Today

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Rio Grande Depot, Salt Lake City

A handsome older gentleman opened the heavy wooden doors to the train station and felt the soft shimmering of wards wash over him as he passed from the Mundane^[1] world and into the Magical^[2] realm—from a restored and rebooted historical landmark and into an active rail station serving Wizardkind^[3] for more than a century.

The Mundane Rio Grande was home to Utah’s historical archives, a rotating art exhibition, and a diner with a toy train that ran on a track suspended above the lunch counter. A few days a year, the space was put to good use, but mostly the Depot was populated by the shadows of souls long departed, of dreams unrealized, and a reservoir of untapped potential. It was a stately but sad space, just begging to be put to work.

The Magical Depot, on the other hand, was a hive of activity…

Salt Lake City had a healthy Wizarding community—some 8,000 witches and wizards; maybe 12,000 souls, all told, when you counted goblins, house-elves, and vampires^[4]… There were even a half dozen or so sasquatch families who were known to frequent the mountains which stood sentinel over the city. So it was small by the standards of Los Angeles or New York… but it was easily the largest community between St Louis and San Francisco, Taos and Seattle.

The Depot, then, was a crossroads of sorts for witches and wizards from around the world, who were either visiting the city or making a transfer as part of a longer trip. On most days, the only locals to be found were the many merchants whose stalls filled the great hall and a trickle of folk heading out of town or just returning. The older gentleman, himself, had passed through these very doors dozens of times, on his way to and from distant adventures.

As he made his way slowly through the great and cavernous hall, he stopped at stall after stall, chatting with the proprietors and staff—so many old friends. He bought a few things, but mostly he took time to invest in the many souls who’d made his life a little richer over the years.

At one point during his circuit, he stepped into a large stall filled with flowers.

“Well hello there, handsome!” The woman behind the counter called out.

Yolanthe Amadou was probably half his age—60, tops—a jolly little elf of a witch. Her long, ebony dreads were pulled back into a fierce mane, and she wore a dazzling white apron over her white t-shirt and capris—her dark smooth skin, a warm counterpoint. She was a bundle of contradictions: An all-American witch from far away Mali; loud, gregarious, shrewd, and kind.

“Hello, Ms Amadou.”

“Yolanthe, please”, she chided. “It’s been twenty years! When will you start calling me by my first name?”

“When you stop flirting with an old queer like me.”

“And where’s the fun in that?” She huffed. “Did you come for some flowers? The peonies are fresh from the greenhouse!”

“It’s October, Ms Amadou. It’s not right having peonies in October; they’re out of season.”

“Nothing’s out of season for the witch who runs my greenhouses.” Yolanthe gave the older gentleman a wink and warm smile. “So you’re not here for flowers… what brings you around this morning?”

“I’m waiting for the overnight train from Seattle, and thought I’d say ‘hello’.”

“Family coming to visit?”

“Not this time, Ms Amadou. I’m waiting for two journalists from The Evening Star. They’re coming to interview me.” He smiled.

“Why for?” She asked, hints of her accent sneaking through.

“They want to talk to me about my life’s work.”

“You’re a rail^[5] man, aren’t you?” She asked, incredulously, wiping her immaculately clean hands on her immaculately clean apron. “Sorry, honey… but that sounds like a frightfully dull interview.” She laughed to herself.

The older man looked at his feet, sighed, and shook his head.

“Oh, I dunno… Making sure witches, wizards, and Magical freight get from here to there safely can be interesting at times, I guess. But if my job is the only thing I’ve been doing all these years? Well, then I’m a sorry old man.” He looked over at Yolanthe. “No, Ms Amadou, I’ve had other interests. And that’s what they’re coming to talk about.”

“Well look at you!” She tapped his arm, playfully. “Man of mystery and a future celebrity!”

“Oh, I very much doubt that.” The older gentleman said as he turned to go. “You’ll just have to catch this weekend’s Evening Star, I guess.”

After making a couple more rounds, he pulled away to find just the right place to stand—far enough back from the passageway to the platforms to allow folk to move past him easily but situated so as to be easily seen by his visitors.

Truth be told, he was a little nervous; at 106 years of age, his eyes weren’t quite what they once were and he hoped they found each other without much ado. He wanted so much to make a good first impression.

First impressions matter.

Having claimed his spot, he looked at himself, smoothed down his jacket, and picked a bit of lint away. He then settled in for the wait. He’d learned how to wait when he was a boy and had never forgotten. Waiting had served him well. Waiting… and hard candies. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a large lemon drop, unwrapped it, then popped it in his mouth.

The older gentleman was dressed and groomed with care. He wasn’t particularly tall, 5 feet 10 inches or so, but every inch of him had been given the attention it deserved: His silver hair was trimmed to just above his ears and collar. His glasses were clean and sat properly on his face, which was framed with a close-cropped beard and mustache—silver, too, for going on 50 years, now. He wore a moss green wool sports jacket with faint window panes and flat-fronted brown trousers. A lightweight mustard sweater vest was buttoned across his waist, to keep October’s chill at bay. His white shirt was spotless, and his ink-blue bow tie was knotted just-so. A small pin graced his left lapel, and was carved to resemble a dragon’s egg, and charmed to appear as if it were eternally hatching; and this morning, it was the color of antique bronze. His shoes were sturdy brown wingtips with brogueing that resembled the constellations of the northern and southern hemispheres. Over his shoulder, he’d slung a small leather satchel. And in his hands, stood a blood-red walking cane.

Of course, it’s easy to confuse care with wealth… But look closely enough, and one would see that the jacket had several places where small tears had been expertly rewoven; that the tips of his shirt collar were worn soft with age; and that his shoes had been resoled. In fact, after 70 years of wear, it was safe to say that his shoes didn’t have any of their original leather remaining! And then you might even notice that the buttons on his sweater vest didn’t quite match each other—each having been replaced, over time, with whatever was at hand.

He tilted his head back and looked overhead…

The ceiling—which three of his sisters had helped enchant, all those years ago—magically cycled through the skies of the destinations for that day’s trains. Spokane, Denver, Caliente, and so on. He noticed that it was storming in Caliente and a smile dimpled his cheek. It had been eight decades, almost to the day, since he was last there, and it had been stormy, then, as well.

His heart fluttered at the memory.

A happy chime signaled a train’s arrival. “Make way for passengers debarking the overnight train from Seattle”, a woman’s voice announced, “Make way.” The older gentleman pulled out his wand. Then, with a flick, his name appeared, glowing above his head—like a pop-up in one of the video games his great-great-grand-nephews liked to play:

Erastus Q. Powell

* * *

Yesterday

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Helena’s Apartment, Madrona, Seattle

The overnight train from Seattle to Salt Lake City was scheduled to depart in 90 minutes, and Helena Barthus was fretting over last-minute details. She’d called her contact at Proctor & Gamble to clear a few last-minute changes to the program. She’d packed, unpacked, and repacked their supplies…

Priya Lestrange stood in the entryway of Helena’s apartment, leaning up against the door jamb. She was on the shorter side and small-boned, her ebony hair cut pixie style—gamine with a warm, sunny disposition. Recently graduated from a Mundane university in geology, she was eager to make a place for herself in the world.

She wondered if Helena knew that she had a little constellation of amber freckles that reminded Priya of the Pleiades, at the base of her neck

“Léna, sweetie, we’ve got this”, Priya broke the silence.

Helena stared at her bags, chewing on a strand of her long auburn hair, lost in thought. She was taller than Priya, and four years older—but she’d skipped college, opting instead to dive right into the working world, when she turned 18. And just four years later, she was the senior editor of The Evening Star’s sprawling lifestyle department. Homeschooled, like most Western witches and wizards, Helena excelled at lacrosse with her Mundane friends and captained her youth quodpot team. She had an athletic build and a can’t-lose attitude.

“You haven’t forgotten anything, Léna.”

“But—”

Priya sighed to herself.

“How about I grab the inventory and I’ll help you check everything through. You know… One last time.”

An hour later, they completed the final repack; nothing was missing, not even Helena’s sunscreen potion.

“I’m sorry we’re cutting it so close, Priya. We have just enough time to pop over to your place and grab your things before popping down to the station.”

“Oh, I brought everything I needed with me.” Priya smiled, knowingly. “Dickie warned me.”

“Dickie?” Helena puffed, soft indignation limning her question. “I don’t know if I should smack him upside the head or thank him.”

“You can decide that on the train. Let’s go” Priya reached out her hand. “Side-along?”

Priya had only joined the staff of The Evening Star that summer, as a researcher. She’d met Helena early on—she’d even fact-checked a few of Helena’s longer pieces—but this was the first time they’d worked together. And while they’d been friendly since the start, they’d only just started dating, and Priya was eager for their first trip together to be a success. She was thankful that Dickie had given her a heads-up about Helena’s habit of running late and running on fumes. Apparating from Helena’s apartment in the Wizarding enclave of Madrona^[6] up and over to Seattle’s Queen Anne District was practically instantaneous, but Priya hadn’t yet moved out of her parent’s place, and she wouldn’t have wanted their first meeting with Helena to be rushed.

Plenty of time for that, Priya hummed to herself.

And just like that, they were standing outside of King Street Station. Helena tugged on Priya’s hand as they made a beeline for the doors… a shimmering of wards… and they were inside the busy underlobby of the station.

The Seattle MACUSA offices were just upstairs, in the clock tower, and government employees were frequently seen in the lobby, on the trains, and at neighborhood shops. A small shudder pulsed down Helena’s spine. Aurors everywhere, she thought to herself, forcing a smile, then looked at Priya, her Singaporean princess. Helena’s smile warmed. How’d I get so lucky?

Ding-ding-ding! The announcement system chimed.

“The overnight to Salt Lake City with stops at Portland, Crater Lake, Sacramento, and Tahoe… departs in 10 minutes. Please board now. The overnight—”

“That’s us!” Priya whispered, excitedly, and gave Helena’s hand a brief squeeze. They waved “hi” to the woman staffing The Evening Star’s kiosk as they rushed to board. What’s her name?! they both wondered, then breezed past the other stalls and food vendors. They smelled heavenly, but Helena had made a dinner reservation for them on the train. They quickly stowed their bags in their sleeper cabin, then made their way down to the dining car.

“Madame Barthus and guest?” the host greeted them.

“Yes. Is our table ready?”

“Of course. If the ladies will follow me…”

The three of them made their way past the host station and into the car itself. At the far end of the car, a house-elf popped into view with a tray of food for one of the tables and just as quickly popped away. Mid-car, the host stopped at a table and motioned for Helena and Priya to sit. Next to them, two aurors hunched over their meals, paperwork spread between them. Act casual! Helena’s muscles tensed, ever so briefly. She then sat and wandlessly raised a curtain of sound buffering charms. “The journalist’s friend”, her first editor had called them.

“We made it”, Priya said, leaning in.

“I’m so glad you’re here”, Helena replied.

Two charmed menus apparated into view, presented themselves, and made recommendations—then took their orders before disappearing to the kitchen.

The two aurors sitting at the next table over debarked in Portland and Helena visibly relaxed. Priya smiled, grabbed Helena’s hand, and gave her a wink.

“You really don’t like aurors, do you Léna.” It wasn’t a question.

Helena sighed and looked at her empty plate, pushing the last few carrots around. She wanted to answer because it was Priya asking. But… it was Priya asking.

Their desserts arrived, just then, saving Helena for the time being.

MACUSA—the Magical Congress of the United States of America—for all its play at being a national Wizarding government, was mostly a northeastern phenomenon until the end of the Civil War when they expanded into the South… And their power didn’t reach past the Mississippi in any real way, until the end of WWII, when—slowly, carefully, strategically—regional cooperative councils were replaced by MACUSA offices and the hard work of unifying the far-flung western outposts of Wizarding America began in earnest. In the wave of post-war American enthusiasm, Denver’s High Plains Council and Texas’s Brazos Accord joined MACUSA. Los Angeles followed suit in the late 50s. Which left Taos, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, and Seattle.

In the 1970s, MACUSA set its eyes on Seattle, where they oversaw the closure of the venerable Triple-C—Cascadia Cooperative Council—taking over their offices in the Clock Tower at King Street Station. But tensions only really started to ease as a generation that only knew MACUSA started to come of age.

Helena’s whole family had been deeply involved in the Triple-C, before its fall. Her father had been an advising healer for decades, her mother had volunteered as a potions master, and her two older brothers had spent summers working on Triple-C projects as far away as Crater Lake to the south and Kelowna to the northeast. And while Helena looked the part of the rising generation—with her smartphone and her gaggle of Mundane friends—her opinions of MACUSA were shaped by her family—and the painful absence of her mother. Tilda Barthus had been an outspoken opponent of MACUSA and had died (suspiciously) the very same week MACUSA moved into the clock tower.

Priya Lestrange, on the other hand, had always been an Establishment child. Her extended family—with deep ties to Wizarding Britain and France—had been a vital part of the Wizarding establishments in New Delhi, Sri Lanka, Hong Kong, and Singapore since the late 1700s. Her father, a bit of a free spirit, followed lady luck out of the family stronghold in Singapore, eventually landing in Seattle, where he was invited to chair the newly formed MACUSA–Boeing dirigible^[7] contract committee, in 1974.

It was safe to say that while Priya loved Helena, she didn’t always understand her.

Dinner was perfect, dessert was sublime, and the conversation was lively and far-ranging. But the next day was going to be exhausting, so after the dishes were cleared and they’d finished their teas, Priya pulled Helena to their cabin—to sleep, Priya insisted, to sleep…

* * *

A Good While Back

Monday, November 11, 1929

Islen Canyon, near Caliente, Nevada

The lightning storm gave way to thundersnow, as the temperatures dropped precipitously outside the cave they were sheltered in. Erastus and Henry combined their sleeping bundles and crawled in together to conserve precious heat. The two young men were in for a long cold night.

Henry Byrd—a 20-something kid from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and a bundle of can-do dressed in the body of hardworking farm boy, all topped with hair that might as well have been spun gold—was working his way, cross-country, to California, where he was going to try his hand at owning and running an orange grove.

He’d captured Erastus’s heart their first day on the job. But Erastus wasn’t a fool; the boy was likely straight as an arrow and Mundane, to boot. There had been a smile when they first met, when Henry had sized Erastus up, of course. And then there was their third night on the job when Henry had decided that they should wrestle to blow off a little steam. Erastus didn’t dare read too much into any of it—he’d made that mistake before. All the same, Erastus was thankful to be the small spoon that night, fearful his body would have betrayed his affections had he been the boy in back… And who was he to complain? He had dreamed of being held by some handsome fellow during a stormy night since he was old enough to dream such dangerous things.

Erastus’s work on the conversion of the Old Pony Express Route to both Wizarding trail^[8] and rail use had caught the eye of several powerful squibs in the rail business, and he’d been called upon (from time to time) to perform maintenance on spelled markers along several key routes—and to keep a magical eye peeled during otherwise Mundane maintenance runs, as well.

It was the Modern Era—talkies were playing in most movie houses and telephones were found in millions of homes across the country—but this was still the Wild West. Dragons and more dangerous magical creatures haunted the dark shadows of this untamed land. And while Western wizards had no love for MACUSA’s heavy-handed ways, they weren’t reckless; their safety relied on keeping the Magical and the Mundane out of each others’ way.

And so it was that Erastus found himself pumping a push-car with Henry all the way from Lyndyll, Utah to Caliente, Nevada, checking on the state of rails and switches, telegraph and telephone wires, not to mention bridges and tunnels (while keeping his eyes peeled, of course) and offering occasional (and surreptitious) magical assistance to speed things along—and thank Merlin for that! Henry was a hard worker and easy on the eyes, but damn! if that boy didn’t get lost at the drop of a hat.

How on earth do you get lost following a rail line?

And it was thanks to a little wand magic that Erastus knew of the impending storm and had found a suitable, dragonless cave. So now they were sheltered from the wind… and they were dry… and they were also die-in-the-night cold. Erastus dared not reach for his wand—no telling what Henry would do, in the face of magic—and Erastus had never had the delicate touch required for memory spellwork (at least not the civilized sort that matched Erastus’s own sensibilities).

Any damn fool can obliviate; takes no talent at all to wipe a slate clean.

Erastus sighed.

Henry shivered in his sleep, behind him. The impertinent cold would not wait for Erastus to work something out; he had to act.

And so he did.

Erastus peeled off his right glove and—not knowing exactly what to do with his hand—laid it palm-down and flat against the packed dirt floor of the cave. Now, Erastus had never used wandless magic Can you say “never” when you’re ought but 24 years old?. Sure, like every wizard or witch child, there had been episodes of accidental magic… and he’d never had the wherewithal to learn—much less master—wandless magic. But if ever there was a time or place, this was it.

Intent, Erastus thought to himself.

It had been drilled into him since he was too young to even attempt magic. Casting a spell requires one to have a clear intent in mind. Erastus closed his eyes and focused his mind, inward. Warm the floor, gently, he thought to himself, then whispered the incantation.

Nothing.

Again, he tried. Warm the floor, gently, dropping the incantation.

Nothing, again.

Erastus lifted his hand, cracked his knuckles, and laid it back down carefully. Then he breathed in deeply, and thought to himself simply, clearly: Warm the floor, gently he paused please.

And then he waited.

After what felt like an eternity, he noticed that Henry’s teeth had stopped chattering and that his leg muscles had stopped clenching from the chill. It was cold, still. Damn cold, even. But the edge had been taken off. The ground beneath them was—ever so slightly—warm.

Erastus opened his eyes, and stared:

His right hand was coated in a glowing film. It was the same shade of lilac as his wards and charms (when he took the time to examine them); the same shade that limned the arcs of magic that sprang from the tip of his wand; the same shade of his father’s magic and his father’s sister’s… So Erastus guessed that his hand was coated in magic. But how? why? what, exactly had happened? He’d never before heard of such a thing!

His mind whirled.

Erastus raised his hand hesitantly, and pearls of magic gathered—slowly—at his fingertips and at the pulse point of his wrist, then dropped languidly to the floor below; viscous, like honey on a cool day. The magic pooled, briefly, on the floor below his hand, then sunk into the ground; disappearing slower even than it had fallen. He tapped his middle finger and thumb together, expecting the magic to be tacky to his touch, but was surprised that it slicked between his fingers.

Henry stirred.

Erastus, fearing that Henry would wake, rushed to wipe the magic from his hand—on the bedroll, on the ground, on his other hand. In his rush, his hand brushed up against Henry’s arm, which he’d draped across Erastus’s waist. Henry moaned softly, as Erastus’s magic sunk into the fabric of Henry’s sleeve and, no doubt, into Henry’s bare skin beneath.

Erastus held his breath and prayed.

Not tonight. Not this way, Lord. Not tonight.

Prayed… and watched as his magic soaked into the ground, faded into the fabric, and was absorbed by his own skin—each at different rates. He brought his hand up to his face and peered intently at it, thinking he could just see the thinnest of vapors, wafting off of the tips of his fingers. But the slick of magic wasn’t replenishing. Whatever he had done to elicit all this ended when he had broken his concentration; when he had changed his intent. When the last of his condensed magic had dissipated, Erastus eased into Henry’s embrace and thought… and when he had thought all he could, he slept.

In the morning, well after the warming charm had worn off, Erastus woke. During the night their positions had shifted, and he now laid facing Henry.

“I wondered when you’d wake”, Henry smiled softly.

Erastus and Henry regarded each other’s faces for a moment, then Henry leaned in and kissed Erastus softly on the lips… Pulling back, Henry ran his hand through Erastus’s chestnut locks, playing briefly at the shock of silver hair on the boy’s right temple, examining Erastus’s face carefully.

“Your eyes are storm-colored”, Henry observed. “I’ve never seen eyes like them before.” Henry ran his thumb gently over Erastus’s lips. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since we met.”

“You too, huh?” Erastus smiled, sheepishly.

Henry squirmed a bit.

“Okay. Romantic moment over! I need to pee something awful.”

Erastus laughed and rolled back, giving Henry space to scramble to his feet and step out of the cave. Erastus then stood, and with a flick of his wand packed up the bedroll, then began to set things in order for breakfast. He looked over his shoulder toward the mouth of the cave, where six inches of snow blanketed the ground. Another flick of his wand and he had a small fire started and the kettle filled with water. As he waited for it to boil, he stepped just outside, slapping his hands against his arms to fend off the cold. The floor of the whole ravine was covered in snow—with drifts in some spots much deeper than six inches—but the railroad tracks were clear, as a few trains had already plowed through since the snow started to fall the evening before.

It’ll be a bear getting the push-cart off of the siding and onto the main line, Erastus thought.

And he was right: It took nearly two hours for them to muscle (and magick) the heavy bit of machinery into place, but then they were literally back on track, doing the work they were being paid to do. By the next day, the snow had all melted, which made their work easier, but the curving track and the numerous tunnels made for slow going, as they made their inspections. All told, it was a five day trip from Islen Canyon to Caliente—a whole two days longer than their usual six miles a day would have predicted.

Of course, Erastus and Henry didn’t mind—caught as they were in the first blooming of infatuation… and the awkward tarantella of forbidden love. Their days were filled with hard work, stolen glances, and the occasional blush-inducing comment. Their nights were spent in heat-conserving and love-inducing snuggles. Snuggles peppered with kisses and filled with meandering conversations about life and love and longing; about the lives they wanted to live… and the lives they most likely would. Erastus carefully avoided anything touching on the Wizarding world, and it chewed at his gut; he so wanted to bare his soul to Henry, to beg him to return with him to Salt Lake City. But that sort of thing was simply not done. He could hear his mother’s cryptic scold and the less subtle rebukes of his sisters.

The voice of his father, however, was absent.

On their last night before arriving in Caliente, Nevada, Henry suggested they do more than just kiss.

“I can’t”, Erastus said with resignation. “We can’t… You know we can’t.” Then he bit hard on his lip as he fought back the tears. He rolled over to face away from Henry. A moment later the blond boy scooted close into Erastus’s backside and laid his arm around Erastus’s waist, and buried his face in Erastus’s coat collar.

“I know”, Henry confessed.

Erastus could feel the shudders of Henry’s sobs, and he gave into the only intimacy they could afford: Crying themselves to sleep in each other’s arms.

The next morning, Erastus and Henry arrived at Caliente. Inside the handsome Mission-style station, the young spied the cover of the Las Vegas Evening Review-Journal, which loudly announced news of the stock market crash and its immediate aftermath…

While they had been falling in love, the whole wide world had gone to hell.

Worried that the money he’d saved up to buy an orange grove might not be what it had been worth a month earlier, Henry decided to catch the first train to Los Angeles. Erastus understood. They’d planned on spending the day in Caliente, but Henry’s future trumped Erastus’s present… so he transfigured the remainder of their beef jerky into a chocolate bar and slipped it into Henry’s duffel with a note, then charmed the benches in Henry’s carriage with cushioning spells and his windows not to rattle… sending Henry off in relative style before collapsing on the platform, in tears.

* * *

Today

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Rio Grande Depot, Salt Lake City

“…Make way for passengers debarking the overnight train from Seattle.”

A woman with auburn hair pulled up in a soft bun, stepped through the wards and into the station. A woman about her age, but with short ebony hair and mahogany skin, walked beside her. Erastus noticed their fingers brushing almost accidentally, as they walked toward him.

“So good to finally meet, Erastus”, Helena shook his hand firmly. “This is my production assistant, Priya Lestrange.”

A house-elf popped up next to Erastus.

“Your coffees, Master Powell, sir?”

“Thank you, Duchess. Your coffees, ladies…” Erastus motioned the house-elf to hand the young women a to-go box with three coffees. “I knew that you liked yours spiced and with cream and sugar Ms Barthus… but I wasn’t sure what your assistant would want—so there’s a black coffee, no cream, no sugar… and then a coffee prepared like yours.”

“That’s so thoughtful, Erastus… and please, call me Léna.” She took the coffees and handed the second spiced coffee to Priya, who took a sip and nodded in appreciation.

“Léna, Priya… this is Duchess, my friend for… well… I won’t say how long. She owns the Kowalski’s franchise, here.”

“Kowalski’s?!” Priya exclaimed. “And in Salt Lake City no less.”

“We’re not Seattle or New York… but I think you’ll find that we’ve got plenty to recommend ourselves.” Erastus smiled, conspiratorially. “Duchess, you’ve been here since… when?”

“Duchess is being here since 1867, Master Powell. But Duchess be the owner of Salt Lake City Kowalski’s since 1953. Third ever Kowalski’s outside of the New York metro area.”

“Duchess has a mind for business.” Erastus smiled broadly. “Anyway, thank you, Duchess. I’ll see you and your husband at the cottage for dinner, Sunday?”

“Yes, of course, Master Powell.” Duchess looked at Helena and Priya. “Such a treat to meet more of Master Powell’s many friends. Duchess is being needed at the shop! Goodbyes to Mistresses Léna and Priya.”

And with that—Pop!—Duchess was gone.

“Nothing distracts her long from work” he chuckled. “Shall we get started?”

“Show us the way!” Helena replied. “Neither of us has been to Salt Lake City before. I’m looking forward to seeing what all the fuss is about.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what to show you… but before we head out, are you waiting for your bags? Do you have any equipment or whatever for our recording session?”

“Priya shrunk all our props; they’re in her purse. And we didn’t bring any bags… we’re only staying overnight. We’ll be catching the first train back to Seattle tomorrow.”

“Shame you couldn’t stay longer.”

“I agree, but we have a lot of work to do, to get the memcast ready for Friday.”

“Of course, of course.” Erastus did his best to look sympathetic—but he did love the company. “Then let’s not dawdle! We’ve got a lot to do in one day.”

The three of them made their way through the wards and out into the brilliant sun of a crisp fall morning.

“I thought we’d walk over to the Wizard market. It’s not far, and we’re going to be sitting for a few hours today, anyway.”

“No need to apologize, Mr Powell”, Priya replied, breathing in, deeply. “Léna and I have been cooped up on the train for hours and hours. I, for one, could use a good stretch.”

“Priya, please… call me Erastus.” And with that, he picked up the pace.

* * *

The Boston & Newhouse buildings towered over Exchange Place and concealed the bustling Wizard market from view. Stepping through the wards, Helena and Priya looked up, awed by the Beaux-arts skyscrapers, built by Samuel Newhouse—financier, mining magnate, bon vivant, and wizard. On the left, stood the Boston Building, eleven stories tall and exquisite in its detailing. On the right, the Newhouse Building was its Mundane twin… but shot up another eleven Magical stories for those with eyes to see.

“Look up there!” Erastus urged, pointing. “Do you see the stone dragon on top of the building on the right—the Newhouse… and on the left, you’ll see the remnants of a stone dragon that was cursed by Grindelwald, during his attack on the city, back in 1926. The two dragons were added to the buildings and enchanted when it was rumored that Grindelwald had come to America. Newhouse was mocked, but I’m pretty sure they more than earned their keep.” Erastus breathed in deeply, then continued “Not everyone escaped, but most did.”

“Were you here during the attack?” Helena asked.

“Yes, I was.”

Erastus, Helena, and Priya spent the next hour touring the market… Helena and Priya purchased several souvenirs—vampire handicrafts, salt water taffy, enchanted replicas of the Newhouse dragons, Criminelli sausages, and a book on Deseret runes. The two women even managed to take a selfie with a couple of the goblin guards at Ocott, Ophir, & Oquirrh Savings & Loan.

“If looks could kill!”, Priya laughed.

“To be honest, Priya, you may want to have Léna check you for curses when we get to the Cottage. Goblins are masters of voiceless magic.”

Priya looked at Helena, wide-eyed.

“He’s joking.” Helena consoled. “You’re joking, right?”

“No.” Erastus was looking at some gardening hand tools. “I mean, I can’t imagine it would be anything life-threatening—that would be bad for business. But still… Better safe than sorry.” Erastus finished paying for a couple of gnome traps, an enchanted dibbler, and a bag of bulbs. “In fact, why don’t we head up, now, if you two ladies are ready?”

There was no argument.

The three of them stepped through the market’s curtain of protective and concealing wards, crossed Main Street, then ducked down a small side street to the Oddfellows Hall.

“We’ll be taking a port-all^[9] up the mountain. It might be a bit windy, on the other side, so you may want to button up a bit before we pass through.”

After a moment or two, they were ready.

Erastus tapped the door handle twice with his wand, and the door’s window fogged over and a list of destinations appeared. Erastus then said, with a clear voice, “Barenton Springs”. The other destinations faded, and he opened the door, allowing Helena and Priya to step through first. He stepped through last, vanishing with a soft “pop!”, and the door closed by itself, the destination remaining for a moment before fading along with the fog.