Today, I have an excerpt from Small Magic, which I expect back from the editor late this week or early next. It is book 3 in Many Kinds of Magic, and sends my hero and heroine to join Napoleon’s army as it advances into Russia. But in this excerpt, my heroine is using her very small gift of magic to coax compliance out of two reluctant pupils.
Clara gave in first. The temptation of the paper parrots proved too much for her, and she wrote three misspelled paragraphs about kittens. The writing showed promise. The sentence that described kittens as “tiny tigers that prowl the stables and are death to mice” was remarkably mature for her age. And Hannah was rather taken by the phrase “warm, sweet, and fierce,” which was perfectly true, even if “fierce” lacked an “i”, an “r” and a “c”, and had an extra “e” and an “s” in their place.
As her reward, Clara chose to learn how to make paper parrots rather than go out for a walk. Hannah assured her she could have both, but Clara cast a glance at her brooding sister and politely said, “Just the parrots please, Miss Prendergast.”
That being the case, the pair of them sat folding paper, Clara copying Hannah as closely as she could, and Hannah helping her to correct any mistakes. Before long, they had a little row of parrots waiting on the table.
Next came the spell. This time, Hannah said the animating rhyme out loud as Clara brushed the salt and ginger mix on one parrot after another, until a flock of them were fluttering around the room, with Clara dancing beneath them, laughing and trying to catch them.
Agnes stared at them with her mouth open, her eyes filled with longing, but when she saw Hannah watching her, she scowled, picked up a book, and began reading.
The parrots didn’t last long. They had a habit of crashing into walls or furniture, shedding some of the spelled mix and softening the paper. Hannah had already warned Clara that the effect of the spell would be temporary, and the little girl made no complaint when the last parrot crash landed on the carpet.
“Let us tidy up,” Hannah said, “and I shall ask for cheese and bread to toast for a treat.”
“For Agnes, too?” Clara asked. What a sweet child she was.
“I’m not hungry,” grumbled Agnes.
On the following day, Hannah once again talked about the benefits to both her and her pupils of cooperation, and the costs of a continued war. “For today’s treat after lessons, I propose the walk I suggested yesterday. I have another spell I should like to show you. Have you ever heard bluebells singing?”
Once again, Clara was excited to comply. She and Hannah went through her cat essay, discussing spelling and grammar. Once she had written a fair copy, they worked through a few sums. After seeing the essay, Hannah had formed a positive opinion of Nanny’s teaching abilities. Clara’s arithmetic put an end to it.
Still, the girl was bright and willing. She would learn.
Agnes, who had been watching from her seat by the nursery fireplace, said, “Nanny said we do not need to learn our numbers. Arithmetic is for men, not ladies.”
“Oh?” Hannah replied. “I think perhaps your mother would disagree with that. If you do not know your numbers, how will you manage your dress allowance. Will you just keep spending until your father growls? And when you are married, how will you know whether your cook and housekeeper are cheating you? Will you expect your husband to keep your household accounts?”
Agnes lapsed into silence, but she did not join in, so when Clara and Hannah left for their walk, Hannah asked the nursery maid to sit with Agnes.
Clara was bubbling over with excitement when they returned, eager to tell Agnes all about the wonderful singing of a forest full of bluebells. Agnes turned away and refused to listen. Clara told the nursery maid, instead.
It had been a single clearing, and the bluebells sang a simple nursery rhyme. Hannah, after all, only had small magic. But Clara had been delighted, and that was the main thing. Now Hannah had to think of something for tomorrow. Something that Agnes could not resist.
She would need to pull out her book of spells tonight, and go through it looking for ideas.
Elizabeth Donne’s writing is a natural outpouring of a lifelong love affair with English literature. Although she has spent most of her life in Cape Town, South Africa, she now lives in the American Midwest, where she enthusiastically introduces her visitors to the joys of drinking rooibos tea. With a biscuit, of course
Misty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who likes to write stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. She lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river with a handsome park ranger, two budding authors, and an ever-growing collection of books.