“Turn right,” said the cool, female voice of the on dash navigator. The car turned right, slowly riding on the tree-lined street. Its driver peered out the windows at the old homes. From what the driver’s eyes could see through the thick trunks of the mature trees, each home had a well-kept, restored feel. Separated from one another by a long, narrow driveway, all the homes seemed to have been built roughly during the same era. An elaborate Victorian house nestled next to an ostentatious Italianate home, which stately stood near a cozier Tutor-styled abode. The styles changed from house to house, but the well-to-do feel remained ever present.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the machine said. Pulling up to the curb, the car rolled to a stop. The hum of the engine was silenced. Taking one last peek out the windows, the driver grabbed the strap of the wide, canvas shoulder bag that lay on the passenger seat and opened the car door. The smell of autumn found his nostrils even though summer was desperately trying to linger.
Standing in the space made by his open car door and the car, his hands smoothed his wrinkle-free khaki chinos and checked to make sure that his blue pinstriped button-down shirt was flat and that his sleeves were rolled up evenly. Carefully resting his shoulder strap on his shoulder so that it did not make his collar askew, he took a deep breath of the warm, late summer air before closing the car door. His feet followed the cement sidewalk to a large covered porch that surrounded a stained glass door belonging to a modest looking Victorian house.
In his left hand, he held a small piece of paper with a scribble of an address not in his handwriting, which he checked twice. His eyes glanced to the right and saw the brass numbers, 727, against light blue wood siding while his right index finger pressed the doorbell.
Somewhere inside a chime rang. He fidgeted with the paper as he waited for a few moments before he could see an outline of a person grow larger in the multicolored glass. His ears heard a click. The stained glass door opened to reveal a strikingly, pleasant looking face of a woman. He was instantly face to face with wild, short, dark red hair. Looking down, he gazed into intense, yet soft, brown eyes. Her whole persona gave a delicately strong vibe.
Almost forgetting why he was standing on her porch, his heart beat hard and fast while his lungs filled with air. “Hi, my name is Berty Chase,” he said. “I am from the Post…”
“Yes, of course. Please come in,” she said. Berty stepped over the threshold. He found himself in a dark wood paneled foyer with a modest crystal and brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. An ancient wool carpet softened the footsteps as the woman led him through a pair of beveled glass pocket doors to his left.
“I am Silvia,” she said. “Please, have a seat.” She extended her arm towards a dining room chair. Not sure what to expect, Berty sat on the carved wooden chair nearest the door while Silvia took the seat across the table.
He carefully placed his bag on the floral Oriental rug, then extracted his flip top notebook, pen and recorder. Opening his notebook to a blank page, his eyes absorbed every detail of the antique dining room. In his notebook, he scribbled details concerning the crisp, white linen tablecloth, the ornate stone and wood fireplace on the opposite wall, the large brass chandelier with six matching wall sconces scattered around the room and the silver teapot on the Victorian styled sideboard. When he finished noting the room, he scribbled the details concerning Silvia—her claret blouse, dark washed jeans, leather heeled boots, silver teardrop earrings with matching necklace pendant, and no rings or bracelets.
Rereading what he had written, he wondered why he was sent since everything seemed normal, so far. Berty looked up from his notebook, saying, “Sorry, it helps me create a mood.”
Silvia simply pleasantly replied, “Coffee? Cookies?”
“Thank you.” His pen hovered over the page. “Could you spell your name for me, please?”
“Of course,” she said as she poured him a cup of coffee from a silver coffeepot that sat on a silver tray. “S-I-L-V-I-A.”
“Last name?”
Placing a plate of cookies between them, Silvia said, “No last name.”
“Okay.” Berty started to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. Interviews where the interviewee refused to answer the basics never boded well for him. “Age?”
“Your mother taught you better than that, Mr. Chase.”
Hoping to salvage the interview, he smiled at Silvia, then grabbed a cookie. “Please, call me Berty.”
She returned his smile. “Is Berty short for Albert or Bertwin?”
“Hubert, actually.” Berty blushed. His stomach could not help but sink further.
“Your editor was quite excited when he contacted me to set up this interview.” Silvia sipped her coffee. Putting down her cup, her eyes carefully scrutinized him. She asked, “Low man on the totem pole, Berty?”
“I write human interest stories for the paper,” answered Berty. His mind rushed back to his un-office, as he liked to call his desk sitting in the corner of the open newsroom surrounded by other desks and some cubicles, where he sat typing stories about happenings at the zoo or how some old lady’s cat was rescued from a drain pipe.
In his un-office is where he was sitting when the stern voice of his section’s editor called, “Chase, go up to the fourteenth floor, editor-in-chief wants a word. Now.” Berty saved his work, then stumbled off his chair. In the elevator, he wiped sweat off his face and smoothed his dark hair and shirt.
When he found his way to the assistant’s desk, he managed to say, “Berty Chase here to see…”
The woman behind the desk said, “He’s expecting you. Go right in.”
Berty walked cautiously through the open door to the corner office. The silver-haired man sat in a large, leather armchair behind a handsome cherry desk.
“Close the door behind you, Chase,” he bellowed. Berty did as he was told. “I am sure you are wondering why you are here. Well, I have a special assignment for you.”
The sound of a passing car brought Berty back to the foreign dining room. He glanced at Silvia. She raised an eyebrow. “I could be doing worse,” he said. As he sat across from her, he could feel his heart beating strongly enough to almost make his shirt move. Not wanting to let her see his nerves, he ignored his shirt, begging, “Enough about me. I am here to interview you.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded. The intensity of her gaze relaxed. “I will not deprive you of your interview any longer.”
Berty’s fingers fumbled as they switched on his recorder. He took a soothing sip of his coffee, then asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“I do not wish to divulge that information.”
Berty did not realize that his stomach could sink any further as he promptly turned off his recorder. “Off the record?”
Silvia’s eyes seemed to penetrate into his soul. Trying to stifle a burgeoning panic attack, Berty’s mind tucked away his editor-in-chief’s intimidating voice that told him to have a story for Halloween. He noticed how the midmorning sunlight captured the red in her hair. She turned her head to look out the window. “I have a job, which I really enjoy.” Turning to face Berty, she said, “Forgive me if I do not trust you to keep it off the record.”
Berty swallowed hard. “I understand.” Hoping to salvage something, his fingers clumsily switched on the recorder. “So,” he continued, “can I call it a hobby?”
Both of her hands held the coffee cup to her lips. Peering through the steam, she said, “If it makes you feel better.”
“What sort of tools or instruments or whatever do you use?” asked Berty.
“Tools for what?”
He forgot to breathe for a moment. “For your hobby.” Berty hated when interviewees answered a question with a question. “Do you have a special room or space? I brought a camera, if that is okay with you.”
Smiling, Silvia shook her head.
A sickness in his stomach thoroughly moved throughout his b
ody. He was feeling very confused. He knew that this attempt at an article set by his editor-in-chief would bomb completely, making sure he would never leave his un-office. Thinking that he could possibly lose his job because of this, Berty pleaded with her. “My editor said you would show me everything.”
“And I shall, if you are ready.”
“Okay,” he said, feeling somewhat relieved.
Silvia picked up the cups and the plate of cookies off the tablecloth, then placed them on the tray. When she stood, Berty asked, “Where are we going?”
“Out,” Silvia stated.
While Berty gathered his things and picked up his bag, Silvia carried the silver tray through a swinging door that Berty assumed took her into the kitchen. He waited for her in her wood paneled foyer, wondering what she was going to show him.
Berty watched her slender shape saunter down the hall into the foyer and opened a door disguised as a panel behind which she extracted a dark gray cloth bag with a shoulder strap. When she threw her bag over her shoulder, he imitated her.
“Would you like to leave your bag in the closet, Berty?” Silvia asked.
“No, thank you. I’d rather take it with me.”
“I am sorry,” said Silvia, “but you are going to have to leave it here, as well as your cell phone and car keys.”
“But what if I need something?” implored Berty.
“I have everything that we will need,” she assured him while patting her bag.
“But—”
“Did Martin not tell you my conditions?” Silvia asked.
“Martin?”
“Martin Hunter, your editor.”
“Oh. He told me to go along with whatever you wanted,” answered Berty.
“I want you to leave your things in the closet,” Silvia said.
Exasperated, but somewhat hopeful, Berty reluctantly placed his bag in the closet. As she closed the panel, he felt a strange mixture of separation anxiety and anxiousness swimming in his stomach.
“Thank you.” Silvia opened the stained glass door, ushering Berty out onto the porch. Following her lead, the two of them walked down the sidewalk from her porch, then turned to walk down the tree-lined street.
Two houses later, as the neighbors were meticulously mowing their green grass, she turned to Berty. “I am curious. What did Martin mention about me?”
“He said that he had a story for Halloween time and that writing a story about you would be a magical experience,” Berty recounted.
Laughing, Silvia said, “Martin likes a tabula rasa. Nothing like starting an adventure bathed in ignorance.” She laughed again. “So, you think that I am a Witch?”
Feeling like he might have been the butt of a joke, Berty opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. He promptly closed it.
“It is all right. I am not a Witch by any stretch of the imagination. That does not mean you will not have a magical experience.” His face showed an expression of blank confusion. “I will show you what I mean. But first,” Silvia continued, “I want you to remove any thoughts of common magical stereotypes from your head. No pointy hats, no broomsticks, no dark clothes and no pentagrams to be found.”
Wanting to continue the interview and figure out what the purpose was of sending him to see Silvia, Berty asked, “Do you use magic?”
“In a sense,” Silvia vaguely answered. The last side street before the abrupt dead end passed without Silvia making a turn.
Attempting to get into her mind, he asked, “What is magic?”
The street ended where the woods began. Silvia stopped at the edge of the two, looked hard at the forest enticing her to enter, then answered, “What isn’t?”
Berty’s eyes darted from her to the trees, then back again. Keeping the questions flowing, he asked, “Would wands and spell books be stereotypical as well?”
Silvia’s face turned towards him. Berty noticed a wild sparkle in her brown eyes and the gentle manner in the way her lips curved when she smiled. She stepped off the pavement. Her feet found a path through the woods that only they knew. His feet followed while his mind was trying not to think about arriving at some sort of stone or wood circle with a fire pit at the center.
When they finally stopped, Berty was a bit surprised to find himself on the bank of a brook. The air was chillier in the shadow of the canopy where the leaves began their multicolored show. His body began to shiver and goose bumps briefly appeared on his arms.
Crossing his arms in front of his torso, he watched Silvia with her back to the brook, facing the hill. Berty did not know at what she was looking, but he did know that she showed no signs of chilliness. Finally turning around, she removed her bag from her shoulder.
“Autumn has seemed to have arrived early in this part of the woods. We are walking even further and it will not get much warmer. Here, put this on. It will keep you warm.” Silvia extracted a dark gray cloth bundle from her bag, then handed it to Berty.
“Thank you.” He was so busy trying to unravel his bundle that he did not notice that Silvia came over to help him until her soft hand was on top of his. His hands let go of the wad of charcoal gray cloth. Her delicate hands gently shook the mass of gray to reveal a cloak. Sheepishly, Berty swung the cloak over his shoulders. He instantly felt warm. She stood in front of him as he watched her dainty fingers delicately fasten his cloak.
“Must have been the chill,” muttered Berty. Silvia’s lips grinned while her head nodded slightly. As she turned from him, he noticed that she was wearing a similar cloak. “Where is your bag?”
“I am wearing it. Come.” Berty trudged up the hill after her.
Silvia stopped halfway up the hill before a three-foot space between two oak trees.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Wondering what was going to happen next, he answered, “As ready as I will ever be.” His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned over to answer.
Her left hand stretched between them, palm up. “Place your hand in mine,” instructed Silvia.
Resigned to the fact that in order to keep his job he must proceed blindly, his right hand dutifully slid on top of hers. Soft, delicate fingers pushed through the spaces between stronger fingers, clasping his hand tightly. Strong fingers returned the grip.
“Follow my lead and do not let go,” Silvia warned. Her foot stepped forward and her body’s strength led him between the two oak trees.
Also by IE Castellano:
The World In-between (The World In-between, Book 1)
Bow of the Moon (The World In-between, Book 2)
Secrets of the Sages (The World In-between, Book 3)
Tricentennial
Where Pirates Go to Die
The Hunt (Moon Shadows)
About IE:
IE Castellano is an American author and poet living in the Eastern United States. Falling in love with the mechanics of the English language at an early age, she started writing poetry before venturing into fiction. With her propensity to ask, what if, she writes speculative fiction—authoring the dystopian sci-fi novel, Tricentennial, and the contemporary epic fantasy series, the World In-between.
IE’s blog: iecastellano.blogspot.com
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