Angela's version of the world.

There is no such thing as magic. Until it is proven to me then that is what I believe.

Angela is spending the night again. Norman has taken this as a cue to cook huge extravagant meals that no one can finish, and then when I’m sat, stuffed and unable to move he says
“You need to hear this,” and nods at Angela, who explains to me what she knows about magic.

I expected her to tell me about teleportation, or telepathy, or how to conjure a fireball. But she’s cleverer than that. She stuck to the theory, rather than the demonstrable feats. She told me why magic is supposed to work.

If science is the rule of logic on existence, then magic is a flaw in the logic – and just as you can defy logic linguistically, you can also defy the order of the universe linguistically. Through language, the truth of the world is corrupted, and through that opening in the fabric of the universe, all manner of strangeness can be drawn out – like the dead, and demons. The universe can be altered if the words are powerful enough.

This means you can make potions that stop you from aging. You can make whole rooms disappear and nobody wonders where they went. You can create a living being out of the ether, complete with a complex personality. You can do anything imaginable, if you have the words.

I suspect you know this already. I think that’s why my father needed you, because you believe in this too. But I don’t.