“Are we going to be safe here?” Paige asks.
“This is the safest place for us.”
Paige turns to the room we’ll be sharing. “Am I going to be safe in here?”
We have never shared a room. She’s become accustomed to sleeping two locked-and-barricaded doors away from me every night. And now I know she kept a gun with her, too.
With little more to discuss, Paige collects a pillow and blanket and leaves to sleep on the living room sofa. I close the door and lock it, for whatever good that might do. As an added precaution, I reach into my suitcase, pull out two Klonopin, and swallow them. I don’t bother changing clothes. I pass out in my nurse scrubs.
* * *
I wake up to the smell of bacon, eggs, and other delights wafting from the upstairs kitchen. I groggily open my eyes and discover a fresh mug of coffee at the bedside table. With great reluctance, I sit up and grab the beverage. The porcelain is still hot, and the first sip is a mélange of floral and earthy flavors. Perfection.
Before heading upstairs to the kitchen, I take a moment to change out of the scrubs and into something normal. I remove my sling and take off my top. With a wet washcloth, I wipe away the dried blood around my shoulder. The bullet hole is sealed shut, but the wound and stitches remain.
It’s hard to imagine that I was shot less than twenty-four hours ago. I rotate my shoulder, testing its strength. When I stretch too far, the pain hampers my movement, but remarkably, I feel like I’m nearly at full strength.
I unravel the bandages on my feet. Likewise, any hint of injury is gone. Perhaps the reason my feet healed faster was because of the superficial nature of the wounds, unlike the muscle-and-nerve damage to my shoulder. There are no abrasions or cuts on the soles from the metal tread of the fire escape—though I could use a pedicure.
I grab my coffee and head upstairs. Paige sits on a stool at the granite kitchen counter. She’s dressed in her normal running outfit, but on this particular morning, she’s not a matted mess of sweat. By this hour, she has usually finished her first ten miles. On the kitchen island and on the counter before Paige is a feast of bacon, country-fried potatoes, waffles, fruit, and more coffee.
Taking a seat next to Paige, I can see she’s transfixed by Fiona, who’s holding an egg. “Okay,” Paige says, “sunny-side up.”
Fiona holds an egg in her fist. She smiles then rubs her other hand over the closed fist. With a flick of her wrist, she smacks the egg with one hand against the counter then opens the shell over Paige’s plate. Out plops a perfect sunny-side-up egg. Steam rises from the round yolk.
Fiona turns to me and smiles warmly. “Good morning.” She slides a plate stacked with food in front of me.
Paige is still staring at her plate. “This is insane.” She turns to me. “Did you know she could do this?” Then she asks Fiona, “What if I wanted green eggs? Could you do that?”
“How long has she been doing this?” I ask Fiona.
“All morning, dear,” Fiona says with a patient smile. She cracks another egg on the counter and deposits one green poached egg on Paige’s plate.
“This is insane,” Paige says again.
Fiona turns to me. “How are you wanting your eggs?”
“Scrambled, please.”
“No!” Paige shouts. “That’s boring.” She turns to Fiona, “Can you add other ingredients? Can you do an omelet?”
“Let’s not ask our hostess to perform for us,” I suggest.
She watches as Fiona shakes two eggs in her hand then cracks them open. Warm, moist scrambled eggs collapse onto my plate. “That’s insane,” Paige repeats.
I’ve been lucky enough to see Fiona cast some serious spells, so I know these minor tricks are nothing for her. Still, it feels like witnessing tiny little miracles. For Paige, this is something else. She’s always been one to try to understand how things work. She’ll disassemble something just so she can see how all the parts create a whole. That’s how she got into computers—locked away in her room, she tried to understand how a CPU, RAM, a motherboard, and a hard drive could transform ones and zeroes into something presentable. Paige’s mind won’t rest until she understands.
“Okay,” Paige proceeds meekly. “Like, how do you do… this?”
“You mean magic?” Fiona asks.
“Is that what this is? I mean, I know you’re a…” Paige hesitates.
“Witch?” I finish for her.
“Is that okay to say?” Paige asks. “That’s not a derogatory term?”
“Not at all, dear,” Fiona says.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know the difference between magic and witchcraft. Or if it’s okay to say witches or wizards or sorcerers.”
I drop my fork. “Paige!”
Paige freezes. She turns to Fiona, who smiles. “I’m afraid your friend is winding you up,” Fiona assures her.
Paige punches my arm—the injured one. I flinch, expecting intense pain. Surprisingly, the wound doesn’t split open. Still, Paige is strong, and it hurts.
“Okay,” Paige continues. “So, with magic, how do you do it? Can you just conjure up anything you want?”
“No, it doesn’t quite work that way. Think of magic as a way of transmitting, transforming energy or matter.” Fiona lifts an egg. “I can heat this egg, and I can mess about with them to cook them any way I want. But I cannot make an omelet because I cannot change the egg into onions or ham or cheese.”
“But you made it green. There’s no green inside. How did you do that?”
“I know how to manipulate what’s inside this shell. Inside are other elements—sulfur in the whites and iron in the yolks. You combine those, you get green.”
Paige is clearly fascinated by all this. Truth be told, I never asked Fiona for the details of her magic. Maybe I was embarrassed or afraid I
