Oceans & Potions Read online

  Stepping back, she pulled her wand from the pocket of her robes and pointed it at herself. “The key to a successful bubble spell is to move your wand in a clockwise circular motion while chanting ‘Obice’ three times. Once the bubble has formed around you, you have three minutes in which to escape your attacker before it evaporates.”

  She demonstrated the spell for us, and as she turned her wand in a perfect circle, a translucent bubble appeared at its tip, shimmering for a moment before bursting out and conforming itself into a perfect outline of her body. Then, as she repeated “Obice” for the third time, it stretched itself over her body from head to toe. I stepped forward and prodded it tentatively; though the bubble looked like it could burst at the slightest provocation, it was steel to the touch.

  Lady Winthrop walked swiftly around the room, still enclosed in the bubble, and after three minutes it evaporated, though her skin still shimmered wherever it had touched her. “It also works as an excellent moisturizer,” she said as she traced her long fingers over her cheeks. Then she motioned for Hunter and Garnet to join me at the front of the room, and she guided us through the spell as we traced our training wands in circles in front of our chests and repeated the incantation three times.

  As the bubble formed around me, so did a sense of calmness that lingered even while Lady Winthrop lobbed curses at us to test the strength of our spells. All of them bounced effortlessly off mine, even a purple ball of flames that caused my entire body to tense as I remembered Percival threatening to burn me alive. Hunter’s bubble performed just as well, and even Garnet’s held up to the majority of the tests, though a well-aimed spike shot from Lady Winthrop’s wand did manage to tear a hole near her feet.

  We practiced the spell for the rest of the lesson, and by the end of it, I felt reasonably confident that I could perform it under pressure… though I sincerely hoped I was done facing off against deranged murderers for a long, long time. As we packed up our training wands and gathered our spellbooks, Lady Winthrop walked over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Miss Winters,” she said gently, “if I could see you in my office?”

  I nodded morosely, avoiding Hunter’s and Garnet’s sympathetic gazes as I followed Lady Winthrop out of the classroom and down the academy’s long hallway. Bursts of noise and flashes of light trickled out of the classrooms we passed as students of all levels practiced the spells that would eventually earn them entry into the Sparrow Coven, Magic Island’s official coven for witches and wizards. I could only hope that one day I’d be joining them, though my future on the island was now far from certain, especially if Lord Macon had his way.

  Lady Winthrop’s office was draped in the palest shades of pink and cream, a sharp contrast to her stoic nature and no-nonsense demeanor. A dazzling crystal chandelier hung over an ornate cream-colored writing desk, behind which sat a chair made of intricate interlocking threads of silver. To represent her elite status as a senior member of the Sparrow Coven, a floor-to-ceiling pair of golden sparrow wings spanned the length of the room and shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the window.

  “Please take a seat,” she said kindly, drawing an armchair with her wand and setting it down in front of her desk. I complied, perching nervously on the edge of it as she settled into her own chair and set her wand in a beautiful vase that looked to be made of pink sea glass.

  “A gift from a special friend who is no longer with us,” she said when she noticed me admiring it. She lightly traced the vase with the tip of one finger, looking wistful. Then, seeming to catch herself, she straightened up, steepled her fingers beneath her chin, and assumed a grave expression, though her eyes remained soft and kind.

  “I assume you know why I’ve called this meeting,” she said, then waited for me to nod before letting out a long sigh. “It has often been my belief that some of our rules and regulations are outdated or unnecessarily harsh, and the fact that your citizenship on this island is being called into question when you were merely protecting yourself and others from a madman is a perfect demonstration of that. When I heard of Lord Macon’s desire to banish you, I immediately appealed your case before the High Court. Lady Amabelle, the most level-headed witch I’ve ever known, and second-in-command to Lord Macon, rallied the rest of the councilmembers to reconsider your case.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut, as if willing herself to be patient. “I believed it would have been resolved by now, but reliable sources have informed me that Lord Macon is putting up quite a fight. He is a champion of the old ways and a stickler for tradition, and is not so easily persuaded by emotion or, dare I say, common sense.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked, chewing my lip nervously. While the idea of facing off against Lord Macon for a second time did nothing to help my roiling stomach, I was determined to not go down without a fight. Remaining on the island meant too much to me to allow it to slip away so easily.

  Lady Winthrop sighed. “Under normal circumstances I would tell you to stand in front of the High Court yourself and plead your case.” She paused and fiddled with a gold locket around her neck. “But I’ve spoken with Mr. Gulley, your guide, and he told me of your… unusual… relationship with Lord Macon. With that in mind, I think it’s best to let the High Court make the next move, and we shall go from there.”

  She gave me a tight smile. “Now, it’s a beautiful day outside, so why don’t you go and make the best of it? There is no sense in dwelling on such unpleasant business when the sun is shining and the dragons are flying.”

  Recognizing myself to be dismissed, I thanked her and left the office, joining the crowds of students streaming down the academy’s steps onto the perfectly manicured lawn below. I spotted Garnet and Hunter leaning up against an enormous stone fountain of a sparrow with its wings spread magnificently and hurried up to them.

  “Well?” Garnet asked, draping an arm across my shoulder while Hunter hovered beside us, looking awkward. “Did Lady Winthrop have any good news?”

  “No news to report yet,” I said gloomily, watching absentmindedly as a girl lying under a willow tree petted a raccoon, every so often tossing it a chunk of apple, which it devoured hungrily.

  “Is that safe?” I asked, frowning as I pointed to the raccoon, which was now performing somersaults around the laughing girl. “What if it has some kind of disease?”

  Garnet followed my gaze. “That’s probably her familiar,” she said, dismissing my concerns with a wave of her hand. Then, seeing my blank expression, she added, “You know, a familiar? They’re animal guides that assist witches and wizards with their magic. Sort of like a pet, only magical. We’ll each be paired up with one. Actually”—her face brightened—“I heard that familiars are chosen during level zero training, so we might be getting ours soon!”

  The thought of having a new companion—unless one counted Monty, which I didn’t—cheered me up considerably, and my good mood lasted all the way to Talons and Tailfeathers, which was sort of like a pet shop, except, as Garnet informed Hunter and me on the way, familiars chose their witch or wizard rather than the other way around.

  “A familiar can be any animal at all,” she said as we pressed our noses to the window, watching a group of girls cooing over three beautiful swans swimming gracefully in a pond in the middle of the shop. “My cousin Barty’s familiar is a snail, which was a little strange at first, because we kept worrying we were going to accidentally step on him. And then one day I did”—she shook her head at the memory—“but his shell grew spikes the moment my foot touched it.” She winced and unconsciously pawed at the ground with her shoe. “I still have the scars.”

  After watching the animals for a few more minutes, Hunter checked his watch and declared he was late for work, and Garnet and I drifted down the street toward the dorms, enjoying the light breeze playing across our faces and the sound of the ferry chugging into the harbor. Along the way, we passed a group of people clustered around a magi-cab stand and stopped
, peering over the shoulders of a trio of excited-looking vampires to see what all the fuss was about. I immediately recognized the bright pink poster pasted to the stand, and Garnet’s eyes lit up when the vampires finally shuffled out of the way and we could get a better look.

  “The Snow Bunny Fashion Show!” she squealed, tugging me closer to the poster. “I completely forgot it was happening this weekend! I was dying to get tickets, but they sold out in fifteen minutes flat. Everyone wants to see if Emeril is going to walk in the show. Apparently he was in some big fight with Preston, who’s pretty much the hottest designer in the magical world right now. The tabloids have been gossiping about it for months, but no one can get to the bottom of what happened.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said, then proceeded to tell Garnet about my first big assignment as The Islander’s gossip columnist and Sandrine’s refusal to allow me to cover crime instead. “I’ll be at the show trying to score interviews with both of them or else my head will be on the chopping block.” I drew my hand across my throat.

  “At least you get to go to the show,” Garnet said grumpily as we moved out of the way to allow others to read the poster. “I heard the event planners are pulling out all the stops, even flying in an iceberg from the Frozen Island to serve as the stage.”

  She heaved a sigh and transferred her spellbooks to her other arm. “You’re so lucky,” she added, not bothering to hide the envy in her voice. “Being the new gossip columnist is going to get you into all the hottest events on the island.” She nudged my side, looking hopeful. “Any chance of scoring a ticket for a friend?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, imagining Sandrine’s sour expression if I dared ask for another ticket to the show, then stifled a laugh at the sheer lunacy of attempting to make that request. She would probably boot me right out the door with her stiletto heel.

  I shuddered as we walked away from the magi-cab stand, Garnet still chattering on about all the rumors she’d heard about the show, how fabulous it was going to be, and how she couldn’t believe her roommate was going without her. I listened with half an ear, nodding in all the right places and halfheartedly agreeing with her indignation.

  Truth be told, though, I wasn’t sorry to be going alone, though I’d never let on to Garnet that her presence wasn’t exactly welcome. My plan was to get in, interview Emeril and Preston as quickly as possible, and run back to The Islander offices to write up the best column Sandrine had ever read, proving to her that I was worth my salt as a reporter. Maybe then she’d hear me out and give me a shot at my dream job.

  As long as she didn’t spear me with her fangs first.

  Chapter 4

  The Snow Bunny Fashion Show was being held in the mountains on the western edge of the island that the yetis called home. I arrived three hours before the event was to start and flashed my press pass to an unimpressed-looking zombie woman holding a list of VIP names while sipping a gloopy red drink that looked suspiciously like blood.

  “Get in line with the others,” she said, waving me over to a line of reporters and photographers snaking its way down the mountain.

  I joined them, stepping into place behind a beautiful fairy with golden hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean who was speaking softly into a tape recorder and wearing a pencil tucked behind her ear. I tugged self-consciously at my plain button-up shirt and pleated khaki pants when I realized that many of the other reporters were dressed to the nines in feathers and faux furs and all manner of expensive-looking garments that probably cost them a month’s salary. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of Garnet’s gentle suggestion that I should go shopping for a special outfit for the show, but it was too late now to turn back. Frumpy it was.

  Despite the early hour, crowds were already forming around the perimeter of the auditorium where the show was being held; from the outside, at least, it looked rather unimpressive, with peeling paint and frayed black curtains covering the entrance, certainly not the site of the island’s hottest event of the year.

  But no one else seemed to realize that, and as the minutes ticked on, the crowd’s excitement grew, and I saw more than one scuffle break out as hundreds of ticketholders jostled for the best place in line. At one point, one of the burly security guards lining the perimeter of the building had to intervene when a merwoman began pulling the curly blonde beard of a stout lady dwarf, who responded by attempting to rip off the merwoman’s iridescent fins.

  The sound of my name drew my attention away from the crowd that had formed around the women, egging them on, and I turned to see a gnome I vaguely recognized from The Islander offices hurrying up to me on stubby legs, dragging a tripod behind him while a camera dangled precariously from his shoulder. When he reached my side—or, I should say, my knees—he dropped the tripod with a groan, lifted the hem of his striped sweater vest, and dabbed at his leathery forehead while panting with exhaustion.

  “Didn’t realize I’d have to climb the blasted mountain,” he grumbled as he sank to the ground and began shoving a role of film into the camera. “If Percival were still in charge, he would have let me book a magi-cab with bat-wing boost and bill it back to the paper. But nooooo… Sandrine the queen says it’s a waste of money and that the exercise would be good for me.” When he caught the frown on my face at the mention of Percival’s name, he gave me an unapologetic shrug before removing a handkerchief from his pocket and plastering it to his bald head to soak up the remaining sweat.

  “Sorry,” I said when he finally managed to catch his breath and stood up again, taking his place beside me in line, “but I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced. I’m Wren.” I tucked my notepad under my arm and stuck out my hand for him to shake, which he did with such a surprisingly strong grip that I had to hold in a yelp.

  “Merry,” he said, though he looked anything but. “I’ve been the chief photographer for The Islander for the past twenty-seven years.” He drew up his shoulders with pride while I tried to look suitably impressed; I must have succeeded, for he gave me a broken-toothed grin and added, in an undertone, “No one can hide from Sweetpea’s lens.”

  He patted his camera fondly, looking a bit misty-eyed, as if he were a proud father watching his daughter take her very first steps. “If there’s a story to be found, she and I are the first ones on the scene.” I watched in mild dismay as he brought the camera up to his lips and gave it a noisy smooch before procuring another handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth print from the lens.

  He nuzzled Sweetpea to his chest, and I spent the next quarter of an hour trying to make awkward conversation with him while ignoring the rhythm of his fingers lovingly stroking the top of the camera. Eventually—thankfully—I was saved by the zombie woman stepping forward with her VIP list to announce that members of the press were now allowed into the building. We formed an orderly line and filed past her while she ticked names off her list, every so often baring her teeth in a red-stained smile that sent chills of fear racing up my spine.

  Merry and I finally made it past the frayed curtain blocking the main entrance, and when we stepped inside the auditorium, I felt my mouth dropping open in awe. The entire space had been transformed into a winter wonderland, with glittering icicles dangling from the ceiling, white fur carpets lining the floor, and a stunning castle made entirely of ice forming the backdrop of the stage, which, as Garnet had predicted, had been carved from a massive iceberg.

  Hundreds of straight-backed silver chairs were lined up in rows for as far as the eye could see, and a special press section cordoned off with a white fur rope was positioned next to the stage. Thousands of shimmery moving lights hung in the air, suspended from nowhere, until I took a closer look and realized the lights were actually balls of silver flames being held by palm-sized fairies floating around the room. It was, indeed, a sight to behold, and as I watched the event staff scurrying around, talking frantically into earpieces, I wondered just how much time, money, and manpower had gone into creating the ma
gical scene around me.

  Flipping open my notebook, I began writing a detailed description of the scene as Merry snapped photo after photo of the ice castle, fairy lights, and ticketholders who had begun pouring through the doors, chatting excitedly as they searched for their seats. I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter, then downed the drink in one swallow before gathering up my courage to head backstage and seek out Emeril and Preston, the stars of this year’s show.

  I felt distinctly out of place as I pushed past the glittering silver curtains that separated the stage from the behind-the-scenes hustle and bustle, dodging near-hysterical designers who were barking orders to their assistants while trying to make last-minute adjustments to their creations, which were being modeled by at least fifty male and female yetis whose heads almost reached the ceiling. Underneath the capes, masks, and shimmering ballgowns, I could just make out the yetis’ bare pink skin, though when one of the models caught me looking, she snarled at me and wrapped her cape tighter around her massive body.

  With no idea what either Emeril or Preston looked like, I began searching the backstage area fruitlessly, just barely avoiding being trampled by the yetis elbowing each other out of the way to scrutinize their appearance in the towering mirrors. “I shouldn’t have eaten that last piece of mouse mousse,” one of the female yetis wailed to the designer crouched behind her, trying without success to shove up the zipper on a slinky black number. “I swear I put on three hundred pounds just by looking at it.”

  The zipper broke off and shot across the room, nearly taking out the eye of a harried-looking leprechaun calling for order as he tried to line up the models. I skirted around the commotion and headed for the very back of the room, where the VIPs were stationed. I soon found myself facing a row of dressing rooms where, luckily, the models’ names were written inside silver stars taped to the doors. I began jogging along them, searching for Emeril’s name.