to foot and ankle. She tottered, stumbled, took a few steps to regain her balance and fell onto the bed. She stared at her foot. Not only had the slipper conformed to her body, but it had turned the same color as her gown and now had little yellow birds all over it. She wiggled her feet—one shod, one bare. The one with the shoe felt better. Magical shoes.
Her heart jumped. What if she couldn’t take it off? “Off!” she ordered.
Nothing happened.
She hooked her thumbs inside the shoe and pushed down. The shoe slid off her foot, tickling her sole, and plopped to the floor.
All right; one of them could come off. But if she put on both, would she dance to her death? There were plenty of folklore stories about shoes and mutilation, like Cinderella.
For a moment she just stared at the shoes, realizing that she was in a place far, far different from home. That it seemed somewhat like Earth accentuated her shock—she judged this place by Earth experiences, concepts, standards, and they might not apply. Any move she made, thinking she knew the outcome, could be wrong and lead her to her doom.
She fell back on the bed, hands over pounding heart, touching the cloth that seemed like velvet but could be anything—fur, skin, plastic wrap for all she knew. Even her senses could be lying to her. Perhaps nothing here was real.
And if she continued to think that way, to challenge everything—her senses, her mind, her experiences—she’d go mad. To her horror, tears dribbled from her eyes.
This should be such an incredible, fascinating experience for a true scholar! A whole new world to learn, a new aspect of her own self—and magic!—to explore and master. She should be thrilled.
Instead, she wanted to curl up into a fetal position and pull the covers over her head.
Bossgond was waiting for her. With breakfast. Even the thought of food couldn’t move her.
She was flipping out over a pair of shoes.
They were magic shoes.
Now her nose was clogged. She’d need to go to the toilet closet and get some tissue-stuff she’d found there. It was in a roll and had felt like regular toilet paper. She’d just used it, not scrutinized it. Who knew what it was?
Was she going to let panic over the thought of a new world, a magical world, paralyze her?
Wrong question.
The right question was, How long was she going to let panic paralyze her?
Marian had always thought of herself as willing to learn new things, explore new ideas—perhaps she’d even been snobbish about that quality. In fact, she was a coward.
But her full-moon ritual had been about discovering why she’d experienced odd sounds and nightmares. Now she knew. Golden Raven had said she’d meet a teacher. She had. Now she had to figure out how all this could help Andrew.
“Marian.” The rich, deep voice of Bossgond seemed to echo around the room. It certainly reverberated inside her mind. She turned her head to see a tube running down the wall next to her bed, with a flared opening like a trumpet.
“Marian, the oeuf is cooling.”
She struggled to one elbow, then the second. “I’m coming,” she replied in French—the language she’d been speaking for hours now—except for that tiny exchange with Alexa.
Alexa! While wallowing in her own fear she’d forgotten Alexa—someone who’d already come from Colorado, had experiences she could share with Marian. She was pitifully grateful that she didn’t have to take everything on faith, walking into a fog without a clue as to the landscape around her. Alexa would help her. Marian was not alone.
Just the thought of the other woman energized her.
“I’ll be right there,” she called out to Bossgond, a Sorcerer who would teach her magic.
She stretched, feeling her muscles pull, feeling something inside her that had been squashed and cramped, unfurl—a butterfly-breaking-open-her-cocoon feeling.
She would practice wonder, learn all she could of magic, in relation to herself and to Andrew. He’d expect her to live life in the moment, wring everything she could out of each experience, good or bad, not worry about being in control or making mistakes.
So she put on the shoes and forced herself to admire the feel and look of them. Then she marched to the toilet closet and took some tissue and blew her nose, washed her face with water from a tap.
Then she went out her door to find out if “oeuf” meant egg.
She ascended the stairs to Bossgond’s quarters one floor above her own. When she reached the door there was something like a harp hanging on it. She pondered for a moment and decided it must be a doorbell or a knocker. Running her thumbnail over the strings released a ripple of sound that echoed through the tower and plucked a couple of strings inside her, too—excitement and anticipation.
Bossgond opened the door, wearing a short tunic that showed his bony knees, a large yellow bird embroidered on the front. The garment was cut so full that it hung on his slight frame. He stood aside and Marian entered.
His space looked much like hers—windows letting in spring sunlight, shelves all around the room, a desk, bathroom closet and a partition hiding the bedroom. But it was as warm as a summer’s day—and the warmth felt more natural than the central heating she was used to at home. Perhaps it was the humidity, or the scents the air carried—fading spring blossoms and the start of summer.
The word oeuf meant omelette—a mild cheese omelette along with croissants and hot chocolate with whipped cream. They ate at a table near his fireplace. The fire flickered rainbow flames and Bossgond let her watch them, examine the room and eat in peace.
When they finished, with a wave of his hand the dirty dishes disappeared. If she were on Earth she could have marketed that for a fortune—but where did the dishes go, and would they return? If they returned, would they be the same dishes, but clean? How clean would they be? Would bacteria still live—
Bossgond chuckled. “I see many questions in your eyes,” he said, enunciating each word.
Marian nodded and he nodded back. Apparently that was the same, too, nodding as agreement.
He rose slowly and his joints popped. She frowned. He could make the dishes disappear but had trouble rising? With motions and two or three attempts at rephrasing the question, she made herself clear.
“I have great Power,” he said, rubbing his fingers together in a gesture like the one that meant “money” back home. “And my will and the Power make magical tasks easy, but my body is old and physical tasks are not easy.”
Marian wanted to know how old he was, but it was rude in her culture to ask and she didn’t know the rules of this society. She just looked concerned and nodded again.
He pointed to the center of the room where three thick oriental-looking rugs were layered. Huge pillows lay atop them along with several small tables that held objects: odd bottles—and were those wands?—and a couple of knives.
Marian hoped the knives were used ritually and practically, like in Wicca, and not for bloodletting and sacrifice. From the corner of her eye she studied Bossgond. She could take him in a physical fight, but if he used magic she was sure she could be bound and gutted in the blink of an eye. She shuddered.
The old man chuckled again and went to lower himself to the rugs. He sat cross-legged, palms up on his knees and sent her a quizzical glance.
She squared her shoulders. There was nothing she could do this minute except scream and fight for her life if he meant her harm. So she sank down across from him. To her amazement, her gown needed no adjusting: it flowed out of her way when she sat.
“First we’ll determine how strong your Power is and whether you will be a good apprentice for me,” he said, lifting his arms shoulder height, hands angled up as if pressing against