Inappropriate Magic

Prologue

When destiny knocked on her grandson Chauncy's door, Grandma Little decided she'd better answer it for him.

She happened to be busy slaving over a hot stovetop at the time, cooking a hearty breakfast for Chauncy. The boy was ten, technically old enough to cook his own meals without setting himself on fire. But after his mother had passed away unexpectedly a year ago, Grandma Little had made it her life's mission to mother him — in grand fashion, naturally. And that meant protecting him from everything. Especially himself.

Poor boy, she thought, glancing through the kitchen window. Chauncy was out in the yard as usual, running around with a big stick in his hand. A short little nothing of a boy, spending most of his time outside playing make-believe, or with his nose buried in one of his silly magic books. So sweet and awkward and meek, a good soul like his mum had been. And he had a hard time with the other children, who were not nearly as sweet, and considerably less awkward.

The stovetop BANG'd at her, and she BANG'd it right back with her wooden spoon.

Then someone knocked on the front door.

Grandma Little ignored it. She had a breakfast to cook, and the stovetop to keep in line, and both required her full attention. The knock came again — louder this time, as if whoever it was thought she hadn't heard.

"All right all right!" she cried, slamming the pot again for good measure. She lifted it off the stove then, setting it on the wooden countertop, then stormed off to the door, making sure to stomp. She unlocked it quite viciously, tearing it open. "What?" she blurted out, before the door had had the chance to fully open. She saw a man standing there on her doorstep.

A very peculiar man.

He was tall and quite thin, the kind of man most would call slender, and she would call scrawny. And he was rather uncomfortably old. His back was stooped, his big hands knobby and snarled with arthritis. His face was lined with deep cracks and fissures, as if he'd spent a hundred years in the sun, and he sported a long white beard that draped over his belly and chest, and would have been impressive if his hair hadn't been so thin.

And in his right hand, the man held a very tall wooden staff, one of the ones that twisted and turned slightly but still managed to be mostly straight, like Chauncy's favorite stick. The staff had strange symbols carved into it, and at its very top was a large purple gem, which glowed with an inner light.

The man looked at her with calm, ancient eyes.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly. He had a slight accent she couldn't place. "I am looking for a boy named Chauncy."

Grandma Little looked him up and down. Then she looked at the glowing gem on his staff. Then she looked back at him.

"No," she said, and shut the door in his face.

She stomped back to the kitchen. She had a breakfast to finish.

The knock came again. Three polite but firm raps.

Grandma Little set down her spoon very deliberately and walked back to the door. She opened it.

"The boy is not available," she informed the man. "He has school. And chores. And several years of growing up to do before anyone goes bothering him about anything. Good day."

"I understand your concern," the old man said, with the patience of someone who had clearly been turned away from many doors. "But I'm afraid this is rather important. The boy has a destiny, you see, and I — "

"Destiny," Grandma Little repeated, with the same tone she used when Chauncy tracked mud on her clean floor.

"Yes," the man said. "He is meant to — "

"Destiny," she said again, "does not make an appointment. Destiny does not call ahead. Destiny shows up at my door during breakfast and expects me to simply hand over my grandson." She folded her arms. "I don't think so."

The old man blinked. This was, apparently, not how these conversations usually went.

"Madam, I assure you — "

"Chauncy!" she called over her shoulder. "Come inside and wash your hands. Breakfast is almost ready."