hundreds of years. Thanks largely to the Roman Catholic Church, ironically enough …”
“Who cares what some man on the street thinks? It’s the spell part that’s important.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. The magic isn’t in the words.” Stanton paused for a bite of cake, letting this provocative statement hang while he licked frosting from the silver. “The magic is in the effect the words have upon the listener—or, indeed, upon the speaker himself. At its root, magic relies on human cooperation and expectation, both conscious and unconscious. It has its basis in what humans believe. That is the fundamental precept of credomancy.”
“Credomancy?”
“The magic of faith, the tradition of magic I have chosen to specialize in. Credomancy draws its power from the human perception of reality. For example, you know that it takes a silver bullet to stop a werewolf, right?”
“That’s what they say,” Emily said. “I’ve never tested it.”
“Well, if you ever come up against a werewolf, I hope you have a silver bullet handy.”
“So a silver bullet will kill a werewolf not because it’s magic, but because everyone believes that it’s magic?”
“Precisely.”
Emily leaned her elbows on the table, looking sideways out the open window. The ferry had gotten under way, and they were gliding across the bay. The keen smell of brine and churning water was surprisingly pleasant.
“But which came first?” Emily said. “The belief or the power? I mean, wasn’t there a time before people knew about werewolves and silver bullets? What would have killed a werewolf then?”
“An excellent question,” he said. “No one really knows. The prevailing wisdom is that belief and power evolve together.”
Emily pondered this for a moment.
“What if everyone stopped believing?”
“Then credomancers like myself would have no more power,” Stanton said. “Indeed, it is one of the weaknesses of the credomantic practitioner. People can stop believing, or forget their beliefs. That is why we credomancers have to continually popularize the beliefs upon which our power is based.”
“Popularize? How?”
“Well, you’ve seen those subscription novels, haven’t you? The ones printed on horrible pulp paper, with titles like Secrets of a Warlock or The Mystical Jetez?”
Emily nodded, thinking of Mrs. Lyman and her fondness for such thrilling accounts of derring-do.
“Mystic Truth Publishers in New York puts those out. Mystic Truth is owned by the Credomantic Foundation, which was started by a man named Benedictus Zeno over a hundred and fifty years ago.” Stanton paused for a sip of coffee. “The books are designed to have the broadest possible appeal. The more people read those books, the more they believe. The more they believe, the more power we credomancers have.”
Emily snapped her fingers. “Then that’s why everyone was buying Baugh’s!”
“Baugh’s? You mean those patent charms sold by mail? The ones with the garish boxes?”
“Everyone in Lost Pine believed they were more modern, more up-to-date, more effective. And if people believed they were more effective …”
“… then they were,” Stanton finished for her.
Emily sat back in her seat, crossed her arms over her chest.
“Well, thanks for nothing,” she said. “That kind of magic, all flash and gold leaf and tissue paper … it’s putting Pap and me out of business.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t dismiss your training that quickly,” Stanton said. “There are three grand magical traditions—animancy, sangrimancy, and credomancy. Spirit magic, blood magic, and faith magic. There are hundreds of kinds of magical practice, each of which blend elements from these traditions in various proportions. You’ve been mostly trained in animancy.”
“Animancy.” Emily experimented with the word.
“It’s the practice of working with the life essences that animate living things. In herbalism, for example, you take the unique life essences of individual plants and use them to perform works. I’m sure you did similar magic with animal bones and wood and such.”
“So that means I’m an animancer, and I never even knew it.” Emily shook her head. “My word, such fine airs I could have given myself!”
“Which shows why you should have paid more attention to me in Lost Pine, instead of always chasing me off.” The words were spoken with an insufferable tone of conclusion.
“It’s all right,” she purred. “Lost Pine suffered no lack of fine airs regardless.”
Stanton swapped the empty cake plate with the full sandwich plate, directing his attention to a stray morsel of roast beef.
“Komé is an animancer, too.” He speared the meat with his fork. “But not all animancers are Indian holy women or backwoods Witches. It might interest you to know that in the Slavic regions, Russia especially, animancy is an old and refined art,