Witches on Parole: Unlocked

Chapter 17
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To: [email protected]

From: Vero Liantro <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Update.

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Jennie dear,

We’re delighted to hear of all the joy in Witch Central yesterday—it sounds positively contagious. Melvin and I might have caught a small case of it as well. Spirits shining brightly are always worth celebrating.

I trust you already know that when chains are tossed in the air, some land back on the shoulders that gave them a heave. And I trust that your marvelous team will be ready, buoyed by the shared love of glitter and new babies. It is a glorious thing how that team has grown, and one for which you don’t take nearly enough credit. Building community has always been one of your most special talents.

Remember what a gift that is when those chains land. And remember the joy. Melvin is quite sure you have pictures to remind you.

Blessed be,

Vero

~ ~ ~

Lauren was really glad she was on her second cup of coffee. She could hear Lizard’s panicked, blazing anger from a block away. Assistants in crisis required way more than one dose of caffeine.

Pushing the new-listings folder aside, she battened down her mental hatches and prepared for the fireball about to blow into her office.

Lizard stormed through the door, doing a pretty good imitation of a fire witch. “They won’t let me drop the class. Crappy fracking regulations—I just started yesterday. How was I supposed to know it was the stupidest class ever until I saw the assignment list?”

Generally Lauren wasn’t all that fond of bureaucracy, but apparently it was on her team this time. “What class are you trying to drop?”

“Advanced poetry seminar. I can’t do it. Not gonna happen.”

Now Lauren could feel the fear. And the longing. “I thought you got invited to take that class. Professors don’t do that unless they think you can do the work.”

“No way.” Lizard yanked a sheaf of crumpled paper out of her backpack and threw it down on the desk. “It’s supposed to be a class about poetry. Other people’s poetry. I’m supposed to write essays about dead-poet crap. Not a freaking personal journal.”

Lauren read the assignment sheet. Fifty percent of the grade for keeping a personal poetry journal. She closed her eyes, borrowing a few choice words from Lizard’s vocabulary—and tried to remember what Jennie had said about treating Lizard like an adult. “You don’t want to write a few poems?”

“For someone else to read?” Her assistant stomped around the room—totally oblivious to the fact that her private poetry life had just been acknowledged. “Do you know what people do when they read poetry? They try to figure out what was going on in the poet’s head, and how they felt, and if they’re a totally screwed-up idiot or whatever. It’s like being naked, only a thousand times worse.”

Lauren was no stranger to crux points in negotiations. Or in wanting to keep your inner life away from onlookers. She wished briefly for a third cup of coffee and dove in. “But you write them.”

Lizard froze in mid-step. Which would have been funny if her face weren’t sheathed in pure terror.

You love words. Lauren mindspoke as gently as she could. It’s not a huge stretch.

Lizard crumpled. “Yeah. In private. For nobody else. Ever.”

Lauren breathed, well aware how much trust was involved in those few short words. Her assistant might think the biggest battle was coming. Lauren was sure it was over. Lizard wrote poetry and was willing to say so. The rest of the details could be negotiated—she hoped. “So ask the professor for your journal to stay private.”

“Huh?” Lizard’s eyes nearly crossed. “You have to turn it in every week—it says right there on the sheet.”

For someone with a pretty delinquent past, her assistant had a really odd respect for things written down on paper. Lauren reached for the new-listings folder on the side of her desk, grabbed the top sheet, and plunked it down on the desk. “What does it say this house is worth?”

Lizard looked. “Six hundred thousand, but that’s just the list price.” She read the rest of the listing and snorted. “And they’re dreaming if they think it will sell for that.”

Lauren took a quick moment to appreciate the growing savvy of the junior realtor in her office—and then flipped back to the important stuff. “But it’s written right there on the sheet.”

“It’s negotiable.” Light bulbs went on. “Class assignments aren’t like listing prices. You don’t do the work, you don’t get the grades.”

“You’re going to do the work.” Lauren leaned back, body relaxed and mind on high alert. The path she was treading right now was damn skinny. “You just have a key outcome you’re carrying into the negotiation. You want the contents of your journal kept private. Your professor wants to know that you’ve done the work. Find a solution that gives you both what you want.” Or at least most of it—in tight negotiations, sometimes you had to bend.

Lizard scowled for form, but her thoughts were moving at light speed. She really wanted this.

It was all quiet, except for the buzzing of Lizard’s brain. And then she hit on a solution, and Lauren recognized the look on her face all too well. It was the one all good dealmakers wore when they made their final push.

Blonde fairy warrior and mistress of words—ready for battle.

If Lauren could have frozen a moment in time, this one would have seriously tempted her. Go—make yourself a deal.

She kept her game face on until Lizard swept out of the office, crumpled assignment page in her hand. And then dropped her head in her hands, hoping by all that was holy that the professor was the kind of guy who made deals. Not everybody was.

~ ~ ~

Caro looked up in surprise. Elsie she had expected—her companion, not so much. “Good morning, you two. Are you taking up knitting, Nat?”

Nat reached out for a ball of luscious green hand-painted yarn. “It’s tempting, but no. Elsie wanted to make a blanket for our fire baby.” She rubbed her belly. “We’ve come to see if our girl in here might let us know what yarn she likes.”

It was a very nice idea, and given the glow on Elsie’s face, Caro didn’t have to guess whose it had been. “The blues and greens call to you, but your babe will more than likely want the warmer tones. We fire witches are pretty fond of our reds and yellows.”

Elsie pulled out a gloriously orange skein and held it up to Nat’s belly. Then she giggled. “How exactly are we going to tell if she likes it?”

Caro didn’t answer. It would be a lot more fun if they found out for themselves.

Nat grinned. “She’s got some pretty strong kicks already. Maybe it’s one kick for yes, two for no?”

Elsie tried a different ball of yarn, this one fuzzy and yellow. Nat shrugged.

Slowly they moved down the aisle, hands reaching for colors of fire and light. Caro watched with interest, her own guess forming. If the baby had held out against gloriously orange, it was going to take a pretty special yarn to win her over.

When they reached the desk, Elsie’s glow had slipped a fair amount. “Are we doing it wrong, Caro? I thought I heard you talk about how Aervyn had picked the wool for his blanket.”

Indeed he had. “Nope, you’re doing it exactly right.” Caro reached under the counter where her most precious yarns were stashed and pulled out a basket. “Try this one.”

Elsie’s hands reached for the colorful strands with reverence. “What is this?”

“Handspun. I card that wool and dye it myself. Only make about ten balls a year.” It was a work of art—a labor of serious love. And it was infused with fire magic at every level.

Elsie looked at the basket in dismay even as her fingers curled in the yarn. “I’d need all of it to make a blanket.”

“Course you will.” Caro held up a skein, saying a quiet goodbye. More could always be made. “See what our girl in there thinks.”

Elsie held up the ball—and Nat’s belly started to glow. Faintly at first, and then candle bright. Caro’s eyebrows flew up as she felt the wave of heat. Oh, my—light and warmth. The baby was going to be an impressive little fire witch.

Nat stroked her belly in awe, cheeks flushed with heat. “She’s dancing a jig in there. I think you’ve found it.”

Caro touched the balls of yarn one last time—the last of the batch she’d made for Aervyn’s baby blanket. She pushed the basket toward Elsie. “You’ll add your magic as you knit.”

Then she send a gentle message to the baby. Soon enough, tiny girl. Turn that off now—you’re cooking your mother. She was pleased when the heat eased off. Fire witchlings, even unborn ones, weren’t always all that amenable to suggestion. Then again, neither were adult ones—but love usually found a way.

~ ~ ~

Lizard climbed on to Freddie’s bus and tried not to kick a dent in the door on her way in. She held on to her mad up the first two steps—and then she saw the empathy on Freddie’s face and nearly collapsed.

“Morning, girlie. You look like you could use a ride today.”

She swiped at her traitorous eyes, eternally grateful the bus was empty except for a couple of kids in the back who weren’t paying any attention. “Tried to grow up. It’s not working.”

“Looks rough.” Freddie handed her a bottle of water. “Have a seat. This piece of road has bumps big enough to eat a skinny thing like you.”

Damn. It was the second time in a week she’d shown up on his bus without biscuits. “I’ll bring you a bunch this weekend.”

“Course you will.” Freddie nodded serenely, pulling out into traffic. “For now, how ’bout you sit there and tell me what’s got you all riled?”

“It’s one of my classes at school.” Lizard settled into the rhythm of telling Freddie her troubles. She’d talk, he’d nod, and by the end, she’d feel better and he’d have something smart to say. “I got invited to this advanced poetry seminar. Went to the first class yesterday.” Without telling him, which had been seriously stupid. Her eyes asked for forgiveness.

He just raised an eyebrow. “Sucked, did it?”

No, and that was a big part of the problem. “Nope. Kind of cool, actually. Full of brainiac poetry geeks, but it’s pretty interesting. Mostly we just talk about what some dude meant by ‘dark fire’ or ‘empty holiness.’”

Freddie eyed her curiously. “You one of the talkers?”

“Yeah.” Lizard recited the ‘dark fire’ lines from memory. “You think that dude’s going up, or coming down?”

“Up. But I just drive a bus, girlie—I ain’t no poet. Which way did you say?”

She grinned. “Up. Some of those poetry geeks don’t know enough about dark fire, I guess.”

Freddie shook his head. “They don’t know enough about down and up, that’s all. Life’s treated them too good, so they can’t see it yet.” He studied her eyes in the mirror. “Is that what’s got you sad today—that they don’t see what you see?”

Lizard sighed—she’d almost managed to forget the really crappy part. Leaning her head back against the window, she told Freddie about the personal poetry journal, and the deal she’d tried to make with her professor. “Told him he could see my work, count the lines if he wanted, but he couldn’t read it.” Iron spiked her heart just thinking about it. “He said no. No going halfway in his classes.”

Freddie sat quietly for a long time. And then he did something he’d never done, in ten years of bus riding. He stopped the bus—pulled right over to the side of the road, put the lights on, and slowly lifted out of his seat. One measured step at a time, he walked over to sit by Lizard and closed one huge hand over both of hers. “Then you have a choice, don’t you?”

She could hardly breathe. Somehow, this had gotten really important. Freddie didn’t stop the bus for anything. “I can’t drop the class. Missed the deadline.”

He shrugged. “If you really want out, you’ll get out. You’re good at that—always have been.”

Somehow, that didn’t sound like a compliment. She met his eyes, needing the one person who had always, always loved her to understand. “I can’t do it, Freddie. I’m like totally naked in my poetry.”

“Don’t you be talking about naked on my bus.” His eyes twinkled. “So put a few clothes on those words of yours. Figure out how to write it so you can stand to have somebody else read.”

Lizard stared, speechless. And tried to imagine a poem in clothes.

It didn’t sound impossible.

“You think I should do it?”

“Don’t matter what I think.” Freddie patted her hands. “Matters what you want to do.”

He stood up and walked slowly back to his seat, looking out into traffic. “But I’m thinking you’ll do it. And that makes Freddie a happy man.” He grinned back over his shoulder. “You mostly write that poetry of yours on my bus. I think I’ll be getting me a lot of biscuits courtesy of that professor of yours. You tell him thanks.”

Lizard just rolled her eyes. And blessed the magic that had dropped her onto Freddie’s bus so many years ago. He always had the right words. Always.

She wasn’t the only damn poet on this bus, whatever Freddie thought.

~ ~ ~

Elsie sat on her bed, surrounded by little slips of paper. It was fun to reorganize them—and informative. Her “done” pile of silliness was getting impressively large, and a few of the “impossible” ideas were sneaking over into the “maybe” pile.

She was getting braver.

And she’d started to add her own little bits of spontaneous silliness, thanks to one glittery pink bike all decked out in sparkles and flowers and ribbons. She’d even named her ride. Gertrude Geronimo. She had no idea why that was the right name—it didn’t even make sense—but it had slid into her mind and refused to budge.

Elsie picked up a piece of paper stuck under her leg. Walk down the street singing at the top of your lungs. She started to put it back in the “impossible” pile and then reconsidered. Gertrude was pretty fast. Maybe if she did it late at night on a hill, nobody would hear. She grinned and dropped the paper on top of the “maybe” pile.

Buy a frilly pink princess gown and wear it roller skating. That one still qualified as impossible. Bike riding was hard enough, and at least a bike had brakes. Maybe she should buy a fancy dress and ride Gertrude, who already had enough pink sparkly stuff to satisfy any princess.

Not that she wanted to be a princess. But something to match the way she felt when she rode her new bike might be nice.

Elsie looked up at her closet, suddenly assaulted by its complete lack of frivolous fun. It was all tailored, expensive, and boring. So completely unlike her gorgeous new wheels.

It was time to go shopping. She needed a Gertrude Geronimo dress.

~ ~ ~

Jennie drifted out of sleep, a jarring noise interrupting a very lovely dream. Judging from the angle of the sun, she wasn’t in her bed, and it wasn’t morning.

One eyelid slid halfway up, confirming her suspicions. She’d fallen asleep on the couch again, the consequences of a long night in the darkroom. No matter—she and the couch had spent plenty of time in happy entanglement.

The jarring noise came again, and the other eyelid slid up to half mast as well. Doorbell. Smart people knew not to wake her up from an afternoon nap.

Stretching like an old and somewhat cranky cat, Jennie swung her legs to the floor and ambled in the general direction of the front entry, stopping to peer in her coffee mug as she went. Empty. That would have to be fixed.

Clutching the mug in her hand, she pulled the door open. And squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make sense of the apparition on her doorstep. Two eyes peered out from behind a mountain of shopping bags. Jennie craned her neck, and then remembered she had magic. Darned afternoon naps really turned her brain to molasses. She reached out with a quick mindscan—and discovered pretty much the last person on earth she’d have expected to find behind a haul worthy of Shopaholics Anonymous. “Elsie?”

“Yes.” A giggle emerged from behind the bags. “Sorry, I guess this is a pretty effective disguise. I could use your help, if you have a few minutes.”

Any help involving those bags was going to take a lot longer than a few minutes, but Jennie was by now insanely curious. She grabbed some of the more precariously perched loot and opened the door as wide as it would go. “Come on in. Want some coffee?”

Elsie made it as far as the living room before her piles avalanched to the floor. She looked at the covered floor for a minute, mind shocked and more than a little amused. “I guess I got a bit carried away.”

“That’s not all of it,” said Jennie dryly, holding up the bags she’d claimed at the door. And decided she’d better offer fair warning. “For what it’s worth, I’m not much of a shopper.”

“Nor am I.” Elsie’s automatic response was followed by more giggles. “Or I wasn’t. I wanted a dress worthy of Gertrude Geronimo, so I started wondering into all the cute little stores downtown.” She waved her hand at the littered floor. “Somehow, that turned into this.”

Jennie didn’t have to ask who Gertrude was. The magnificently silly bicycle dominated Elsie’s thoughts, along with the adoration of a small child in love with her very first big-girl bike. “And what did you decide matched the lovely Gertrude?” She was a little afraid to ask.

Elsie’s mind suddenly grew up a couple of decades. She eyed the bags softly, gentle amusement on her face. “About the fourth store, I realized I wasn’t really trying to match Gertrude. I was trying to match the way I feel when I ride her.” She spun around slowly. “And then I realized Elsie Giannotto needed a new wardrobe.”

Her pleasure was contagious. “It seems you’ve done that, and very well, too.” Jennie smiled, delighted in the awakening happening right under her nose.

“I was having trouble choosing,” said Elsie, the first signs of a frown forming on her face. “I know how I feel inside, but the mirror still sees a woman who looks a lot like I always have.” She paused a moment, fingers touching something inside one of her bags with almost a wistfulness. “I hope these are me. They’re so pretty and, well… not boring.”

Jennie waited silently, aware this was building to something that felt monumental for her student.

“I wanted to ask you a big favor.” Elsie looked up, eyes suddenly intent. “You see things with your camera. Not just the outside of a person, but the inside.”

Now Jennie knew where they were headed. “It’s what I do, yes.”

“Will you take my picture—in these clothes?” Elsie held up a bag. “I want to see if my outside and inside match, or if I just look like a compulsive psychologist playing dress-up.”

Vero was right—Elsie was insanely brave. And for this to work, they were going to need an audience. The bigger, the better. Elsie was going to need love blowing beneath her wings to be the woman she wanted to see in the mirror.