Sorcery and the Single Girl by Mindy Klasky

passive and calm.
    By nature, I was a wilder person, a more tumultuous worker of magic. By comparison, I was a comfortable hometown bookstore more than an academic library. I was a series of rooms holding hidden treasures, nooks and crannies, where someone was likely to find an overpadded reading chair and a dozing marmalade cat. I was carefully controlled chaos, not perfect organization.
    I laughed out loud as I shaped the citrine. I spread its force over the book like a bibliophile unpacking a treasure trove of boxes. I had fun at the edges, stacking new thoughts, new powers, new books into complex designs. I complemented the brass hinges, mirrored the metal lock. I thought of every bookstore I’d ever visited in my life, every sudden discovery of a literary treasure, every serendipitous find in a lifetime of browsing.
    The citrine responded well to my lighthearted approach. It captured my sense of goodwill, my hope, my optimism, and let itself be shaped. I could not say how long I worked with the stone, how many times I checked my design, modified my wrapping.
    But I knew when I was done. I knew when the package said exactly what I wanted it to say. I knew when the Illustrated History of Witches had been transformed into something that was my unique offering, my special gift.
    I opened my eyes at last. I saw Neko step away from me, watched him shrug his shoulders, regain his own balance and sense of self. I looked down at my gift, at what seemed to be an ordinary green-bound book, with an ordinary yellow stone sitting on its cover.
    And then I looked at David.
    He was staring at me. His lips were frozen in a bemused smile; his eyes were locked on mine. He scarcely seemed to acknowledge the book between us.
    “What?” I said, and my voice was too loud for the room.
    “Nothing,” he said, but he didn’t stop looking.
    “Why are you staring at me that way?”
    “You never fail to surprise me.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Let’s just say that I don’t think anyone has ever presented Teresa Alison Sidney with a gift precisely like this one.”
    “What do you mean?” Suddenly, the goodwill from the citrine dissipated, became a melody that I could remember humming but couldn’t sing out loud for the life of me. I clutched the edges of the book, recognizing what I had created but suddenly doubting what I had done. “I should have gone with the library, right? I should have made it perfect.”
    “You did make it perfect,” David said. “Perfect for you.”
    I didn’t believe him, though. “It’s not right, is it? I should do something else. Use my powers another way.”
    “I wouldn’t let you, even if you tried.”
    “You’re my warder! You’d have to!” Self-doubt sharpened my voice.
    David only smiled. “Trust me. I know what’s best for you here. What’s best for your safety. What’s best for your life as a witch.”
    “And this is best?” I felt like a child, like a little girl, suddenly unsure of herself in patent-leather Mary Janes and corded tights.
    “This is best,” David said. “The best that I can imagine you ever doing.”
    I tried to believe him, but I wished that I was meeting with Teresa Alison Sidney then. That very afternoon. I wasn’t sure that I could stand to wait six long days.
    Neko stepped forward, planting his hands on the book stand. “Well, I can’t imagine going one more minute without something to eat. Preferably shrimp. With a side of crab salad.”
    I laughed unsteadily and let my familiar lead the way upstairs to the kitchen. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder at the citrine-wrapped Illustrated History of Witches.

5
     
    I stared balefully at the pile of clothes on my bed. I had come home from work at six o’clock and immediately discarded my layers of colonial clothing: hoops, jacket, petticoat, neck kerchief, sleeve ruffles. All were lying on top of my comforter, competing with each other to develop the deepest, most hard-to-press wrinkles.
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