“They check in on the human,” my mother says. “To make sure a wish was successfully granted and that no undue attention was garnered.”
Samara adds, “They can trace the energy of invoking the circulus to your bangle so they know when you grant the wish.”
And so they do act fast. Which means, I’m damn lucky that the Zoe Incident occurred with a practice candidate.
My mother glosses over exactly who alerted her to the mess I’d created (and how), simply saying it was someone doing her a favor, someone with both our best interests at heart.
Though it was too late to hide what I’d done, my mother’s goal of intervening was to fix my screwup before the Afrit had to step in and do so themselves. She figured this might lessen my punishment. Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. All she knows is that by the time she successfully returned Ms. Wood to her home, using a spell to leave my wish candidate thinking she’d spent the afternoon having a vivid and bizarre dream, the bronze bangle was waiting for her, well, waiting for her to bring to me. She found it in the baby’s crib. A perverse teething toy.
“This,” my mother says, laying her hand on my forearm, “will prevent you from using your powers.”
“I … I can’t do magic anymore?” Faced with what I’ve hoped for my entire life, my urge to celebrate is tamped down by what I know of the Afrit. And surprisingly, by a twinge of disappointment.
My mother answers, “Yes and no. This will block your magic, except—”
“Except when I’m granting a wish.” I tentatively touch the bronze bangle. “They’ll let me access my powers for that?” I wedge my hands under my thighs to stop their trembling. “Seriously, I still have to grant wishes after what I did today? Is that … wise?”
Samara reaches across the table and gestures for me to do the same. She cocoons the clammy hand I extend with both of her warm ones. “Don’t you start doubting your abilities, Azra. Certainly, you can never again do what you did today. It was impulsive. It was wrong. But it was also a mistake, an unintentional mistake. Believe me, when I was your age, I knowingly did worse things that should have earned me one of those.”
“But times have changed,” my mother says in a strained voice.
“Yes.” Samara sighs. “Indeed, they have.”
My mother explains that the bronze bangle will release my magic when I utter the words that begin a wish-granting ritual. When I close the ritual, it will send my powers back into hibernation. If it’s not a wish I can grant in that moment, then each time I need to draw on my magic to accomplish a portion of the wish, I’m supposed to ask permission by saying “izza samhat.” We Jinn who prove to be less skilled, who require additional training, who violate the rules forfeit our silver bangles for this amped-up Big Brother bronze number.
Not fair.
Having my magic restricted should mean not granting wishes at all. Like failing a class and being kicked off the football team. Leave it to the Afrit to make it more like every pass, every catch, every tackle is being watched by an elite team of MVPs ready to pounce on the slightest misstep. I’m already perspiring at the thought of performing under such pressure.
Given all that I’ve done, all that I’ve lied about, I’m lacking the moral high ground to chastise my mother for not fully explaining what would happen if I botched a wish.
Still my lips flatten into a thin line. “You should have told me.”
My mother’s eyes widen. “Told you what, Azra?”
I spin the bronze bangle. “About this. About what this would mean.”
The last thing I expect is the end-of-the-world look on her face to morph into a smug, I-told-you-so grin.
She leans over and pats me on the head. “Thanks, kiddo.” She then holds her empty palm out to Samara. “Pay up.”
Samara frowns. “That’s not confirmation.”
“Fine,” my mother replies to Samara. To me, she says, “So you didn’t reach that part of the cantamen yet?”
That part? All my bluffing through my mother’s random pop quizzes is about to be for naught. “I guess not. I’m … I’m taking it kind of slow. Making sure I absorb fully before moving on.”
Samara exhales a huge sigh. “Thanks a lot, Azra.”
My mother laughs. “Do I know my daughter, or do I know my daughter?” She points at me. “Take that look on her face, right now. Confused, anxious, knowing she’s been caught in a lie but not knowing exactly how or which one. Isn’t that so, honey?”
“I … I don’t know,” I stammer.
Samara pushes her chair back. “Oh, give it up, Azra. You’re cooked. And now I owe your mother the finest bottle of wine in my cellar. A 1906 Bordeaux. Even she can’t conjure something that good. All my flirting with that twerp at the fancy rare wines store in Boston for nothing. He was going to put it up for auction. For auction. Can you imagine? Some rich blowhard would bid an obscene amount of money and put the damn thing under glass, displaying it like some fossil. Wine like that deserves to be enjoyed.”
“Oh, it will be,” my mother says.
Samara, trying to prove to my mother that I was taking all this Jinn stuff seriously, claimed that the only way I could be so talented so quickly was by having already read and internalized everything in the cantamen, spells included. My mother assured her I hadn’t even cracked the book open.
My own mother bet against me.
Apparently, the explanation of the bronze bangle as the first penalty for not properly granting a wish is on page two. All this time, through every stupid quiz, my mother knew I hadn’t been doing squat. And yet she sent me out there to do a wish, on a real candidate, by myself. This is all her fault.