Page 25 of Enchanted Village

And before Liza could curse her on the spot, she turned and hurried away down the road.

Chapter Eleven

Silas was used to fixing things. For years, he’d watched his father be the kind of person who people brought their broken things to. He’d watched as they entered the shop holding boxes filled with what anyone else would see as junk, and then he’d seen his father transform and resurrect those items from the brink.

Then, things had shifted, and Silas became the one who made those transformations. Silas was the one who repaired their broken chairs and armoires and radios and anything else they brought in. He was good at it.

Now, however, he found himself in a position he had never been in before: He found himself having been the person who did the breaking.

“I nearly destroyed the place,” Silas told his uncle as he and Elliott walked down the lane past some of the shops Liza had mentioned.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t have been easy for her to forgive him. He remembered the horrible look in her eyes when she looked up at the sign hanging from its hinges. And then there was the way she’d left.

I’m afraid I’ve got a lot of work to do.

Work she needed to do, of course, because Silas had nearly destroyed her pub.

“I can’t even blame her,” Silas said. “It wasn’t exactly the best first impression.”

Elliott chuckled. “She seemed to have a decent impression, if you ask me.”

“Not that you’re helping much,” Silas barreled on. “I already wrecked her family’s pub, and then, to add insult to injury, you’re telling the entire village that I’m some socially inept gargoyle that never leaves the school or the inn.”

Elliott considered this as he paused in front Marvin Mottle’s Magic Menagerie to pet what looked like a bright blue parrot that was perched on the sign. At Elliott’s touch, the bird shook their wings, and suddenly the feathers turned slippery, making it look as if the bird itself was a pool of water shimmering in the light.

“Well,” he mused. “Maybe it was unfair to paint you as a shut-in. I know you’ve been visiting some of the shops. But I want you to really feel like you belong here, Silas. Meet people your own age.”

Silas shook his head. “Clearly, you and Mr. York have been chatting.”

Elliott laughed. “All I’m saying is that I didn’t uproot you from your family for you to isolate yourself. And besides, I think you and Margaret could be dear . . . friends.”

Silas snorted. “Friends, sure. After that display, I’m sure the ship has sailed for anything more than that. You heard her when I offered help. She wants nothing to do with me. Though, I guess, if she’s half as good with a wand as I suspect, she doesn’t need any help at all.”

Elliott smiled, and the bird that had been water now squawked and became a parrot again, clucking its beak affectionately at Elliott. Elliott stroked the bird’s head, his expression pensive. Silas got the distinct sense that he was debating whether or not to say something.

“One other thing you must realize, Silas,” Elliott said, each word as carefully measured as honey poured into tea, “is that just because a witch or wizard could use a spell does not mean they want to.”

Silas stared, only somewhat distracted by the bird. “I don’t understand.”

Elliott rubbed his chin. “Well, just because Margaret could possibly resort to magic to fix her pub does not mean she will.”

Silas considered Old Man Weatherby and his limitations with fixing the shelves that the kurlop had destroyed. Was there something that could keep Margaret from performing the spells necessary to fix the pub? In Weatherby’s case, the old man had blamed his age and the difficulty of the intricate spell work required. But Margaret seemed entirely competent . . . was there something he wasn’t seeing?

“All I am saying,” Elliott said, “is that while magic may seem boundless, it does have its limits. We wizards are not as impervious as we make ourselves out to be.”

He chuckled as the parrot’s feathers seemed to catch fire, though it must not have been real because he continued to pat the bird’s head.

Silas tilted his head. “I feel like you’re trying to tell me something.”

Elliott grinned. “Always. And it is such a joy when someone actually catches on to something I’m saying.”

But Silas was not sure, exactly, what it was that his uncle was trying to tell him. He started to ask this very question, but before he could, Elliott had turned and started moving up the road, throwing his words over his shoulder so that Silas had to hurry to keep up.

“How about we pop into that robe shop?” Elliott said. “I could use a flashy new set for the holiday parties I have around the corner.”

Chapter Twelve

When she woke up, Margaret wasn’t sure what twinged more: the aches in her body or the worry in her heart.