A Hidden Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,13
Time to end the agony of waiting. “Okay, Elorie, you’re up next. Grab the mouse, and let’s see what we’ve got.”
Elorie sat frozen. Marcus shoved the mouse in her hand with an impatient arrogance that had Nell gritting her teeth.
Ginia ran the test, and the numbers popped up on both screens.
Moira was the first to speak. “I don’t understand this.”
Nell shook her head. “I don’t either. It says Elorie has significant power potential, source unknown.”
“Speak English,” Marcus growled.
Ginia stepped into the breach. “It means she’s a witch, and probably a strong one, but we don’t know what kind. It’s not any of the types the test can read.”
“So, what can’t your primitive test read?”
Nell growled. No one insulted her kiddos.
“Chill, Mama. He’s just a grumpy old man who wishes he could code half as good as me.” Ginia ticked off on her fingers. “It can do elemental, mind, and healing. So that leaves precog and animal magics.”
Moira shook her head. “Those talents always develop very young and very hard. We’d hardly have missed Elorie communing with the spirits or flying with the seagulls.”
Marcus crossed his arms. “Use of those power sources still leaves traces we should be able to detect. I’ve scanned Elorie myself. There are no traces.”
“The code hasn’t been wrong yet,” Ginia said firmly. “And it says Elorie’s a witch.”
Moira’s helpless shrug was a perfect reflection of how Nell felt. How could you prove the existence of power only a computer could see?
Marcus was still in arrogant-king-to-peasant mode. “Are you saying my testing is wrong, little girl?”
Ginia laid her hands on the table in full Warrior Girl form. “Maybe Elorie is an extra-special kind of witch we’ve never seen before.”
“Maybe your nine-year-old imagination is overriding your logic.”
“Maybe your imagination got drowned in a moat and eaten by crocodiles.”
Steam was going to come out of her daughter’s head any minute, and Nell wasn’t in any mood to stop her. Hell, she was a hairsbreadth away from stepping up and holding her cloak. Pompous old witch.
“Enough.” Elorie started to speak, eyes anguished. Then the screen went blank. Ginia dove under the desk to troubleshoot. When she didn’t surface quickly, Nell went down to help. Ten minutes later, she called Moira’s landline.
No one had any idea what had happened, but Moira’s computer was entirely cooked.
Chapter 4
Elorie sat down at the kitchen table, rubbing her tired hands. After a full day of jewelry making, she appreciated both the break and the sublime smells emanating from the stovetop—the unmistakable scent of basil, melting butter, and something else she couldn’t identify.
“That smells incredible, sweetie.”
Her husband turned around and grinned, his “I Cook for Sex” apron splattered in unidentified green stuff. Aaron was an amazing cook, but not a neat one. “Pesto meatballs and risotto. It’ll be just another couple of minutes.”
Pesto explained the green goo on the apron. “Whatever you’re trying to soften me up for, it’s working.”
“You’re just a lucky bystander. I’m making pesto omelets for breakfast tomorrow, so I blended a fresh batch this afternoon. I figured I could use some of it to liven up our dinner.”
“Gran’s totally jealous of your basil patch. Even with magic, she can’t match it.”
Aaron grinned. “We non-witches have our skills.”
And he was a constant, solid reminder of that. Elorie got up from the table and laid her head against his back. “I’ll miss your cooking while I’m gone. I wish you could come with me.”
He turned around and popped a meatball in her mouth. “So do I, but the guests get grumpy when there’s no one here to feed them.”
While technically they were co-owners of the Sea Trance Bed & Breakfast Inn, Elorie knew she could slip away for a week and hardly cause a ripple in the smooth functioning of the inn.
Aaron, unfortunately, was fairly indispensible, especially since their most experienced staff person was currently out on maternity leave. They’d managed to sneak away the night before to celebrate their anniversary, but a whole week was unthinkable.
He carried two plates to the table and Elorie followed, drooling. As they sat down, he reached for one of her hands and started gently massaging. “Are you all ready for the show?”
Elorie nodded as she spooned in risotto. She’d been feverishly preparing inventory for the San Francisco Art Fair for over two months, ever since her totally unexpected selection as an emerging artist. Her mentor insisted she would need at least ten thousand dollars of wares to sell, double that if her sea glass was popular.
It was