1.Life Up in the Air

1. Life Up in the Air

Has the Blanchard estate always been so massive?

"No need to be intimidated, Marty," I remind myself.

It's tough not to be. Walking up the long spiraling driveway, a grand mansion looms before me with a stately entrance and white marble columns that bracket the porch.

I haven't been back here in months. I was a totally different person then. I had everything together then and now… now I need help.

No reason to be nervous. I may not have even a quarter of the Blanchard family wealth—who am I kidding? I don't even have one percent of the Blanchard family wealth.

But that doesn't mean I have nothing .

One of the dark shutters on the second floor is closed and against the window while the rest are open. Every blade of grass in the spacious lawn is cut to a precise, uniform height, so the Blanchard's wouldn't tolerate a rogue shutter.

Calling on the magic of my element, a cool breeze emanates from my fingertips. I raise my hand, using a carefully directed wind to pop the shutter open and away from the window, then a gentle breeze to push it back into place against the wall.

"Perfect." I smile as I pass under the columns to reach the entrance and ring the doorbell.

Money isn't an area where I'm rich, but I have an element's magical blessing. I have the air.

Magic is too powerful for humans to wield alone, but the elements who help us handle raw magical power don't give their gifts to just anyone. Casters study for decades to receive an element's blessing. We aren't real magic users until we partner with an element. It's one of the biggest hurdles we face.

And I'm done with that test. I partnered with the air element. I'm an airbrand. The power of the air is inside me.

Unfortunately, I don't have much else.

My day, in a word, sucked. Maybe my night is about to get better with the right advice …

The door swings open, interrupting my thoughts. An assistant in a neat black sweater answers the door with a polite, impersonal smile. "May I help you?"

"Hey, how's it going? I'm here to talk to Mrs. Blanchard."

"Is she expecting you?" He gives me a once-over, clearly not impressed. I start getting the feeling my night will suck just as much as my day.

"Well, no, but—"

"The Blanchards aren't in the habit of accepting uninvited guests this late in the evening."

Seven at night isn't exactly 'late' by normal standards, but fancy rich people etiquette dictates that it's rude to show up unannounced once the sun has gone down.

"Will you please tell her that Marty Russo is here? She'll see me."

The door closes, leaving me alone on the doorstep once more.

As I wait, I pull up the rejection email on my cell phone for the hundredth time today. The words are etched into my brain, but I can't help but skim them again: "...appreciate your interest… this invasive curse requires… regret to inform you… not selected for the research position..."

I've always known who I am and what I want. A responsible problem solver with a logical mind but a free spirit, I'd like to help people and work with my magic. That hasn't changed. I just don't know what comes next. This opportunity was the only one that really excited me. I was so sure it was the next step.

But I was wrong.

To distract myself, I look around. Green hedges frame the elegant estate, and the scent of fresh-blooming flowers fills the air. A beautiful summer night, but if I concentrate, I can almost sense the frost lurking nearby.

As if summoned by my thoughts, the grand white door swings open, releasing a frigid gust of air that makes me shiver. A few snowflakes escape from within, melting instantly upon contact with the warm summer night.

"Mrs. Blanchard is unavailable at the moment," the assistant informs me with the same detached professionalism.

"Really? Are you sure about that?" I ask, fighting to hold back my frustration.

The door inches shut. "She says she doesn't know any Marty Russo."

Ah, so that means, "You didn't even tell her I was here, did you?"

"Of course I did. The Blanchards don't socialize much with... the younger generation."

Which is code for ‘the Blanchards hire people like this guy to keep unwashed hippies away.' I took a shower this morning, but the hippie part is more or less accurate.

"We weren't exactly golf buddies," I admit. "I used to be you. I'm Mrs. Blanchard's old assistant."

At least he stops trying to close the door, eyes roaming over me again in disbelief. Like I mentioned, a lot has changed.

When I worked for Mrs. Blanchard, I was studying magic at the same university as her son. I looked like the new version of me with neat dark hair parted down the middle, tie and white button-down shirt peeking out of his black sweater.

I used to look like him, back when I was just Marty Russo. Now I'm also an airbrand.

I've traded my sweater and dark slacks for a tank top and frayed jeans. Traded shiny black shoes for sandals. My hair is light brown, sun-kissed, and falls to the middle of my back. Air magic means freedom and the wind in your hair. I look like a free spirit… or an unwashed hippie.

And there's no way this dude will let me inside, not like this. Oh no. This calls for drastic measures.

"Dude, will you please just get her?" I beg. "Don't make me call in the big guns."

"I really can't help you."

Ugh. Big guns it is. I get out my cell phone once more. Time to call for help. Text for help. Whatever.

This feels so silly given that I'm already here and Mrs. Blanchard is a mentor to me, but I text her son, letting him know where I am and that I need to see his mom. We met at school and became good friends, though it feels like I'm a little kid knocking on the door and asking if his mommy can come out and play.

"It'll just be a minute," I say.

The assistant doesn't shut the door, curious to see where I'm going with this, maybe expecting to slam the door in my face once it's confirmed I'm full of shit. But that won't happen. The seconds tick by slowly while we wait in an incredibly awkward silence.

How did I even get to this moment? I thought I was set when getting my brand.

The brand is the last piece of the puzzle for most casters. Everything starts falling into place: magic, career, love life, and the future. It happened like that for Mrs. Blanchard's son Jack.

My story is different though. Nothing is falling into place for me. I can't remember the last time I went on a promising date. I even lost my job. This job.

Mrs. Blanchard never talked about letting me go, but I had to quit. She needs full-service support, someone capable of wielding any element. Novices like this new assistant can only handle small amounts of elemental power, so he has less magic than me but isn't locked into one element yet and can warm the pipes when they freeze or blow the icicles away when they gather.

Mrs. Blanchard's commanding voice calls out. "Marty! For goodness sakes, what are you doing standing out there and letting all the hot air in? Come in."

Mrs. Blanchard's snowflake brand is covered, but the chill in the air and frosty interior of her home makes her allegiance to ice magic clear. Not to mention her flowing ivory locks, alabaster skin and piercing cool blue eyes. I'd seen her attend high society galas and charity balls looking like a quintessential ice queen in her floor-length gowns and sparkling jewelry frosted with diamonds. No wonder the new assistant still fears her.

"That will be all," she dismisses her skittish assistant, who scurries away.

I was plenty intimidated by her at first too. Now she's become something of a mentor. But the assistant did have a point, she isn't used to surprise visitors in the evening, so I paste an apologetic smile on my face.

"Thanks for seeing me. Sorry to bother you and just drop by."

"Nonsense. You're always welcome." Mrs. Blanchard pauses as soon as those words leave her mouth. "Well, the sentiment there is true…"

"I'll call next time before visiting," I promise .

"Appreciated. If you didn't call, I'm assuming it's serious."

"No. Maybe… it's just…" I shiver in the icy surroundings. The foyer is tastefully elegant, and nothing is encased in ice, but the frost still creeps along the walls. Ice and the Blanchards are so intricately connected, they make it look so easy. "I thought things were supposed to get easier with my brand."

"Most people must discover themselves first and the elements reach out at the end of the soul searching. The brand is the final detail for them. But not you." The smile she directs at me is almost warm, as warm as an aristocratic sorceress with ice in her veins can be. "You're already comfortable with yourself. You might not have everything else ironed out, but you were ready. The air never would have approached you if you weren't."

"I know. But I guess I hoped for... more."

"Nothing is wrong with, well, things being up in the air." She wrinkles her nose like puns are beneath her. "Not for you."

"Freedom is part of what called me to the air," I agree. "But now that I'm done with school and have so much time on my hands..." I'm a broke 25-year-old who just lost the research position that was supposed to start my career. Exactly zero eligible men are beating down my door. I don't even have a dog. "Not having a purpose feels wrong. "

I like knowing what direction I'm headed in. I need something to journey towards.

"Focus on what you do have," she instructs gently, though it sounds like an order because she has that kind of voice. "Spend some quality time with your element."

One rejection isn't the end of the world. It just stings. This is exactly why I sought some advice. Mrs. Blanchard's decisive manner cuts through the doubts and makes it seem so simple. Even if this opportunity called to me, I'll find something else. The sky's the limit. I should focus on what I do have, my magic.

"That's a good idea." My phone buzzes in my pocket. A gut instinct has me guessing who's calling. "And there's your son, I bet, chiming in with some advice of his own."

"Yes, he did receive his own brand before you. Barely." Unlike her, a witch with over three decades of experience. "For the sake of my pride..."

"Your advice is totally better," I say even though I haven't checked the message yet.

"Thank you." She smiles. "It's nice seeing you again, Marty."

I offer her my own thanks for her advice as I start taking my leave. It's a good thing I don't check Jack's message until I'm already out the door and heading back down the long driveway .

Because it sounds like… his advice seems more… personal.

Jack: Things escalate quickly after branding. You need to take time for yourself. If you know what I mean.

Marty: I thought you meant self-care until you added ‘if you know what I mean.'

Jack: Self-care, is that what they're calling it?

Marty: What?

Jack: You know what I mean.

Jack: You do know what I mean, right?

Prim and proper Jack can't really be suggesting what I think, can he? With me leaving him hanging, he keeps texting.

Jack: Marty?

Jack: You've spent too many nights with yourself. ‘Self-care' really isn't the right solution this time. Maybe you need other company.

Jack: Spend a nice evening with a nice man, see what happens.

Jack: You've just been rather tense lately. Um… what I mean is. What I'm trying to say…

Jack: Dude, you need to get laid.

Yep, bingo. Jack is indeed saying I need to get laid. Well, I doubt he sent the last message. Ewan probably got tired of him hemming and hawing and stole the phone. Sure enough…

Jack: That wasn't me! That's NOT how I would put it .

Jack: But I do agree.

Huh. His advice isn't actually better or worse than Mrs. Blanchard's. They're both right.

But seeing as I don't have a boyfriend or anyone who interests me, searching for a man to spend the night with will mean trawling a bar or dating app and is in no way guaranteed to succeed.

So, I think spending some quality time with my element is the better option. Whether it's exactly what I need or not, it can't hurt.

Sex is good and all. But flying? Flying is pretty damn good too.