“Yani!” The croak came from the top of the tower, just as it had approximately 8,492,143 times earlier today. I trudged my way toward the granite spiral staircase, each step an echo of the burn I’d feel exponentially stronger by the time I finally wound my way to the top.
This had to be the worst job I’d ever accepted, and I was seriously considering whether it was worth it.
Sure, I’d be in the best shape of my life if this pattern continued. Increased lung capacity and ability to run was nothing to sneeze at.
And yes, Zohmilda had offered to train me as the next sorceress of the Glennock Tower. Which was cool. Most jobs don’t come with a tower attached. Or the ability to turn your enemies into frogs. Not that I had any of those yet, but she’d assured me it would come with time.
Enemies, not frogs. At least, that’s what I assumed.
But sweeping each angled step with a loose bundle of sage on the way up, then a broom of lavender on the trip down? What purpose did that serve? What happened if I missed a step?
Actually, forget I asked. I’m afraid to find out. Besides, it’s not like I can go back.
Maybe I should have questioned further who actually put classified want ads in the newspaper anymore. It was a fluke I even saw it, abandoned on the bus station’s restroom floor. I’d taken a picture with my phone to avoid touching soggy paper, excited for an opportunity.
Of course, at the time, I’d thought it was something like a renaissance faire. Or nursing a deluded old granny through her final days as companion. Either would have left a far better inheritance than my crazy uncle’s plans. His castle these days was a cardboard box in a stinking back alley, hidden behind a dumpster and wrapped in tinfoil.
I made it to the top, braced my hands on my knees, trying to enjoy the feel of sweat dampening my forehead as a sticky delight. I had to believe this would get easier as I got stronger. If I survived my first week. Which I would, because the alternative was a lot worse than minimum wage at Mickey-D’s and the perpetual perfume of French fries. “Yes, Zohmilda?”
“Good, you’re finally here. Be a lamb and run downstairs for the vial of antelope whiskers, would you? And the blue electrolyte drink while you’re at it. Not the purple grapey one, those are far too sweet.”
Such were the demands of a sorceress in the modern world. I dropped my head, letting it hang in mild despair. In between wheezes, I tried to remember my words. “Have – have you considered – considered an intercom?”
“It’s rather time sensitive, dear, if you wouldn’t mind hopping to?” The glint in her eyes reminded me of the probationary period…and the aquarium of frogs I was desperately hoping to avoid.
“Of course,” I murmured, and flipped my double-sided broomstick over to lavender. “I’ll get both from the kitchen. Be right back.”
It was only the two of us, so you’d expect that we could fend for ourselves. You’d be wrong, but it’s certainly fine to expect it. I’ve been here four days, having been directed to explore and familiarize myself with my future property, and had been startled by both the aurochs head mounted on the wall and the skeleton crew in the kitchen. The former snorted a hello; the latter group silently scrubbed the floor, prepped meals I tried not to question, and washed vials of sorcerous liquids and powders I hadn’t yet earned the right to understand.
They did a great job, but I wondered if their bony fingers could handle sign language. Zohmilda loved their silence, but I was feeling the loss of other humans, even if they hadn’t deigned to talk to me.
“What’s up, friends?”
The one doing dishes clacked her jaw at me, phalanges covered in suds. Floor scrubber nodded, the quietest of the bunch. If that were possible.
“Antelope whiskers and blue power drink,” I sang out. The skeleton prepping tonight’s mystery stew set his knife down and pulled the plastic bottle from the fridge. He placed the radioactive liquid in the basket and tapped a finger on his jaw for a moment before heading for the spice vials.
Next to cinnamon and rosemary rested black pepper crystals and a frantic, fresh-caught slug, still looking for a way out. I caught a glimpse of antenna straining toward the jar’s lid before the rack spun, and the slug was lost in a whirl of bright blue not normally found in nature.
Electrolyte drinks excepted, of course.
His hand was cold against my skin, as you might expect, but it held a spotless vial of whiskers. The label said antelope, so fingers crossed it was what Zohmilda wanted.
If not, well. Chef-skeleton had held onto my hand a little longer than he’d needed to, and he didn’t seem a bad sort.
It’d be a better outcome than the frog-quarium, that’s for sure. And skeletons don’t have muscles that cramped on the hike upstairs.
***
This week, AC Young challenged me with the title to this story, while my prompt about chaos gremlins went to nother Mike. Check out what they wrote over at MOTE!