When these failed him, he began pleading with the bookcase. “Please, come out! I don’t know what to do! Grenja wants you to open the door.”

He stared at the neatly arranged books for a few tense moments, feeling his embarrassment peak. Finally, the familiar foggy white apparition materialized from the shelves.

“Finally!” the ghost sighed, “I’ve been waiting for you forever. Sure did take you a long time to get rid of—“ The ghost cut off in mid-sentence when she realized that James was standing in front of her.

“Oh, goodness! Are you a relative of Isabelle’s?” she asked a shocked and frightened James. He was standing there, staring at solid proof that ghosts existed. It was more than a little overwhelming.

“I’ll assume that you are, little one. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have left the bookcase. Your magic does feel about the same as hers.”

James snapped to life at the word ‘magic.’ Especially since it was magic that he was supposed to possess.

“What? Whose magic?”

“Why, yours of course. I said that it is like Isabelle’s.”

Laura the ghost looked at him innocently from her colorless eyes and smiled. James had almost forgotten why he had summoned her in the first place. Him? Have magic? That seemed to be the most absurd idea ever imagined. There was nothing special about him, nothing peculiar…James would have devoted more thought to the subject, but one glance back at Isabelle’s lifeless form sent him into a panic. Grenja had abandoned her and was looking for the wall plant named Roots, and it seemed that she was not having very much luck. It really was all up to James.

“Laura,” he said feeling quite odd talking to an apparition, “Would you please open the door now?”

She looked very relieved to hear him say that. “Thought you were never going to ask! He’s been pounding away for the better part of the hour!”

“Who?” James asked. Was it the man that Grenja was referring to?

“Why, it’s Henry of course!”

Behind him, James could hear a chair scraping angrily against the floor, signaling that Isabelle was up and moving.

“Don’t you dare open that door!” Isabelle shrieked as she stomped over to the bookcase. Laura turned her wide eyes to Isabelle’s disheveled and shaky form. “What the heck are you talking about, Izzy? This boy just said that I should.”

Isabelle’s once calm face was full of panic and fear—that much James could tell. And it scared him, just a little, to see Isabelle react in such a way. “I retract that order!” she sputtered quite loudly and quite unnecessarily.

“Isabelle Tori Reid! Stop this right now! I will not deal with this childish behavior today!” Grenja said. She had given up on finding Roots and was now standing at the opposite end of the kitchen, holding a photograph precariously in her hand. Isabelle stared at the photo, temporarily forgetting about the closet-Laura-James-door-problem. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered, barely audible.

Grenja narrowed her eyes and set her mouth in a grim line. “I would, if you don’t stop behaving so irrationally.” Almost instantly, James perceived, the once frantic Isabelle regained some of her stately composure. She continued to stare at the picture, absorbed by it, while simultaneously cleaning the kitchen. Isabelle’s ‘cleaning the kitchen’ is misleading, for James assumed that she was using her ‘magic’ to help. Whatever that was.

It seemed to appease Grenja at any rate, and she cheerily began disinfecting the table and chairs. James noted that she did not use magic—at least not that he could see. If she was, it was obviously not as big as Isabelle’s, because she got the whole room in order in a matter of seconds. Grenja continued to disinfect everything for a good hour. While she worked on the furniture, Isabelle talked in whispers to Laura, who was attending gravely. James did not feel it polite to listen to their obviously secret conversation.

Instead he tried to make himself useful to Grenja. In short, he found out the hard way that she did not need help. He also confirmed that she was using magic in her cleaning—an all-purpose disinfectant that cleaned magic off of anything. Except for people. James had mistakenly spilled some on Grenja’s exposed arm and was alarmed to find that it burned her. After much apologizing, James took a seat near the fridge—the only thing that didn’t need disinfecting—and sat there complacently.

He turned his attention back to Isabelle and Laura, and found the former holding a very old, dusty, vibrating book. As she pulled it away from the bookshelf, Laura seemed to get dragged along with it. Isabelle set the book on the newly washed table with Laura now “sitting” precariously at the edge of the book. She couldn’t exactly sit, because she had no legs, but James felt that if she had had any, that would have been what she was doing.

Isabelle rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and stared intently at the book. “Rosin Eftifar,” she began powerfully, “I require the service of Laura and it would cause me great displeasure if you did not let me borrow her. Of course, I have all intentions of putting her back.” The book vibrated in a response that seemed quite angry, but it did not seem to perturb Isabelle. “Thank you for that truly scintillating advice, but no. I only need her for a few minutes. I swear it on my own soul.” The book vibrated in reply again, this time a little less agitated. “Yes, I am aware of that. But nonetheless, it should convince you of my willingness to return her,” Isabelle again replied to something the book had apparently said. The book vibrated for a few seconds more, nearly toppling over the side of the table. Isabelle pushed it back.

“Thanks, Mr. Eftifar. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.”

The book, however, did not seem to agree with whatever was going on, and rattled with a new intensity. Isabelle did not seem to care.

The air in the room became incredibly thick and still; James found it difficult to breath. It had to be some unbelievably powerful magic. He watched as Isabelle carefully took hold of the place where Laura’s feet should have been, tugging gently in several different directions. The pale light that the ghost emitted made the shadows on Isabelle’s tired visage worse. They also highlighted her chestnut eyes, which were tinted with some of the mischief that they had previously had. It made James feel a little less panicky.

Finally, Isabelle plucked Laura off the book, as one would remove a weed from a garden. In fact, Laura's “attachment” to the book was similar to that of a plant—as Isabelle pulled her up, long strands of intertwined runes came up with her. James could not remove his eyes from the sight. What is she planning to do with Laura? James kept asking himself. He dared not ask Isabelle what was going on; she was dangerous enough as it was.

Isabelle grabbed hold of the trailing runes and, in two swift motions, bundled Laura up into a little sphere. The shimmering globe, which James assumed as still Laura, floated on top of Isabelle’s palm. She brought the Laura-sphere close to her face, where it seemed to explode in bright blue light. James tried to keep his focus on the little orb and Isabelle’s face, but the light was blinding. He had to cover his eyes.

When he was sure the light had faded, James glanced through his fingers at Isabelle, who was standing tall and rigid. Her eyes were shut, and it almost looked like she was sleepwalking. Then quite suddenly, her mouth quirked into a little grimace. “This feels really, really weird,” she muttered. Her eyes shot open next and she surveyed the room with surprise. “So this is what a kitchen looks like! It’s so intriguing.” Her facial expressions were so un-Isabelle like that James assumed that it had to be Laura.

So she had the ghost possess her body? James heart sputtered, chills running down his spine. That was one experience he was happy not to share.

“Laura,” said Grenja, who was leaning on a mop, “Isabelle needs you to find what she’s missing, not admire her craftsmanship.”

Isabelle-Laura pouted slightly and crossed her arms, muttering something about “never seen the tiles,” and “appreciates my efforts.” Isabelle-Laura closed her eyes again, her mouth stretched in a tight grimace. It was only a few seconds before she opened her eyes again, still frowning. “Izzy’s not going to be happy about this one,” she sighed. Then, the blinding blue light came and went again, signaling that Isabelle had her body once more.

“So?” she asked the little orb expectantly. It didn’t answer back. Isabelle made a face at Laura, untangling the sphere until Laura was back to her original form. Laura crossed her ghostly arms across her chest and shook her head. “It’s not good, Izzy.”

Isabelle shook her head impatiently. “It’s going to get worse if I don’t know what it is.”

Laura leaned forward and whispered in Isabelle’s ear. James saw her face go from pale to absolutely white. “Really?” she muttered, absentmindedly putting Laura back on her book. It bounced happily.

“Isabelle..?” Grenja looked at her expectantly. Isabelle looked from Grenja to James and back again. “Well, it could be worse I guess,” she said laughing weakly. “What did he steal?” Grenja put her hand on Isabelle’s shoulder to comfort her. James braced himself, sure that her next few words were going to shock him. Even with all his mental preparation, James was still astonished by what she barely whispered:

“He’s stolen my heart.”