I need some headspace.
The girl in the spare room is called Angela. She met dad a few years ago. He was able to help her.
For the last two weeks I've been sat in that room wondering what it could mean and coming up with a long list of things it couldn't possibly.
Blank books, coded books, nonsense books, bottles and rats and things I've never seen before anywhere. Both my father and, I suspect, Norman's wife aged years in one night and died of old age. There is a room that wasn't there and now it is. There's a mirror daubed with symbols. A dead rat. There are black candles. There's a tree root stained black with blood. A gold contraption like a fishing reel.
For the last two weeks I have been telling myself that I'm going mad, because no matter how many books I've read, or the games we used to play when we were younger, in spite of everything we wanted to be true, there is no such thing as magic.
There is no such thing as magic.
And this morning there's Angela at breakfast, who says-
"Oh yes, there is magic. Of course there's magic. But mine's run out - that's why I came to see your dad. That's why I'm here. You see he was the one who helped me conjure Tomlin in the first place. Six years ago. I've hardly any skills myself, but your dad. Now I wonder if Tomlin's gone because his summoning was so contingent on Mr. Fold, and when he died, the link with this world was broken. Or was it that he died and Tomlin was lost because the magic failed? What are your theories?"
I have none.
She thinks it's funny that the son of Edward Fold has no idea that magic exists.
She thinks Norman's story is terribly sad and has parallels with her own.
She thinks it will take her another couple of days to get her strength back, and in the meantime she would like to see where we scattered dad's ashes.
I haven't told her about the study, but she laid her hand on the door as she passed, and her face looked as though she held the photo of a loved one.
I haven't spoken to her at all since breakfast.
There is no such thing as magic.
For the last two weeks I've been sat in that room wondering what it could mean and coming up with a long list of things it couldn't possibly.
Blank books, coded books, nonsense books, bottles and rats and things I've never seen before anywhere. Both my father and, I suspect, Norman's wife aged years in one night and died of old age. There is a room that wasn't there and now it is. There's a mirror daubed with symbols. A dead rat. There are black candles. There's a tree root stained black with blood. A gold contraption like a fishing reel.
For the last two weeks I have been telling myself that I'm going mad, because no matter how many books I've read, or the games we used to play when we were younger, in spite of everything we wanted to be true, there is no such thing as magic.
There is no such thing as magic.
And this morning there's Angela at breakfast, who says-
"Oh yes, there is magic. Of course there's magic. But mine's run out - that's why I came to see your dad. That's why I'm here. You see he was the one who helped me conjure Tomlin in the first place. Six years ago. I've hardly any skills myself, but your dad. Now I wonder if Tomlin's gone because his summoning was so contingent on Mr. Fold, and when he died, the link with this world was broken. Or was it that he died and Tomlin was lost because the magic failed? What are your theories?"
I have none.
She thinks it's funny that the son of Edward Fold has no idea that magic exists.
She thinks Norman's story is terribly sad and has parallels with her own.
She thinks it will take her another couple of days to get her strength back, and in the meantime she would like to see where we scattered dad's ashes.
I haven't told her about the study, but she laid her hand on the door as she passed, and her face looked as though she held the photo of a loved one.
I haven't spoken to her at all since breakfast.
There is no such thing as magic.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 12:49 am
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