success, special today, only five dollars a dose!” She thrust a green vial into Mr. Bishop’s hand.
“Why would the money potion cost the least?” B asked.
“If somebody can only afford five bucks, that’s probably what they need most, kid,” Enchantress Le Fay said.
To B’s surprise, Mr. Bishop pulled out his wallet and handed Enchantress Le Fay a five-dollar bill. “Teachers never make enough,” he said, laughing a little to himself. “Well, Madam, thanks for an entertaining show.” He turned to leave.
“But I’ve only just begun!” she cried. A puff of green smoke rose from her cauldron. “Stay and see the rest!”
“Not today, thanks,” Mr. Bishop said. In a low voice, he told B, “We’ve seen plenty.”
“Be sure to come back tomorrow night for my Grand Spectacular Extravaganza,” Enchantress Le Fay called after them. “It’s the highlight of the fair! The whole town will be there… .”
Her voice faded as Mr. Bishop led B to a bench some distance from the thoroughfare, where no one would hear them talking. He uncorked the vial of money potion and poured a few drops into his hand. He tilted his hand so B could see it in the afternoon light.
“Look like a magical potion to you, B?” he asked.
“No,” B said. “Mine, at least, was sparkly. That looks like salad dressing, except it’s green.”
“Take a whiff,” Mr. Bishop said. “It’s safe.”
She sniffed at the little puddle in Mr. Bishop’s palm. “It smells like the herb soap my Granny Grogg makes.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Bishop said. “Some herbs, some vegetable oil, and wham, a so-called potion, just enough to swindle poor, hopeful people out of their hard-earned money.” Mr. Bishop reached for a napkin from a hot dog cart passing by, and wiped the potion oil off his hand. “But I should hope that after meeting her, you wouldn’t need me to tell you she’s no witch. Think of your parents. Think of everyone you’ve met at the Magical Rhyming Society. Are they anything like Enchantress Le Fay?”
“No, of course not,” B said, kicking the dirt. “It’s just … George is so shaken up by this, and everything seems to be going wrong for him. I wanted to make sure.”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “People can get ideas into their heads and start believing them for crazy reasons, just because someone says so. It’s called thepower of suggestion. That’s how Enchantress Le Fay’s potions operate.”
“George didn’t believe her, though,” B protested. “That’s the thing. He was saying right to her face that he thought it was ridiculous. That’s why she cursed him in the first place. And then his go-cart broke, and I think he got spooked.”
“That’s exactly it,” Mr. Bishop said. “Even though he didn’t believe it, a little superstitious part of his mind said, ‘What if it is true?’”
The smell of fried dough with powdered sugar made B’s stomach rumble, but she couldn’t stop worrying about her friend. She picked up the half-empty potion vial and let the rest of it dribble onto the hard-packed fairground dust. “What can I do for him, then?” she asked.
Mr. Bishop stood up. “He’ll snap out of it. Believe me.” He pulled a book out of his knapsack. It was bound with a metal spine and pink jeweled lettering, and looked like a cross between an ancient book of spells and a teenage magazine.
Preteen Potions,
it read. “It’s time to go. But since you managed to talkme out of a regular magic lesson, you’ll have homework tonight. Read chapter two and be ready to discuss potions to cure the common cold next time we meet.”
B took the book. “Um, Mr. Bishop? What do I say if someone sees me reading
Preteen Potions
on the bus?”
“Oh, right.” Mr. Bishop cleared his throat.
“Mumbly-jumble, magical book,
Make for yourself a nonmagical look.”
And the potions book turned into the Yellow Pages.
“Gee, thanks,” B said as Mr. Bishop walked away.
B realized now that “Enchantress”
“Why would the money potion cost the least?” B asked.
“If somebody can only afford five bucks, that’s probably what they need most, kid,” Enchantress Le Fay said.
To B’s surprise, Mr. Bishop pulled out his wallet and handed Enchantress Le Fay a five-dollar bill. “Teachers never make enough,” he said, laughing a little to himself. “Well, Madam, thanks for an entertaining show.” He turned to leave.
“But I’ve only just begun!” she cried. A puff of green smoke rose from her cauldron. “Stay and see the rest!”
“Not today, thanks,” Mr. Bishop said. In a low voice, he told B, “We’ve seen plenty.”
“Be sure to come back tomorrow night for my Grand Spectacular Extravaganza,” Enchantress Le Fay called after them. “It’s the highlight of the fair! The whole town will be there… .”
Her voice faded as Mr. Bishop led B to a bench some distance from the thoroughfare, where no one would hear them talking. He uncorked the vial of money potion and poured a few drops into his hand. He tilted his hand so B could see it in the afternoon light.
“Look like a magical potion to you, B?” he asked.
“No,” B said. “Mine, at least, was sparkly. That looks like salad dressing, except it’s green.”
“Take a whiff,” Mr. Bishop said. “It’s safe.”
She sniffed at the little puddle in Mr. Bishop’s palm. “It smells like the herb soap my Granny Grogg makes.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Bishop said. “Some herbs, some vegetable oil, and wham, a so-called potion, just enough to swindle poor, hopeful people out of their hard-earned money.” Mr. Bishop reached for a napkin from a hot dog cart passing by, and wiped the potion oil off his hand. “But I should hope that after meeting her, you wouldn’t need me to tell you she’s no witch. Think of your parents. Think of everyone you’ve met at the Magical Rhyming Society. Are they anything like Enchantress Le Fay?”
“No, of course not,” B said, kicking the dirt. “It’s just … George is so shaken up by this, and everything seems to be going wrong for him. I wanted to make sure.”
Mr. Bishop nodded. “People can get ideas into their heads and start believing them for crazy reasons, just because someone says so. It’s called thepower of suggestion. That’s how Enchantress Le Fay’s potions operate.”
“George didn’t believe her, though,” B protested. “That’s the thing. He was saying right to her face that he thought it was ridiculous. That’s why she cursed him in the first place. And then his go-cart broke, and I think he got spooked.”
“That’s exactly it,” Mr. Bishop said. “Even though he didn’t believe it, a little superstitious part of his mind said, ‘What if it is true?’”
The smell of fried dough with powdered sugar made B’s stomach rumble, but she couldn’t stop worrying about her friend. She picked up the half-empty potion vial and let the rest of it dribble onto the hard-packed fairground dust. “What can I do for him, then?” she asked.
Mr. Bishop stood up. “He’ll snap out of it. Believe me.” He pulled a book out of his knapsack. It was bound with a metal spine and pink jeweled lettering, and looked like a cross between an ancient book of spells and a teenage magazine.
Preteen Potions,
it read. “It’s time to go. But since you managed to talkme out of a regular magic lesson, you’ll have homework tonight. Read chapter two and be ready to discuss potions to cure the common cold next time we meet.”
B took the book. “Um, Mr. Bishop? What do I say if someone sees me reading
Preteen Potions
on the bus?”
“Oh, right.” Mr. Bishop cleared his throat.
“Mumbly-jumble, magical book,
Make for yourself a nonmagical look.”
And the potions book turned into the Yellow Pages.
“Gee, thanks,” B said as Mr. Bishop walked away.
B realized now that “Enchantress”
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