Хармони Харт - Basic Witch

“Yes, well. I’m just doing my job.” Was it my imagination, or was Gilmer standing a bit taller now? He swept his arm toward the still-shimmering doorway. “Shall we?”

“Do we have a choice?”

“Ms. Bradbury.” And he was back to being exasperated with me.

“Enough with the Ms. Bradbury stuff. Call me Gemma.” I took a deep breath, squinched my eyes closed and stepped through the doorway with Titus in my arms, delighting in the fact that we were both still intact after passing through whatever magic lived within the doorway. I turned to watch Gilmer as he followed. “Hey, is it okay if I call you Gil?”

“It most certainly is not.”

“But Gilmer is so formal. I mean, it suits you. But you could stand to relax a little. Enjoy yourself a bit more.”

“I engage in plenty of enjoyable activities,” he protested. “There’s the Salem Historical Society, and the Basket Weaving Club, and Clara Cook’s Book Club.”

“I’m sorry, did you say basket weaving?”

“I did, indeed.” His chin jutted out with pride. “I’m an award-winning weaver, you know. “Some say basket weaving is woman’s work, but given my nimble fingers and attention to detail, I find it comes quite naturally to me.”

“Wow, Gil. I had no idea you harbored such talent.” My voice was tinged with light-hearted sarcasm, but a small part of me felt a pang of jealousy. I’d never stuck with a single hobby long enough to become an award-winning anything. Unless you count cooking, but it wasn’t like I was entering contests. I just really loved food.

Jill of All Trades, Master of None right here.

This was not a new revelation. When I got to the part in a social media profile where it asked about my interests, it was always the same: cooking, travel, reading, yoga. You know, all the activities your typical 30-something woman is supposed to love.

Which, translated into real talk about my life, would have been: Spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on my education, and never actually enjoying the careers I’d been trained for. Moving from city to city and job to job because I never quite felt like I belonged. Hiding between the pages of books because that’s where I felt most at home. Meditating and doing yoga to quell the ever-growing anxiety over not having my life figured out. Drowning my sorrows in mimosa brunches, happy hours and a string of failed relationships that made me realize that despite my open-hearted facade, I just wasn’t capable of getting truly close to anyone besides my cat.

I snuggled Titus closer to my chest, grateful for my furry companion. Ever since Gran died, Titus was the only constant in my life. But it wasn’t like my life was awful. I had plenty of interests, and I always managed to find people to hang out with. It’s just that nothing—and no one —ever stuck.

We crossed the lobby, and Gilmer pushed open a massive bronze door before ushering me in. He followed, then, facing the entrance, snapped his wand and muttered something else under his breath. As he retracted his wand, the doorway vanished, leaving a smooth stone wall in its place.

“Um. Did you just lock us in here?” My voice echoed through the room, and I winced at how loud it sounded. Something about this place seemed sacred, at least to Gilmer.

“Don’t be silly. I locked them in,” he whispered. He gestured across the room to a raised platform, where a group of people—seven in all—stood chatting among themselves.

An older woman draped in flowing purple robes, her short white hair curling around a plump, rosy face accentuated by sparkling silver cat-eye frames, looked up at us and gasped.

“Ah, Mr. Gayle! Finally! Come, come. Let’s see her.” Her voice reminded me of a cross between Professor McGonnigal and Rory Gilmore’s grandma, clipped and proper, but with a slight edge, like she could cross over into shrill at any moment. She took a seat at the center of a long, narrow table at the front of the platform, facing us, and clapped her hands twice. “Council members, please be seated! Ms. Bradbury has arrived!”

The remaining Council members—all men—filed into what appeared to be their assigned seats in oversized chairs at a long, narrow table. The woman was quite a sight, with her shock of white hair and her brightly colored attire, flanked by three muscular men on each side, each one a strikingly handsome specimen worthy of gracing the cover of Esquire magazine. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the whole situation seemed… off.

Once everyone was settled, the woman tapped a long, thin rod in front of her, and a peacock feather quill pen rose from the table to levitate above a piece of parchment paper. "I call this closed session of the Salem High Council to order.” As she spoke, the quill began to move on its own, as if recording her thoughts.

“Is that—” I pointed at the quill, unable to believe my eyes, but the woman kept talking.

“I am Dorthea Davenport, Head of the Coven and Mayor of Salem."

"I'm Gemma Bradbury. But it seems you already know that."

"Yes, well. It's my job to know things." The mayor cleared her throat. "Now, then. You're probably wondering why you’re here.”

“Why I’m here. How I’m here. Where here even is," I said. "Yeah, I have questions.”

“Well, you’re in Salem of course."

“This doesn’t seem like any part of Salem I’ve ever been to.”

“Of course not. You’ve only seen the human Salem up until now.” She paused, glancing over her right shoulder, and frowned. "Gilmer?" Gilmer jumped and scurried up to the platform, planting himself directly behind the mayor. She motioned to Gil with one finger, and he leaned over her shoulder to whisper. She gave a satisfied nod and turned back to me. “Salem, Oregon, is it?”

Despite all the flack I'd given him, this predicament suddenly felt pretty lonely without Gilmer to guide us. I remained glued to one spot, my fingers buried in Titus' fur for comfort. I was probably staring like a wide-eyed idiot at Mayor White-Hair and her Seven Panty-Melting Dwarves.

"Excuse me, did you say human Salem?"

"I did."

“Okay, I'll play along. If this isn’t human Salem, then what is it?”

Mayor Davenport sighed. “Didn’t your grandmother ever explain the concept of the Vortex Years to you?" She clucked her tongue. "I swear, earthly witches are getting lazier and lazier by the century.”

“No, my Gran never explained anything remotely like this," I said. The moment I said her name, my stomach twisted, and I looked down at my feet. Titus didn't say—think?—a word, but extended one paw out to touch my face, pulling me back from whatever mind-numbing guilt spiral I was about to enter. I managed a small smile and turned my attention back to the Council. "How do you know about my Gran?”

Gil leaned over to whisper again, and the mayor cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Ms. Bradbury. I didn’t realize your grandmother passed before you came of age. Had you reached the age of 18 before your grandmother died, she would have instructed you on the use of your powers.”

“Powers? I don’t have any powers.” I shook my head, barely stifling a laugh. I wanted to be respectful, but this situation was becoming more ridiculous by the second.

“I beg to differ. You harbor great power, power you obviously haven’t yet learned to use. Or control.” The quill pen moved feverishly, causing me to question my sanity for the hundredth time in the last hour.

“What kind of power?” I asked. On the off chance I wasn’t crazy, and this place was real, I didn’t want to miss out on my one opportunity for an explanation.

“Magical powers, of course. You’re a witch.”

“A witch?”