Witches Under Way (22 page)

And Elsie found herself alone in her small front yard, staring at a purple rubber frog with something akin to fear. 

It was one thing to be accidentally silly or to get dragged into messy play by a four-year-old on a mission.  It was an entirely different matter to volunteer.  Swinging her leg over that bike was an entirely intentional act, one that could hardly be blamed on impulse or influence or anything else.

God—had she always been such a wimp?

Elsie dropped her bag in the yellow basket, reached for the bright red helmet sitting on the fencepost, and grabbed the handlebars.  “Come on, Alfred.  You and I are going for a ride.”

In two blocks, she was feeling as silly as she’d ever felt in her whole life, pretty sure everyone in Berkeley was watching her ride by.  They kept waving.  Politeness required that she wave back, but she hadn’t yet mastered the technique of safely letting go of the handle bars with one hand.  Even Alfred had winced the one time she’d tried.

By the time her wheels hit block number three, she’d gotten a little braver.  Hair and pom-poms streaming, she sailed down a small hill—and then walked the bike back up to the top to do it again.  And again.  Alfred liked speed.

By block number six, she finally mastered the coordination required to give Alfred’s nose a squeeze—and giggled hysterically at his drunken belch.  “You are one sad excuse for a bike horn,” she said, and mashed his nose again.

Somewhere around block number twenty-five, she found a group of young boys riding their bikes down a big hill.  No hands.  And screamed, heart in her delighted throat, as she joined them.

By the time she rolled the bike into Caro’s back yard, her bottom entirely numb and arms shaking in exhaustion, Elsie had fallen completely and totally in love.  She gave Alfred’s nose one last squeak and backed away, one slow step at a time. 

And realized it was far harder to walk away than it had been to get on.

~ ~ ~

Lizard walked into room B243 and stopped dead.  It wasn’t a lecture hall—just a small room with a table and chairs, and about six people, all looking at her curiously.  “Sorry.  I was looking for the advanced poetry seminar.”

“You’ve found it,” said a voice behind her shoulder.  Professor Allard walked past her and took a seat at the top of the table.  “Come have a seat.  Guys, this is Lizard, a student from one of my other classes.  She’s got some interesting ideas about poetry, so I invited her to join us.”

Lizard sat, feeling horribly conspicuous.  A student with dark glasses and pasty skin looked her up and down.  “What do you write?”

Write?
  “I don’t write anything.”  Probably one of those literary snob types.

The guy in glasses grinned.  “We all write something.  Most of us aren’t brave enough to talk about it, either.”

Okay, maybe not a total snob.  But she didn’t write stuff.  Words on Freddie’s bus didn’t count.  “Well, I don’t.”

Professor Allard handed a folder down the table.  “Course materials.  Don’t worry about catching up—just jump in with this week’s reading.”

Glasses Guy handed over a piece of paper.  “Here’s a copy of the poem we’re talking about today.  I usually bring lots of copies.”

The dark-eyed girl beside him laughed.  “And color-coded pencils, three dictionaries, and five related books of poetry.”

“I like to be prepared.”  He grinned, not at all bothered by the light teasing.

They sounded like bickering siblings, but brother and sister wasn’t what Lizard was picking up from either of their minds.  Apparently college lovers bickered too.

“Think we can actually get to the poem now, guys?” asked Professor Allard dryly.  “Jeremy, you want to give it a run-through for us?”

“Sure.”  Glasses Guy picked up the page and started to read.  One line in, he had the class hanging off every word.  Halfway through, Lizard was well aware she wasn’t the only one fighting tears.  Jeremy’s voice was magic—and he knew what every single word in the poem meant.  She’d never heard that kind of word magic happen anywhere except in her own head.  It sucked her in, moth to burning flame.

“Can you always do that?” Lizard froze, suddenly aware she’d spoken out loud.

Jeremy grinned.  “Yup.  Can’t write a decent poem to save my life, though.”  He wiggled an eyebrow at her.  “Got something I can read?”

For the briefest moment, she was tempted to hear her words spoken with that kind of passion, that kind of utter comprehension—and then sanity kicked back in.  Not in this lifetime. 

Professor Allard rode to her rescue.  “Okay, let’s go round the table and get first reactions to what you heard.  Lori, you want to kick us off?”

Jeremy’s girlfriend picked up her paper.  “It’s such a sad poem.  This line here, ‘dark fire, rising from the fleeting embers of my soul’s breath,’ is just so much bleakness.”

Like hell it was.  Lizard leaned forward, words spilling off her tongue.  “No way.  Fire brings light into the darkness.  That’s totally where all the hope is coming from.  The dude who wrote it isn’t getting sad—he’s digging out.  And not slowly.  Fire is fast and fierce, and burns away all the crap.”

Then she realized she was talking out loud.  Again.  In a class full of brainiac third-year English lit majors.  Crap, crap, crap. 

“Maybe,” said a skeptical voice from down the table.  “But if the fire’s dark, maybe the writer means all those things about fire, but bringing the darkness, not the light.”

Lizard fought to keep her stupid mouth shut—and lost.  “Sometimes words don’t work like that—you can’t take them so literally.  Listen to how they sound, how they taste when you say them.”  She recited the line from memory.  “The whole rhythm of the line, it’s accelerating, coming faster.  He’s climbing out.” 

Seeing skepticism, she dug for more proof.  “It’s like in that other poem he wrote.”  Again, she pulled lines from memory.  “That’s what he sounds like when he’s headed down, all big words and slow, painful beats.”  Way too many dead-poet dudes were totally bipolar.  “This is him climbing out.  It sounds totally different.”

Complete silence.  Lizard prayed belatedly for a hole to come swallow her up—and then stared as Lori grinned and elbowed Jeremy.  “Ha.  You’ve finally got some competition.”

He winked at Lizard.  “Nope.  I’m pretty sure
she
can write.”

~ ~ ~

She had to hurry.  Lauren wasn’t sure exactly why, but her pendant had been buzzing for almost thirty minutes.  The darn thing would be far more useful if it gave her less vague directions.

She slid to a halt outside the room that was supposed to contain Lizard’s new class and took a deep breath.  Time to use more reliable witch talents.  Gently, she sent out a scan, seeking her intern’s familiar mental signature.

It took no time at all to find Lizard.  A happy, dancing, confident Lizard, with lines of poetry running mad, naked streaks through her mind.  What the heck?  The poetry wasn’t really a surprise, although it was closer to the top of Lizard’s mind than Lauren had ever seen.  But the pendant had been giving off clear “urgent” vibes.

And while she was still pretty skeptical of a lot of the more hocus-pocus witch tools, it was hard to brush off a necklace sitting on your chest yelling the rock equivalent of “Move, move, move!”  Nothing in that room screamed “emergency.”

Well, if she was here, maybe she could feed Lizard, at least. 

Lauren leaned back against the wall to wait, watching the college kids wandering by, and felt vaguely old.

Ha.  Try actually being old,
said Jennie, walking down the hallway. 
I take it your pendant paged you as well?

Yeah.  I don’t get it—Lizard’s fine.  Better than fine, actually.  I have no idea what’s going on in there, but she’s having a blast.

Jennie frowned, and Lauren felt her send out a light mindscan.  Jennie’s eyebrows flew up.  “I’ve never seen her poetry that close to the surface.  Usually all I catch is stray words.”

“Sure.”  Lauren lifted her pendant away from her neck, annoyance growing.  “But why is this suddenly an emergency?”

Jennie’s forehead wrinkled—and then she let out her breath in a huff.  “Because Melvin’s a very smart man.”  She leaned back against the wall beside Lauren.  “I remember the day I finally took my first decent picture.  It wasn’t the one he wanted yet, but it was good, and I knew it.  My mind probably felt quite a bit like Lizard’s in there.”

Lauren tried to imagine truly feeling a world-class talent for the first time.  “Sounds like it would be quite the buzz.”  She could read Jennie’s concern now too, and it still didn’t compute.  “And that’s bad because…?”

Jennie sighed.  “I wasn’t remotely ready to feel talented.  Talent demands that you respect and honor it, and I was still kicking myself around the block seventeen different ways.  Talent without the self-confidence to handle it can be terrifying.”

Lauren was catching up fast.  She eyed the door to Lizard’s classroom.  “Especially when that talent finally shows up in public.”  No, that wasn’t quite right—poetry was close to Lizard’s surface, but not outside it yet.  “Or at least sees the opportunity.” 

Jennie nodded slowly.  “There’s invitation in that room.  Interest, respect, shared passion.”

Damn.  Lauren closed her eyes, well able to picture what was coming next.  “What do we do?”

“What you do best.”  Jennie squeezed Lauren’s hand.  “I think I was only meant to come steer you in the right direction.”

Crap.  What?  “You’re leaving?”  Lauren didn’t need her pendant vibrating any longer—she was plenty worked up without it.

“We both are.”  Jennie smiled.  “This was just a scouting mission.  She’ll come to you soon enough.  Send her to me later, when she’s ready to talk about the fierce demands of talent.  She’ll need you first, though, doing what you do best.”

Lauren was totally clueless. 
And what’s that?

Jennie hooked Lauren’s elbow and dragged her down the hall. 
You treat her like an adult—one who can make smart choices.  I want to protect her too much.  You’ll demand that she look this in the eye.  It’s one of your greatest gifts.

Lauren was far too smart a negotiator to fall for that kind of flattery, even if Jennie meant every word. 

Chapter 16

Vero could hear the music before Elsie ever opened her mouth—it streamed from her every pore.  Oh, goodness.  “You look happy today, my dear.”

Elsie giggled and pulled up her jeans.  “My socks don’t match.”

Indeed they didn’t.  And neither of them looked like they’d been a part of Elsie’s pre-silliness wardrobe.  “Went sock shopping, did you?”

“Mhmm.”  Elsie looked up, eyes twinkling.  “Do you know they even sell socks that don’t match on purpose?  It was more fun to mix them up myself, though.”

Vero’s heart throbbed with hurt for the woman who was only discovering the joys of personally stamping your wardrobe at thirty-two years old.  And delighted that she wouldn’t be waiting any longer.  “You might be brave and move past socks next time.”

To her utter astonishment, Elsie turned twenty-five shades of red and crossed her arms protectively over her chest.

Oh.  Oh, my.  Vero’s laughter rolled, and she reached out, cupping Elsie’s face in her hands.  “Got yourself some saucy new underwear, did you?  How completely marvelous.  Was that one of the ideas in your Silly Jar?”  It should have been—she’d have sent it herself if the girl had even hinted at being ready for it.

Her student was still flaming red, but managed to get a few words out.  And then an avalanche of them.  “No.  But I rode Caro’s bike down a hill with no hands, and then I went sock shopping because I was sad to say goodbye to Alfred, and the socks were cute, but there was this purple lace bra.”  She ground to a halt, cheeks steaming.  “It was the same color as Alfred.”

Vero had met Caro’s frog.  And opera singers, even old, dried-up ones, just didn’t do a good job of hiding their emotions.  Vero collapsed in a chair, overtaken with delicious giggles.  The child had bought underwear to match a plastic frog.  An act of perfect silliness. 

And the woman who had created such a moment of perfection was embarrassed enough that she might stop breathing at any moment.  Vero pushed up out of the chair, reaching for the deeper emotions she wanted Elsie to see.  “Don’t, sweet girl—don’t lock up the utter beauty of what you’ve done.”

Elsie looked totally mystified.  And wavered on the precipice between adoring her new underwear and hating it.

So Vero used what she knew best.  She sang one of her favorite arias, full of sexy, playful daring.  It was the kind of music she’d been most famous for—Veronica Liantro was daring down to her bones.  And singing, she pushed the aria’s sensual notes deep into the heart of her audience of one. 
Be a woman,
the music called. 
Dare to play.  Dare to live.

For forty years, she’d watch audiences react—and Elsie was a delightfully responsive audience.  Slowly, her arms unfolded from her chest, and the fierce red of her cheeks abated, replaced by curious eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” Elsie said softly, as the last notes trickled away.  “Will you teach it to me?”