“Show us your fire, then,” Poppy said. “Just a little one, mind you. Don’t go singeing my eyebrows.”
“I’ll try not to,” Mom said. She turned one hand palm up and frowned slightly.
I backed up, remembering the fireball that exploded the first batch of cupcakes.
8
Asilverflameappearedon my mother’s palm. “Not very big,” she said.
“No, no,” Poppy said. “It’s quite perfect. Hold out your hand so I can see it?”
Mom complied. Poppy supported Mom’s hand from underneath, lifting it up and down; bringing it closer and further away; squinting at it and making thoughtful noises. “Now the other.”
Mom brought her other hand up and a silver flame popped to life.
“Quick draw. Very nice,” Poppy said, examining the newly flaming hand as she had examined the first one. Then she briskly folded my mother’s fingers over, snuffing out the silver flames, and let her hands go. “Let’s see. What have we got that we can set on fire without consequence?”
“Berron,” I said.
“Zelda’s antique boots,” he retorted.
“Touch my boots and die,” I said.
“I have a sheaf of dried lavender; would that help?” the Princess of Arrows asked.
“Wonderful,” Poppy said.
The Princess of Arrows stood, deftly brushed off her golden gown, and took Georgiana with her back to the Fortress of Apples.
“In the meantime, why don’t we give ourselves a bit of distance, yes? From the spectators,” Poppy added.
I moved back. “I feel like we should be calling you Professor Poppy.”
Poppy curtsied. “Professor Poppy, at your service.”
The Princess of Arrows returned from the Fortress with a bundle of dried flowers. She approached and held them out to Poppy. “Will this be sufficient?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you, my little golden friend.”
The Princess of Arrows smiled shyly and retreated.
“Now, Effie,” Poppy said, pulling a few stems of dried lavender free. “I’m going to throw a bit of this in the air, and I want you to try to set it on fire.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” my mother asked. “What if I accidentally set you on fire?”
“You can’t. I have fire magic, too. I’m immune. Watch.” Poppy lit the lavender with a touch and a small flash of silvery fire. She brandished the smoking lavender, then extended her other hand over it. A normal person would have instantly been burned. “Et voila!” She extinguished the lavender, whipped it away, and displayed her unburned hand. “See?”
My mother leaned forward, carefully examining Poppy’s skin. “All right,” she said. “If you’re sure.”
“Quite sure,” Poppy said. “Ready?”
Mom nodded.
“Light one of your hands. Your dominant hand, please.”
Mom held her right hand up and re-ignited the flame in her palm.
Poppy walked a short distance away and pulled out a larger spray of lavender. The dogs sat on their haunches as if they, too, were waiting for a show to begin. Then Poppy tossed the dried flowers in the air. “Fire!”
