She mostly spoke French to get by, learned some basic Arabic. She searched for magic.
When she found a series of medieval alchemical symbols carved into the wood frame of an awning outside one shop, she stopped and stared. So far she had seen Turkish eyes and blessings in Arabic, some Sanskrit and even a bit of Hebrew. Common prayers and blessings, no more remarkable than a cross in a Christian country. But she had not expected to see such an arcane set of writing here, like this. To the casual gaze the symbols did not stand out among the other whorls and arabesques of the decoration on the shop’s lintel. But to Amelia’s eye they blaz
ed, incongruous. This was not mere decoration. It was intentional, from another time and place and with its own meaning. It was a warding, for protection.
This was magic in the wild, and the thrill of finding it rooted her to her spot.
“Miss? Miss?”
She started back to herself, gripping her parasol. She really needed to be more careful. The person who had spoken to her was a woman, shorter than Amelia, round of face and stout of body, long black hair with a few gray streaks touching it. She wore a printed blouse, full skirt and vest in wild colors, and seemed like exactly the sort of woman who would inhabit a stall decorated with an alchemical ward.
“Are you all right, miss?” the woman asked in lilting English, and Amelia was a bit annoyed that she was so easily identified.
“Do you know what that means?” Amelia asked, pointing at the markings on the lintel.
The woman’s lips curled in a half smile. “I hope so, I put it there.”
“I beg your pardon, but I had not expected to find such symbols outside of a book, ever. I’m quite astonished.”
“I see that.”
Amelia blushed, looked away. She wasn’t acting like a worldly woman of knowledge and consequence at all. She ought to be more circumspect. She had no idea what to say next. Only that she wanted to know everything this woman knew. But the shopkeeper wouldn’t just tell her, would she?
“My name is Amelia Parker,” she said, and held out her gloved hand. “You have a very nice shop here.”
“And you are interested in alchemy,” the woman said.
“I’m interested in everything,” she confessed, a bit breathlessly.
“Here, come in off the street. You draw a lot of attention.” The woman touched her arm and gestured into the warm, hazy interior of the shop. “My name is Mariam.”
Amelia ought to have been careful, ought not to have trusted strangers. But she eagerly followed the woman in, and within moments was seated on cushions, at a low table, with a cup of sweet mint tea before her. Amelia drank, half expecting hallucinations, some magical concoction that would send her mind to another plane of existence—or knock her out entirely while the Mariam robbed her. She hardly cared, this was an adventure. But the tea was only tea, brightly flavored, a bit on the cool side.
Mariam offered Amelia a job. At first, Amelia balked. She was a lady, an English lady, she did not work in market stalls in North Africa. But she quelled the old, stodgy sensibilities. That was her family talking.
This was, she realized, a test. And so, for the next six months, she worked in Mariam’s tea and herb shop alongside her two young daughters, sweeping the floor, dusting tins and jars, cups and pots. Things got very dusty. Every now and then, Mariam asked her to translate a letter or part of a book. Amelia learned not to beg to be taught alchemy and magic. She learned to be grateful for whatever Mariam decided to teach her, which was, in the end, what Mariam decided she most needed to learn. A thing that could not be found in any book.
How to be still. How to breathe. How to be inside one’s own mind.
Imagine an apple. Don’t just think of an apple. Picture all aspects of it, the smooth texture of its skin, the weight of it in your palm. What color is it? Red, of course, yes? But no, it’s more than red. Once you can feel the apple in your hand, really look at it. It isn’t just red, as in a child’s drawing. It has shades, freckles, streaks. A bit of gold on the underside, a bit of brown around the stem. To imagine the apple one must be able to picture it in hand, turn it this way and that, feel it, hold it to one’s nose and smell the fruity sweetness of it. Or for a challenge, imagine it rotting. You hold the apple, and as you watch the flesh grows softer, spots appear, turn brown, weep fluids, until the whole of it is a sickly mash dripping through your fingers.
Until one can imagine all of this, can one really work magic? Can you cast a spell, unless you can imagine exactly what you want the spell to do? When you cast a protective spell around your room, are you simply saying the words, or are you building a wall, a shield, a barrier that ill intent cannot cross? Can you see it?
Magic is in the mind. So the mind must be sharp and specific. You must be able to create what you need with thought, when no other materials are at hand, when stress and violence assail you from without. When you have no other weapon but your mind, will it be sharp enough?
The work was exhausting and thrilling.
“Where did you learn all this?” Amelia asked Mariam one day, as they sorted a new delivery of teas into the right jars and tins. Amelia had shuffled off some of her staid English clothing, trading the high-buttoned blouse and long skirt for a tunic and loose trousers, a linen coat over all. She still kept her hair up and under a scarf, as if she was hiding. As a white woman, she still looked out of place here.
Mariam smiled slyly and looked out to the market, which was busy in the hour before dusk, merchants closing up booths and workers hustling back and forth on errands. “I have very wise ancestors.”
That could have meant anything. The answer was a deflection. “Then why would you pass such knowledge on to me? I’m an outsider. You owe me nothing.”
“Good of you to notice,” Mariam said. “But you’ve learned to sweep the floors well.” Amelia blushed, ducked her gaze. More kindly, her mentor said, “Some little instinct tells me the world might have need of such wisdom, passed along through you. The world is changing from what it was.” This sounded like a mission, a directive: use what you have learned. Make the world better. The words felt like a burden.
“I can never thank you enough.”
“No, my dear, you can’t, but we all walk through life with debts. It comes out even in the end!”