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some of the terror, then I could begin correcting the chaos.”
    The smile deepened. “Your instincts do me proud. That’s one of the best possible answers. You could also place a sphere of slowness in the area, but the possibility for continued motion among the affected is still a cause for alarm. Better to quiet the scene first, then begin unravelling the troubles. But tell me, why would you focus on offensive magic, Carlie? Why now?”
    “I . . . I’m not sure. It just seems like that’s the weakest area of my magic. I’ve spent these years learning the natural aspects, and then the internal focus. I mean, when I get spell requests, they’re always so polite and tidy. There’s no sense of danger, so I can proceed carefully.”
    “As well you should,” Gran admitted. “But your cognition of needing to affect the outside world is spot on. A good witch can practice magic in a deliberate manner and never make a mistake. A great witch can do the same under extreme duress. The latter is often when success is needed most.”
    Grans’ house began to settle with the pops and creaks of the golden hour, so I knew it was time to walk the three blocks to my own home and enjoy the sunset. I kissed her cheek, inhaling deeply to make a memory. She smelled of club moss, and blackberry, and a powder that might have been French.
    My boots thumped pleasantly down the street, and I lingered a bit to watch three evening grosbeaks flitter about in a complicated dance of feathers and beaks; it appeared to me that there was a lover’s quarrel, and the plainest of the three birds was going to win. Attagirl , I thought to the female as she flicked her tail and flew off, telling the boys to come find her. Sometimes, you have to make them come to you; that’s my general policy about men, customers for potions or spells, and life in general. But it isn’t because I’m aloof; I just happen to love where I am, and see no reason to go over the mountains seeking that which is already underneath my tiny boots. Gus seemed actually happy to see me when I walked in the living room. He was alert and following me with an intensity that would have been awkward if he hadn’t been a cat. That’s true of most things cats do, though—their behaviors verge on stalking no matter how happy they seem to be. It’s in their nature.
    “I missed you, too.” I began to undress, sitting on the edge of my red couch. There isn’t anything special about the couch, other than the fact that it is gloriously red, low enough that my legs feel just right, and the perfect length for me to stretch out on. “I saw a man die today.”
    “Mrowt?” Gus queried. His eyes glowed with interest.
    “He was in a car, and I guess he had a blood vessel burst in his brain. It was very fast.” I slipped my boots off as I reported this to Gus, who leapt down from the mantel and put his paws on my leg. He butted his head against me twice, then gave my hand a gentle lick. He might not understand everything I said, but there were times that I swore he could have been a psychiatrist. Gus understands me. A tear slid down from the corner of my eye, unwelcome, and I decided that maybe Gran was right. I would mourn the stranger quietly, have some wine, and let the subtle suffocation of accrued grief pass from me as I slept. I didn’t know the man’s name, but I had seen his face. That was good enough for me.
    I stretched out to my full length on the couch, contemplating a few candles I’d lit. After sips of wine that tasted of dark berries and a faraway place, I found myself watching the moon through the kitchen window. Actually, I was watching a patch of moonlight that shines onto the hardwood of the kitchen floor. It’s my favorite part of the house, and I’ve spent countless hours absorbing the gentle orbit of that heavenly body, using the friendly white light to help me construct spells both simple and Gordian. I felt myself slipping away into sleep, hearing the honking of