Witches on Parole: Unlocked

Chapter 2
Lizard looked up, more than a little shocked to see Elsie actually on her feet. “Hey, you’re alive. Congrats. Want some soup?” She’d been dishing out bowls for sick people all morning with the help of her little-dude delivery service.

Elsie gripped her belly. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Try a little.” Aervyn got off his barstool and carried a bowl toward the table, contents sloshing dangerously.

Lizard grinned and hoped the teleported deliveries had actually arrived with soup still in the bowls. She grabbed a spoon out of the drawer and delivered it to the table, remembering all too well the moment when her belly had first contemplated if it was capable of actual food. “The soup will help.”

The soup was working miracles. Ginia had put stuff in it. Lizard had been smart enough not to ask what the “stuff” was.

Elsie picked up the spoon and dipped it into her bowl, nose wrinkling slightly. “What kind of soup is it?”

“Eye of newt and toe of smelly little boy.” Aervyn giggled. “At least, that’s what Mama said I should tell anyone who asks.”

Only a four-year-old could be impossibly cute two days after he was at death’s door. Elsie’s grinned response made her look almost human. She took a careful spoonful of soup. “Yumm. Your toes must taste really good.”

“Maybe right after my bath.” Aervyn clambered into a chair beside Elsie. “I can put salt on them for you if you want to try a couple.”

Elsie continued to smile, but her mind was oddly wistful. “I’m not a very adventurous eater.”

Aervyn patted her hand, all small-boy comfort. “Maybe you just never learned how. We could be food ’splorers together. We can start with cookies—Mama makes about a hundred different kinds.”

Lizard felt Caro’s presence just before she spoke. “That boy is even better medicine than whatever’s in the soup. Good to see her up and about.” She looked at Lizard, assessing. “Have you eaten?”

The huge growl her belly let loose probably answered that question for both of them.

Caro shook her head. “The healers are going to be in worse shape than the patients soon. Take some soup with you and go sit.”

“There are biscuits in the oven.”

“I could smell that all the way from my place, girl.” Caro’s eyes twinkled as she turned toward the stove. “Why do you think I’m here?”

A week or two ago, Lizard might have believed it was for the food. By now, she was well aware their landlady’s no-nonsense exterior covered a heart the size of California.

“Go on, sit down.” Caro waved a spatula. “I even brought over some bacon—I’ll just warm it up a little. I think some of our stomachs might be up for that now.”

Lizard walked over to the table and sat, grateful. Bacon meant her life was getting back to normal—at least as normal as her new life got.

Aervyn looked over from coaxing Elsie through her bowl of soup. “Do you get to go to school soon, Lizard-Blizzard?”

She had to laugh. “I think you have to save the Blizzard thing for winter, dude.”

“Nuh, uh. It just has to rhyme. Those are the rules. Know any other big words that rhyme with Lizard?”

That was a tough one, but she was learning that four-year-olds didn’t actually want answers to their questions half the time. Anything interesting would do. “Nope. But did you know that ‘masticate’ is another word for chew?” She stood up again—maybe helping Caro would avoid any more rhyming questions.

“I can’t matiscate soup,” said Aervyn, cheerfully mangling his new word. He grinned, biting into the biscuit that suddenly appeared in his hand. “But I can scatimate this! Want some, Elsie-Belsie?”

Elsie started to shake her head, and then stopped. “You know, maybe I do.” She grinned. “I had no idea little-boy toes were so good for yucky tummies. I should have had some before now.”

Aervyn giggled. “I had to get them really smelly first. Mama said the fresh ones don’t work very well.”

Lizard watched the two of them together, amused—and a little weirded out. Two weeks ago, Elsie never would have permitted any toes in her soup, real or otherwise. The whole nice-Elsie thing was still kind of creepy. Not that she was complaining or anything.

Good, said Caro’s mental voice. She’s working very hard to discover who she is.

She’s been lying in bed puking, replied Lizard dryly.

Sometimes change happens when you least expect it. She’s a bird in a cage, that one. The cage door’s open now, but the bars are still big and shiny. Contemplating the open door is work, and it can be done in a bed. Caro reached past Lizard for plates. How many pieces of bacon do you want?

Lizard snapped out of the lines of poetry swirling in her head, full of caged birds and shiny things. Not enough sleep. A biscuitful, thanks. She looked at Caro’s solid back and realized that was a pretty big change too. She’d eaten plenty of bacon biscuits in the past few years—but very few of them had been served to her.

You’ve been serving plenty of folks lately. We take care of our own.

Yeah. She’d just never expected to be anybody’s own. Lizard wandered over to the table, plate in hand, discomfited by the sudden feeling of belonging.

“So?” Aervyn was looking at her expectantly as she sat down. He repeated his question when she looked blank. “When do you go to college?”

Cripes. The kid had a mind like a steel trap. “I’m supposed to start on Monday, but I don’t know if I’ll be feeling well enough by then.”

It wasn’t a good sign when all the other people in the kitchen gave her the eye.

Aervyn patted her hand, just as he’d done with Elsie earlier. “School’s not too scary, and if you get lost, you can always ask the big people for directions.”

It was the big people that worried her. She leaned over and touched her nose to his. “Thanks, Aervyn-Scarevyn.” That one made him giggle. “We’ll see. I might still have germs.”

Caro plunked her own plate on the table and snorted. “If you’re well enough to eat a bacon biscuit, you’re well enough to go to school.”

There was no bullshitting Caro. Lizard contemplated her plate and decided it was no contest. She hadn’t had bacon for days. “Fine. But if half of Berkeley College starts puking, I’m not making them all soup.”

~ ~ ~

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To: [email protected]

From: Jennie Adams <[email protected]>

Subject: Back on our feet. Sort of.

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Dear Vero,

I think we’re on the road to recovery here. I have no idea how you and Melvin managed not to get sick—Leo sat right on both your laps. Thank goodness for small mercies.

Ginia has sent some cure-all soup that seems to have actually worked its magic—that and a nap and I’m feeling almost human. I’d say the need to nap makes me feel old, but I’m well aware you’d give me grief for that :-). Let’s just say I’m not at my agile best yet.

I’ve begun to think on next steps for my students. Lizard will have her hands full just starting college, I expect. She’ll have a busy schedule with that and work, although Lauren is being very flexible with her hours. We’ll see if our delinquent can wrap her head around being an academic success. There’s no doubt she’s got the tools—and plenty of ways to sabotage herself, should she so choose.

On the upside, Witch Central is getting back on its feet driven as much by Lizard’s cooking as by Ginia’s herbs. That will make her friends she didn’t even know she had.

Elsie’s immediate future is a little more nebulous, at least to me. She needs some time to explore, I think—a chance to discover who she’s becoming. Some of those chains she’s carrying loom large…

And I’m not sure my head is entirely wrapped around all of it yet, so I’m going to pick out a book and crawl back into bed. Before I do, I have a question for Melvin. My pendant has been vibrating—I assume because it’s now more closely connected to those worn by my students. Does he care to enlighten me as to what that might be about? If I’m supposed to be doing more than what I am, it would be helpful if the messages were a little clearer. (Okay, perhaps I’m still a little cranky.)

Enjoy your robust health and the ability to eat actual food,

Jennie

~ ~ ~

Elsie leaned against the door of Knit a Spell, very grateful to have finally arrived. It had been the longest three-block walk of her life, but she’d have been willing to sell half her soul to stay out of bed. Ginia’s soup had made her feel like she might survive the trek.

Eventually, some witch would track her down and make her go back to bed, but when they did, she intended to have a ball of really awesome yarn in her hands. One of the stupendously expensive ones that she touched often, but usually managed to resist buying.

Today, Elsie Giannotto had no resistance left—and she coveted gaudy yarn. The vividly bright kind that didn’t match anything in her wardrobe.

She also didn’t have a lot of room left for denial. Clearly, she had a yarn addiction. She’d had feverish dreams about knitting, the kind that made her wake up clutching imaginary knitting needles and wondering where the glorious creation she’d been making had disappeared.

“Hello, sweetheart! Are you going in?” Marion’s big hand landed on her shoulder. “Oh, my. You still look under the weather, dear—are you sure you should be out of bed yet?”

Elsie grabbed her hands, trusting Ginia’s word that she was no longer contagious. “Please don’t make me go back. I need something to knit.”

Marion’s laughter was rich and long, turning heads up and down the street. “You have it that bad, do you? Well, come on in, then. We’ll put you in Helga’s rocker and get your feet up, and then we’ll find you that perfect ball of yarn.” She leaned over. “And for heaven’s sake, the next time you’re stuck in bed with nothing to knit, put out an SOS.”

Elsie grinned. Marion might be British prim-and-proper, but she knit with flamboyant wool—any delivery she made would likely be eye-popping.

Elsie stepped inside the store as Marion held the door open, already feeling the warm comfort of color calling to her soul. Maybe today she’d actually be brave enough to take some of it home with her. So far, her yarn stash was… muted. Dignified. The need for something gaudy fluttered in her chest again.

Maybe one ball.

Elsie walked toward the back of the store, drawn by the sounds of light chatter. Helga sat digging through a basket of odds-and-ends yarn, and Jodi cuddled her son Sam. They both looked up in delight as she walked toward the table.

It hit her hard. She hadn’t really come for the yarn at all—even the extremely colorful kind.

“It’s so good to see all of you.” She stumbled over the words, embarrassed at the tears suddenly pooling in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Don’t you worry, dear.” Marion pushed her down into the rocking chair. “A few days sick in bed leave us all feeling a bit out of sorts. You stay put, and we’ll get you all fixed up.”

Helga bustled over, carrying a throw. “This is one of Caro’s. It’ll keep you nice and warm.” She tucked and prodded until Elsie felt like a well-loved burrito. “I’ll go get you some tea now.”

Elsie felt totally guilty. Old ladies weren’t supposed to wait on her—she should have stayed in bed.

“Helga, you sit down. I’ll do that.” Jodi stood up, son in her arms, and looked at Elsie. “If you’ll rock Mr. Crankypants here, I’ll go get you tea and anything else you need.”

Elsie gulped. “I’m not very good with babies.” Even really cute, cuddly ones. “Why is he cranky?”

“It’s a mystery. He was up every hour last night, and I have no idea why.” Jodi settled Sam on Elsie’s lap. “But he loves to rock, so he should be happy here for a bit. I’ll name my second child after you if you can get him to go to sleep.”

This seemed like something people with actual skills should be trying—but they all seemed to be busy knitting or fetching tea. Elsie cuddled the baby a bit closer and started rocking. As soon as the chair moved, his gorgeous, dark-blue eyes settled on hers. “Hello, sweet boy. Are you watching me?” She felt his body relaxing as she murmured. “Should we rock together a little? Do you like that?”

“You have the touch,” said Marion approvingly, in what was a very quiet voice for the big woman. “You keep that up, and he’ll go right to sleep. Good thing, too—poor Jodi could use a bit of a break.”

After people waiting on her hand and foot for days, it felt really good to be useful, even if Helga or Marion could easily have taken over baby-rocking duties. Elsie settled a little deeper into the chair, keeping one eye on the increasingly dopey Sam. “What do you think is bothering him?”

“Hard to tell.” Marion picked up a skein of yarn and started winding. “Could be teething. Or gas. Or sometimes babies just aren’t comfortable in their own skin for a while.”

Elsie rocked, and found her fingers drifting up to her pendant. It wasn’t just babies who sometimes found their own skin a strange fit. Hers suddenly seemed to be an entirely different size, and she had very little idea what to do about it. “I think he’s going to sleep.”

“He is at that. You can put him down in his basket if you like, and I’ll fetch you some yarn.”

Elsie considered the warm little being curled up in her arm, his breath whiffling softly. “No, I think I’ll just rock him a while. Maybe he’ll sleep better that way.”

Marion snorted and patted her knee. “No better medicine than a babe in your arms. You enjoy that.”

Elsie grinned. “Nobody gets anything past you, do they?”

“No one half-sick, anyhow.” Marion reached for her knitting needles. “So, what are you going to knit after we pry that sweet boy out of your arms?”

Elsie had already learned that half the pleasure of knitting lay in contemplating the possibilities. “I’m not sure. Do you have any ideas?” She took a deep breath and jumped straight into the deep end. “Something a little frivolous, maybe.”

Helga chortled from a nearby chair, eyes shining with an approval that bewildered Elsie. “How much time do you have?”

The old Elsie Giannotto would have had a very precise answer to that question. The new Elsie had a sleeping baby in her arms and a day with no particular agenda. Even in her wrung-out-dishrag state, it was a surprisingly nice feeling.

~ ~ ~

Lauren sat down at her desk for the first time in five days and gaped at her inbox. How could so many people want her attention when practically every witch in Berkeley was sick with the flu?

She started clicking into random emails and figured out the answer soon enough. Bored, cranky witches all seemed to have developed a taste for new surroundings. She had more people wanting new homes than they usually handled in three months.

Good thing she had an assistant now, and hopefully one who could manage to be reliable more often than not. Lauren opened another email and snorted. If Lizard wanted to be a realtor, she was going to get plenty of practice.

Then she opened the email from Jamie and laughed. Apparently Berkeley College had awarded Lizard a scholarship, based on her stellar SAT scores. He claimed to have had nothing to do with it and hoped she might pass on the message. Smart witch.

She hit reply. No way. You tell her. Lizard sucked at accepting accolades of any kind, and she might withhold biscuits from the messenger or something. Since biscuits were now a major food group, right up there with chocolate and ice cream, Lauren wasn’t taking that risk.

If the real estate thing didn’t work out, her assistant could easily go into business as a Witch Central caterer. Not that Lauren planned to mention it, given that their client list had just doubled.

She looked up as the bell hanging on the front door tinkled. If that was another client, she was going to barricade herself in the back office and hide. She’d been overly optimistic—the fact that she could stand up apparently wasn’t a sign she was ready for actual work.

Nat came around the corner, looking about as steady as Lauren felt. “Hey. Can I hang out here for a bit? If Jamie finds me, he’ll make me go back to bed.”

Lauren had some sympathy for him, trying to take good care of his pregnant wife, but friendship had clear rules. “Okay, but only if you sit down. I’ll go get us some tea.”

“No, please.” Nat sounded almost whiny, which was an earth-shattering state of the universe. “No more tea. I’m drowning in tea. I need something real.”

“Define real.” Since the contents of her kitchen extended to tea and week-old cookies, Lauren hoped whatever Nat craved existed on speed dial—providing for weird pregnancy cravings was also on the friendship-rules list.

Nat’s eyes brightened. “Linguine. Can we call Romano’s?”

God, yes. “One helping, or two?”

“Three.” Nat laughed as Lauren’s eyes widened. “Two for me, and one to bribe Jamie when he finds us.”

Yeah, he’d probably go for that. Lauren mentally heaped blessings on the head of whoever invented takeout and made the call. If anything could make her feel like a somewhat-normal person again, it would be Romano’s linguine. She set down her phone and leaned back, telling her stomach to be quiet. Takeout was a miracle, but not an instant one, even from right across the street. “How’d you escape?”

“He went to air out the studio. We’re opening back up tomorrow.”

“Are you ready for that?”

Nat shrugged. “It’s time. Students have been calling. I can take it really easy for the first few classes.”

Lauren grinned. “Need their yoga fix, do they?”

“Maybe.” Nat’s smile made Lauren nervous. “Hip openers are excellent after illness.”

Oh, no. She wasn’t falling for that. “In your world, hip openers are the cure for all evils. They’re kind of like that nasty green drink Ginia sent all of us. I need to prepare myself before I can actually cope with anything that good for me.”

“There’s a cute new guy in the front row.”

Lauren glared. “Don’t you dare join the matchmaking crew of Witch Central. They don’t need any help.” She’d been ducking eligible men for months. Way too late, she noticed the laughter in Nat’s eyes. “Jeebers. I should have twigged to that one. No self-respecting guy takes hip-openers class.”

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Jamie does.”

“Sorry, he doesn’t count.” Lauren snickered. “He’s not a volunteer.”

Nat grinned. “Well, not lately, anyhow. The poor guy’s been coming to hours of classes so he could keep an eye on Elsie and make sure she didn’t burn the place down.”

For good reason. Lauren had seen the scorch marks on the studio’s carpet. “Can you blame him? Does he still think she’s a risk?”

Nat shook her head. “No. He says her fire magic’s well under control now. If she sparks, it will be on purpose.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting. “And you’re okay being alone with that? You’ve made her mad once or twice. She’s still really new to her magic—she could hurt you the next time.”

Nat just shook her head, smiling gently. Dang, thought Lauren. Clearly she was missing something. “What?”

“So could my husband, or Aervyn, or about thirty people I see on a regular basis. I hang out with you all the time, and you could fry my brain, or make me do the chicken dance naked on Main Street, or convince me I was a transvestite fish.”

The Romano’s delivery guy came through the doorway just in time to catch the “transvestite fish” part, and never even blinked. Lauren dug out a large tip and tried not to fall over laughing. In Berkeley, that probably wasn’t even the weirdest thing he’d heard today.

She waited until he left to eye her friend. “Just be careful, okay? You’re carrying precious cargo in there.”

“Elsie’s mine now.” Nat reached for one of the takeout containers. “I made a promise when I held that pendant out to her, and I intend to keep it. And all the witches in my life who would do exactly the same thing can stop trying to convince me otherwise.”

Yeesh. Nat whiny and cranky. Maybe she should have ordered more linguine.

~ ~ ~

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To: [email protected]

From: Vero Liantro <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Back on our feet. Sort of.

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Lovely Jennie,

We’re delighted to hear you’re feeling better. Melvin suspects Leo’s flu is one we had as younglings—they cycle back around every few decades. Or so he says. How he knows these things, I have no idea.

By the way, he is truly delighted with the spellcoding program Jamie sent him, the one that will read the words on his computer screen. He’s been chatting often with the Google these days, and has declared his intention to try to visit Enchanter’s Realm.

I tell him old men have no business playing computer games, but he pays me no attention. I wonder if perhaps our young Lizard might be interested in chaperoning a blind man into online battle? She seemed quite handy with her laptop, and Melvin could certainly use some supervision. He’s also deeply taken with her—I think she reminds him of a certain particularly stubborn student from back in his younger days…

As for Elsie—your compass is still trying to find its way with her, Jennie my love. You have never been a woman afraid of the world or the needs in your own soul. For you, bravery has always been automatic, and the need to express yourself one that you never questioned.

You are absolutely right that Elsie needs to explore—but you’ve never been anything but the most intrepid of adventurers. She’s a much different woman—but the passions in her soul are no less because of it.

And she won’t discover herself alone. You’ve never needed the world to see who you are—for you, that has always been afterthought. Some of us need the love of others to see ourselves clearly in the mirror.

Send Elsie to me. Music will entice her out into the world—or light a fire under her behind. And I’m happy to hold the match. I’d like to see her at least once a week for lessons. We never know just how much time we have left, and it seems I am getting the chance to give the gift of opera one more time.

I’ve been running my creaky old voice through some warm-ups so that I might properly teach her. Melvin grins and tells me I sound like the young girl he married. We old people can be very silly.

He also says your pendant is speaking clearly. If the messages are mysterious, clean out your ears. Don’t shoot—I am simply the messenger.

Feel better, and take your vitamins,

Vero