Chapter 3

The broomstick shop did not look how Minerva Golding had expected when she had heard the phrase. She had expected something dusty and musty and maybe with a woman in the back with a broad brimmed hat and lots of black cats – but instead, she and Harry stepped into what, for all the world, looked like a car dealership. There was a large space set out for the broomsticks, and they were fenced off to keep people from touching, with their names and their prices stenciled out on placards, and a smiling man in a fine suit was checking his wrist watch as they entered. He lifted his head, then beamed. “Ah, Mr. Arthur-Perry!” he said, giving Harry a little nod – which made Harry look faintly miserable. “And...” His eyes swept to Minerva, and he clearly tried to place her.

“Minerva Golding,” she said, holding her hand out to him. He hesitated long enough for her to recognize the faint expression of distaste on his face – which he quickly hid behind a false sheen of servility and good cheer.

“Well, Miss Golding, Mr. Arthur-Perry,” he said, nodding. “Welcome to Bronwick’s Broomsticks, I am Mr. Sneedley. We’ve got the finest and newest models from BC Broomsticks, all for reasonable prices, with the newest innovations. Slowfall spells, heating spells for high altitude flying, obscurity spells to avoid mundane attention.” He gestured. “Would you like to take a look at our stock?”

“Mine is already ordered,” Harry said, a little sheepishly.

“Yes, yes, the Allafyre ‘32!” Mr. Sneedley said, his lips quirking slightly. “She’s actually in back, if you wish to take her right now.”

“The Allafyre?” Minerva asked, arching an eyebrow at Harry.

“Just a, uh, a little birthday present from my uncle,” Harry said, tugging at his collar.

“It’s the finest sports broom on the market,” Mr. Sneedley said.

“Of course,” Minerva said, her lips growing thin. “I’m looking for something a touch more economical.” She glanced at Harry. “Assuming, of course, a broom is absolutely required...”

“She’s enrolled at Hexgramatica,” Harry said, quickly.

Mr. Sneedly arched an eyebrow. “Well, it seems they will let just about anyone into Hexgramatica these days,” he said, his voice growing just a touch prim. “But yes, you will require a broom – no student has graduated Hexgramatica without it.”

Minerva thought back to how her invitation to this damn school had said the tuition would be paid by the Church of England of all things. Lovely, of course. They hadn’t paid for the books or the wand or the alchemical supplies or the broomstick – which, as she looked at the prices, looked like they’d run up against a model-T from America. A new one. And those were just the cheap broomsticks, the more expensive ones looked to be priced quite a bit higher. As she felt her stomach sinking more and more, Harry said: “Might I, uh, see about paying for one of them? Maybe a Zwellers?”

“Harry!” Minerva exclaimed.

“The up front would be two hundred and twenty pounds,” Mr. Sneedly said – and Harry’s face showed a flash of pain. Minerva took his arm, even as Mr. Sneedly smoothly added. “Of course, you could pay for it in monthly increments-”

“Harry, absolutely not!” Minerva hissed in his ear.

“It’s the least I can do, Minerva,” he said, quietly.

“You’ve been far too generous already,” Minerva said. “And your allowance cannot stretch to cover a broomstick.” At his mulish expression, she reached for and used the most logical point she had. “And what would Mr. Vilimont say if you had to explain this expenditure?”

Harry looked as if she had taken a knife and jabbed it into his ribs. He sighed. “W-Well ... I...” He let it drop as Minerva smiled, slightly.

“I can figure it out,” she said. “I’ll find a way to pay for it.” She shot a look right at Mr. Sneedly, who was looking quite bland. Masklike, even. “That I assure you.”

Mr. Sneedly, his voice polite as could be, inclined his head to her. “Your kind always does.”

Minerva thought about breaking one of his fancy broomsticks over his head.

Hours later, Minerva stood before the door to Petunia’s bedsit and lifted her hand, to knock.

She lowered it.

You can’t tell her.

The words rang in her head and she bit her lower lip.

Harry had been quite clear about that, when he had walked her back home and then bade her goodbye. The new school year was starting on the 3rd – in a months time, give or take a few days - and she had to find some way of paying for her broom before then. But he had whispered to her, fierce and intent.

You can’t tell her.

Petunia had come off in an offhand way – she had mentioned wanting to tell her. But Harry had explained it all. She could see him, looking ... almost sad. Like he was breaking the news that there was no Father Christmas.

The mundane world and the magic world cannot ever, truly, be one. If it was, then the mundane world would swallow us and not even notice. We have survived by secrecy and by quiet manipulation because there has always been more of them than there are of us. And it has only gotten worse. Machine guns? Poison gas? Tanks? Airplanes? Those are all mundane tools that make the worst curses look like pinpricks. If the mundanes knew of us, they would envy us, then they would fear us, then they would kill us. You...

He had actually seem rather taken aback.

You know that better than I do, huh?

She lowered her hand, not knocking on Petunia’s door. She looked away. Her eyes blurred.

She had asked him, on the way to the station, out of the impossible architecture: What could be healed with magic?

Anything.

Anything at all.

So long as the damage was visible to the spellcaster and so long as ‘penumbra’ of the person was not what was damaged. The explanation had seemed faintly confusing to her – there was another level of reality beneath this one, where one’s ‘true’ self was reflected, and if that other self was destroyed or damaged, then the effect rippled to this world, but the inverse was not entirely reciprocal. If damage was wrought here, it might remain untouched in this other world ... it was all so complicated and technical and beyond what she knew at this point.

But that didn’t matter.

It was a hope.

You’d know that better than I do, huh?

Her grandfather had fled Russia when the Tzar’s raiders and pillagers had burned out his home and his family. They had been after Jews. She tried to imagine that happening to someone like Harry Arthur-Perry. The image refused to form. He was too well bred, too genteel, too ... British. But she imagined what might happen to her. That picture formed all to horribly quickly. She slid her hands along her shoulders – and felt more confused and uncertain than she ever had in her entire life. She turned away from Petunia’s door...

And almost jumped out of her skin when the door opened behind her and Petunia stepped out, crutch under one arm. “Minerva!” she exclaimed as Minerva spun around, almost knocking her friend over. “Where have you been all day?” She asked.

“About!” Minerva said, hurriedly. “I ... what are you doing up so late?”

She hadn’t gotten home from shopping until later than she had expected. Petunia gave her a quizzical look. “I need to refresh myself, Minerva,” she said, her voice a bit dry. Minerva’s cheeks heated and she stepped back, gesturing to the side.

“Of course!” she said. When Petunia started down the corridor towards the loo, Minerva steeled herself. She stepped into the bedsit and sat down on Petunia’s bed. The warmth of her body radiated from the blankets, and feeling it made Minerva’s heart thunder quickly. She was so frightened. What if she said the wrong thing? What if...

Petunia returned. She gave Minerva a dry little smile. “Want to talk?” she asked, stepping gingerly into the room. She winced as she took the crutch from her side, her leg trembling as she let herself fall into the bed beside Minerva. Minerva watched her look so ... damn brave and steady. She was focused. She was going to make more of those shoeboxes, she was going to brutalize herself and her leg and she was going to sell each one of those shoeboxes. Petunia was going to throw herself into the gears of the world with a chipper smile, again and again and again, until she was...

Until...

Minerva felt the words coming up her mouth.

She couldn’t stop them.

She didn’t even try.

“Petunia, I need you to keep a secret,” she said. “Swear to me.”

Petunia looked faintly shocked. “I ... of course,” she said. “I swear to keep anything you tell me in confidence, Minerva.” She bit her lip. Then, playfully, she leaned in. Her eyes sparkled. “Is it a boy?” she whispered, sounding scandalized and delighted all at once.

“Ugh! No!” Minerva exclaimed. “No!”

She had a thousand ways to say this.

But instead, what came out was...

Less than elegant.

“Petunia, I am a wizard,” she said, firmly.

Petunia blinked at her. Those beautiful blue eyes of her’s grew even more confused. “I...” she said. “Good heavens, what on Earth are you talking about?” She asked.

Minerva reached into her purse, then drew her wand. She gripped it tightly. This, unlike the wand she had been given for free, had no protective spells worked into it. It was a wand as good and true as anything in the world. She squared her shoulders, while Petunia frowned at her. “Minerva, are you going on about-”

“Kemb Awer Foda!”

The energy that sparked and hissed from the wandtip was almost an exaltation to Minerva. She didn’t care how much her stomach growled afterwards, nor how her body trembled. She didn’t care about anything but the bright, red apple that appeared from thin air and dropped right into Petunia’s lap. Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle herself, her eyes wide – and afraid.

“I. Am. A. Wizard.” Minerva said, her voice firm.

“Jesus Christ,” Petunia whispered, sliding her hand away from her mouth.

They sat together in silence and Minerva let Petunia just ... absorb that. She lifted her eyes from the apple to Minerva, then finally, she said: “May I eat it?”

“Of course!” Minerva said, smiling at her friend. Petunia took the apple in shaking hands. She held it up, then opened her mouth and bit into the apple. Warm juice ran down her chin and her eyes widened in shock as she chewed and chewed, then finally swallowed. She coughed, as if some of the apple had gone down the wrong pipe. Her face reddened and she exclaimed.

“Minerva, this is delicious,” she said, wiping at her mouth daintily with a hankie she swept up and off her nightstand. “This is amazing! You made an apple. Out of thin air! W-With ... as if ... th ... what is...” She stammered, and Minerva took her free hand in hers, squeezing, beaming – and felt her worries about the magical world, the slights and the insults she had already found were shared among mundane and magister alike about her being Jewish ... all of that faded away in the face of the simple, pure delight of Petunia’s expression. She beamed back and nodded.

“I got more magical books in my bedsit,” she explained. “I haven’t had a chance to read them all but, oh, I so do wish to read them all! I wish I didn’t have to work this Monday.” She shook her head and sighed. “But, well, these things still cost. The magical world runs on the pound sterling, just like ours.” Petunia looked rather put out by that, so Minerva added. “B-But, I am going to be researching all I can about magical ... healing.” She looked aside. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s possible, but, I want to ... that is ... you...”

“My leg,” Petunia said, her voice soft and small.

Minerva nodded, focusing on the wall.

Petunia drew in a slow breath. She held it, like she was trying to hold in her hopes. Then she let the breath out, whistling through her lips. “T-That is an awful lot to offer for me, Minerva. And I don’t even know if ... if I even know what I’d do if I could walk normally again.” She twitched her shriveled leg slightly. “I don’t know how I’d ever repay you?”

“Repay me?” Minerva laughed. “Petunia!” She slid her arm around her friend’s shoulders, drawing her close. She buried her nose against Petunia’s blond tresses, breathing in her scent – feeling it center her. She knew, with that feel of her warmth on her lips, that she was doing the right thing. The truly right thing. “Petunia, you silly goose, we’re friends. Friends help one another.” Petunia nodded, leaning into her.

“Even witches?” she asked.

“Curiously, everyone seems quite clear that I’m a wizard,” Minerva said, smiling as she drew back. “Still not sure about that. I’d have assumed, being a woman, that I’d be a witch. But I figure that these ... Magisters know what they’re talking about more than I.”

Petunia shook her head.

“Now, remember,” Minerva slid off the bed, then moved to her knees. She clasped Petunia’s free hand, gripping tightly, looking up into her eyes. “Whatever you do, you cannot tell anyone.” She frowned. “I-I was told that this world has to be kept secret. I’m sure they’ll be mighty cross if they found out that I blabbed. But ... well...” She smiled, slightly. “I had to tell you, Petunia.”

Her friend’s cheeks looked like roses, blooming with a warm blush. “Minerva...”

“Promise,” she said.

“Promise,” Petunia said. Then, as if they were children again, she swept her finger across her chest. “Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle...” She trailed off while Minerva smiled up at her.

“Please don’t,” she said, her lips quirking up. “I don’t know if I can fix eyes.”

Petunia laughed so gaily that Minerva felt a rightness, deep in her soul. צדקה, given without needing to be asked. Now she just had to actually give it – and so, she stood, nodded, and said: “I have to hit the books!”

And she swept from Petunia’s room, to her own, and flicked on the electric light. She dropped her eyes onto the books Harry had purchased from the bookstore and squared her shoulders. She picked up the first: An Introduction to Thaumaturgy by Helena Hunter-Clowiss III. Minerva sat her rump down, opened it to the first page, and read with furious intensity. Her voice whispered the soft, unfamiliar words under her breath as the stars wheeled invisibly outside her window. “The art of thamaturgy is the practice of utilizing the astral plane and focused willpower to bring into being effects not accomplished by the sleeping masses of the Mundane. This practice is known by many names, but in the 19th century, it was made systemic and logical by the great minds of that era. This labor has bequeathed to us, the modern wizard, practices that puts the British wizard far above the savage brutecraft of the African, the Oriental, the Mongoloid or the Red Indian of America...”

She turned the page.

This page had diagrams on it.

Complex diagrams.

Minerva felt as if she was already getting a headache.

The next day at work, Minerva felt as if her head was buzzing with facts and information – and none of it was relevant to her job. Her fingers played along the typewriter and she tried to ignore the conversation that was passing back and forth between two men who had paused by the coffee machine.

“I say that we should send that Stalin fellow back feet first,” he said. “They’re not even really a country, they’re a pack of damn red jackals.”

“I hope that Herr Adolph actually does something about that up jumped ... what did they call themselves?” The other frowned.

“General-Secretary,” the first said.

The other let out a braying laugh. “General-Secretary, hell, our secretaries would do a better job, eh?” He turned to grin at Minerva, who had just finished typing off the last form for this particular pile of paperwork. “How’d you like to be running a whole country, Golding?”

Minerva gave him the most withering glare she could. “I have enough on my plate running this typewriter, Mr. Fairbrook,” she said.

The two men laughed. Minerva carried her files to Mr. Dartmoth, who was in his office, hand on his telephone, listening to it and looking increasingly annoyed. “Ja. Ja,” he said, then in terrible German: “Das Produkt wird bis Ende Sonntag da sein?” He sounded half unsure, as if he wasn’t confident in his words. Minerva, who had been taught Yiddish at her grandmother’s knee, could almost follow that – and as a secretary, she knew that Mr. Dartmoth was overselling their chances of getting the shipment to Mauser on the way.

She took some malicious pleasure in reminding him of that in a roundabout way, setting the finished up paperwork on the side of his desk. Mr. Dartmoth gave her a cross little nod as she turned back and came to her desk. She settled there and waited for some new papers to be brought to her. As she did so, her mind slipped back to what she had read before. According to Helena Hunter-Clowiss the third, the great wizards of the 18th and 19th centuries had codified that there were two worlds: The Mundane and the Astral. All magic involved drawing power from one and placing it in another, then shaping the power to certain results. This magic could involve words and will focused through a wand, or it could involve runes...

Minerva glanced left, then right, then pulled out a piece of paper. She scribbled a very simple pattern on the paper – a jagged bolt of lightning, with a small circle at the base. This rune, if she remembered right, was a very basic channel of astral power. It would lead that power into another rune, which would then-

“Golding!”

She jerked her head up and shoved the paper into her desk in the same swift motion. One of the men working in sales was glowering down at her. “Golding, I need a copy of the receipts from Johnson and Johnson, we need to check our figures there.” He frowned at her as she nodded.

“Right away, Mr. Brown,” she said, then started to look across her desk. She kept everything as neat as she could. She found the receipts, started typing up a copy – and then noticed the faint wisps of smoke emerging from her desk drawer. Minerva froze, fingers over the keyboard. A light was glowing around the edge of the drawer, shimmering and glittering and growing brighter and brighter. She remained perfectly still, her brain frozen in a panicking circle of: Oh good heavens, what do I do now!?

Mr. Dartmouth emerged from his office, glowering. “Golding!” he barked, walking towards her – as if the files she had dropped off at him had been her fault. He swept around to stand behind her.

“Mr. Dart-”

The drawer exploded – not with a bang, but like the sound of a half a dozen chimes being dropped on the floor all at once. The tinkling jangle was accompanied by a massive burst of pink-red light that exploded out and struck Mr. Dartmoth in the chest, flinging him backwards ... and dropping his clothes to the ground in a mass of rumpled fabric. A squealing sound and the snout of a white and brown pig stuck out from the mess, blue eyes wild. Men and women came running over, to see what the commotion was as Minerva put her hand over her mouth.

Mr. Dartmouth squealed, his cloven hooves clattering on the wood floor as he kicked away from the clothing and started to run in circles, squealing louder and more fiercely as men cried out and attempted to snatch him up. Minerva clamped her hand even tighter as Mr. Brown was tripped by the running pig directly into the coffee pot. The pot went flying, and the cream splattered onto his head as the pot crashed into the floor with a tinkle of shattering glass. One of the big, blustery engineers who worked with the tools of the shop slipped on the spreading coffee and crashed onto his back as the pig sprinted into the bathroom.

“I am in so much trouble,” Minerva whispered.

Then she started to giggle uncontrollably.

A few moments later, Mr. Dartmoth emerged from the bathroom, naked save for a pair of bright polka-dotted undies. He looked bewildered – but his voice found vent.