Chapter 9 - Marjorie, Marmie, and Bamoy Go to Town

Papa spoke: “You are next in line, Marjorie. The grimoire will recognize you when you’re near, and it’ll listen to you. I must ask for your help.”

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Recap: In the previous chapter, Marjorie woke to find that her brother, Adam, had crept into her room while she slept.

He’d done so out of fear, having seen a chaotic crowd of ghosts outside of his window. It was proof that she had not been hallucinating when she saw a pale light through the hedge.

Marjorie dressed, bracing herself to face whatever challenge awaited the Brahms family next. She was crestfallen to learn from her mother that, if they could not return the ghosts to their graves, they would have to abandon their graveyard house.

Mama also revealed that Papa thought there was a way Marjorie could help. Refusing to let an Elf drive them from their home, Marjorie prepared for her first lesson as a wizard’s apprentice.

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Marjorie hesitated before slipping out of the back door.

In the afternoon light, the graveyard looked no different than it had the day before. The headstones stood in their usual spots. There was no evidence of anything odd having taken place.

Marjorie pulled a cloak over her dress and squinted in search of her father. She could not see him in the yard; he must have finished scattering the salt.

He would be in his greenhouse, then.

Though it was not a long walk to the greenhouse, she hesitated before forcing herself into movement. Wary of the Elf, she kept her pace brisk, afraid that it might jump from behind a headstone and chase her.

No such thing happened, but her heart raced all the same. She could not forget the fear she’d felt the day before when that odious creature looked at her.

In the greenhouse, Papa sat at his wobbly writing-desk, an ink-pen in hand. He looked up as she entered; she felt a stab of concern at his appearance. If Mama looked tired, Papa had the haggard expression of a man who’d fought a battle and lost. 

Marjorie smiled in an attempt to lift his spirits, but did not know what to say. Moving forward, she drew the spare chair and sat down beside him.

“Who are you writing to?” she inquired.

“My sister.” Papa’s voice was frail, like crisp leaves in a late autumn wind.

“Aunt Astrid?” Marjorie could not contain her surprise.

Though she’d never met her aunt, she knew that Papa’s older half-sister lived in New York, where she had married an elderly billionaire. (Mama always spoke this last bit with a derisive sniff, as if suspecting that Astrid dropped a love-potion in the old man’s tea). 

“Why are you writing to her?” Marjorie pressed.

“Because there is too much happening at once.”

“Has her husband died yet?” Marjorie blurted—then clamped her mouth shut, aware of how insensitive her question sounded.

Papa looked up, wide-eyed, as if she had spoken an incantation that he’d never heard—then burst into laughter. It was a magical moment: his face regained its youthful glow.

Though the cold continued to permeate their bones, the air was no longer heavy. She found herself smiling in spite of her embarrassment.

“My rose, you sound like your mother,” said Papa, once his laughter settled. “She asked the same question this morning. I don’t know if her husband has died; perhaps she’s figured out a way to help him live to ninety, though I doubt it. I haven’t received a letter from her in two years.”

“Are you certain this letter will get to her?”

“No.” Papa paused. “If I’m being honest, Astrid is my second resort. There’s something I need to speak to you about, and if my theory is correct, I might not need to post this letter at all.”

Marjorie sat up. This is it, she thought, clasping her hands on her lap. The start of my magical education.

“Me?” she asked, confused by the thought that she might be of more use than Aunt Astrid.

“Yes, you.” Papa replaced the cork in his bottle of ink, then reached for a cloth with which to wipe his desk. “It’s about how the grimoire called to you.”

“O—oh.” Marjorie’s spirits dropped; she did not like the reminder of her choice to take the grimoire from Papa’s bookshelf. “Well, I suppose I do deserve a punishment for stealing—”

“Punishment? No, my dear Marjorie,” Papa said with an uneasy laugh. His expression sobered before he continued: “You see, I—I must confess a mistake that I made when I was a youth. The grimoire is at the root of it, my own envy the cause of it.”

He drummed his ink-stained fingers on the surface of his desk, breathing rapidly as he arranged words in his head, scattering them, displacing them.

“I told you,” Papa began, “that the grimoire was mine. I wrote my name on the first page. I should not have done so.” His gaze darkened with a shame ancient as the magic that he practiced. “The book is not mine. It was not my right. 

“A grimoire is passed to the eldest child of a magical family. That red book should have been given to Astrid. I have been lying to you, and…” Papa’s voice became strained with emotion; he forced himself to continue. “I lied to your mother about it. Though she has not yet expressed anger, I know that my dishonesty has wounded her. Now I am prepared to tell a truth I’ve been withholding from you. 

“As you know, Marjorie, Astrid married a man unlikely to live much longer. If he did die and they had no children, that’s why the grimoire called you. Assuming that she has no children in the future, you might one day write your name in that book. Even before her death, it has a certain loyalty to you.” He paused. “It’ll recognize you when you’re near, and it will be inclined to listen to you. Your name might belong in that book one day—more so than mine does now.

“I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you, but now that it’s done, I must ask for your help.”

“My help?” Marjorie asked, voice a rasp as she grappled with her father’s revelation.

“The Elf in the graveyard,” whispered Papa, “possesses a form of magic I have never faced. I’ve not met one before; I’ve never needed to train for such combat. I happen to know that the grimoire has answers about how to defeat an Elf—yet it will not reveal them to me! I stare at the page, and it shuns me, as it should shun a thief. I am a disgrace to the family, as always.” 

Before Marjorie could protest this, he continued: 

“You told me that you were able to read the grimoire, even if you did not understand the context. It allowed you to see sentences. Today, Margo, I am returning the book to your hands. Perhaps it will reveal something to you. If so, we can find the spells necessary to protect our family and keep our home.”

Marjorie opened her mouth, but words did not come. She’d known that her magical practice was to begin this morning; never could she have guessed that her first assignment would be so heavy. 

“But,” she managed, “wouldn’t Aunt Astrid have to give the book to me before it pays me heed? It—it can’t be so simple. There must be a—”

“A ceremony?” her father interrupted, with a smile. “A blood sacrifice? No, my dear; if you are able to read its words, then it has opened its mind to working with you. As I said, it is loyal to you.

“If Astrid should wish to reclaim it, you would surrender it to her—and I am mentioning in my letter that I have her book. I’m confessing to what I did.” He sighed. “Until then, we cannot be living in terror. I love my home. I won’t give it up, and I hope that you will help.”

“Of course,” Marjorie assured him, as he opened the drawer of his writing-desk to reveal the grimoire she’d returned to him the night before. “I will do what I can. I only hope that I’ll be of some use.”

Papa took the leather book, hesitating before holding it out. Marjorie accepted it with trembling hands. She could feel familiar, comforting power as it pulsed through the ancient tome. 

There you are, it seemed to say. Where have you been? Who is this man?

“I was right,” whispered Papa, seeing the expression of wonder on her face. “The book answers to you. We will study it together, Margo. You and I must save our home, even if Astrid does eventually reclaim what I stole from her.”

Marjorie nodded, eyes stinging with some strange emotion. Return the book? her heart asked. Surrender it? But it already speaks to me… “I will help you,” she whispered. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Papa nodded, gesturing for her to return the book to the drawer. She did so reluctantly. He then closed the drawer, securing it with a key as he mumbled an enchantment under his breath.

Flimsy as the desk appeared, Marjorie knew it was charmed so the most experienced thief could not steal from it, nor could the sharpest ax break it. The enchantment that Papa had pronounced reinforced its defensive function.

“Let us commence with our chores,” he said, “and tonight, the real work begins.”

“Will you tell me about your family?” Marjorie ventured to ask, when several heartbeats had passed.

Papa met her gaze; she saw something in him waver. He wanted to talk about his family. She could not imagine it was easy to nurse a grudge for so many years.

For a second, it appeared that he would open his heart to her. His jaw tightened, though, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“One day I will. Today, there is no time. I’ve fallen behind on deliveries. We could visit that tea-shop once I’ve finished. Your mama asked for a box of biscuits; it won’t hurt to stay for a while.”

Marjorie could not be disappointed by this response. She had long wished to share an adventure with her father.

“Is it safe to leave Mama and Adam alone?” she asked, unable to shake the fear that lingered in her heart.

“The barriers I set will be strong enough to keep anything malicious away for a few hours. I will need to reinforce them daily. To protect my family, I’ll do it gladly.” He stood and continued: “Ghosts won’t cause much trouble until nighttime, and I trust that Mr. Shelley can keep them under control. One thing is for certain: the Elf won’t even try to pass this barrier. I’ve scattered chips of iron along with the salt, and Elves hate iron. It weakens them.”

“In that case,” she said, “I would be delighted to go with you. Maybe I’ll pay a call to my friend Felicity, if she’s home.”

Papa offered a hand to help her up. “If there’s anything you need to buy, tell me. We’ll be covering a great deal of ground.”

He took his bag of wares from a hook on the wall and slung it over his shoulder. They then stepped out of the greenhouse.

Marjorie glanced uneasily at the headstones as they passed, but there was nothing different about their yard except for the cold that made her burrow into her cloak. 

Papa exchanged some words with Mama through the kitchen window, their voices so low that Marjorie could make out nothing.

Once this conversation was finished, they made their way to their small stable. Two horses looked at them balefully as they entered.

“Has Adam not fed you yet?” Marjorie asked the chestnut mare, Marmalade, seeing the horse’s baleful expression—but she knew food was not the real reason for the horse’s displeasure.

Marjorie took an apple from a nearby barrel and offered it to the horse with a tentative smile.

“You probably saw bizarre things last night,” she said apologetically, as the horse accepted her offering. While she spoke, Papa busied himself saddling both horses. “I’m sorry. We’ll get it sorted tonight.”

Papa glanced up at her as she made the promise to the mare. She could not read his expression. Whatever it was, the emotion was positive: relief? Pride?

Lifting her chin, she reminded herself of the conversation they’d had in the greenhouse. She’d made a promise to help him rescue their home, and intended to keep that promise. 

Once the horses had been saddled, Marjorie mounted Marmalade—or Marmie—and waited for her father.

As he mounted his own horse, there came an indignant mew from above them. Their black outdoor cat, Wolfgang, had been watching disdainfully from one of the stable beams.

“You aren’t invited, old mate,” Papa told Wolfgang, securing a thick black cloak over his clothes. “You’ll make me look like a fool.”

Wolfgang flicked his tail, then wandered off with an attitude that suggested he would do exactly as Papa had described. Marjorie couldn’t help but giggle at the feline’s reaction.

She had no doubt that Wolfgang could find a way to humiliate his master. There were times when the cat’s behavior made her question whether he was actually a cat, but she was afraid to ask.

“So,” Papa said as they rode out of the stable in the direction of the familiar path, “the lesson. We’ll start with the basics. The purpose of magic is to serve others, Marjorie, and that’s how all magicians ought to use it.”

He gestured to the bag slung over his shoulder, adjusting his cloak so that it protected his bare neck from the cold wind barreling into them.

“I use mine to make medicine; I use it to serve the townsfolk. Very seldom do I carry out what is called a hex; they have advantages, but I prefer to practice the simple version of magic.” He grinned. “Don’t tell the townsfolk, but the great Bamoy waves no wand. He is more similar to an apothecary, though he wears the title wizard. The difference is that he uses ingredients a regular apothecary would not know how to find, ingredients that would be invisible to them.”

Marjorie urged Marmie forward, her eyes sweeping the graveyard uneasily. It was, indeed, very cold for October; even the horse showed signs of discomfort, ears twitching unhappily.

The gate isn’t far, she thought. We’ll be out soon.

“That is how magic ought to be used,” continued Papa (if he, too, was unnerved by the graveyard, he did not let it show). “Unfortunately, there are magicians who become drunk on power. It muddles their senses of right and wrong; some wind up doing evil thinking that they’re helping.

“I want to believe that whoever turned that Elf into a raccoon thought they were rescuing the community. In the form of a raccoon, the Elf was powerless.” He paused, brow knitting into a frown. “Though I do not understand why the witch made it into an animal, rather than sending it back to Fae-land.”

“It sounds like a lark to me,” Marjorie admitted, eyes fixed on the gate. “Starting with her choice to make it into a raccoon, rather than something native to the forest. Now I’ll be hesitant to trust any animals I run into. Except for you, Marmie,” she added, to which the horse tossed her hair approvingly.

Marjorie continued: “I’ll even be wary of any mice that creep in during the winter. What if one of them is also an Elf?”

“Then we’ll purchase some mousetraps,” was Papa’s simple reply.

At last they slipped through the gate and out of the graveyard. The ride was short; soon, a cluster of small, charming homes came into view.

They had reached town, and Papa was ready to carry on with his business. For the first time in her life, Marjorie would be allowed to watch—as his daughter, and his apprentice.

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