The Curse Jar - Part Two

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Chapter Three: The Curse Jar - Part Two

Calla

Scorpio: Strong and opinionated, other people’s views don’t usually enter into your decisions. For a change, stop and listen; see if things don’t get interesting.

Calla opened the doors to the greenhouse, stepping inside. The heat of the controlled climate hit her hard, even though the hotel had moved from the New England fall to a mountain spring during the night.

She’d spent her morning run checking out all the new flora around her, her inner botanist happy to study the dewy, supple petals after days of brittle, breaking leaves. The differences between the hotel’s constantly changing environments were fascinating, feeding her love for knowledge and novelty.

But there was something comforting about the constancy of the greenhouse, of being able to see the subtleties of growth. To see the same plant grow from a small sapling’s first bud to a full bloom, it was like magic.

Better than. With a little research, a lot of work, and tons of care, you could actually bring about a transformation. Seeds to sprouts. Saplings to trees. It was real. Tangible. Knowable. Controllable.

Calla paused by the orchids. The hardy brassavola. The temperamental chysis laevis. Lovely laelia. She checked the soil’s pH balance — jotting down notes for Mrs. K to add dolomitic lime pellets to one plant or citric acid to another in their next watering — before moving on to the lilies.

“Ah, menacing hell!”

Calla turned at the crash. “Rowan?” She wove through the greenhouse aisles, spying him as he righted an empty, spare pot — that he appeared to be using as some sort of basket.

Not a basket.

Narrowing her gaze, she could see the spilt mess pouring out of the makeshift — she shrugged, searching for the right word — cauldron, she supposed.

“What are you doing here?” She helped him scoop up handfuls of the lemon-scented muck.

She brushed a bit of soggy leaves and seeds off the old, yellowed pages of the book he’d been carrying around like a little boy with a new toy these days. “More woo-woo?” she asked, still skeptical even while she was secretly thrilled by it. Drying her hands on her jeans, she touched the pages and the elaborate calligraphy she couldn’t read. Pushing the heavy book aside a bit, she found another just like it beneath.

Huh.

“This new?” She pulled the book out only to find another smaller, thinner, newer paperback under that. Seeing the English title on the glossy cover, she reached for that one. “Domini Sorrel, the Master Metamorphist.” Flipping to the back cover, she was surprised to see that it was a book about a stage magician from the early 1900s. And, though he’d been rumored to be a practitioner of the black arts, the book claimed to reveal all the famed illusionist’s greatest show secrets.

Quirking an eyebrow at The Elysium’s own magician, she waved the book of illusions at Rowan. “What’s with the hocus-pocus puff piece? I’d think the professionals would scoff at the pretenders.”

Rowan smiled ruefully. “I think, in his time, he was more of a professional than I am.” He shrugged. “And anyway, I think it’s interesting and still a kind of magic — just a different brand.”

“You’ve been busy.” She flipped through the pages, looking at the hand-drawn diagrams showing the smoke and mirrors of every trick. “Where’d you get all these?”

“The library,” he said. “Apparently, there’s a whole section on magic — of all kinds. The boy who lives there helped me find all this.”

“There’s a boy who lives in the library?”

“I guess.” Rowan shrugged. “That’s what Flax told me.”

Not exactly much on reading or the weird, musky scent of old, used books, Calla scowled as she imagined living in such a dreary, lonely place.

She shook her head, dismissing the thought — hey, to everyone their own and all that. “So,” she asked, changing the subject, and nodded toward the potted magic, “what’s all this?”

“It’s a window washing spell I found in this book,” Rowan said, pointing to the open text on the table.

Calla shot him a funny look. “So, what,” she asked, “you thought The Elysium could do with a good scrub down?” She couldn’t understand why he was so excited by a little magical Pine Sol.

“It’s not that kind of a spell,” he said. “For Drurys, windows are in-betweens, places between the worlds. By washing the windows, one is supposed to be able to see into those places. Maybe even cross over into them.”

Calla straightened. Really? “Do you think this might be your way home?”

He tilted his head and shrugged. “I don’t know, but I have to try. And look here,” he said, flipping to the beginning of the book.

Showing what looked to be a title page, she looked at the unfamiliar words, scanning the slightly weathered paper until she found what he saw. “Aster and Clary Drury?” she read. “Drury?” she repeated. “This was written by someone in your family?”

“Ancestors from the sixteenth century, as far as I can tell.” He smiled proudly. “Apparently, I’m not the first Drury to travel between worlds.”

Remembering the mess made by the rip in Suite 315, Calla watched Rowan turn back to the spell. “Are you sure you should be doing this?” she asked. “I mean, what if the spell takes you to a different world than the one you want?”

She shook her head as she remembered how close Rowan had come to being shot in that closet.

“No,” he told her, “no, it wouldn’t be like the rip. This spell is very specific. It says that the caster should be able to see the world in the window before they enter. I’d know if it wasn’t the right world before I ever stepped foot in it.” He looked at the spell. “It’s really a relatively easy process. Practically foolproof.”

Foolproof sounded pretty good to Calla, especially considering Rowan’s tendencies to get himself into a lot of tangles. “Practically?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, pointing to a particular passage, “it says here that you have to soak basil seeds in an even mix of lemon juice and twice-blessed water.” He shrugged. “I’ve never actually blessed anything before — it was something family elders did, not the younger generations. And certainly not me. But, even if I did, I still don’t have another person to bless the water again.”

For a change, stop and listen; see if things don’t get interesting. Her horoscope better be right. Calla shrugged. “I’ll do it,” she offered.

Rowan gave her an incredulous side glance. “I don’t think,” he said warily, “it works that way. I’m pretty sure I need another magician. Maybe even another Drury.”

Calla knew she was still new to the whole magic thing but, being more scientific-minded than superstitious, she was pretty sure water was water, twice-blessed or not. How much of a difference could it make who muttered nonsense over it? “Does it say that in the book?”

“No,” Rowan said, scanning the page. “But the only people ever allowed to even look at these books were trained magicians.”

“Which sort of rules out the both of us, doesn’t it?” she said logically. “I mean, you’re pretty much self-taught, yeah? I mean, you said it yourself, you’re not exactly a professional at this.”

“No,” he hedged, “but it’s in my blood—”

“Does the spell require blood?” Calla was so not doing it if she had to give blood. There were lines. And that was creepy.

“No, but—”

“So how’s the spell going to know who blessed what?” she reasoned, grabbing the book from him to study the spell. “Just walk me through whatever I’ve got to do; I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know,” Rowan said, shuffling his feet a bit.

“Oh come on,” she said. “You want to go home, right?”

He nodded.

“So let me try. You said it yourself, the spell is practically foolproof.” She shrugged. “How bad could it be?”

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