Minerva Gold and the Wand of Silver Pt. 04

Minerva laughed. "And how many people die horribly?"

"Not that often," Gina said. "They have healers on the fields. But, it can get pretty dicy. The Dragons lost a player in 22 when the Screaming Sikhs made this clever little wall of skulls and spikes - some were illusions, but some were real, and poor Daniel Schrier-Kostly went head first into the real one while leading the ball..." She shook her head a bit sadly. "One of the best, Dad says."

Minerva winced. "And you play this sport for fun?"

"Well, yeah!" Gina said, excitedly. She started to jog towards the hedge maze. When she came back, she had the ball between her feet again, and was kicking it about. "It's got all the best things about being a wizard. Excellence in body, mind, creativity, with teamwork and competition thrown together. Dad says it's the next best thing to a jolly old war!"

"How can anyone call a war jolly after the last one?" Minerva asked.

Gina kicked the ball up, then caught it between her hands. "I mean... the wars before that one, I suppose," She looked a bit pensive. "Dad sometimes gets a bit misty, thinking about Jack and Tommy and Clarence and George and Xander." She bit her lower lip. "They were all the uncles I was gonna have, you know?" She looked down at the ball. Minerva tried to imagine having a whole branch of the family she'd never see, never meet. Even with her extended family scattered by her grandparents flight from Russia, she still knew that they were out there, in Poland and the Ukraine. She stepped over and squeezed Gina's shoulder, gently.

"It's okay," she said.

"I know!" Gina said, brightening up right away. "Sides, it's not like there's gonna be another."

"Even with Hitler?" Minerva asked.

"Pff, he's a big blowhard," Gina said, shaking her head. "Never happen. Never in a million years. Besides, we got France and England and the Russians, and last time, the Americans pitched in. And Canada and India. And..." She paused. "Shit, a bunch of Africans too. All versus Germany and perhaps Italy. Italy! It's not even a contest!" She grinned, slightly. "And that's not even next to what the German wizards have gone through - they got drummed worse than we did, I doubt they have much pull on their mundane government."

"What makes you say that?" Minerva asked. "Ars Magica seem like they'd be happy enough to wear armbands and go around shouting about it."

"Yeah, but they're not that crazy," Gina said. "At least, I hope not." She considered. "If they are, then I'll have to kick Roland in the slats and get him out of there. It's my job, I'm his twin sister." She smiled. "Anyway, I'm starving. Want a bite to eat?"

"Definitely," Minerva said, laughing. Gina's confidence was infectious enough to make the future seem eminently beatable.

***

The days that followed were a furtive time of reading, studying, and listening to the wireless to wile away the hours when Minerva couldn't stick her nose out of her chambers for fear of being found out by the sprawling Blythe family. She minded it less than she expected, though the wireless seemed to spit out a new bit of grim news every day. The stations she listened too spoke seriously and with a censorious tone on the passing of new 'racial laws' by the rubber stamp government that Hitler had put into place ever since he had dissolved the democratic rule of law in his country. BBC commentators wagged their chins at great lengths about the backwards cruelty of it all...but she felt less comforted by that then she thought.

It took just a few twiddles of the dial to bring up one of the private stations that talked up Mosley and Hitler and their 'new ideas for a new century.'

While the world's news was grim, she did find something to bring her hope and joy. It seemed that not having to force herself to work constantly let her focus more than she thought possible on the school books that she had been given, and she learned everything she could from them, practicing a cantrip here, a cantrip there. She learned new words every day, and each of them having a different magical construction.

Kemb. Change. The root word of so many spells, since so many spells were simply about rearranging objects into a specific new organization.

Cidak. Attack. Destroy. The root word of far more spells. It was the killing word. The stunning word. The word that could conjure nightmares, or scatter magical defenses apart.

Awer. Air. Foda. Food. Wif. Woman. The words seemed to be endless, and ever so much more specific and narrow - and the more specific they were, the more potent, the more they could be refined and made to do precisely what one required. And that didn't even touch on wand movements, on runic structures, and on the interplay of all three. One could speak words, touch a rune, wave a wand, and produce a different effect, even if you were using the same words and the same rune and the same wand twitches - all because of subtle changes in the precise connection between words, in order of casting, in order of arrangement of the runes...

Even in generalities, it was enough to make Minerva's head spin. But digging into the specifics of each left her almost giddy with excitement.

It all...made sense.

There was mathematics. There was logic. There were repeatable outcomes from repeatable actions. And all of it could be learned. Studied. Written down. It was like after a lifetime of desperation for a droplet of water on her tongue, she was being given draft after draft of the purest, cleanest water in the world. But in the midst of her studying, Minerva remained focused on the one goal that she had never forgotten.

Petunia.

When she laid in bed, buzzing with thoughts about alchemical reagents and magical combinations - she thought of Petunia. She thought of her twisted leg and her crutch. She thought of her hobbling through life, working her fingers to the bones. Sometimes, when she thought of that, Minerva curled up and began to cry into her pillow, quietly to keep from being overheard by Virginia in the room nearby. She cried and cried and cried - here she was, comfortable and well fed, in a room full of books...

Sometimes, when she thought of it, she would simply clench her fists and think.

I will figure it out. I will. I will.

But, as tantalizing as the knowledge was, the generalities and the hints all left her without the information she needed for actually fixing Petunia. It seemed to be a more complex form of healing magic than what she could learn in Arcana Restoriva I, the introduction to healing magics.

And when she wasn't studying in her room, she was spending time with Virginia Blyhe III. Gina. The girl had been born with a mouth, and she had never once found a reason to shut it. Gina talked about her family, about her goals, about boys she found cute, about girls she found insufferable, about her hopes for Hexgramatica - and all of those hopes were entirely around football. She took Minerva in a walk through the gardens, showed her the scrying pool, told her all about the magical history of the place - or at least, what she could remember.

Through it all, Titania hovered in the background. Ever helpful. Ever serving. Ever obsequious.

Finally, on the 19th, one of the last sleepy Sundays of the month before they would be sent off to Hexgramatica, to learn more than what books and tomes could offer, Minerva finally got up the courage. It was while Gina, in her brash and bold way, had simply assumed that Minerva would be up for braiding her hair simply because she was there and Gina always assumed that everyone was ready for anything. Minerva, sisterless and motherless from an early age, tried to remember what her bubbe had done for her and worked her fingers through Gina's long fox's mane while Gina said: "I think I might want to be Glintfaire, but, really, it's all down to the test. My older brothers say the test is a big deal, but they won't say any damn thing about it but how much of a big deal, it is so annoying!"

Minerva chuckled. "I'm glad that we're both as in the dark on the trial temporalus is." She twined another few strands together, working slowly. Carefully. "Gina, can I ask you about Titania?" She asked, her voice just as cautious.

"Oh, it doesn't count," Gina said, cheerfully. "I mean, the boys get away Scot-free, getting to claim they're virgins all the way to the altar despite being surrounded by house fae since they're born, so it doesn't count as a sin or anything if you do whatever with a fae. It's not like actually being with a woman, not like they're human or anything."

Minerva felt cold. "Gina, that's a horrible thing to say!" she said, the words bursting out despite herself. She wished she could yank them back - she was living here at Gina's sufferance, and...and she liked Gina. But that was part of why the words came out.

Gina blinked, tilting her head a bit - trying to not jar Minerva's fingers. "Wha?" she asked, sounding honestly confused. "She's not! Fae aren't! They're fae, not humans."

"Well, I..." Minerva frowned. "You know some people out there would call me not human." She worked her fingers through Gina's hair, maybe being less gentle than she might have. "And, well, I'm going to say that I don't give a fig what the wizarding world says about anything, for me? Human is human, and if she walks and talks like a human, she is a human. Even if she's also a fae." She frowned. "And I never thought that anyone would still own slaves in this day and age."

"Slave!?" Gina squeaked. She jerked her head away from Mina, swinging herself around. "I'll have you know, the Blythes were abolitionists back in the day - my family voted along with the rest of the block to turn slavery to trash here. Why! There are some Blythes in America who fought on the Union side and smashed the Knights of Copper to ash and kindling! We're not slavers!" She said, glaring. "It's...it's different with house fae."

"Is it?" Minerva asked. "How is it different?"

"Well!" Gina said, looking confident. She paused. Her eyes looked searching. "W-Well, they...surrendered to us. Back in the day. Gave us oaths and such."

Minerva arched an eyebrow at her. "Surrendered. So, you..."

Gina's cheeks turned almost as red as her hair. "W-well, the...there was some fighting, I suppose. But it's different."

"How?" Minerva was implacable.

"B-because it's the rules, okay?" Gina's eyes flashed. "They're beings of rules, it's all they know, I doubt they'd want it... A-and I think I can do my own hair! Goodnight!" She stood, then strode out of the room. The door slammed.

Minerva sat in the bed, her hands drawn against her lap.

The door opened again and Gina, her cheeks burning, scowled. "T-This is my room." She said.

"I know," Minerva said, standing up. She and Gina were quite close as she walked to the door. "I don't..." She started. "I don't...I don't think you're a slaver." She whispered that, quietly, her hang going to Gina's cheek, cupping it. "Your family captured Titania four hundred years ago. It's not your fault." She blushed as Gina's cheeks heated as well - their eyes meeting. They stood...very. Very close. "It's not." Minerva whispered.

Gina drew away. "I know. It's just..." She brushed her fingers through her hair. The anemic, half-done binding of hair together came undone in a flash. In the most quiet, meek voice that Minerva had ever heard from Gina, Gina whispered: "I need to think about this."

Minerva nodded, then slipped out. The door closed and she sighed softly, then hurried down the corridor to her room. She slipped in before anyone noticed, feeling the comfortable embrace of the glamour surrounding her once more. She leaned her head against the back of the door, eyes closed. Her knees were trembling. She felt as if she had braved a machine gun and a trench raid, her heart was fluttering so fast. She let out a ragged sigh and exclaimed: "Well!"

Then, laughing, she said: "Well, that, that, that went better than I expected."

She sat down on the bed with a squeak.

Minerva rubbed her palms against her face.

Then she groaned as ice cold fear slammed into her gut. She let herself sprawl backwards on the bed. "Broomsticks!" She moaned softly. "Broomsticks!"

"You require some cleaning?"

Minerva jerked right up again. Titania had entered the room, carrying a small tray of dishes. She was still nude. Still lovely. She set the tray down, bringing out small crackers, a tea cup, which she filled with rich liquid. Minerva blinked at the display. "I-I...I didn't ask for this," she said.

"No, but you have definitely earned it," Titania said, her smile gentle and playful.

"...you heard?" Minerva asked.

"The rules are I cannot speak or think disloyalty, nor act against my master," Titania said. "Fortunately, I am doing neither. I am simply serving an honored guest." Her eyes glittered - dark black swirls that made Minerva want to sink into them once more. She smiled back at the fea, taking the tea cup. She sipped, and tasted the plentiful sugar mixed within, and sighed slowly.

"Thanks, Titania," she said.

"Now, what about broomsticks?" Titania asked.

"I need to afford a broomstick," Minerva said. "I need to buy one before I go to Hexgramatica, but I've been so busy studying, and I got distracted by Petunia's leg, and..." She shook her head. "And I can't exactly go hunting for a job while hiding out here, I don't want to get caught by the less friendly Blythes!"

Titania chuckled. "If you wish a broomstick, and you cannot afford one made in a wizardly factory, then you will have to take the alternative route, the one still open to one who has the right perspective." She leaned over. Her long, long silvery hair brushed along the floor with a soft whisper. "You could make your own, as witches have done."

She smiled, then turned and walked from the room. Minerva watched her go. She opened her mouth. Then she closed it. She considered everything she knew, and she began to tap her knuckles against her chin, her brow furrowing more as she considered. And thought.

And slowly, she started to smile.

Her fingers thumbed through her Thamaturgy books and she started to read carefully. Her lips moved as she peered down at the book. "Objects imbued with will become...a foci through which you can exert magic. Thus, the earliest broomsticks, wands, familiars and more were made." She turned a few more pages. "Recursive spells capture a chunk of will, but it is only through intense emotions that will can be contained." She flipped back again. "The five emotions most respected are Eros, Philia, Storge, Agape, Ludus, Philautia, as written by..." She closed the book and lifted her head. She spoke now entirely to herself. "A flight spell is a simple spell. It's just making it last that is tricky and thus, why, wizards have broomsticks." She rolled onto her back, then scrambled to her feet.

The room in which she had spent the last month...

There was only one thing in it she felt she could say she loved.

Minerva stepped over and placed her hand against the side of where she had read so many books, studied so long. The writing desk. The writing desk. It was obvious to her as she admired the gorgeous mahogany and brass thing - the writing desk had clearly been made a century or two before, and it was just something that the Blythes owned without thought. Just another thing in their house of things. But to Minerva, it was where she had first realized the linguistic underpinning of magic, and been delighted to see a tiny part of herself in the world she was in. To Minerva, it was something precious beyond the inlaid decorations and the many cleverly carved shelves and nooks and crannies that could hold pens, papers, notebooks and more.

It was also damn comfortable. The writing desk was large enough for her to spread her arms on and was attached to the chair that sat across from it by this clever folding arm. If it ever needed to be moved, the chair could be swung into the desk and folded down, but she had never seen the need. She settled her rump into the chair, feeling the faint creak of the folding arm taking her weight. Her feet rested on the little rest beneath the desk and she slipped her palms along the twin stacks of drawers that framed her legs, feeling each and every one of the little brass rings.

"But is it enough?" Minerva asked.

The room had no answer.

Minerva shrugged. There was only one answer.

She didn't have money. She didn't have a broomstick. No broomstick? No admittance into Hexgramatica. And, well...

Minerva thought of Titania and the old wizarding families. She thought of blood will out and Ars Magica. She thought of Tweed and his cheery tales of British wizards stamping down on the Indian Mutiny. She thought about all of that...

And Minerva realized there was only one response, even if she would never, ever, say it aloud to anyone else.

"Fuck wizards," she said.

Then she got to work. Her wand tip glowed as she scrawled glittering runes onto the sides of the desk, kneeling and working with a feverish abandon. The channels to draw the power and trap it. The reinforcement, to ensure the desk would stay intact. The empty slots for her word to be spoken into. Then, at last, a little bit of extra flair she thought of. Wind could be buffeted, air could be warmed. All of that seemed logical enough - and more, she had plenty of space to work with. As she scrawled runes, she tried to imagine doing this kind of runecraft on a broom.

Minerva looked at her wand, and remembered all the wands in Lolipan's - and then remembered all the specialized tools at Dartmouth and Sons - specialized tools could do something hand tools never could. She pouted. "...okay, maybe building these in factories has an advantage."

She took a step back and watched as her new 'broom' started to glow faintly. Now, she simply needed to speak the right words. The only problem was, she wasn't entirely sure what the right phrase was. She had the word for flight - Flyht - but was it Kemb Flyht or the other way around? The arrangement had to be right, and the books hadn't laid out the specific order for this kind of a spell because...well, it was a bit beyond her, high-level stuff. Minerva closed her eyes as she felt a sudden upswelling of frustration and sorrow. She had worked hard and she hadn't fully prepared herself - and now she was standing here with a partially enchanted writing desk and...

Minerva shook her head.

She had come this far.

She would try.

She pointed her wand and whispered. "So Kemb Flyht..." She said - and tingling on the tip of her tongue, she knew she didn't quite have enough. The spell felt as if it was already beginning to fall apart before she even had it done. But then, in desperation, she threw in another word. A word of power all her own. "Emmet."

Hebrew for truth. It was the word that the Rabbi of Prague had scrawled on the forehead of the golem, to bring him to life. She was no Rabbi. She was not taught the Kabbalah. She barely knew the wizardry the English called 'casting white.' But she placed the word down and she prayed that God would not mind so much.

The desk before her rattled, then trembled, then lifted into the air. It hovered before her shins, floating there as gently and serenely as if it had never known gravity. Minerva smiled, then slowly, she reached out and touched the side of the desk. It brushed against her, like a skittish cat, and the drawers opened and shut with a nervous flutter.