Malcolm all this already.
“You don’t need magic to make bread, my boy.”
“But . . . it could make things easier for you. If you tried it, you’d see . It’s not anything big; it’s . . . just small enchantments.” He flushed, as if the wizards could hear him.
Malcolm eyed him levelly. “There is danger in small enchantments, my boy. Small enchantments make us dream of big ones.”
“But . . . that’s good. Isn’t that good?” He bit his lip.
“Some may say so. I prefer we dream of a big world.”
Oscar looked down at the cats, who were lined up happily, devouring bread. Trying to understand conversations was like trying to hear a quiet voice across the room. You strained so hard that it hurt, but it was all still just wisps in the air.
“Forgive an old man’s opinions,” Malcolm said. “I have been around a long time and have seen many things.” Now it was Malcolm’s turn to glance down at the cats. His eyes flicked back up to Oscar. “I was a magician once.”
Oscar’s eyes grew big. “You were a magician ?”
“I was. A very long time ago. Now I bake bread.” He adjusted his cloak.
“Wait!” Oscar gaped up at Malcolm. The baker suddenly seemed to fill the room. “Why did you stop? Why would you ever stop?”
“I chose to,” Malcolm said, as if that were all there was to say. “My boy, you cannot look to magic to solve your problems. Magic is big and beautiful and terrible. The wizards understood, but no one understands anymore. People treat it like some cheap little thing, a commodity that serves at their pleasure. Magic serves at no one’s pleasure but its own.”
Oscar could not speak. The weathered old man who always smelled of yeast, who had a voice like the smell of baking bread, still stood in front of him. But now another presence was there, too, some mesmerizing glow just underneath the surface, as mighty and steadying as a wizard tree. Malcolm could stretch out his arms and hold the whole forest.
“Well,” Malcolm said, “now I must get back; I have more bread in the oven.” He picked up his basket and was just Malcolm again. But for Oscar the ghost of the magician still lingered. “Remember,” he added, “if you need anything while your master is away—or even if he is here—you may come find me. Whatever you need.”
“You mean if I need more bread?” Oscar asked.
“That is one possible need, yes,” Malcolm said. “But you might find there are others.”
“Wait!” Oscar exclaimed. “Should I call you Master Malcolm?”
A flash went over the baker’s face, as if the basket in his hands were suddenly very heavy. “No,” Malcolm said. “You should not.”
He left, and Oscar found himself looking around the room, feeling as though he had lost something. His eyes went to the herbs steaming on the stove, and he went over and took the pot off the fire. That done, he ran the wizard chronicle back down to his room, got dressed, and a few moments later he was walking across the marketplace to Madame Mariel’s.
Oscar was knocking on the door before he knew what he planned to say, exactly, or really why he had come in the first place. And there was no guarantee Callie was even there: he had no idea where she lived; many apprentices—
But the door opened, and Callie was behind it.
“Oh, you live here!” Oscar said. “I didn’t know if you lived here or the village. Or somewhere else. I live in the marketplace, but I know some apprentices live in the village—”
“I live here,” Callie replied simply. She leaned against the doorway.
“Good. That’s good. It’s Sunday. So the magic workers’ shops are closed. Master Caleb’s shop is closed and you’re closed, unless you have appointments, but—”
“I know, Oscar,” Callie said. “We are closed. I have no appointments.”
“Well, you helped me in the shop yesterday. And so it’s my turn to help you. We had a deal. You remember, right?”
Callie cocked her head and
“You don’t need magic to make bread, my boy.”
“But . . . it could make things easier for you. If you tried it, you’d see . It’s not anything big; it’s . . . just small enchantments.” He flushed, as if the wizards could hear him.
Malcolm eyed him levelly. “There is danger in small enchantments, my boy. Small enchantments make us dream of big ones.”
“But . . . that’s good. Isn’t that good?” He bit his lip.
“Some may say so. I prefer we dream of a big world.”
Oscar looked down at the cats, who were lined up happily, devouring bread. Trying to understand conversations was like trying to hear a quiet voice across the room. You strained so hard that it hurt, but it was all still just wisps in the air.
“Forgive an old man’s opinions,” Malcolm said. “I have been around a long time and have seen many things.” Now it was Malcolm’s turn to glance down at the cats. His eyes flicked back up to Oscar. “I was a magician once.”
Oscar’s eyes grew big. “You were a magician ?”
“I was. A very long time ago. Now I bake bread.” He adjusted his cloak.
“Wait!” Oscar gaped up at Malcolm. The baker suddenly seemed to fill the room. “Why did you stop? Why would you ever stop?”
“I chose to,” Malcolm said, as if that were all there was to say. “My boy, you cannot look to magic to solve your problems. Magic is big and beautiful and terrible. The wizards understood, but no one understands anymore. People treat it like some cheap little thing, a commodity that serves at their pleasure. Magic serves at no one’s pleasure but its own.”
Oscar could not speak. The weathered old man who always smelled of yeast, who had a voice like the smell of baking bread, still stood in front of him. But now another presence was there, too, some mesmerizing glow just underneath the surface, as mighty and steadying as a wizard tree. Malcolm could stretch out his arms and hold the whole forest.
“Well,” Malcolm said, “now I must get back; I have more bread in the oven.” He picked up his basket and was just Malcolm again. But for Oscar the ghost of the magician still lingered. “Remember,” he added, “if you need anything while your master is away—or even if he is here—you may come find me. Whatever you need.”
“You mean if I need more bread?” Oscar asked.
“That is one possible need, yes,” Malcolm said. “But you might find there are others.”
“Wait!” Oscar exclaimed. “Should I call you Master Malcolm?”
A flash went over the baker’s face, as if the basket in his hands were suddenly very heavy. “No,” Malcolm said. “You should not.”
He left, and Oscar found himself looking around the room, feeling as though he had lost something. His eyes went to the herbs steaming on the stove, and he went over and took the pot off the fire. That done, he ran the wizard chronicle back down to his room, got dressed, and a few moments later he was walking across the marketplace to Madame Mariel’s.
Oscar was knocking on the door before he knew what he planned to say, exactly, or really why he had come in the first place. And there was no guarantee Callie was even there: he had no idea where she lived; many apprentices—
But the door opened, and Callie was behind it.
“Oh, you live here!” Oscar said. “I didn’t know if you lived here or the village. Or somewhere else. I live in the marketplace, but I know some apprentices live in the village—”
“I live here,” Callie replied simply. She leaned against the doorway.
“Good. That’s good. It’s Sunday. So the magic workers’ shops are closed. Master Caleb’s shop is closed and you’re closed, unless you have appointments, but—”
“I know, Oscar,” Callie said. “We are closed. I have no appointments.”
“Well, you helped me in the shop yesterday. And so it’s my turn to help you. We had a deal. You remember, right?”
Callie cocked her head and
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