“I thought I smelled magic,” Matthew said softly, joining us on the blanket.
“You did.” The stem was beginning to wilt. I decided it was time for the lily of the valley to take a bow and for my impromptu magic show to end.
Matthew clapped in appreciation, and the children joined in. Working magic seldom inspired me to laugh, but on this occasion, it did.
Philip went back to his smooth pebbles and velvety roses, while Becca continued to amass everything green that she could find, running around on the thick grass with unsteady legs. Neither of them seemed to think what I’d done was cause for concern.
“That was a big step,” Matthew said, drawing me close.
“I’ll always worry when they do magic,” I said, settling into Matthew’s arms as we watched the twins play.
“Of course you will. I’ll worry every time they run after a deer,” Matthew replied. He pressed his lips against mine. “But one of a parent’s responsibilities is modeling good behavior for their children. You did that today.”
“I just hope that Becca waits before delving into spell casting and playing with time,” I said. “One budding wizard is all I can handle at the moment.”
“Rebecca might not wait for long,” Matthew observed, watching his daughter blowing kisses at a rosebud, her expression intent.
“Today, I’m not borrowing trouble. Neither of them has done anything alarming for almost six hours—not since Philip put Cuthbert in the dog’s food bowl. I wish I could freeze this moment and keep it forever,” I said, staring up at the white clouds scudding across a sky that was brightly blue with possibilities.
“Maybe you have—in their memories, at least,” Matthew said.
It was comforting to think that Philip and Becca might, a hundred years from now, recall the day their mother did magic—just for fun, just because she could, just because it was a beautiful May day and there was room for wonder and delight in it.
“I wish being a parent was always this simple,” I said with a sigh.
“So do I, mon coeur.” Matthew chuckled. “So do I.”
* * *
—
“WAIT—YOU JUST ANIMATED a lily of the valley right in front of the twins?” Sarah laughed. “No warning? No rules? Just—poof!”
We were sitting around the long table in the kitchen where we could be close to the cozy stove. The days of the calendar devoted to les saints de glace, which in this part of the world signaled the beginning of spring, had officially ended yesterday, but apparently SS. Mamertus, Pancras, and Servatius had not been notified and there was still a touch of frost in the air. A tumbler of muguet de bois sat in the middle of the table to remind us of the warm weather to come.
“I would never say ‘poof,’ Sarah. I used the Latin word for ‘flourish’ in my spell instead. I’m beginning to suspect the reason so many spells are written in an ancient tongue is so that children will find them harder to utter,” I said.
“The children were enchanted—in every sense of the word,” Matthew said, giving me a rare, unguarded smile that came straight from the heart. He took my hand in his and pressed a kiss on the knuckles.
“So you’ve decided to just let go of the illusion of control?” Agatha nodded. “Good for you.”
“Not quite,” I said hastily. “But Matthew and I agreed long ago that we weren’t going to hide who we were from the children. I don’t want them learning what magic is from television and the movies.”
“Goddess forbid.” Sarah shuddered. “All those wands.”
“I’m more concerned about the fact that magic is so often portrayed as a shortcut around something tedious, time-consuming, or both.” I’d grown up on reruns of Bewitched, and though my professorial mother did sometimes say a spell to fold the laundry while she was reviewing her lecture notes, these were by no means daily occurrences.
“So long as we establish clear rules around doing magic, I think they’ll be fine,” I continued, taking a sip of wine and picking at the platter of greens that was sitting in the center of the table.
“The fewer rules the better,” Marcus said. He was staring into the candle flames and checking his phone every five minutes for news from Paris. “My childhood was planted so thick with rules I never took a step without running into one. There were rules about going to church and swearing. Rules about minding my father, and my elders, and my social betters. Rules about how to eat, and how to talk, and how to greet people in the street, and how to treat women like fine china, and how to take care of animals. Rules for planting, and rules for harvesting, and rules for storing food so you didn’t starve in the winter.