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This is one of the stories I wrote over the Christmas break. I wish I had a pic of the actual brown pot it's written for because it's a real piece of pottery that my sister made in her ceramics class last semester and it's COOL! Anyway, I don't know why I've been holding onto this other than sometimes it's good to hold onto things for awhile just to make sure they still feel right when you need them again.
Title: Bottled Up
Word Count: 5257
Characters: Patrice, Jace
“Rain water,” Patrice muttered, her forehead furrowed as she struggled to remember what else she needed to add to her list. She needed to remember to add things to the list through the week instead of standing at the counter on Friday and trying to add things from memory. It never worked well and she always ended up leaving something off.
This Friday, she was closing down the shop because Hera wasn’t coming in. She’d said something about a doctor’s appointment when she’d been here last, waving off any questions that Patrice might have wanted to ask. If it was important, she’d find out about it soon enough and so had held her peace.
“Particle board. No, I got that last time. Wonder where I put it?” She glanced around the dim shop, not having taken the time to light any of the lamps in the dimness of early morning. The sun was just starting to make its way onto the rim of the horizon but there wasn’t quite enough light yet to see things clearly. It wasn’t like she needed to go far to find a match, seeing as how all she had to do was open her hand, palm up, and call up a flame.
Today of all days, she’d decided she didn’t have the time to call a part of her away and replace it as she left. Today of all days…
“Bananas. If they have any. Or oranges. I’ve been craving fruit again. And gum. Gotta have some of that.”
The first rays of the sun struck the front windows of the shop, their light difusing into the objects that lines the shelves set up for just this purpose. This time of day, more than any other, the wares she sold were full of fire and life. A bowl, the color and texture of a ripe lemon, seemed to shiver as the glaze reflected the wavering summer sunlight. Next to it, a tiny blue man leaning against a rock shrugged, yawned and sank back into position. It was all an illusion, a play of the light and the glaze. Patrice didn’t usually take the time to watch the magic work but she was happy to see it this morning. It always reminded her that she was very skilled at her art and it made her happy to see all the pieces of her collection relish the natural light. They never did this in artificial light or even the fire of her own making. Only dawn could do this.
“Tea bags.” She added it to the list as she remembered that she was nearly out of her favorite kind. It was a special blend that she had Yvette make up for her, heavy on the spices and citrus.
“Ten penny nails.” The shelves in the back were going to need some strengthening soon. She’d gotten in a new supply of clay and it would need to be set out to ripen so there was nothing for her to work with in the meantime. Since the clay was as normal as anything gotten on the other side of Allen Street, the supplier was a Mundane contact of hers at an art supply store that she frequented from time to time when she was too lazy to make her own glazes, it would need to sit in the back of the shop for a bit before she could work with it. Now, it was just normal clay and she’d be able to make normal things out of it. Given a few weeks on Allen Street, she would be able to fashion it into something more, well, more like the things on the shelves around her gallery.
Her newest piece was an experiment. It was still sitting on the front counter next to the register, waiting to be placed on a shelf and possibly be sold. These days, sales were hit and miss. Her best times of the year were around Christmas and near the Summer Solstice, when her pieces were at their most active as the sun was so much closer to them. Even Mundanes could appreciate her work at those times of the year, the solstices that opened up the pathway that the magic took. The death of the year. The height of the year’s power.
The relatively small pot shivered as she stroked it with her work-roughed finger. She had clay under her unvarnished fingernails but that didn’t matter much around here, other than proclaiming that these were indeed hers. It had taken her three days to mix the glaze to get this perfect shade of sable. The designs had been the hardest for her to achieve because of the dark color underneath but she’d been able to drip whites and blues around the neck so it looked as if it was sweating out whatever might be inside.
She touched it again but it only shivered again. Strange that it wasn’t moving more. Stranger still that it felt hot under her palm as she reached out to touch it with her hand. The sun hadn’t touched it with its warming rays. She hadn’t picked it up since she’d found it dry and set it out here to be put up.
The stopper that completed the ritual pot lay beside it on the counter. She’d only put it in place once, after both pieces were completely dry to make sure that they still fit together. The compulsion to finish her work and put the stopper in came over her fast and furious and there was nothing she could do but obey.
In the still dim light of the shop, she lifted the stopper up and set it gently onto the jar, They slid together without complaint. She waited, holding her breath as if that would help speed up the minutes. When nothing happened and her lungs began to hint that they might like some air soon, she picked up her shopping list and left the shop.
Today’s shopping spree was proving to be quite unproductive. Anissa didn’t have any nails and wouldn’t until the forge bellows were fixed properly. She had no idea when that would be, muttering something about Slann not getting off his arse and fixing it properly. If Anissa couldn’t get her own husband motivated to work, there was no way that Patrice could convince him to help her out. So that she didn’t leave completely empty-handed, she bought a packet of sewing pins even though she didn’t sew. They all had a tiny bead fixed to one side so that they wouldn’t slide through the fabric completely, Anissa explained. Patrice thought they might be pretty punched through the curved back of a pitcher so they might add a glitter that her pieces rarely had from such decorations.
Gricca didn’t have any fresh fruit although there were still plenty of jars of preserves left over from this summer’s produce. Neither of the fruits that Patrice yearned for could be jarred or canned so she wandered through the aisles of food until she found a box of surgared cereal that the Mundanes were fond of and a few bottles of orange juice. Her ice box was on the fritz again so she’d need to drink the juice right away but the cereal would keep for awhile and she could pretend that the fruit shaped kernels were more like fruit and less like wheat.
Yvette was busy but promised Patrice that she would have some of the tea made up by tomorrow if she wanted to stop back by. With a nod and a small smile, Patrice left the store without purchasing anything. It didn’t seem impolite since she’d be coming back for her items.
“Sit down and I’ll be right back,” Harmony assured her as she flitted through the swinging doors of her shop. The rain water shouldn’t be hard to find since it had been a wet Fall so far but it was tricky to bottle. The tiny glass vials that Harmony used kept the water pure but they were also prone to evaporating away until there was nothing but a puddle of water on the shelf.
“Don’t hurry on my account,” Patrice called out after her but she really hoped that she did hurry. Shopping day was always better if it was over quickly and before noon. The Mundanes liked to come for lunch when they were allowed onto the Street. Even though fewer of them were around on Fridays (which is why Patrice picked that day for her own shopping), she still didn’t like to be caught in the lunch rush.
Mundanes didn’t seem to understand the basic principles of etiquette. They would breeze into any shop and just look, never talking although Patrice always greeted each one warmly. On the days when her sales were the lowest, she might have the greatest concentration of visitors. She understood that her wares were less likely to be bought in great quantity but she did carry smaller knick knacks that might be used for everyday gifts for friends for just the sort of people that walked in to gawk at the bright glazes and interesting shapes of her pottery. She’d used the name Galleria thinking it was pretty, not knowing that some people considered her shop a museum of sorts. On the other side of Allen Street, a term meaning anywhere that wasn’t the Street itself, a Galleria was a place to come and gawk and not to buy. It was too late to change the name now, though.
Since it was common courtesy to buy something no matter the nature of the visit to a store, Patrice began to look around at the small shop just in case there wasn’t any rain water available. She didn’t really need any of these potions ingredients since she bought her potions readymade. There wasn’t much in her line of work that called for anything but the lightest spell. Most of the spells she’d learned in her younger years when she’d apprenticed with a Fire Weaver were long gone, forgotten due to the ravages of time. She’d felt, at first, that all she needed was her talent and that hadn’t needed a spell or a chant. It was a different sort of magic than everything else. Now, she wished she did know how to conjure something with the right mix of materials. With the right flow of magic.
“Only have two more bottles left. The new lot isn’t combining well with the vials. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to find a new way of containing some of these items. Too bad you aren’t a glass blower by trade.”
“Or too bad that you can’t put these items into clay,” Patrice countered. She accepted one of the glass vials and dug up a few coins from her pockets. They were an odd mixture of Mundane, Fairy and barter tokens fashioned here on the street. As she counted out the right amount, she asked Harmony how her business was doing.
“Well as can be expected this time of year. Had a couple of girls come in yesterday from the other side of the Street and ask about some books on magic spells. I didn’t know quite what to say to them. They looked so young and frail I was sure that any magic they attempted to harness would eat them up in one bite but they assured me they knew what they were doing.”
“The Street seems to be letting more of those types on,” Patrice said in a hushed voice so it would be harder for the Street to hear her. “I wonder why. We aren’t in need of their money right now. Maybe in the Spring but Fall is an odd time for their kind.”
“Their Hallows Eve is coming up soon,” Harmony reminded her and both women nodded. In past years, the Street kept out the sort that were seeking out of greed or vengeance or those that weren’t meant to work with magic.
Patrice thanked the shopkeeper for the goods she’d been allowed to purchase and walked from the shop, confused and a little put out that it was so close to noon and she wasn’t safe in her shop. The sun was nearly overhead now and the shadows would be getting longer soon, the light no longer hitting her pottery straight on.
Sure enough, the little blue man was drooping and yawning as she walked by her large front windows. He waved at her merrily before leaning back against his rock and letting his eyes close. The other pots and jars were still luminous but not nearly as pretty as they’d been this morning when the light had been at its best.
The jar was still near the register and she couldn’t resist sliding her finger down it once again. This had been her last bit of clay and had set in the back room the longest. She wondered what it would do with the light of dawn hitting it. Perhaps she would set it in the window tomorrow morning. For now, she had some work to do in the back.
The fruit-shaped cereal wasn’t as good as she hoped it would be although the orange juice had a nice tang to it. She’d drunk enough of it to be thoroughly sick of it even though there was still half a jar left. It hadn’t been as sweet as she’d assumed a real orange would taste, although her memories of any citrus fruit were years out of date. She’d thought about going off the Street to look for some fruit but she didn’t like the thought of leaving. Allen Street was her home and was quite self-sustaining except for small comforts here and there. Let others brave the world out there with the roar and smell of cars driving too fast. She’d tried it once but it wasn’t for her.
It was late but still she couldn’t sleep. Something was keeping her from dropping off as easily as she normally did. If she’d had any clay to work with, she’d use up these dark hours creating but anything she made with this newest batch would be lifeless and cold. She didn’t like to see that in any of her creations, even if they were supposed to sit still and look beautiful. They needed something inside of them to give them a spark that would capture the eye and delight the fancy.
The bowl of congealed glaze caught her eye. She’d forgotten to throw it out when she was done with the newest pot. At the reminder of it, she turned and walked into the front room. Since it was the dead of night and even she couldn’t enjoy her art in the pitch black, she opened her palm and let the dancing flame show her the room. There were too many dancing shadows lurking about with only this one flame so she walked quickly through the room and lit a few more candles before closing her hand and putting the original flame back into her core.
None of the glazed items danced in this light but they did glow as if full of power. There was an inner power about them all that spoke of the magic they’d been formed from. She was especially drawn to the fire colors in this dancing light. The sparks of her own essence made them truly come into their own. These were the items that sat along the back wall where the first rays of dawn would touch them but not wake them up. They enjoyed fire most of all.
She wondered if this new jar should join the back wall. It was still warm as she picked it up and she wondered how long it would continue to hold onto this strange warmth. It wasn’t a true fire color but she’d mixed in her favorite ochre and reds that she normally used separately on the fire painted items. They were the hardest to keep pure and true. What would combining two fire colors get? Would they stay pure? Those were the questions that had hounded her as she created this item.
It didn’t feel right in the back of the store. She made a circuit but it didn’t feel right anywhere in the Galleria. The front window made it feel especially wrong and she quickly walked back to the counter where she’d picked it up from. It settled there but still seethed with a strange power that she could feel even as she stepped away.
“Do you not want to be in the Galleria?” she asked it. There was no answer in the stillness of the shop. She thought to experiment with it and took it back into the workspace she had come from. Still wrong.
As she called the candle flames back to her, she walked up the stairs to the room up above. She’d been in the upstairs of many of the other shops but still liked her space. No more walls marred the view so that the whole length of the downstairs was one wide room. The privacy of the shower and toilet were closed off with clear bricks of glass that she’d paid dearly for but it had been worth it. She sent the candle flames out to the groups of candles that lines the room at different intervals. Some were high on the wall and some were low so that the shadows were chased away quite effectively.
She wasn’t sure if this was the spot for the jar but she sat it down on the table next to her favorite chair. It seemed to blend into the books piled up there but it still didn’t like this area even though it was happy to be upstairs.
The plumbing was on the fritz and the jar was forgotten for a long hour as she cursed at the pipes running up from gods knew where to her shower. It would need to be looked at by someone with more knowledge than her but she was finally able to discover a way to get hot water flowing. Standing under the water was soothing and she was soon wrapped in the blankets of her bed and asleep.
“Then who can look at the pipes?” Patrice asked the man in front of her. He was so old that his eyes were watery; a strange blue-white color that didn’t see much but shadows. Since she’d lived on Allen Street, Pete McKittrick had been the handy man and had kept everyone in hot water and cold ice boxes. Right now, she didn’t have either.
“I’m waiting for my replacement. He hasn’t shown up but I expect him any day now.”
“Your replacement?” It seemed unthinkable that this man couldn’t do the work himself but he’d been ancient when she’d first arrived. Now, even calling him old seemed more polite than correct. “Who is he?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But I will.”
“So I won’t have hot water until then?”
“Can’t guarantee it, no. But he’ll come soon.” The man settled himself back in his chair, his fingers fiddling with the bits of yarn that were coming loose from his sweater. Kara always made sure he had a new one when his old one started to look scruffy and it appeared she’d have to take up her knitting needles once again.
Patrice walked out of the small house at the very back of the long street and turned back to her shop. Hera hadn’t come again today and so she’d left it locked up. Two days of lost business wouldn’t hurt her even though the Street seemed to once again be busy. A group of giggling teenagers nearly ran her over as they hurried past, none of them bothering to apologize for their rude behavior. It was bad business practice to chastise the customers but Patrice was feeling rude for once and scowled back at the girls as they continued on their flight to somewhere that wasn’t here. Good riddance, she thought but instantly felt contrite. It wasn’t their fault that she was living off things that didn’t need to be refrigerated or that her hot water wasn’t coming out the way it was supposed to. It was no one’s fault, really, but she still felt as if she needed to take this anger out on someone or become worse for the feeling.
She needed to create. Since the clay still wasn’t ready, she did the second best thing and walked up to her rooms upstairs. The drawing paper was still where she’d put it last time she needed it. Pencils were harder to find but she finally found one stashed downstairs where she’d used it to create a few holes in a piece that Melissa had commissioned. It had clay attached to it but she soon had the clumps cleaned off and was back upstairs in her chair with a fresh piece of paper staring at her.
Secretly, she hated this part of creating. A lump of clay was nearly as bad as the sheer white of the paper, but not enough to impede her thought process which is why she stuck with clay. Her teachers would be discouraged that she didn’t pain anymore but paints dried too quickly between the spurts of creativity she had for this sort of thing. Pencils stayed put a little bit better.
Hurridly, so there wouldn’t be quite so much white space glaring at her, Patrice stroked the pencil across the sheet so she had a few bands of varied degrees of darkness. She sighed, happy to sit and stare now that it wasn’t just white, seeing a shadow here and there that had an inkling of an idea behind it.
It was beyond dusk when she discovered that she couldn’t see what she was drawing but it didn’t seem to matter. Whatever idea she had inside of her that was moving her hand didn’t need light. Reluctantly, she put the pad down even though the ideas were still flowing. Her stomach was rumbling and her back had grown stiff from sitting in such an awkward position for so long. The idea would stay for now, just at the end of the pencil where it wouldn’t cause any disturbance.
Dinner was another bowl of cereal without milk, which she could have bought fresh today if she’d thought of it when she’d been out. She thought about pouring her last bit of orange juice over it but decided against it. Instead, she gulped down the juice and tried not to gag as the warm liquid hit the back of her throat. It was no longer tart and left an odd taste on her tongue. The cereal wasn’t any more filling than it had been the first couple of times she’d eaten it but she still took the bowl with her as she walked back to her chair.
The pad of paper was where she’d laid it but the pencil had disappeared somewhere. She stood back up and looked in the chair to see if it had rolled off and was between the cushions. When she couldn’t find it there, she put her bowl down and went down on her hands and knees to see what could possibly be underneath the chair itself. A sock, half rolled up and looking dusty enough that she threw it toward the clothes hamper. Three tacks from when she’d been in the mood to hang up pictures on every available space. They hadn’t lasted long but she kept finding tacks in the oddest places. The only other thing she found was a bit of the material of the under side of the chair that had ripped and was hanging down. And dust. Lots and lots of dust. She thought about moving the chair and firing a small flame across the hardwood of the floor to burn away the dust but thought better of it. Spring was better for that sort of thing. Everything was still too dry even with the rain they’d been getting lately.
She stood back up and dusted off her hands. No pencil. But as she looked again, it lay beside the jar that she’d forgotten about. She spun her long hair up into a bun and stuck the pencil in it for safe keeping before she picked up the jar and sat down with it in her lap. Its warmth radiated out with a force that was surprising. Instead of losing heat, it was gaining it without an apparent source. The puzzle of the heat made her wonder if she’d left something inside and she began to pull at the stopper but it refused to come off.
Later, Patrice wouldn’t be certain if she threw the jar down or if it slipped. The end result was that she covered her face with her hands to keep the shards of pottery from getting into her eyes as it hit the floor with a sharp splintering sound. Heat engulfed the room as if flames had been captured inside the jar and were now free to eat up anything in its path.
She opened her eyes, letting her hands fall to her sides, and gasped. A man, very large and very naked, sat in the middle of her room. Dust from the pottery still filtered through the air but she knew she wasn’t seeing things.
“What are you doing here?”
“I… I don’t know,” he said, his voice rusty with unuse. He rubbed his hand over face as if trying to wipe away whatever it was covering over his thoughts. “Where am I? Maybe then I can tell you.”
“You’re in my house.”
He looked around then, as if he was appraising her living arrangement. When he was done, he looked back at her and smiled. “Nice place. Is there a shower I can use?”
“No,” she shot back, irritated that he would think there was nothing wrong with this. “It’s not working right now and you are certainly not welcome here.”
“Not every nice to guests, are you? You never know who you might be entertaining.”
It was true what he said but she was in no mood to be polite. It had been that sort of day, after all, that had left her feeling empty and ungracious. “It’s not like you’re an angel,” she shot back.
He shrugged, rubbing his jaw once again. “Listen, I’ll be out of your way if you’ve got some clothes I can borrow. I’ve got someone I’ve got to meet and soon, too.”
The sound she made was part a screech of anger and part gasp of disbelief as he stood up and stretched. She was no prude but not many men were allowed up into this sanctum. Especially not men without a lick of clothing and a beautiful smile. “I most certainly do not have any clothing you can borrow.”
“So it’s okay that I’m seen leaving your establishment without anything on? Fine by me but I figured you might not like it. It’s your reputation, after all.”
She didn’t have time to stop him as he lumbered toward the stairway, his footsteps heavy even though he was nimble enough to get to the first floor without her. His back end was no less attractive than his front end but she had no time to think about it.
“Get back up here,” she yelled after him, waving the comforter she’d pulled off the bed in her hurry to catch him. “I most certainly don’t want you wandering around like that.”
He took it from her and tried to circle himself in it, getting caught up in the material and nearly tripping. Patrice put out a hand to help him stay righted when he screamed in agony. Hurridly, she stepped away, aware that her hands were smoking and that patches of red were left on his skin where she’d been touching him.
“That hurt,” he scowled as he put some distance between them. “What did you do to me?”
“I burned you,” she whispered. She hadn’t burned anyone since coming into her power at the age of ten. Back then, she’d loved to chase her mother’s dog around the house and try to singe its hair off. The memories were coming fast and furious now even though she hadn’t thought of her past in a very long time. What was done, was done.
“Don’t do it again,” he told her and finished wrapping the blanket around him in a comical skirt. “Now tell me where Pete is and I’ll be out of your house.”
She gave him directions she hoped would get him where he needed to go but she was barely aware of what she said. The sensation of this burned skin under her fingers was still with her, haunting her as if she was still searing his skin. To misuse her powers like that…
“They say he found him there in his chair, still and silent and nearly cold. Not much longer afterwards, he was gone.”
Patrice sat silently in the circle of shopkeepers, their weekly meeting a gab session about Pete’s death and his replacement. No one had met him but there was hope that things would be back to normal once again. Not the way it had been the last several years, hopefully. Many of them remembered what it had been like when Pete had been more spry and able to get to some of the harder to reach places that seemed to break down more readily than the other parts that kept the Street running.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Mrs. McCreedy said in her strident, ‘listen up and listen good’ voice. “It seems to me we should know something about this new man who’s here to take his place.”
That silenced the crowd. They’d all assumed that someone knew about him. After all, he’d had to come somewhere, they whispered to one another. As strange as Allen Street was, things happened for a reason and within a strict set of rules. To come from nowhere was just inviting trouble.
Patrice sat up straighter. “He came from the magic,” she replied, nearly certain of what she was saying. “I incubated him in one of my jars. The clay had been sitting in the back room for some time and had soaked up-“
But the noise of the pack on the scent of a scandal was soon too much for her to talk over and she sat back again, wondering what had made her say something like that. By the end of the meeting, or what would work for the meeting in the meantime but was more of a gossip session, everyone was talking about Patrice and her new man.
Harmony gave her a hug as she was leaving. “What’s his name?” she asked quietly, hoping to be the first one with the news since that was one of the questions still not answered.
All Patrice could do was shrug. That wasn’t a question she could answer. All she knew was that his skin was the milky white that she’d never been able to achieve with one of her glazes and that she wouldn’t ever be able to touch him, no matter that she wanted to very much. Much more than she thought she’d want to when she sent him out of her house. Much more than she should.
Title: Bottled Up
Word Count: 5257
Characters: Patrice, Jace
“Rain water,” Patrice muttered, her forehead furrowed as she struggled to remember what else she needed to add to her list. She needed to remember to add things to the list through the week instead of standing at the counter on Friday and trying to add things from memory. It never worked well and she always ended up leaving something off.
This Friday, she was closing down the shop because Hera wasn’t coming in. She’d said something about a doctor’s appointment when she’d been here last, waving off any questions that Patrice might have wanted to ask. If it was important, she’d find out about it soon enough and so had held her peace.
“Particle board. No, I got that last time. Wonder where I put it?” She glanced around the dim shop, not having taken the time to light any of the lamps in the dimness of early morning. The sun was just starting to make its way onto the rim of the horizon but there wasn’t quite enough light yet to see things clearly. It wasn’t like she needed to go far to find a match, seeing as how all she had to do was open her hand, palm up, and call up a flame.
Today of all days, she’d decided she didn’t have the time to call a part of her away and replace it as she left. Today of all days…
“Bananas. If they have any. Or oranges. I’ve been craving fruit again. And gum. Gotta have some of that.”
The first rays of the sun struck the front windows of the shop, their light difusing into the objects that lines the shelves set up for just this purpose. This time of day, more than any other, the wares she sold were full of fire and life. A bowl, the color and texture of a ripe lemon, seemed to shiver as the glaze reflected the wavering summer sunlight. Next to it, a tiny blue man leaning against a rock shrugged, yawned and sank back into position. It was all an illusion, a play of the light and the glaze. Patrice didn’t usually take the time to watch the magic work but she was happy to see it this morning. It always reminded her that she was very skilled at her art and it made her happy to see all the pieces of her collection relish the natural light. They never did this in artificial light or even the fire of her own making. Only dawn could do this.
“Tea bags.” She added it to the list as she remembered that she was nearly out of her favorite kind. It was a special blend that she had Yvette make up for her, heavy on the spices and citrus.
“Ten penny nails.” The shelves in the back were going to need some strengthening soon. She’d gotten in a new supply of clay and it would need to be set out to ripen so there was nothing for her to work with in the meantime. Since the clay was as normal as anything gotten on the other side of Allen Street, the supplier was a Mundane contact of hers at an art supply store that she frequented from time to time when she was too lazy to make her own glazes, it would need to sit in the back of the shop for a bit before she could work with it. Now, it was just normal clay and she’d be able to make normal things out of it. Given a few weeks on Allen Street, she would be able to fashion it into something more, well, more like the things on the shelves around her gallery.
Her newest piece was an experiment. It was still sitting on the front counter next to the register, waiting to be placed on a shelf and possibly be sold. These days, sales were hit and miss. Her best times of the year were around Christmas and near the Summer Solstice, when her pieces were at their most active as the sun was so much closer to them. Even Mundanes could appreciate her work at those times of the year, the solstices that opened up the pathway that the magic took. The death of the year. The height of the year’s power.
The relatively small pot shivered as she stroked it with her work-roughed finger. She had clay under her unvarnished fingernails but that didn’t matter much around here, other than proclaiming that these were indeed hers. It had taken her three days to mix the glaze to get this perfect shade of sable. The designs had been the hardest for her to achieve because of the dark color underneath but she’d been able to drip whites and blues around the neck so it looked as if it was sweating out whatever might be inside.
She touched it again but it only shivered again. Strange that it wasn’t moving more. Stranger still that it felt hot under her palm as she reached out to touch it with her hand. The sun hadn’t touched it with its warming rays. She hadn’t picked it up since she’d found it dry and set it out here to be put up.
The stopper that completed the ritual pot lay beside it on the counter. She’d only put it in place once, after both pieces were completely dry to make sure that they still fit together. The compulsion to finish her work and put the stopper in came over her fast and furious and there was nothing she could do but obey.
In the still dim light of the shop, she lifted the stopper up and set it gently onto the jar, They slid together without complaint. She waited, holding her breath as if that would help speed up the minutes. When nothing happened and her lungs began to hint that they might like some air soon, she picked up her shopping list and left the shop.
Today’s shopping spree was proving to be quite unproductive. Anissa didn’t have any nails and wouldn’t until the forge bellows were fixed properly. She had no idea when that would be, muttering something about Slann not getting off his arse and fixing it properly. If Anissa couldn’t get her own husband motivated to work, there was no way that Patrice could convince him to help her out. So that she didn’t leave completely empty-handed, she bought a packet of sewing pins even though she didn’t sew. They all had a tiny bead fixed to one side so that they wouldn’t slide through the fabric completely, Anissa explained. Patrice thought they might be pretty punched through the curved back of a pitcher so they might add a glitter that her pieces rarely had from such decorations.
Gricca didn’t have any fresh fruit although there were still plenty of jars of preserves left over from this summer’s produce. Neither of the fruits that Patrice yearned for could be jarred or canned so she wandered through the aisles of food until she found a box of surgared cereal that the Mundanes were fond of and a few bottles of orange juice. Her ice box was on the fritz again so she’d need to drink the juice right away but the cereal would keep for awhile and she could pretend that the fruit shaped kernels were more like fruit and less like wheat.
Yvette was busy but promised Patrice that she would have some of the tea made up by tomorrow if she wanted to stop back by. With a nod and a small smile, Patrice left the store without purchasing anything. It didn’t seem impolite since she’d be coming back for her items.
“Sit down and I’ll be right back,” Harmony assured her as she flitted through the swinging doors of her shop. The rain water shouldn’t be hard to find since it had been a wet Fall so far but it was tricky to bottle. The tiny glass vials that Harmony used kept the water pure but they were also prone to evaporating away until there was nothing but a puddle of water on the shelf.
“Don’t hurry on my account,” Patrice called out after her but she really hoped that she did hurry. Shopping day was always better if it was over quickly and before noon. The Mundanes liked to come for lunch when they were allowed onto the Street. Even though fewer of them were around on Fridays (which is why Patrice picked that day for her own shopping), she still didn’t like to be caught in the lunch rush.
Mundanes didn’t seem to understand the basic principles of etiquette. They would breeze into any shop and just look, never talking although Patrice always greeted each one warmly. On the days when her sales were the lowest, she might have the greatest concentration of visitors. She understood that her wares were less likely to be bought in great quantity but she did carry smaller knick knacks that might be used for everyday gifts for friends for just the sort of people that walked in to gawk at the bright glazes and interesting shapes of her pottery. She’d used the name Galleria thinking it was pretty, not knowing that some people considered her shop a museum of sorts. On the other side of Allen Street, a term meaning anywhere that wasn’t the Street itself, a Galleria was a place to come and gawk and not to buy. It was too late to change the name now, though.
Since it was common courtesy to buy something no matter the nature of the visit to a store, Patrice began to look around at the small shop just in case there wasn’t any rain water available. She didn’t really need any of these potions ingredients since she bought her potions readymade. There wasn’t much in her line of work that called for anything but the lightest spell. Most of the spells she’d learned in her younger years when she’d apprenticed with a Fire Weaver were long gone, forgotten due to the ravages of time. She’d felt, at first, that all she needed was her talent and that hadn’t needed a spell or a chant. It was a different sort of magic than everything else. Now, she wished she did know how to conjure something with the right mix of materials. With the right flow of magic.
“Only have two more bottles left. The new lot isn’t combining well with the vials. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to find a new way of containing some of these items. Too bad you aren’t a glass blower by trade.”
“Or too bad that you can’t put these items into clay,” Patrice countered. She accepted one of the glass vials and dug up a few coins from her pockets. They were an odd mixture of Mundane, Fairy and barter tokens fashioned here on the street. As she counted out the right amount, she asked Harmony how her business was doing.
“Well as can be expected this time of year. Had a couple of girls come in yesterday from the other side of the Street and ask about some books on magic spells. I didn’t know quite what to say to them. They looked so young and frail I was sure that any magic they attempted to harness would eat them up in one bite but they assured me they knew what they were doing.”
“The Street seems to be letting more of those types on,” Patrice said in a hushed voice so it would be harder for the Street to hear her. “I wonder why. We aren’t in need of their money right now. Maybe in the Spring but Fall is an odd time for their kind.”
“Their Hallows Eve is coming up soon,” Harmony reminded her and both women nodded. In past years, the Street kept out the sort that were seeking out of greed or vengeance or those that weren’t meant to work with magic.
Patrice thanked the shopkeeper for the goods she’d been allowed to purchase and walked from the shop, confused and a little put out that it was so close to noon and she wasn’t safe in her shop. The sun was nearly overhead now and the shadows would be getting longer soon, the light no longer hitting her pottery straight on.
Sure enough, the little blue man was drooping and yawning as she walked by her large front windows. He waved at her merrily before leaning back against his rock and letting his eyes close. The other pots and jars were still luminous but not nearly as pretty as they’d been this morning when the light had been at its best.
The jar was still near the register and she couldn’t resist sliding her finger down it once again. This had been her last bit of clay and had set in the back room the longest. She wondered what it would do with the light of dawn hitting it. Perhaps she would set it in the window tomorrow morning. For now, she had some work to do in the back.
The fruit-shaped cereal wasn’t as good as she hoped it would be although the orange juice had a nice tang to it. She’d drunk enough of it to be thoroughly sick of it even though there was still half a jar left. It hadn’t been as sweet as she’d assumed a real orange would taste, although her memories of any citrus fruit were years out of date. She’d thought about going off the Street to look for some fruit but she didn’t like the thought of leaving. Allen Street was her home and was quite self-sustaining except for small comforts here and there. Let others brave the world out there with the roar and smell of cars driving too fast. She’d tried it once but it wasn’t for her.
It was late but still she couldn’t sleep. Something was keeping her from dropping off as easily as she normally did. If she’d had any clay to work with, she’d use up these dark hours creating but anything she made with this newest batch would be lifeless and cold. She didn’t like to see that in any of her creations, even if they were supposed to sit still and look beautiful. They needed something inside of them to give them a spark that would capture the eye and delight the fancy.
The bowl of congealed glaze caught her eye. She’d forgotten to throw it out when she was done with the newest pot. At the reminder of it, she turned and walked into the front room. Since it was the dead of night and even she couldn’t enjoy her art in the pitch black, she opened her palm and let the dancing flame show her the room. There were too many dancing shadows lurking about with only this one flame so she walked quickly through the room and lit a few more candles before closing her hand and putting the original flame back into her core.
None of the glazed items danced in this light but they did glow as if full of power. There was an inner power about them all that spoke of the magic they’d been formed from. She was especially drawn to the fire colors in this dancing light. The sparks of her own essence made them truly come into their own. These were the items that sat along the back wall where the first rays of dawn would touch them but not wake them up. They enjoyed fire most of all.
She wondered if this new jar should join the back wall. It was still warm as she picked it up and she wondered how long it would continue to hold onto this strange warmth. It wasn’t a true fire color but she’d mixed in her favorite ochre and reds that she normally used separately on the fire painted items. They were the hardest to keep pure and true. What would combining two fire colors get? Would they stay pure? Those were the questions that had hounded her as she created this item.
It didn’t feel right in the back of the store. She made a circuit but it didn’t feel right anywhere in the Galleria. The front window made it feel especially wrong and she quickly walked back to the counter where she’d picked it up from. It settled there but still seethed with a strange power that she could feel even as she stepped away.
“Do you not want to be in the Galleria?” she asked it. There was no answer in the stillness of the shop. She thought to experiment with it and took it back into the workspace she had come from. Still wrong.
As she called the candle flames back to her, she walked up the stairs to the room up above. She’d been in the upstairs of many of the other shops but still liked her space. No more walls marred the view so that the whole length of the downstairs was one wide room. The privacy of the shower and toilet were closed off with clear bricks of glass that she’d paid dearly for but it had been worth it. She sent the candle flames out to the groups of candles that lines the room at different intervals. Some were high on the wall and some were low so that the shadows were chased away quite effectively.
She wasn’t sure if this was the spot for the jar but she sat it down on the table next to her favorite chair. It seemed to blend into the books piled up there but it still didn’t like this area even though it was happy to be upstairs.
The plumbing was on the fritz and the jar was forgotten for a long hour as she cursed at the pipes running up from gods knew where to her shower. It would need to be looked at by someone with more knowledge than her but she was finally able to discover a way to get hot water flowing. Standing under the water was soothing and she was soon wrapped in the blankets of her bed and asleep.
“Then who can look at the pipes?” Patrice asked the man in front of her. He was so old that his eyes were watery; a strange blue-white color that didn’t see much but shadows. Since she’d lived on Allen Street, Pete McKittrick had been the handy man and had kept everyone in hot water and cold ice boxes. Right now, she didn’t have either.
“I’m waiting for my replacement. He hasn’t shown up but I expect him any day now.”
“Your replacement?” It seemed unthinkable that this man couldn’t do the work himself but he’d been ancient when she’d first arrived. Now, even calling him old seemed more polite than correct. “Who is he?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But I will.”
“So I won’t have hot water until then?”
“Can’t guarantee it, no. But he’ll come soon.” The man settled himself back in his chair, his fingers fiddling with the bits of yarn that were coming loose from his sweater. Kara always made sure he had a new one when his old one started to look scruffy and it appeared she’d have to take up her knitting needles once again.
Patrice walked out of the small house at the very back of the long street and turned back to her shop. Hera hadn’t come again today and so she’d left it locked up. Two days of lost business wouldn’t hurt her even though the Street seemed to once again be busy. A group of giggling teenagers nearly ran her over as they hurried past, none of them bothering to apologize for their rude behavior. It was bad business practice to chastise the customers but Patrice was feeling rude for once and scowled back at the girls as they continued on their flight to somewhere that wasn’t here. Good riddance, she thought but instantly felt contrite. It wasn’t their fault that she was living off things that didn’t need to be refrigerated or that her hot water wasn’t coming out the way it was supposed to. It was no one’s fault, really, but she still felt as if she needed to take this anger out on someone or become worse for the feeling.
She needed to create. Since the clay still wasn’t ready, she did the second best thing and walked up to her rooms upstairs. The drawing paper was still where she’d put it last time she needed it. Pencils were harder to find but she finally found one stashed downstairs where she’d used it to create a few holes in a piece that Melissa had commissioned. It had clay attached to it but she soon had the clumps cleaned off and was back upstairs in her chair with a fresh piece of paper staring at her.
Secretly, she hated this part of creating. A lump of clay was nearly as bad as the sheer white of the paper, but not enough to impede her thought process which is why she stuck with clay. Her teachers would be discouraged that she didn’t pain anymore but paints dried too quickly between the spurts of creativity she had for this sort of thing. Pencils stayed put a little bit better.
Hurridly, so there wouldn’t be quite so much white space glaring at her, Patrice stroked the pencil across the sheet so she had a few bands of varied degrees of darkness. She sighed, happy to sit and stare now that it wasn’t just white, seeing a shadow here and there that had an inkling of an idea behind it.
It was beyond dusk when she discovered that she couldn’t see what she was drawing but it didn’t seem to matter. Whatever idea she had inside of her that was moving her hand didn’t need light. Reluctantly, she put the pad down even though the ideas were still flowing. Her stomach was rumbling and her back had grown stiff from sitting in such an awkward position for so long. The idea would stay for now, just at the end of the pencil where it wouldn’t cause any disturbance.
Dinner was another bowl of cereal without milk, which she could have bought fresh today if she’d thought of it when she’d been out. She thought about pouring her last bit of orange juice over it but decided against it. Instead, she gulped down the juice and tried not to gag as the warm liquid hit the back of her throat. It was no longer tart and left an odd taste on her tongue. The cereal wasn’t any more filling than it had been the first couple of times she’d eaten it but she still took the bowl with her as she walked back to her chair.
The pad of paper was where she’d laid it but the pencil had disappeared somewhere. She stood back up and looked in the chair to see if it had rolled off and was between the cushions. When she couldn’t find it there, she put her bowl down and went down on her hands and knees to see what could possibly be underneath the chair itself. A sock, half rolled up and looking dusty enough that she threw it toward the clothes hamper. Three tacks from when she’d been in the mood to hang up pictures on every available space. They hadn’t lasted long but she kept finding tacks in the oddest places. The only other thing she found was a bit of the material of the under side of the chair that had ripped and was hanging down. And dust. Lots and lots of dust. She thought about moving the chair and firing a small flame across the hardwood of the floor to burn away the dust but thought better of it. Spring was better for that sort of thing. Everything was still too dry even with the rain they’d been getting lately.
She stood back up and dusted off her hands. No pencil. But as she looked again, it lay beside the jar that she’d forgotten about. She spun her long hair up into a bun and stuck the pencil in it for safe keeping before she picked up the jar and sat down with it in her lap. Its warmth radiated out with a force that was surprising. Instead of losing heat, it was gaining it without an apparent source. The puzzle of the heat made her wonder if she’d left something inside and she began to pull at the stopper but it refused to come off.
Later, Patrice wouldn’t be certain if she threw the jar down or if it slipped. The end result was that she covered her face with her hands to keep the shards of pottery from getting into her eyes as it hit the floor with a sharp splintering sound. Heat engulfed the room as if flames had been captured inside the jar and were now free to eat up anything in its path.
She opened her eyes, letting her hands fall to her sides, and gasped. A man, very large and very naked, sat in the middle of her room. Dust from the pottery still filtered through the air but she knew she wasn’t seeing things.
“What are you doing here?”
“I… I don’t know,” he said, his voice rusty with unuse. He rubbed his hand over face as if trying to wipe away whatever it was covering over his thoughts. “Where am I? Maybe then I can tell you.”
“You’re in my house.”
He looked around then, as if he was appraising her living arrangement. When he was done, he looked back at her and smiled. “Nice place. Is there a shower I can use?”
“No,” she shot back, irritated that he would think there was nothing wrong with this. “It’s not working right now and you are certainly not welcome here.”
“Not every nice to guests, are you? You never know who you might be entertaining.”
It was true what he said but she was in no mood to be polite. It had been that sort of day, after all, that had left her feeling empty and ungracious. “It’s not like you’re an angel,” she shot back.
He shrugged, rubbing his jaw once again. “Listen, I’ll be out of your way if you’ve got some clothes I can borrow. I’ve got someone I’ve got to meet and soon, too.”
The sound she made was part a screech of anger and part gasp of disbelief as he stood up and stretched. She was no prude but not many men were allowed up into this sanctum. Especially not men without a lick of clothing and a beautiful smile. “I most certainly do not have any clothing you can borrow.”
“So it’s okay that I’m seen leaving your establishment without anything on? Fine by me but I figured you might not like it. It’s your reputation, after all.”
She didn’t have time to stop him as he lumbered toward the stairway, his footsteps heavy even though he was nimble enough to get to the first floor without her. His back end was no less attractive than his front end but she had no time to think about it.
“Get back up here,” she yelled after him, waving the comforter she’d pulled off the bed in her hurry to catch him. “I most certainly don’t want you wandering around like that.”
He took it from her and tried to circle himself in it, getting caught up in the material and nearly tripping. Patrice put out a hand to help him stay righted when he screamed in agony. Hurridly, she stepped away, aware that her hands were smoking and that patches of red were left on his skin where she’d been touching him.
“That hurt,” he scowled as he put some distance between them. “What did you do to me?”
“I burned you,” she whispered. She hadn’t burned anyone since coming into her power at the age of ten. Back then, she’d loved to chase her mother’s dog around the house and try to singe its hair off. The memories were coming fast and furious now even though she hadn’t thought of her past in a very long time. What was done, was done.
“Don’t do it again,” he told her and finished wrapping the blanket around him in a comical skirt. “Now tell me where Pete is and I’ll be out of your house.”
She gave him directions she hoped would get him where he needed to go but she was barely aware of what she said. The sensation of this burned skin under her fingers was still with her, haunting her as if she was still searing his skin. To misuse her powers like that…
“They say he found him there in his chair, still and silent and nearly cold. Not much longer afterwards, he was gone.”
Patrice sat silently in the circle of shopkeepers, their weekly meeting a gab session about Pete’s death and his replacement. No one had met him but there was hope that things would be back to normal once again. Not the way it had been the last several years, hopefully. Many of them remembered what it had been like when Pete had been more spry and able to get to some of the harder to reach places that seemed to break down more readily than the other parts that kept the Street running.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Mrs. McCreedy said in her strident, ‘listen up and listen good’ voice. “It seems to me we should know something about this new man who’s here to take his place.”
That silenced the crowd. They’d all assumed that someone knew about him. After all, he’d had to come somewhere, they whispered to one another. As strange as Allen Street was, things happened for a reason and within a strict set of rules. To come from nowhere was just inviting trouble.
Patrice sat up straighter. “He came from the magic,” she replied, nearly certain of what she was saying. “I incubated him in one of my jars. The clay had been sitting in the back room for some time and had soaked up-“
But the noise of the pack on the scent of a scandal was soon too much for her to talk over and she sat back again, wondering what had made her say something like that. By the end of the meeting, or what would work for the meeting in the meantime but was more of a gossip session, everyone was talking about Patrice and her new man.
Harmony gave her a hug as she was leaving. “What’s his name?” she asked quietly, hoping to be the first one with the news since that was one of the questions still not answered.
All Patrice could do was shrug. That wasn’t a question she could answer. All she knew was that his skin was the milky white that she’d never been able to achieve with one of her glazes and that she wouldn’t ever be able to touch him, no matter that she wanted to very much. Much more than she thought she’d want to when she sent him out of her house. Much more than she should.
