Prologue Dec

(Pronounced like it rhymes with Reese)

I t feels like I stepped into the Tardis, except this is The Magic Shop . At least that's what the red letter sign on the front says. I don't know why I thought coming into a magic shop was a good idea, but I've already caught the attention of the proprietor (I assume), and that man's intense . He looks like he might be brothers with the Crypt Keeper, but you know, better dressed in a tuxedo for some reason, with a top hat, and alive with all his body parts. He's not sporting any unnecessary holes in his face, he's just... uh... got that look about him. He also looks like I better buy something or risk an actual curse on my genitals. I like my balls and would like to keep them rash free for the foreseeable future, so—

I walk down one of the narrow aisles, picking my way through what is definitely not an ADA compliant organizational standard. My uncle's wheelchair wouldn't have even gotten in the front door, and that's not necessarily the building owner's fault, but not updating to allow for access is.

Not that Uncle Clive would be joining me even if he could.

The ache of loss isn't as poignant as it was three years ago, but it's still the worst.

And I'm not going to wallow in the middle of a store where I might be in danger of getting cursed by the owner. Admittedly, I'm past the wallowing part of grief and loss. Uncle Clive made sure to take care of me before and after his death, and I had a really good grief counselor in the months leading up to and after his passing.

I'm ok on the grief front. Lonely, which is probably why I decided to walk into a magic shop. My uncle loved magic more than anyone I've ever met, and he had a hundred stories about the adventures of his youth that he always exaggerated with magic. He ran around the world with a man when he was young, looking for trouble everywhere they went and magicking themselves out of it when they'd stirred up too much. I loved hearing him tell those stories. I miss him, but the hole in my life that he left behind is more than just the empty space where a parent lives in a child's heart. He was my entire social circle for all of my adult life, and even three years later, I still haven't found a space where I belong.

I'm lonely and listless. The jobs I qualify to work are the kinds of jobs occupied by people with their entire lives ahead of them or the ones with no prospects. High schoolers, addicts, ex-cons, and me. I don't fit in with the high schoolers, obviously. I have no experience with addiction. I've never been to jail. I'm just...

I don't know. I have no passion for anything I've ever tried. What I need is someone to give me some direction, but the only person who ever did that left this world at the behest of multiple sclerosis. He encouraged me to follow my heart at every turn, but since Uncle Clive's death, my heart has been empty and waning. I've tried dating; I've tried group activities. No one wants to keep me, and it's depressing as fuck to admit that.

I like people, but I'm not likable or important enough for anyone to choose me. Uncle Clive was important, people liked him; he had a revolving door of visitors who enjoyed his company, wisdom, and help. After he died, the visitors stopped coming. No one came to see me. The people I thought of as friends because they loved my uncle abandoned me as quickly as my mother did when I was born. It's a hard thing to face the fact that you're so unwanted and unimportant that the people you've known for years don't even notice they've left you alone.

Ugh. I'm wallowing again.

Stop, Dec, just stop. I might be unwanted and lonely, but I'm not going to give up yet. Someday someone like Uncle Clive is going to find me, and they're going to want me, and maybe between now and then I'll just buy a couple of magic books and teach myself a new skill.

A throat clears behind me, startling me into spinning on my heels. The Crypt—I mean, proprietor —stands at the front of the aisle, wiping a little dust from his top hat and eyeing me suspiciously. I swallow hard and duck around the end cap display of tarot books, slipping into the next aisle. The sign says it's the Tarot section, and I nearly collide with a rickety chair sitting in front of a table with a deck of tarot cards on it. There's a matching chair on the other side and barely room for me to scoot by without knocking into it. I nearly knock the books sitting on the shelf beside it off, but I manage to get past without catastrophe and pick up the first book I see with the word "Magic" in the title. The quicker I get out of here, the better, I think.

"Sit." The commanding voice from behind me startles the hell out of me, and I jump about three feet in the air before spinning to find the guy right there, top hat on his head with an air of confidence rarely seen in the wild. This close, I see that the strong lines of his facial features are more handsome than alarming, reminding me of some of the heartthrobs seen in Bollywood films.

He points to the chair on my side of the table as he pulls the other out. I quickly take a seat—there's something compelling about the man that makes me do as I'm told—and he sits opposite me, picking up the tarot deck on the table. Without another word he shuffles the deck three times, then sets it on the table between us and gestures to it.

"I'm the owner of The Magic Shop. Pick one card," he orders me, staring at me with an intensity I just don't know what to do with. No one has ever looked at me like this, like I'm...

Important?

Is that what he's doing?

If he is, he's gotten it wrong. I'm not important. I could disappear off this planet and literally no one would notice.

Still.

I slowly reach out, nervous because this feels... significant. No matter that I know I'm insignificant, the guy has a way of looking at me like that's not a true and proven fact. Like maybe he knows something I don't.

I swipe the cards to the side until it feels right to stop and then pick the card that catches my attention. I slide it out of the deck toward the top hat guy. Top Hat Guy? Should that be capitalized like a title or name? I think I'll just go with The Owner.

He reaches for it and flips it over, revealing The Fool card with a guy on it that looks remarkably like me, except I don't usually wear dresses. I have been known to dress up for drag night, and I guess if it was drag night I could pull off what this fool is doing. There's a bright sun and a beautiful sky with mountains in the background, and the guy's carrying a satchel like he's going on a trip, except it looks like he's about to walk off a cliff with a dog nipping at his heels. So I guess he's being herded to his doom or something on a very nice day.

Ugh.

I relate so hard to this. I'm always thinking things will turn out fine until I fall ass over teakettle, and it turns out I can't spot danger to save my life. Ask me about red flags in any of my very short-term relationships, I dare you.

Sighing, I slump my shoulders. "Even cards know I'm a disaster," I grumble.

"The Fool isn't a disaster; The Fool is an optimist. He represents new beginnings. Perhaps there is a bit of optimistic blindness, but if he listens to the dog warning him of the danger, he will be fine on his new adventure. You aren't a disaster, you simply need some direction," The Owner says. He reaches into the pocket of his suit coat and pulls out a small business card, handing it to me. "My friend runs a training school for butlers. Take this to the address listed and present her with this card. You'll find your path."

I take the card, noting a name and an address on one side and what looks like a serial number on the backside. When I look up, I startle again because The Owner is gone, and so is the deck of cards, except for The Fool, which is now sitting in front of me.

I pick it up, holding it behind the business card, and then a chime rings through the store and the voice of The Owner announces that the store is closing and purchases must be finalized.

I grab two more books without looking beyond the title and head to the front where a pimply faced teen is standing at attention like he's been waiting for me this whole time.

I hand him the books and he takes them and the tarot card, rings everything up, and I pay way more than I probably should for the three books and a tarot card before exiting the shop. I'm not saying two paperbacks, a hardback, and a tarot card aren't worth a hundred and fifty dollars, but I think I probably paid for that unsolicited tarot reading, and I guess...

I guess that's ok, because I've been listless and lost since my uncle died, but buttling sounds like a reasonable career. Who even knew there were schools for that?