Heroic Hearts

THE NECESSITY OF PRAGMATIC MAGIC by Jennifer Brozek

Maureen stood near the museum’s front door. As the only paid docent for the Stewart Historic Museum, she was part greeter, part information desk, and part receptionist. Today, she waited for the postwoman. Her first tour didn’t start for an hour and that was if anyone showed up on a Monday morning. Not likely, but she always put on a good face for the museum.

Kulwinder, the small Indian mail carrier who worked the downtown area of Kendrick, walked up with an armful of boxes. Maureen hurried to open the door for her, dragging a small cart behind.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Kulwinder said as she settled the stack of boxes onto the surface provided.

“What happened to your pushcart?”

“Wheel fell off. Wouldn’t you know it? I have to fix it later. How come . . . ?” The postwoman gestured to the museum cart.

Maureen’s eyes wrinkled as she smiled. “Had a hunch and I’ve learned to listen to them after all these years.”

“Good woman’s intuition.” Kulwinder gestured with her chin. “One of those packages is from Egypt. Marked ‘Important.’ ” She hesitated. “Feels funny.”

Tilting her head, Maureen asked, “Funny-haha or funny-bad?”

The postwoman realized what she’d said and shook her head. “Don’t mind me. Just an odd day.” She hurried away with a backward wave of the hand.

Maureen watched her go, then considered the cart of mail. People who said things “felt funny” were usually right. That, coupled with this morning’s intuition, meant that the “important” package needed a bit more attention than usual and she would have to keep an eye on it. She wheeled the cart to the main curator’s office. Raven, the curator’s secretary, wasn’t at her desk, but the curator’s office door was open and Mr. Harold Sperling was in. As usual, Harold was knee-deep in the unending museum paperwork.

She knocked on his doorjamb. “Mail’s here. Something interesting.” The distracted man looked up. He had the impatient look her son often had on his face just before he moved out. Maureen smiled. “It’s from Egypt.” She pointed at the brown, well-taped box. “But if you’d rather I just put it in your mail slot . . . ?”

He sighed and wiped his face with a hand. “No. I need a break anyway. Bring it here.” He gave her a wry smile as she wheeled the cart over. “Got one of your feelings?”

Maureen shrugged. She kept her opinions to herself. Harold was open-minded—one had to be when living in a special city like Kendrick—but it was best to keep some things to herself.

Harold picked up the “important” package and peered at the return label. “Hmm. No name, but Egypt. I’m not familiar with the area. I wonder if this was supposed to go to the Kendrick Museum of Art and Science. No harm taking a look. Then I’ll give Susan a call.” He shrugged, picked up a box cutter, and began to cut open the tape with careful, tiny movements. It took a full minute for him to cut enough of the package tape to open the box. As he put down the box cutter with one hand, he grabbed a pair of well-used cotton gloves with the other, putting them on as a force of habit.

Inside the box was a paper-wrapped object, surrounded by straw. The object, heavier than it appeared, thumped to the table. Harold paused, tilting his head as he frowned at it.

“What is it?” Maureen leaned forward to see it.

“Oh, you’re still here. Well then . . .” Harold shook his head as if clearing it. He untied the string, letting the paper fall away. Inside was a worn stone tablet the size of a large book. Covering most of it were whorls and swirls of decoration. They seemed to come from the bottom right corner of the tablet, where the rough figure of a man appeared to play a pipe.

Maureen shifted to get a better look. Something about the image struck her as familiar but she couldn’t place it. “What is it? A music player?”

“Perhaps. It would seem to be a celebration of music, considering how much of the tablet is taken up by these swirls. Assuming that’s what they represent. You can’t make assumptions.” Harold spoke in an offhand, lecturing way that faded as he looked closer at the artifact. “See here, while there’s the musician, the pipe does seem to be what it appears to be, there’s this bold line here, separating the musician from the . . . music? Maybe. I’m not certain.”

Maureen gazed at the engraved line Harold indicated. It did seem to separate the musician and the music. Almost like a barrier. She wondered if the piper was keeping something at bay. Again, the nagging sense of familiarity came to the forefront. She almost had it. “Is there anything on the back?”

Harold shook himself again. “Don’t you have other duties, Mrs. Burton?”

She took a step back. “I do. I’m sorry for rushing you. Would you like the rest of your mail here or . . . ?”

“Put it in my box. You’ve given me enough work to deal with for one morning.” He didn’t look at her as he turned back to the package the stone tablet had been wrapped in. “Egypt,” he muttered, already lost in thought once more.

Maureen glanced at the tablet, then wheeled the mail cart out. She didn’t like it. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she knew she did not like it at all.

Maureen sat in the greeter’s chair reading a book. Monday afternoons were slow. She often alternated between the information desk and the greeter’s chair to keep things interesting. Today, she wanted to be near the exits of the building. She didn’t know why, she just knew it was how she felt, and at her age of seventy-one, she’d learned to follow her instincts and urges.

Closing the book, Maureen sighed. She looked at the cover. It was a British murder mystery by one of her favorite authors, but she couldn’t remember what it was about. She couldn’t concentrate. “It’s a strange day,” she murmured.

A scream ripped the air from the direction of the administrative offices. Maureen dropped the book into her chair and was already hurrying that way before she identified the source of the short, sharp scream: Raven, Harold’s secretary.

Maureen was the second person to reach her. Ethan, the barista from the small museum café, was there, hovering about the woman with red and blue hair. They both looked frightened.

“. . . nightmare. Daymare. I don’t know. I dreamed that I was trapped in a cave and there were spiders all around me. I could hear them in the dark. Moving. Whispering.” Raven shuddered.

Ethan, barely eighteen, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Want some coffee? I mean, if you’re tired?” He looked way out of his depth and implored Maureen to save him with a frantic look.

Raven turned to Maureen. “I wasn’t asleep. Not really. It was like I was daydreaming, but I couldn’t wake up. I’ve never . . . This has never happened to me before.”

Maureen nodded, touching Raven’s shoulder with a soothing hand. “Of course not.” She meant the words. In the six years Maureen had worked here—two part time, four full time—Raven had never dropped off for a nap while she was on duty. “I’m sure some peppermint tea will do the trick. Plenty of sugar and milk, if that’s the way you like it.”

Peppermint was one of those herbs that held a natural kind of magic that lent itself to the spell she’d augment it with as soon as she got to the café. Cleansing, happiness, healing, love, protection. All of these things were needed. Perhaps more.

Both Ethan and Raven nodded. They relaxed as Maureen took charge of the situation. “I can get it for you,” Ethan said.

Something niggled against her mind and she spurred the two of them onward with a gentle command. “Please, get one for me, too, if you wouldn’t mind. And Raven, go splash some cold water on your face.”

Raven stood as if snapping to attention. “Yes. Yes. I must look a mess.”

Maureen watched both of them go in opposite directions, then headed deeper into the administrative side of things down the back hallway. Just as she reached the break room—that was next to the mail room and one of the filing rooms—a man down the hall gave a muffled shout. Maureen abandoned her previous thought and took off in a hurry toward the voice. Jack, the museum’s maintenance man, if she wasn’t mistaken.

Jack burst out of one of the storage rooms and sprinted to the back door. He slammed it open without a pause and stopped when he made it to a shaft of sunlight. He turned his face to the sun and spread his arms wide as if bathing in it.

“Jack?”

He shook himself, then gave her a sheepish smile, but didn’t move from the sunbeam. “Bad dream. I don’t usually nap at work, but . . .” He stopped. “It wasn’t a nap. I wasn’t asleep, but I wasn’t awake. I was daydreaming.”

“Daydream nightmare?”

He nodded. “I was in darkness and suffocating. It was like the darkness itself had weight.” He shook himself again, a full-body gesture almost like a shudder. “Just needed to see the sun.”

After a couple minutes of silence, Jack glancing between her and the sky, Maureen beckoned him back into the museum. “Come on in and get some peppermint tea from the café. It’s a good time for it. I’m getting some myself.” As Jack did, Maureen knew something very strange was happening to the denizens of the museum. Right now, peppermint tea was what would help everyone, but she needed a better answer. There was only one person she could turn to.

Felicia opened the door before Maureen knocked. “What?”

“A pleasure to see you too, dear.”

The other older woman stepped back, letting Maureen into her tidy cottage. “It’s not Wednesday for tea. I could feel you coming miles away—all the way from the museum. Something’s wrong. What?”

Maureen clasped her hands together. “You do care.”

“I care about my solitude, my games, and my time. The sooner I help you with whatever it is, the sooner I get back to my routine.” Felicia paused and peered at Maureen’s face, glanced at the clock, and scowled some more. “Shall I put tea on?”

“Please.”

Maureen waited until Felicia returned with a tea tray. She smiled as she noted that her cranky friend had added finger sandwiches, fruit, and cheese wedges to the usual small tea cakes and cookies. “Something’s up at the museum. I think it has to do with a package that just arrived from Egypt.”

“But you don’t know?”

“No.”

“All right, tell me.”

Maureen told the tale from beginning to end, starting with Kulwinder’s arrival and ending with the mini tea party in the museum café. “Everyone huddled together like they needed protection. I didn’t feel any of the bad vibes. I don’t know why not. But the most interesting thing is the fact that Mr. Sperling didn’t poke his head out of his office, even though Raven screamed right outside it. Nor did he answer my knock.”

“What did you wear today?” Felicia took a sip of her tea.

“What I’m wearing now. I came . . .”

She stopped as Felicia shook her head impatiently and asked again, “What did you wear today?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, my usual protections and wards against that which would harm me.”

Felicia gestured her cup at Maureen. “Clearly they worked. That’s why you’re fine. Now. What do you want from me? Why aren’t you going to the Wilson girl to solve this problem?”

“Karen Wilson?”

“She’s the only Master of the City representative I know of. She’s the one who deals with things like this.” Felicia took a vicious bite of a finger sandwich.

Ignoring the implied threat, Maureen shook her head. “We all like the Wilson girl . . .”

“Speak for yourself.”

“. . . but she doesn’t have any actual magical power. She’s mundane but she’s got allies and she did get adopted by a baby gargoyle which links her into that set. Still, it’s not like she could do anything about this herself.”

“Then her allies could take care of it.”

Maureen sipped her tea, watching Felicia over the rim of the teacup. “The Stewart Historic Museum may be the smallest regional museum in Kendrick, but it’s my museum and I am asking you for help. I don’t want my little museum to come to the attention of the Wilson girl, her allies, or the Master of the City. That’s borrowing trouble when I don’t need it. At least, not until we’ve solved the problem. Please?”

Scowling all the more, Felicia took another bite of her sandwich, then gestured it at Maureen to continue.

Satisfied that she was going to get her way, Maureen pursed her lips, thinking. “The stone tablet. There’s something about it. Something I don’t recognize, but you might.”

“Me?”

“Well, you have a different way to your magic than I do. You might . . . you know?”

Felicia clunked her teacup down. “I’m not a black witch. I simply do not suffer fools. At all. I am a pragmatic witch. If someone gets hurt in the process, they deserve what they get.”

Maureen let out a slow breath through her nose. “Like I said, you have a different way about you and your magic than I do. You may have come across this in your . . . pragmatic way. Will you help?”

“Will it get you to leave me alone quicker?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. What do you want to do?”

“Come to the museum tomorrow and help me figure it out.”

Felicia shook her head. “No.”

Maureen tilted her head in a question.

“No,” Felicia repeated. “If I’m going to do this, we go now, tonight, and nip this thing in the bud before it has time to grow.”

“But the museum isn’t open right now.”

“Do you really want the public around when I use my ‘pragmatic magic’ to fight something from a stone tablet? Do you?”

It was Maureen’s turn to frown. “No. Not really.”

Felicia stood. “Fine. Let’s get ready. Do you need anything from your house?”

“No . . .” she said, looking Felicia up and down. “I have my satchel with me. But there is one thing . . .”

“I hate you so much,” Felicia growled, her arms crossed. “I do not want to wear that ugly thing.” She glared at the blue canvas vest with “Docent” emblazoned on its front and back in white.

Maureen’s face remained passive, pleasant, and uncompromising. “All docents need to wear these. It’s the only way you’ll be allowed in the back hallways. Please?”

Felicia snatched the vest with a scowl and put it on. “You owe me for this.”

“I know.” Maureen gave her a once-over and nodded her approval. They both wore comfortable black pants and black shirts along with the docent vests. They also had identical satchels over their shoulders—embroidered with colorful symbols, patterns, and swirls. Felicia’s curly gray hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail. “You look respectable.”

“I’ll teach you about respect . . .”

“More to the point, you look like you belong. A docent-in-training if the night guard catches us doing something we shouldn’t.” Maureen kept her voice light and unconcerned.

“We’re standing in the darkened parking lot of the closed museum. Of course we’re doing something we shouldn’t.”

“Now, now. No one knows whether I bring prospective docents in after hours for training. It’s a plausible enough story. Besides, you were the one who said we need to do this now.”

Felicia waved a hand. “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

The two of them walked up to the back entrance to the museum. Maureen stopped and looked at the cars parked next to the building. “Looks like Harold’s car and Joseph’s car.”

“And they are . . . ?”

“Harold Sperling, the curator. He’s usually gone home by now.” Maureen flipped through a ring of keys. “Joe’s the night security guard. There’s two of them. One works three nights a week. The other, Adam, works four nights a week.”

“Didn’t ask for their life stories.” Felicia made a gesture with two fingers and a small glowing glyph hung in the air for a couple of seconds before fading away. “Also, the last fifteen minutes of video surveillance is gone along with the next two hours.”

“Felicia!” Maureen paused as she opened the door.

“What? Do you want to be on camera? Also, do you think we’re going to do this without any damage?”

The other woman grimaced. “All right. But let’s keep the damage to a minimum. Please?”

“I’m the ‘pragmatic’ one, remember? I’ll do what I have to do.” Felicia nodded ahead and down the hall as she closed the door behind them. “You’re up.”

Joseph Lolen, the night guard, hurried down the hallway toward them. “Maureen? You’re not supposed to be here. Did you forget something?” He looked around, nervous and unhappy. “Who’s this?”

“This is Felicia. I’m taking her on a tour of the museum before she starts formal docent training.” Maureen pointed at Felicia’s blue vest.

Joe rubbed the side of his head, his body jerking in small, uncomfortable twitches. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. That’s not standard procedure. There’s something wrong here tonight. You two need to go.”

Maureen muttered, “Oh, bother.” Then she looked Joe in the eye. “It’s time for you to take your lunch. You’ve decided to go to that twenty-four-hour diner on Central Way. You’re hungry. You’ve got the time. I’ll be here.”

Joe’s eyes got a faraway glassy look. “Crystal Creek Café. Right. You’ll be here.” He drifted past them to the back entrance. “I’m hungry.” Without looking left or right, he exited.

As the security guard left, Felicia snorted. “I’m not the only pragmatic witch around here. Even I don’t cloud the mind like that on a whim.”

Maureen peered down her nose at her companion. “Not a whim. I needed him away from here. He wasn’t acting like his normal friendly self. You can feel something coming from that way, can’t you?” She gestured down the hallway toward the back offices.

“Yes. Something we need to deal with.” Felicia narrowed her eyes before she nodded for Maureen to lead the way.

The two of them moved through the dimly lit hallway until it opened up into the vestibule where Raven usually sat outside the curator’s office, the office filing and printer room, and the small break room for the staff. They stopped next to the secretary’s desk and gazed at the curator’s office door.

“He’s still inside. I can feel him.”

“I can feel whatever he’s doing and it’s not good.” Felicia stepped forward and touched the doorknob. “Locked.” A twist of her ring later, she gestured to the door. “No longer locked. After you.”

Maureen gave her a look. “Thank you.”

The moment the door was open, Maureen knew that everything that was happening to the museum workers was the fault of the stone tablet and Harold. His usually messy office was even more of a disaster with most of the furniture pushed to the walls, clearing a spot in the middle where Harold Sperling sat cross-legged in the center of a drawn circle. Before him was the stone tablet and a couple of things collected from around the museum. A knife from the 1700s, a small woven basket from the Makah Indian tribe, and several large crystals from the geology exhibit. None of them should’ve been out of their cases.

Maureen and Felicia stared at the scene for a long minute, taking it in. Felicia clapped her hands a couple of times. Harold did not stir. He seemed to be asleep with his eyes open.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to knock him upside the head,” Maureen said as she reached for a small but heavy statue sitting on a pedestal just outside the doorway.

“Hold your horses.” Felicia shook her head. “One, you have no idea what kind of magical barrier is around him. Two, if I’m not mistaken, that’s actually a valuable piece of artwork. Three, we know where the entity is. You have no idea where it would go next. Into you? Into me? Use your head, woman.”

Glancing down at the statue in her hand, she knew it was just a reproduction of Sleeping Muse by Constantin Brâncuşi. The father of modern sculpture, his work was technically perfect, but not especially pretty. She returned it to the pedestal and stared back into the office, taking the scene in again.

They stood that way, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, for a few silent moments.

“I’ve seen enough,” Felicia said as she reached out to the open door and pulled it closed.

“What is it? It’s familiar, but . . .” Maureen shook her head. “I can’t grasp hold of it.”

“Whispers in the dark.”

“Meaning?”

Felicia looked troubled. “Just what I said. This is bad. Very bad. I don’t know the exact ritual he’s doing but we’ve got to stop him before he finishes it.”

“So you know what it is?”

“I’ve seen . . . heard . . . something about it. I thought it was rumors. Legends.” Felicia shook her head. “If he finishes, I think all of us will be having nightmares for a long time to come. In any case, all of it is bad news on burnt toast.”

“I can see that. Do you know what to do about it?”

The other woman thought for a long moment. She started to speak, then stopped herself several times before she finally asked, “Can you play a musical instrument?”

Maureen blew out a breath. “Ah . . . yes. Badly.”

“Can you follow a simple tune and keep it up while all hell breaks loose?”

She saw how serious Felicia was and turned her flippant answer into a short “Yes.”

“Good. The first thing we need to do is make sure everyone is out of the museum. The second is that we’re going to need a few things.” Felicia waved a hand at Maureen. “Go do your mind-clouding thing if there’s anyone else in the building.”

“There shouldn’t be.”

“Go check. Now. Then we’ll get to work.”

Maureen was partway down the hall when she stopped. “What are you going to do?”

“Pray.” The word fell from Felicia’s lips like a heavy stone hitting the ground.

Much to Maureen’s surprise, Raven was still in the museum. She stood in the women’s bathroom, staring at her face in the mirror. Her eyes were large, pupils dilated. She didn’t react to Maureen entering the lavatory.

“Raven?”

At first, it seemed like Raven hadn’t heard Maureen. Then the short woman turned, her multicolored hair fluttering in an unfelt wind. “The music will not hold Him. It failed before. It will fail now.”

Goose bumps broke out all over Maureen’s body. The voice coming from Raven’s mouth did not belong to the secretary. It was deeper. Older. So old. So ancient. What could one do against something so powerful? She gave her head a violent shake, making her fluffy white hair fly. “That’s enough of that.”

Pulling a bundle of herbs from her satchel, she lit it with an arcane word. When the bundle burned enough to smoke, she blew the flame out, leaving the fragrant herbs to smolder. Maureen blew the smoke into Raven’s face.

Raven took an involuntary breath and began to cough. When she looked up, her eyes got wide with confusion and terror. “Maureen? What?” She looked around. “Why am I here?”

“You’re dreaming.” Maureen blew more smoke into Raven’s face, making her flinch back. She cupped the younger woman under the chin and forced her face up. When their eyes met, she said, “You’re dreaming. It was scary but it’s fine now. You’re going to go home. You’re going to leave now. You’re not going to stop, though you’ll obey all traffic laws. When you get home, you’re going to sit in your car and wake up. You were exhausted. Do you understand?”

Raven nodded as Maureen forced the compulsion deep. She hated doing things like this. But, like it or not, sometimes Felicia’s pragmatic ways were necessary. Right now, it was more important to get the innocents out of the building than to be gentle about it. They’d never know what danger they’d narrowly avoided.

Though, Maureen considered, as she closed and locked the rear entrance behind Raven, she would have to watch everyone on staff for remnants of whatever it was they were about to expel from her museum.

With Raven escorted out, and a final check that the building was actually empty, Maureen returned to Felicia. The other witch had been busy. She sat outside Harold’s office with her colorful satchel at her side. From it, she’d taken some of her personal implements—her ritual knife; incense that was burning; several small bags of salt, now open but still full. There was more, but Felicia struggled to her feet. “Good. I need you to find a wind instrument. A pipe. A flute. Something that you can play.”

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”

“As soon as I figure it out. And that starts with you getting yourself something you can blow.”

“All right. All right.” Maureen thought about it. “There’s an exhibit of modern-day Pacific Northwest Native American instruments . . .”

“Maureen?”

She focused on Felicia.

“I don’t care. Just get it. Things are getting worse, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Now that she mentioned it, Maureen could feel the tightness of a headache at her temples. “Right.” She hurried away. The museum felt abandoned and desolate, even though the evening lights were on. Things seemed to watch her from the shadows as her steps echoed against the tile floor. Yes, things were getting worse. Strong enough to get through her wards.

Fortunately, the specific exhibit she was thinking of was only behind a rope barrier and not behind glass. Maureen didn’t want to think what would’ve happened otherwise. The museum was scraping by as it was. A damaged exhibit could be the end of things. She shook her head. “Don’t borrow trouble. You have enough to deal with already.”

As Maureen moved through the dim hallways she felt watched. She stopped and listened, trying to find the source of her disquiet. Something whispered in her ear, words too low to understand. She whirled around. Nothing but shadows. Again something whispered in her ear. This time she heard it.

Weak.

She turned to catch sight of movement in shadow.

Invisible old woman.

“No.” Maureen shook her head. “Not that.” She turned again as a shadow hand stripped her of her satchel.

Useless, unwanted, unloved.

The shadows grew all around her until she could see nothing of the exhibit she’d been headed toward. She stepped backward but the shadows were solid behind her. They closed in, muttering, covering, smothering her.

Weak, old, worthless. Wicked, unwanted, hated. Nothing to this world.

Maureen pushed against the whispers as much as she did the slowly constricting shadows. Her breath came in pants as she felt squeezed physically and mentally. Everything disappeared.

Hag. Hated. Witch. You will die alone and unremarked.

Anger flared at those last words. Maureen forced herself to calm. She knew the whispers were using her own fears against her. The fears of an old woman in a society that does not love or revere the wisdom of age as it once did. The hatred of a society that prized youth above all. The fear of a child rejected by a father who did not want her to follow in her mother’s footsteps, who had followed the path of the women in her family for generations.

“Hag, you say? Weak, old, useless? I will show you what this witch can do.”

Maureen closed her eyes, blocking the shadows from sight. Tilting her face upward, she found the light within that burned inside all of the women of her family and cupped her hands before her. She felt the warmth of her inner light before she sensed it glowing from her palms. Harnessing her anger and fear, she funneled it through that light and let it be transformed. Peace descended and she opened her eyes.

The shadows were still there but they’d drawn back from her.

“It’s time for you to go. I have work to do.” She released the transformed power in a single burst of light that banished the shadows that had sought to stop her. Without looking, she reached out a hand and found the satchel that had been pulled from her shoulder. The object of her need before her, Maureen completed her task.

Flute in hand, she walked at a good clip back to where Felicia was waiting. This time, it looked like her peer was ready. She waved the flute at Felicia. “I have it.”

“Good. Here’s the tune.” She hummed a five-note tune. “Got it?”

Maureen twirled her hand for Felicia to repeat the tune. “D . . . E . . . C . . . C . . . G. Okay.” She gave an experimental whirl on the flute, taking a couple of times to find the correct notes. She fingered the flute until Felicia nodded.

“That’s right. Hold the fourth and fifth notes a touch longer.”

Maureen did as she was told. She repeated the musical phrase four times and stopped. “Just keep repeating this?”

“Yes. Don’t stop. No matter what happens. Just play the music. Steady and consistent.”

“Inside or outside the room?”

Felicia grimaced. “Inside. As soon as I close the door, start. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Felicia opened the door and all was set as it was before: Harold in the middle of the room within a ritual circle with the implements and the stone tablet. Though, this time, he, and all the things within the circle, were floating.

Maureen began playing at Felicia’s nod. She moved to one side of the room as Felicia walked around the ritual circle, prodding it with a sensibly shod toe. With a grunt, Felicia poured one pouch of salt in a haphazard line on top of one quarter of the circle. She looked over her shoulder, gimlet eyes hard. “Keep playing. It’s about to get messy.”

Maureen nodded her upper body, not missing a note.

With a breath, Felicia steeled herself and heaved a mighty kick at the quarter of the circle covered in salt. Her foot rebounded against air and she yelped at the pain. “Bastard,” she muttered, then reset herself and heaved a second kick at the circle. Again it rebounded. “Third time swings true.” On her third kick, Felicia also thrust her ritual knife before her as if stabbing leather.

The sound of tearing fabric ripped through the air.

Maureen shifted to keep Felicia in sight and to blow her musical attack toward Harold through the tear in the ritual circle. Wind buffeted them both as Felicia forced her way into whatever ritual spell Harold was part of. At this point, she was sure that Harold had no idea what he was doing—if it was him in his body at all.

Felicia held out her exposed forearm and slashed it with her knife. Her cries of pain, if there were any, were lost to the howling wind. She chopped the air with her injured arm in the four cardinal directions; blood flew from her wounds to splatter against the basket, knife, and crystals floating in the air. As the crimson droplets struck true, the implements crashed to the ground.

When Felicia’s blood struck Harold and the stone tablet, he wobbled but remained in the air and Felicia’s blood was sucked into the tablet.

Felicia slashed her already injured arm again before she dropped her knife and grabbed the tablet, pressing her bloody arm to the stone. Harold let out an unearthly shriek.

Maureen bobbled the tune as the sound raked over her mind. It took her a precious moment to regain her fingering. In that one moment, Harold backhanded Felicia hard.

Felicia stumbled back a step but didn’t let go of the stone tablet. With her own horrifying shriek, she wrenched herself away from Harold, twisting the cursed thing from him. Still shrieking—this time in the tune that Maureen played—she raised the tablet above her head, then slammed it to the ground with as much adrenaline-fueled anger as she could summon.

The stone tablet broke into pieces and all sound stopped except for Maureen’s playing. Harold collapsed to the carpet. Felicia picked up the biggest unbroken piece and looked at it. “You can stop now.”

Maureen broke off in midtune. “Are you all right?”

Felicia shook her head. “I’ve been better. But I’ll be fine soon enough.”

“Oh, dear. What a mess.” Maureen looked around the room. “We need to fix this.”

“I’m going to leave that to you.” Felicia put the piece of stone into the docent vest pouch pocket. “Keeping this to study. Best if it’s not put back together again.”

“Yes.” Maureen gazed at Harold’s unmoving form. “I have an idea. You rest.”

“Mr. Sperling? Harold? Are you all right?” Maureen shook Harold’s shoulder.

Harold blinked owlish eyes at Maureen. “What? What happened?”

“You hit your head on the desk after you dropped the artifact.”

“What? I dropped the artifact?” He looked between Maureen and Felicia.

The two of them nodded and said “Yes” at the same time. Without consulting each other, they both pushed the compulsion deeper into his mind until he could see himself dropping the stone tablet. Maureen eased off as his eyes got wide with the “memory” of what happened.

“I’m so sorry, sir. You were showing it to me.” Felicia didn’t look a bit sorry. “I guess it was heavier than you thought.”

Harold pushed Maureen’s hands away and struggled to his feet. “What?” he repeated. “What happened?”

Maureen handed him a paper cup of water. “When you dropped the stone tablet, you dived for it but hit your head. You were bleeding.”

He looked at the room and the shards of stone on the floor. “I’m bleeding? Why is my furniture like this?”

“I don’t know. It was like that when we entered. I just came to introduce Felicia to you. She’s trying out to be a docent like me.”

Felicia chimed in, “It seems like a good job for an older woman like me. Good pay, too.”

Harold shook his head too vigorously and staggered. Maureen steadied him before steering him to lean against his desk. “No. I’m sorry. Docent isn’t a paid position.” He glanced at Maureen. “Usually. I still don’t know why we pay you. Then again, you do more than docent duties. Always have.” He shook his head again, more carefully, holding it with one hand. “I’m afraid the Stewart Museum doesn’t even have room for another unpaid docent.”

“Are you sure?” Felicia asked, trying and failing to keep the smile off her face.

“I’m sure.” He pulled himself together. “Now, if you two would leave me. I need to make sense of this mess.” He turned to his desk and frowned. “Why would I move . . . ?”

“Have a good evening, Harold. I’ll lock up.” Maureen took Felicia by the arm and led her from Harold’s office, closing the door behind her.

Felicia made a sound that was half laughter, half snort. “Just wait until he figures out what time it is.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be fine with that thing?” Maureen nodded to the docent vest pouch pocket.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure it’s fine now.”

The two of them walked in silence until they got to the museum’s back door. Maureen grimaced. “I suppose we ought to let the Wilson girl know about this now.”

Felicia scoffed. “Why? We dealt with it.”

“Because you were right. She’s the Master of the City representative and because we did deal with it. This is the sort of thing she’d like to know about. Also, I’m sure one of her allies is going to tell her about the power flare we sent up tonight.”

“Point. I could feel you across the museum. What did you have to fight?”

Maureen shook her head. “Nothing too bad. So, you’ll do it? The report?”

“That’s up to you. Write whatever you want. I’ll sign it afterward.” Felicia eyed Maureen. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Docents don’t get paid? Weren’t you the one to tell me about this job? Paycheck and all?”

Felicia looked away, her nose in the air. “I don’t remember.”

Maureen put her hand on her hip. “Felicia Care, what did you do?”

The other woman rolled her eyes. “Fine. You won’t let it go until I tell you. I convinced some people with more money than sense that this little museum would be the perfect pet project. They pay for you and a little bit more every year and the museum prospers.”

“You didn’t.”

Felicia scoffed. “I did. It got you out of my hair. You wanted company and something to do. I wanted my privacy and solitude. I have my own duties to attend to. It was practical. Besides, you really do a lot more than just docent duties here, don’t you? And your museum is thriving just enough, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

The two of them stood at the museum’s back entrance, Felicia looking elsewhere and Maureen smiling at her until Felicia grumbled, “Aren’t you going to let me out? That door isn’t going to unlock itself.”

“Oh, yes.” She unlocked and opened the door. “Tea on Wednesday?”

“Don’t we always have tea on Wednesday?” Felicia swept out the door and down the stairs. She waited at the edge of the parking lot with an expectant look on her face.

“I’ll bring my report with me. You might have one or two things to add to it.” Maureen smiled and shook her head before relocking the museum door. She patted the door’s metal frame, then joined Felicia, and they both walked to the car with a satisfied step.