Ugh, I look worse than I thought, like I’ve never seen a hair brush before, and I’m pretty sure this shirt wasn’t navy blue when I put it on this morning.
“Here it is,” she cries, startling me so badly, I nearly drop the bottle in my hand.
Carefully, I put the perfume back down, while Mildred drags out an old fashioned, black trunk with scuffed gold accents. There’s an elaborate lock on the front with exposed gears and no visible place to put a key, just an indentation that seems smeared with rust.
After she’s dragged it out into the middle of the room, she kneels in front of it, loud pops announcing her descent.
“Why didn’t you magic the trunk out here?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning against the dresser. “I mean, we have half our house cleaning the other half of our house downstairs. Which, by the way, can that be one of the first things you teach me? I like the idea of never having to pick up after myself again—also, the guys will think it’s hilarious. Well, at least Felix will.”
She chuckles. “Yes, I’ll teach you, though it takes a while to learn enough control and concentration to have so many active spells working simultaneously. If you’re not careful, the items crashing to the floor could be the least of your problems. They may try to keep cleaning forever-- and no, that isn’t a good thing.”
“Got it. Try not to make magically possessed mops,” I reply with a smirk.
“Now, as for this,” she continues with a gesture toward the trunk, “it’s magicked to repel any spells performed on it-- well, except for the lock.”
From the watch she always wears, a delicate piece of jewelry that looks more like a bracelet, she pulls on the gear that winds the watch, and out comes a long tapered needle. Shock makes my chest jump as I watch her stab her right thumb, encouraging a bead of blood to form, then press her finger against the rust colored indentation. She mutters a phrase in a language I don’t recognize. It sounds vaguely Slavic, and Volkov is mentioned.
The trunk snaps open when she’s finished, and there’s an immediate scent of old parchment and leather.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, eyes wide as I stare at the magic chest that apparently requires blood sacrifice.
“That was me unlocking one of the oldest and most valuable of the Volkov possessions,” she answers with a grin, clearly enjoying sharing this bit of family history. “This trunk is so old, no one is really sure how long it’s been in the family, only that it’s spelled to only respond to someone of the Volkov line-- and only if they’ve been trusted with the phrase to unlock it.”
“Cool,” I murmur, shock giving way to open curiosity.
She gives me a bemused smile, shakes her head, and laughs, “Yes. Very cool.”
Peeking inside, I see stacks of different types of books, some looking centuries old, a few odd knick knacks whose significance I can’t even begin to understand, and a small box that has all the glint and gilding of a Faberge egg.
Mildred picks up the box and runs her fingers along the curling details of diamonds and gold before cracking it open. Cushioned in aged blue velvet is a beautiful necklace the likes of which I’ve never seen. Surrounded by platinum filigree, the golden center stone is about the size of a large robin's egg and has swirling veins of red, blue, green, and creamy white.
She carefully takes the necklace out and puts the box back into the trunk, before rising to her feet.
Turning toward me, she says with a misty glint in her eye, “This is a very special necklace that is reserved for each first born daughter of the Volkov line. It was your mother’s, and now, it’s yours.”
I take the necklace from her and put it over my head, noticing there’s an engraved stylized wolf on the back. The chain is long enough that the stone sits between my breasts, and it looks way too fancy to be wearing with sweaty gym clothes. It feels surprisingly warm against my skin considering it was locked up in some old chest.
I pick up the stone so I can get a better look at it, and ask, “It’s pretty. What’s it for?”
“That’s an arcane focus,” she explains, gazing at the stone in my hand. “It’s given to a witch when they come of age to help them learn to control their gifts. Excess magic is filtered through the stone, keeping the witch from calling on too much and releasing destructive bursts of magic. I planned to give it to you when you were finally released from the binding spell, but it seems you need it much sooner.”
“So this will keep me from blowing up the town?” I ask, hopefully.
Hope that’s quickly dashed with one sad glance from my aunt.
“I doubt any stone is powerful enough to contain your magic if the binding spell were to burst,” she answers gently, her hand resting on my shoulder. “But it might help with the random flare-ups you’ve been experiencing.”
“Well, that’s something,” I mutter, dropping the stone under my shirt. “What does this have to do with using all of my leaking magic?”
“Well, objects can be imbued with magic,” she says this while, once again, gesturing toward the blood magic trunk.
Gotta really want what the hell is inside of it to bleed every time you need to open it-- or be me, I suppose.
She continues with the first signs of real optimism, “I’m hoping that I can come up with a spell to allow your excess magic to be collected in the stone instead of simply filtered through it. The amount and purity of the magic that flows through you should be more than enough to remove the spell.”
“Since this wasn’t your first idea, I’m thinking there’s a ‘but’ coming?” I fold my arms over my chest, and Mildred takes back her hand.
She laces her fingers together and looks back down at the open trunk. “But, I don’t know how your magic will respond, which is going to be the difficulty of the spell. You’re no ordinary witch, and your magic is not like the rest of ours.”
