The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic

something?”

“Do I want something?” Nora laughed, a little puzzled. “I wanted to see how everyone’s doing.”

“We’re doing okay,” Ramona said tightly. She added: “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, honey,” Nora said, settling herself on the edge of the bed and reaching out for Ramona. She could barely feel her sister’s shoulder. Ramona flinched.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Nora said, stricken. “You know, I’m not really here—it’s hard to explain.”

“That’s okay,” Ramona said stoically. “Your hand just felt weird. And you don’t have to explain. I know what happened.”

“You do?” Nora looked hard at her sister and saw the fear in her face. She gasped. “Ramona, I am not dead.”

From Ramona’s expression, she was plainly unconvinced. “You don’t feel real,” Ramona objected. “How do you know you’re not dead?”

“I know it.” Nora thought for a second, then held up one of her braids. “Look, see how long my hair has grown. That wouldn’t happen if I were dead.”

“This boy at school, Zach, said your hair and fingernails keep growing after you’re dead.”

“Not this long. Ramona, I promise, I’m not dead.”

“Then what happened?” Ramona asked, her voice wavering. “It’s been six months since you disappeared. Mom and Dad won’t say anything, but I know they think you’re dead. Dad talks to the police—”

Nora remembered the yellow crime scene tape in the mountain graveyard. She wanted to give Ramona a hug, then decided against it. “Listen to me, Ramona, I’m not dead, I just got lost. Really lost. This is hard to believe, I know, but I’m actually in a totally different world. I’m just visiting though, um—through magic.”

Ramona stared at her for a long minute. “Oh,” she said finally.

“So I’m not dead, okay? Do you believe me?”

“I guess,” Ramona said. “What kind of magic?”

There was a gleam of light from the hallway. The second candle advanced into the room, Aruendiel’s dark figure behind it. He looked quizzically at Nora.

Ramona sucked in her breath. “Snape!”

“What are you talking about?” Nora asked. “This is Aruendiel—the magician Aruendiel.” She cleared her throat. “He’s the one who did the magic that I was telling you about.”

“You mean it, Nora?” Ramona asked, sounding almost angry. “He’s a magician?”

“Yes—I know it sounds unbelievable,” Nora said, half-apologetic. She looked up at Aruendiel. “This is my little sister Ramona. She can see us, Aruendiel,” she said in Ors.

“Very curious,” Aruendiel said, leaning closer. He and Ramona stared at each other. In the bright, cozy clutter of the child’s bedroom, next to the pink-shaded lamp and the poster of the palomino, he looked especially dry, gaunt, imposing. All at once Nora felt oddly protective, and not just of her sister.

“Don’t be frightened, he’s really very nice,” she said to Ramona quietly.

“What did you say to him? What language were you speaking?” Ramona demanded.

“It’s called Ors—it’s the language of his world,” Nora said. “I was telling him that you can see us. Leigh and Dad couldn’t.”

“Really?” Ramona seemed pleased by the information. She did not resist when Aruendiel took hold of her chin and tilted her head up so that he could look into her nostrils, then turned it to the side so that he could examine her ears.

“How old is she?” he asked.

“Ten—no, wait, eleven,” Nora said. “I’ve been away for six months, apparently.”

“Now what are you saying?” Ramona said.

“He wants to know how old you are.” In Ors: “Does her age matter?”

“A child, a girl who has not reached the age of womanhood, might be more receptive to sensing something otherworldly,” Aruendiel said reflectively. “She also is feverish. Perhaps she sees us because she is delirious.”

“Feverish!” In English, Nora asked her: “Ramona, are you sick?”

“I have a sore throat,” Ramona allowed.

Nora put her hand to Ramona’s forehead, but could not judge the temperature of her sister’s skin. “Where’s your mom?”

“She has an overnight shift at the hospital.”

“Did you tell Dad you’re not feeling well?” Nora asked. Ramona shook her head. “Well, you need to tell him and ask him to give you some children’s Tylenol.”

“No, he’s—Mom says to leave him alone at night.”

“When he’s drunk, you mean?” Nora gave a sigh of frustration. “When did that start? He never used to drink more than one or two beers a night.”

The glance that Ramona shot at her was half-contemptuous, half-pitying. “Well, what do you think, Nora? We thought you were dead.”

“Oh, balls,” said Nora. She clutched her forehead.

“Well, not everyone. Your mom thinks you’ve been kidnapped by pagan cultists. She keeps calling Dad about it.” No wonder he was hitting the bottle, Nora thought. Ramona went on: “She had a vision of you worshipping fire.”

“Fire, really?” Nora forgot her sense of guilty unease. “You know, my mom is a little creepy sometimes. I have been doing some fire magic—Aruendiel is teaching me. Not worship.”

“You’re learning magic! That is so cool! Can you do some magic now?”

Nora hesitated. In her own world, the idea of inducing fire or water to do her will suddenly struck her as unlikely. “I can do it in the other world, but here, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I’m still pretty new at this.”

“Could the magician, Aruendiel—” Ramona pronounced the name carefully. “Can he do some magic now?”

Aruendiel had been moving around the room, solemnly inspecting Ramona’s menagerie of stuffed animals, her books, the map of Narnia, her soccer trophies. He had paused in front of a shelf that held two large framed photographs. One was of Nora, smiling, squinting a little, in graduation robes. Now he turned.

“Your sister is not satisfied with having visitors from another world?” he said, his brows swooping together. “She would like to see still greater magic? Kings have been grateful for far less.”

“Aruendiel! You understand English?” Nora asked, shocked, pleased.

“It comes back to me,” he said, with a nonchalant tilt of his head. “Not everything, but some of it.”

Ramona looked entreatingly at Aruendiel. “Please?” she said. “Ask him—ask him to make Friday talk.” She pointed to the foot of the bed. For the first time Nora noticed the cat drowsing there.

“Oh, Ramona, I don’t know if that’s even possible.” To Aruendiel, in Ors: “Did you get that? She wants the cat to talk. Shall I tell her no?”

“Tell her to be patient for a little while.” He bent over the cat, holding the candle so close it seemed that he might set the animal’s fur alight. Affronted, the cat uncoiled its head, and gazed haughtily up at Aruendiel. There was something eerily similar in their respective stares.

Aruendiel straightened and nodded at Ramona. She flung herself forward and pulled the cat onto her lap. “Friday! Friday! Can you understand me?” she asked solicitously. “Can you say something?”

The cat squirmed out of her arms and leaped from the bed. “I was trying to sleep,” it said as it stalked out of the room. “Stupid bitch.”

“Oh, my gosh!” Ramona’s mouth worked like a goldfish’s.

“There are a number of good spells for making an animal speak,” Aruendiel said to Nora. “It is far more difficult to make them say anything worth listening to.”

“That was amazing!” Ramona said, although she looked a little shaken. “Nora, are you going to learn to do that? What else can he do?”

“What do you say, Ramona?” Nora asked warningly.

“I was going to say it! Thank you.” She bobbed her head.