I'd been given a pen. My magic had conjured up a common Bic smooth glide pen to help me defeat a creature who could pervert a town, or if left unchecked, who could probably pervert a city, or a nation, or-- if he had higher aspirations-- maybe even the world.

A pen.

"So," I began, taking off the pen's cap to run it along Mr. Pale's desk. The ink was purple; of course it was. "I'm to defeat Gideon with this?" I asked, snapping the lid back on.

Done with my inspection of the pen-- which led to me believe that aside from it materializing in my hand, was nothing all that special-- I tried to lay it on Mr. Pale's desk.

But no matter how I tugged or flung my hand around in the air, it would not free itself from my palm. An invisible glue of the magical persuasion kept it bound to me, unwilling to budge.

Mr. Pale chuckled. "Your magic doesn't want to leave your side. It must sense you are in danger."

I looked from him to my pen. It was cute the way my magic wanted to stay near me, protect me from Gideon. Still, I couldn't wrap my head around how it would do so.

"You must think I look stupid," I said, knowing all too well that I did.

How could I not? The first thing I'd done with my magic, whether or not I'd been aware of what I was doing, was conjure up a pen. A freaking pen!

Had I known all it would take to defeat Gideon-- the overpowered child of darkness who wore a cape of quivering, bizarre-o abyss-- was a pen, I would have gone to the convenience store and spent my paltry allowance on buttloads of them.

And then, when he approached the town, my dad and I could have chucked the ballpoint missiles of blues and blacks at Gideon's face while Crispen stood next to us, inhaling a pack of smokes.

Potter Oaks wouldn't have had to suffer. My dad wouldn't have had to suffer. We wouldn't have gone to the Reverse. We wouldn't have sacrificed--

"My goodness, Miss Auttsley," Mr. Pale interrupted. "Your thoughts are quite something." He rubbed his temples as though my mind had somehow made his throb. I scoffed. At least I could do something.

Mr. Pale watched me with curious eyes, as he waved his hand-- levitating his drink-- and poured himself another glass of his syrupy, black liquor. "I'd say your thoughts are even as powerful as my libations. If not moreso."

I stared back at Mr. Pale in wonderment as he brought the stuff to his lips, casually sipping on the drink that I'd witnessed burrow through varnish, burn through wood. Had I not seen the corrosive mixture in action, I would have thought he was drinking a warm glass of magical milk right before his bedtime.

"Well at least I'm able to cause headaches that rival the strongest hangovers," I remarked as I watched the self-refilling liquid coat Mr. Pale's lips.

After his third sip, his lips were thoroughly smeared in black, a look more befitting the days of eighties goth than an upside down study of free fires, changing seasons, and bottled histories.

"If only you wore all black or owned a few Joy Division CDs."

Mr. Pale's trimmed brows furrowed at my comment. What part could have been tripping him up and coaxing confusion to his face? The reference to goth? Joy Division? Perhaps it was my signature snark cultivated from seventeen years of life?

The man behind the desk continued to look from me to his drink, before settling his gaze outside. In a subtle movement, one that was done with the flushed cheeks of a man embarrassed, he removed his pocket square and wiped his mouth clean. Not wanting to add to his embarrassment, I feigned ignorance and turned my gaze upward.

Overhead hung a tower of books a little too close to my head for comfort. The one closest to me, with dashing red binding and gold cursive, had mathematical equations scrawled all over its aging, yellowed pages.

The title read, Pythagorean Theorem: How to Make the Best Brisket in All the Layers.

Was this a book about math and food?

"Quite, Miss Auttsley. Ned's sine/ cosine five spiced pork ribs are to die for."

I nodded--not in disbelief as I might have a few days ago-- but because all the nonsensical magic lingo, language and life lessons were just so tiring. I was exhausted and I still had to stop Gideon.

"Do you wish to know how to stop him?" Mr. Pale asked, his ears still fine tuned into my thoughts. I nodded.

"I write him up for bad behavior?" I joked. Mr. Pale, having missed the kisses of sarcasm sprinkled over my words, shook his head.

"Nothing so absurd," he remarked.

Ah. There's nothing like having your words called absurd by someone who burned, literally, as fierce as the sun, who had shelves that housed bottled ships from history and who drank tar that could drill holes into the hardest surfaces. No. The most absurd thing about the situation was my question.

Mr. Pale grimaced as he placed his hands to his temples. "Your thoughts rob me of my train of thought," he said.

"Then stop reading them!" I yelled, smacking my hands against his desk.

All at once, the stacks of books that clung to the ceiling, fell. Fell around and on me. The corner of the book on bbq and math clipped my forehead and caused pain to shoot through my head.

"Now you know what it feels like to read your thoughts," Mr. Pale said as I rubbed at the sore spot.

"Was this your doing? Injure me to show me how my thoughts injure you? You know mind reading is a huge invasion of privacy."

Mr. Pale smiled. "Everyone's thoughts are like a book, compelling, exciting, humorous, sad. The ill-informed to us, oh great beings of magical power as you like to call us--"

"I'd call you all pains in my ass," I interjected while clearing my seat of books.

Mr. Pale nodded, "--are like a vast living library. And you happen to house an interesting array of pages. We can't help but continue wanting to read you. You're a book we can't seem to put down."

I didn't know if this was a compliment or an insult. After a few moments of internal deliberation, I decided it was a bit of both. It was nice knowing that to beings who could defy physics and logic that I was interesting. It was insulting to have my thoughts read out of simple curiosity and to have them continue to be read because I was some kind of fleshy New York Times bestseller.

For goodness sakes, magical beings, put me down! Let me get dust covered on your shelves of forgotten hardbacks. Better yet, maybe let the dog have a go at me and chew on my corners. Find a better mind to read and give my thoughts back to me!

Mr. Pale watched me with amusement in his honey-colored eyes.
I sighed as he began to open his mouth.

"Miss Auttsley--"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, plopping myself back into the chair. "I know. Thoughts like that are why you lot like to read me. I got it."

Mr. Pale shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He must have hated that I'd stolen the words from his lips. He adjusted his chair and cleared his throat, his eyes glowing with seriousness.

"Your pen," he began, nodding to it, "All newcomers to their magic manifest an instrument that helps them hone their untrained magic. That pen is yours. It manifested that way because you need to create. Rayburn's was a--"

"A flask?" I asked, remembering Mr. Pale's words he'd spoken when my pen first appeared. "So my father needed to be drunk to be magical? Or was he a rare instance of sorcerer? Instead of dark magic, he wields drunk magic?"

I know. I know. I, myself, was appalled at my terrible joke. But it couldn't be helped; I was my father's daughter after all.

Mr. Pale chuckled. "No, not quite. I think his strong desire for libations outweighed his needs and so he manifested a flask."

"Ah. I wonder what would have manifested if the magic had gone with his needs. Peanut butter cups perhaps?"

At this, both Mr. Pale and I indulged in a brief bout of laughter. I was aware, as you are, that a war was raging out in my layer, that Crispen had become --for a lack of a better phrase-- thoroughly pissed off and my father had been wrapped in black vines of Gideon's magic that pricked his skin worse than what any pine tree could do.

But somehow, in here, I felt that I could relax, as if minutes, hours, were mere seconds to the world outside this study's walls.

Mr. Pale ran a slender finger across the holes --with their still smoking edges-- the liquor had made in his desk. "Could you imagine chocolate discs glowing blue and being hurled at enemies? Or used to weave spells? He would have been a laughing stock."

I wanted to stay here and exchange stories about my father with this man who blazed like a sun incarnate. But I knew my time was drawing to an end.

The seasons outside the window had shifted again and were back to how it was when I'd first landed, snow and ice blowing over everything, draping the hills, wrapping the trees up in the abysmal wool blanket of winter. I shuddered thinking about the chill even though the fire still raged in the fireplace.

"You're right, Miss Auttsley," Mr. Pale said, straightening his back. "Our time is at its end."

He sat in his seat like Principal Gale with the appearance of an authority but with nothing of substance. Though Mr. Pale was far prettier to look at. (No offense, Principal Gale-- that is if you read this, you might be too far gone from your 'apple juice' to ever read my story).

"Time flies when your catching up," he finished, picking up the aviator shades and twirling them in his fingers.

I looked at him confused. "We've never met before today."

A large smile appeared on his face."Oh, haven't we now? I don't think that's the case."

As he slipped the sunglasses on, I thought I saw a whole row of trees outside start to shiver, but my sight grew hazy and everything started to drip white.

"No," I said in a small voice. "How have we met before? And what am I to do with this pen?"

His laughter permeated the mist. "That is a question for your father to answer. And Miss Auttsley, create your solution. I'm sure you'll think of something."

As all of my vision was eclipsed in white, Mr. Pale's tiny whisper found my ears. "And if you have the time, ask Mr. Heavensley what his magical instrument was. I'm sure you'll find it amusing. Until we meet again."