In a weird way, that was like real life. People who succeeded at anything persisted because it meant everything to them. Magic sounded similar. “You said the ‘big stuff ’ comes later. What does that mean? Doesn’t everyone have the same power?”
“No. Think of it this way: when you were in school, some kids were good at math, others good in sports, and yet others excelled at, say…dancing. Some kids might have been good at more than one skill, even, right?”
“Sure. Dancing and sports, I’m there. Math…not so much.”
Bram laughed. “Magic is the same way. Some people have magic of the heart, like my aunt Millie. My sister, Sabelle, is good at many things. Manipulating people comes to mind,” he groused good-naturedly. “She has good magical battle skills for a female. She’s a walking Internet of magical knowledge. But she also possesses domestic magic. Food is always perfect. The house is always spotless. She can make anything, repair anything. Very handy.”
“Marrok says I will transition at twenty-five. So I have to wait until then to know what kind of magic I have?”
“I’m afraid so. But after that you will learn the special magic you were born to wield.”
“What’s yours?”
He cleared his throat. “That’s actually not a polite question in magical circles. Your special magic can often be your last line of defense if you’re attacked. People confide only in those close, never someone they don’t trust and never before the other has proven themselves. Asking someone about their particular magic is a bit like asking how much money one makes in the nonmagical world.”
Magickind was a new and different place. She’d have to adapt.
“What will transition be like?”
“Arduous, overwhelming, possibly dangerous. You’ll spend a hellish few days absorbing your full powers.”
Olivia still had a tough time believing it all. Where was the laugh track? Certainly, it would sound at any moment…
Her thoughts must have shown on her face because Bram added, “Don’t worry. Marrok will be with you.”
Why would he think that? She and Marrok were having a…Well, it was more than a fling on her part. But that didn’t mean those feelings were a two-way street. She was with a man who hadn’t had a relationship ever. And the man wanted to die, for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t a good risk. And once he’d gone, she would hurt like hell.
As Bram escorted her across the room with Marrok in tow, they passed small groups of people, presumably all magical, who stared.
Bram paused when they reached a laughing couple. Scratch that. A gorgeous laughing couple. The man was striking, with the bronzed skin of an outdoorsman, sleek dark hair that brushed the tips of his shoulders, and blue, blue eyes. She was petite with a head full of golden curls that brushed baby-smooth cheeks and a centerfold’s breasts. They held hands like teenagers, looking totally smitten with each other.
A bolt of envy pierced Olivia.
Next to them stood a goddess. There was no other way to describe her. The only thing average about her was her height. After that…the woman was all sumptuous and golden. Her shining hair fell in soft waves to her waist. Her blue eyes danced with humor and intelligence. Good genes had also blessed her with dimples, grace that would make ballerinas cry, and a damn near perfect body. Even her sparkling sheath dress was Cosmo-ready. Was it any wonder that virtually every man in the room was giving her the visual twice-over?
Next to her, Olivia felt like the old hag from Snow White, nose wart and all.
“Olivia, Marrok, these are my good friends Lucan MacTavish and his…wife, Anka.” Bram gestured to the couple.
Lucan smiled and extended his hand. Marrok shook it as Anka greeted her.
“Do I need to brew you a remembrance potion, dear brother?” the goddess chimed in.
Bram laughed. “As if anyone could forget you. This is my sister, Sabelle.”
“Oh! You’ve been manning my shop. I can’t thank you enough. How has business been?”
Olivia missed A Touch of Magic, but with Sabelle watching the place for the past two days, she had no worries. After a phone conversation, Olivia knew the witch was more than qualified. Amazing how expansive nearly a hundred years’ knowledge could be. If she had half of Bram’s charm, there would be hordes of customers clamoring at the gallery’s door.
“A small, fledgling gallery? Not anymore. Word of Marrok’s carvings has spread like mad. People adore them.”
Marrok shrugged his massive shoulders as if the compliment didn’t matter. But Olivia caught a little flash of pride on his face and grabbed his hand.
“He’s incredibly talented,” she added.
“He is! Just today, I sold over thirty pieces,” Sabelle added.
“Thirty?” She grabbed Marrok’s sleeve. “I told you! I knew they would sell.” She turned back to Sabelle. “I’m planning to come back in a day or two.”
“A week or two,” Marrok cut in.
Olivia elbowed him.
Tinkling laughter spilled from Sabelle. Gosh, even her laughter shimmered. “I’ve had a great time running the gallery. I love art and people. It’s been so refreshing. Everything is fine at the shop. Really. Take as much time as you need.”
“I’m not imposing?”
“Please. You’re saving me from spending all day under his thumb.” She pointed at Bram. “I should be paying you!”
“Very funny, little sister.”
After quick nods and good-byes, Bram led them deeper into the crowd. Two men, opposites in every way, stood in the corner arguing in low tones.
“If this is some sort of outcast outreach program, you can sod off,” grated out a scruffy giant.
“I merely suggested that in these troubled times, perhaps—”
Bram cleared his throat. The conversation stopped and the two men turned identical heavy stares—on Olivia.
Goody. Isn’t this awkward?
The man on her right was smooth, urbane. Every pore of his unblemished skin and every thread in his clothing shouted money. Old money. A lot of it. He was incredibly good-looking in the male model sort of way, with his dark hair styled in some carefully artless, £200 haircut that accented his sophisticated charm. Not staring at the man was impossible.
“Your Grace, this is Miss Olivia Gray and Marrok of Cadbury.” Bram’s lips twitched as he spoke. “Olivia, Simon Northam, the Duke of Hurstgrove.”
A real live duke? Holy hell! She hated being so American about these things. What was the proper greeting here?
“How do you do?” He nodded at her, shook Marrok’s hand, then turned to Bram. “Dispense with the formalities. You know I dislike them.”
He sounded even more British than the average Londoner.
“Just call me Duke,” Northam told her. “To me, it’s a joke, not a title.”
Olivia didn’t get the joke, but whatever.