danger is great joy, dark is bright as fire
A frown ghosts across her lips as she checks the translation scribbled in her own wobbly hand against the spell in her great-grandmother’s ‘recipe book’. “The book says three petals. I put in three petals,” Darcy replies with a shrug.
“Needs more rose and less of that orange stuff. You’ll never summon love with that pisspoor potion,” Aldis huffs. The familiar’s fluffy tail twitches, and he reaches out a paw to bat at the loose pink rose petals strewn across the bench.
“For Frigga’s sake it’s not a love spell, Aldis. It’s a luck spell for Jane getting her research grant extended,” Darcy says. She makes a shooing motion that the familiar ignores with the barest twitch of a small ear.
“Love would be better. You’d be far less trouble for me if you had a mate,” Aldis grumbles. The familiar stretches out on the workbench, wickedly sharp claws scrabbling over the surface.
The familiar wore the shape of a Pallas Cat, mottled fur and an indifferent and often grumpy face. He has been Darcy’s familiar since the day of Darcy’s thirteenth birthday. The day Darcy’s witch blood kindled and she received her great-grandmother’s book.
“You love me and my trouble.” Running a fingertip down the list of ingredients, Darcy takes a steadying breath to focus her will. Intent meant as much as words or ingredients in spell work. At least as far as Darcy is concerned. The spell called for five seeds from the center of an orange. There were two forlorn tangerines, of indeterminate age and sentience, from the charnel pit that is Jane’s fridge.
“Shut it, witch,” Aldis says, narrowing his yellow eyes.
Darcy rolls her bottom lip between her teeth and carefully slices one of the tangerines open with a paring knife. Digging around making a mess of the citrus fruit she pulls two tiny pips from the heart of the fruit and flicks them into the dinted copper spell pot. “Two down, three seeds to go.”
The second tangerine disintegrates into a pulpy mess in her hand at the merest kiss of the knife blade. Muttering under her breath, Darcy sifts through the orange pulp, separating out three more seeds.
“Okay, that’s the last of it,” she says moving the copper pot over the little camp stove that lives in the cupboard underneath the sink.
It takes a few minutes for the liquid in the pot to bubble. A curl of rose and tangerine scented steam rises from the bubbling potion. Darcy dips a wooden coffee stirrer into the mixture, stirring it around three times clockwise. Setting the stick aside she turns the camp stove off with a decisive flick of the wrist.
“I think we did good this time,” Darcy says.
“She thinks,” Aldis says just as the shop door opens with a merry jingle of the bell. The familiar’s eyes widen and he leaps off the bench. Landing in a mostly graceful heap Aldis scurries through the door of the back room and into the shop.
“Customers. Great,” Darcy sighs, wiping her hands on a piece of paper towel with out of season Easter eggs dancing across it. Straightening her shoulders and settling her face into her best customer service mask, Darcy shuffles out into the shop.
Pulling the door shut behind her Darcy surveys the shop floor. Doctor Selvig’s Emporium was part antique shop, part book store, and part museum. Mostly it was a dumping ground for whatever her boss, Dr Selvig himself, found interesting on his many travels. It paid Darcy’s bills, and helped furnish her box like apartment so it wasn’t all that bad.
The shop held two customers. An older woman, shorter than Darcy herself, with perfect blonde hair and a soft smile. The woman is cooing over Aldis as the familiar hulks on the counter beside the ancient cash register pretending to clean a dainty paw. The other customer was tall, with broad shoulders, a miniscule waist, and dark blonde hair.
“Hi, welcome to Doc Selvig’s Junk Shop,” Darcy says in her very best approximation of a chirpy voice. “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
“Thanks,” rumbles the man as he pulls a book off the shelf. The muscles in his shoulders, beneath the cotton of his henley shirt ripple.
“What a beautiful cat,” says the woman. “What breed is she?”
“He’s a rescue. The nearest we can guess is some sort of farm cat...mixed with a cross eyed demon,” Darcy says slipping behind the counter. Aldis hisses deep in his throat and Darcy blows the familiar a kiss. “You can pet him if you like. His name is Aldis and he’s very friendly.”
“Who’s a handsome boy,” the woman says stroking her hand through Aldis’s thick fur.
“Ma, please,” the man says under his breath. There is a pained look on his face as he turns to meet Darcy’s gaze. He winks at Darcy and her lips twitch up into a genuine smile shattering the mask of customer service zombie.
“Hush, Steven,” says the woman, diligently scratching beneath the familiar’s ears.
Edit: added the title and a link to the ficlet not that it is posted to ao3
