A Magical Time of Year - Part 1 - By Tristikov

* * *

“Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” The joyful cries of the young child echoed through the high halls of the house.

A rapid cadence of clip-clops preceded the small white-grey equine’s kinetic arrival in the well-furnished living room. Nearly stumbling as her tiny hooves crossed from polished hardwood to thickly woven rug, the little girl raced to her father and bounced energetically. “Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” she exclaimed again, the hem of her frock undulating, and her long, platinum blonde locks swinging to-and-fro behind her.

Seated in his favorite armchair, Faustus Eraclare glanced up from the day’s newspaper. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not yet the morn of Winter’s Solstice… So what has you this excited, Fontania?”

“Pa-pa! Look, Pa-pa!” In the girl’s outstretched hand were two ordinary-looking sticks from the yard.

Faustus folded his newspaper and withdrew his hooves from the ottoman so he could lean forward for a better look. The shorter of the two sticks appeared crudely snapped off at one end, while the other appeared to be freshly fallen from one of the trees dotting the estate.

“Hmm, those look to be rather sticky,” he said, thoughtfully twisting the end of his dark moustache.

“Pa-pa!” scolded Fontania. She gestured with the sticks as if he was missing the obvious, before shuffling them in her hands and holding up the stick with the blunt, frayed end for him to appreciate.

“I’m afraid the point is lost on me, my dear,” the dapple grey stallion admitted.

The girl sighed melodramatically and then stepped back from the chair. “Watch this, Pa-pa!”

Standing in the center of the spacious rug, Fontania switched the unbroken stick to her right hand and held it out in front of herself as if wielding a mighty sword. After glancing back to confirm her father was paying attention, she stared intently at the stick.

Faustus rested his hands on his knees and watched his daughter with curiosity and some amusement. Moments passed. The little girl continued to stand motionless, seemingly about to burn a hole in the stick with the sheer intensity of her gaze. The old grandfather clock ticked quietly on the other side of the living room. Nothing appeared to be happening.

The older equine opened his mouth to speak but paused when he noticed a faint light surrounding the stick held firmly in his daughter’s grasp. His eyes widened, and a soft gasp of astonishment escaped his velvety muzzle. He leaned forward in anticipation. The stick began to glow, then to smolder. Fontania’s expression hardened. A moment more and there was a hiss before the stick suddenly flashed as bright as a struck match.

BANG! The outer end of the stick exploded as if struck by lightning.

Faustus flinched at the sound, but as sawdust wafted down to the rug, his charcoal lips drew back into a broad smile. “You can channel—You’re using magic, Fontania!”

The little girl stood still, momentarily stunned by her own destructive demonstration. Gradually, a grin spread across her muzzle, and she turned, beaming, toward her father.

“Did you see, Pa-pa? Did you see!?”

Faustus stood up, skirting the ottoman and throwing his arms wide as he nodded enthusiastically to his daughter. “Yes, yes, I saw!”

The young equine whinnied and bounded across the rug to throw her arms around him. With a laugh he leaned down and lifted the girl from the rug so that their faces were level. She giggled and held the two sticks up for him to see, both now sharing their distressed truncation.

“Shall we show your mother?” asked the stallion. Fontania nodded confidently.

Faustus set his daughter down on her feet again and she rocketed out of the room, her fine, fair tail streaming out behind her. He straightened his silk smoking jacket and followed her at a stroll, knowing the folly of trying to match her reckless abandon.

The clatter of small hooves again filled the long hallway, and it was with little difficulty that the senior Eraclare located his exuberant offspring. Entering his wife’s sunlit study, he spied the lady of the house speaking with one of the black-clad servants—A bay mare of rich red-brown fur, and Fontania’s nanny. Fontania herself was enthusiastically tugging at the side of her mother’s elegant gown.

“Freya, darling, do you know what our dear daughter has discovered?” inquired Faustus.

“I have felt it,” replied the tall, white-grey mare. “Roberta has told me they were practicing out in the yard this very morning.”

“I can channel now, Ma-ma! I can channel!” said the little girl, bouncing up and down.

“You’ve inherited your mother’s talents, Fontania. Nothing shall stop you now!” chuckled her father.

“She’ll need proper instruction to make use of them,” said her mother.

Faustus smiled at the graceful woman. “And who more qualified to provide it?”

“You’ll teach me, Ma-ma!?” asked Fontania breathlessly, still holding onto the gown.

Freya smiled and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “In time… For now, you must listen to Roberta; she will help you with the fundamentals.” The little equine’s eyes widened. She turned with a squeal to the Morgan maid. “Let’s gather more sticks, Ms. Roberta!”

When the nanny’s questioning glance was met with a simple affirming nod by the girl’s mother, the young Fontania sprang forth from the study and cavorted through the house towards the back door. After a quick curtsy to her lord and lady, Roberta dutifully followed her charge back out into the yard.

Now alone together in the study, Faustus Eraclare embraced his wife. “Aren’t you proud, darling?” he said, scarcely able to contain his joy. Freya touched her soft velvet nose to his for a moment before speaking. “I will be… Once she develops her skills. A little sorceress running around is not safe for anyone, including herself… But if she concentrates on her studies, she’ll make a master mage.”

Faustus hugged his wife, holding her close to his chest and kissing her on the forelock. “I’m sure she will, darling. I’m sure she will.”

* * *

“I think that shall be more than enough for now, Miss Fontania,” called the girl’s guardian from across the expansive lawn of the Eraclare estate. The cooling autumn weather had brought with it wind, and that wind had provided many fallen sticks for exploding. “Look Ms. Roberta!” cried Fontania, triumphantly waving a larger branch over her head as she galloped across the grass.

“Oh, that one is quite impressive,” remarked Roberta, humoring the child, who had amassed a rather sizable collection of twigs this morning. “Will you be detonating it as well?”

“No, this one is my sword!” replied Fontania, kneeling down in front of her stockpile.

Placing the prized stick aside, the girl selected a small branch and held it out in front of herself, much as she had done nearly a week earlier. This time however, she stared at the stick and within moments it began to hiss. With a confident smirk, Fontania willed the branch to violently rearrange itself into a woody mist of steam and splinters.

After watching her charge claim her umpteenth victim, Roberta lowered herself to the lawn opposite the child and smoothed her black dress neatly by her sides. The little girl cast the stub of her stick to the lawn and reached for the next one.

“Miss Fontania… Now that you’ve become quite adept at that skill, why don’t we try something new?”

The smaller equine looked at the chosen stick in her hand, then up to her nanny. It wasn’t the first time the suggestion had been made, but after a week of obsessive stick-blasting, the idea of expanding her magical repertoire was beginning to have more appeal.

“What are we going to do, Ms. Roberta?”

“Let me show you…” replied the mare as she picked up a small stick of her own and placed it in an open palm before cupping both hands under it. Fontania watched intently as the stick began to glow, then slowly rose from the older equine’s hands as if attempting to reverse the course of the season.

“You’re moving it!” blurted the child. “Like you do with the silver!”

“It’s called telekinetic levitation, Miss Fontania. You may learn how to do it too.”

Having leveled off about a foot above the cupped hands of her teacher, the stick drifted toward the girl.

“Cup your hands.”

Fontania did as she was instructed, and the stick calmly deposited itself in the palms of its new master.

“How do I make it… Levitate?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about the stick just yet; channel the magic as you’ve done before.”

The child’s face tensed with concentration as she glared at the stick.

“You must calm yourself, Miss Fontania. Allow the magic to flow through your hands.”

The little girl frowned at the notion, but then took a deep breath and let her posture settle.

A faint light began to appear from her palms, illuminating the underside of the stick before gradually engulfing it. “Very good! Now keep it flowing” remarked Roberta. Fontania did not look up, instead keeping her gaze on the stick and her breathing steady.

“This method of levitation is natural, like channeling itself, so it is something you feel more than consciously think about… Let the magic rise from your palms like the steam from your supper.”

“Like steam…” whispered Fontania, still focused on the stick.

The intensity of the light grew stronger until the stick itself began to glow. The little girl tensed with excitement, but once again calmed herself. Thin wisps of vapor began to rise from the stick. As the seconds passed the wisps began to rise with greater velocity.

Roberta chuckled apprehensively. “Perhaps I should have chosen a different metaphor…”

By the time a loud hiss was emanating from the unfortunate twig, Fontania’s face had turned to a frown.

“Why isn’t it levitating, Ms. Roberta?”

“I think you’re still channeling directly into the stick, Miss Fontania. But don’t be upset, it takes much practice to precisely control magic, and you are only still beginning...”

“I wish that it would levitate now!” whined the little girl, causing the stick to crackle and pop.

Before a minor disaster could arise, the older equine magically lifted the tortured twig into the air and propelled it several yards away with a flick of her hand. It left a trail of wispy smoke in its wake, popping and sparking in the grass as if pulled from a bonfire. Following in kind, the maid hurriedly rose and stamped the stick out with her hoof.

“Let’s do that again, Ms. Roberta!” said Fontania, trotting over to examine the extinguished embers.

“Perhaps it would be better if young miss tries some exercises which do not provoke a conflagration,” replied the mare, exasperated. “Your hands could have been burned if that stick had remained in them.”

Having brought her prized bough with her, the little girl held it up and looked from it to the maid. “But why, Ms. Roberta? It doesn’t hurt when I make the sticks explode.”

“Your textbooks you will describe such things in greater detail, but it all depends on how the magic is channeled. When you hold the stick like a wand, the energy flows from one end to the other; pour too much in at once, and the far end pops from the sudden heat, but applied more slowly and evenly, it will begin to burn. A fallen stick does not a wand make, after all.”

Fontania frowned at her once-prized stick, apparently less assured of its significance now.

“Heat is just one result of channeling; it can also be manifested as kinetic energy, like with levitation,” Roberta continued.

“How do I choose which one I want?” asked the girl.

“It isn’t something that can simply be instructed; you need to feel the magic and direct it with your will… Some things may come more easily to you than others.”

Roberta smiled. “I know that isn’t the most helpful answer, but for now you just have to keep practicing your channeling. I’ll see if we can fetch you some supplies that won’t be so… Combustible.”

* * *

As autumn progressed, the young Fontania Eraclare found that even without mittens she could warm her hands by simply willing magic through them. Despite her teacher’s warnings, she also found that with practice, she could now reliably ignite sticks and explode them. Though her father continued to be delighted by her demonstrations, she was none-the-less told to only engage in such destructive activities outside in the yard, away from anything flammable.

“Have you seen her with those knitting needles, darling? I could have sworn she produced a tiny bolt of lightning while going through her exercises today! Simply marvelous!” Faustus beamed as he stood by the crackling fireplace, snifter in hand.

“They’re mage’s quills, dear. And yes, she’s developing her channeling most rapidly,” said Freya, not looking up from the living room’s grand piano.

“Ah, quills, I knew that… But with Roberta teaching her, you can’t be sure,” chuckled the stallion.

His wife continued to play a serene melody. “If Fontania keeps up this pace, she may be allowed to enter school early.”

Faustus glanced up from his brandy mid-sip. He swallowed. “Enter school… Early?”

“Yes, -she would benefit from a more focused environment.”

The stallion brushed a drop of alcohol from his ascot, then softly strode across the room. “I’m all too aware of how important one’s early years are for cultivating magic use, darling, but…”

“But what?”

“She is so joyful here… And with Roberta instructing her, it’s not as if she isn’t receiving proper guidance. Let her enjoy her childhood—she’ll attend school in due time.”

Freya watched her husband trade his glass of brandy for the violin on wall.

“Fontania will need instruction greater than Roberta can provide… Besides, she’d be around children her own age as well—Mage’s schools aren’t graduated strictly by years, you know.”

As the mare’s fine fingers depressed the ivory keys, Faustus put bow to strings and joined in accompaniment.

“I know you only want the best for her, darling, so when Roberta has taught all that she can, that’s where you’ll step in… A senior professor of the university is certainly more than qualified!”

“You know I can’t teach her full time, Faustus… And my instruction would be far more useful to her when she is older.”

The stallion sighed in tune with the lament of his instrument.

“I understand, darling… But perhaps we can just… Keep playing it by ear.”

The mare paid mind to her keys for a moment more, then frowned.

* * *

The morning sun shown in the large windows of the dining room, bringing with it warmth enough to cast off the late season’s chill. The porcelain plates clinked as breakfast was served.

“What do you say, Fontania?” quizzed Faustus Eraclare from the head of the table.

“Thank you, Ms. Wheatley!” shouted the little girl, seated to her father’s right.

The chestnut-furred maid spread a silk napkin over the girl’s frock. “You’re very welcome, young miss.”

With the table now fully provisioned, Faustus smiled and nodded to the younger mare, who curtseyed in turn before taking her leave.

“Well, dig in!” he said, picking up his utensils.

Fontania didn’t need to be told twice and immediately began shoveling roasted carrots into her mouth. The older equine thoughtfully chewed his food, then dabbed his grey muzzle with a napkin before sipping a steaming cup of tea. “You’ve quite the appetite this morning!” he remarked.

“Ms. Roberta says I must feed my mind!” said the little girl in between mouthfuls.

“I see you’re taking her advice quite literally,” said her father.

“Mmm! When did you learn to cast, Pa-pa?” asked Fontania, with her mouth full of carrot.

Faustus leaned back in his chair. “Well, as a boy, I spent much of my summers on the lake… There were some truly fearsome fishes in those depths, I’ll tell you!”

“Pa-pa!” Fontania groaned. “I mean channeling!”

“If I recall, the channel was already dug many years before…”

The intensity of the child’s glare nearly brought the stallion to laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… To tell the truth, if you asked your mother, I still haven’t learned a thing about magic.”

Fontania tilted her head as she reached for her orange juice. “But you can channel, can’t you Pa-pa?”

Returning to his plate of food, the stallion sighed. “Yes, I have the capacity to, I’m just not very good at casting…” He smiled at his daughter. “Didn’t practice enough when I was young, I’m afraid.”

There was a momentary silence as he chewed, and she drank her juice.

“You have time to practice now, don’t you Pa-pa?”

“I suppose I do, don’t I? But it’s much easier to learn while you’re growing… In fact, if you don’t develop your channeling before you mature, you won’t be able to reach your full potential as an adult.”

The little girl contemplated this before setting down her empty glass.

“Pa-pa… If you didn’t practice channeling when you were little, what did you do?”

Faustus gazed into the distance and twisted the end of his moustache. “Ahh… I suppose I was occupied with boyish pursuits; rough-housing, sailing, sports… Mostly mischief, though I did take to dueling quite well in college.”

Fontania’s small white ears pricked up. “You were sword duelist, Pa-pa?” asked the girl, kneeling in her seat and leaning forward over the pristine white tablecloth. “Can you show me? Can you show me!?”

Her father chuckled and raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “Well, since your mother is busy at the university, I suppose we could save your exercises for the afternoon… But you must promise to do them later.”

“Of course, Pa-pa, that’s easy!”

“Good! Then let’s go to the living room” said Faustus, getting up from the table.

Fontania squealed and jumped off her seat before taking off at a sprint ahead of him.

When the stallion arrived at their destination, he found his daughter bouncing on her hooves next to the fireplace, expectantly eying the pair of crossed sabers mounted above it.

“I want to see these swords, Pa-pa!”

Faustus stopped at the fireplace and gazed at the aged weapons. A smile formed on his lips, and he carefully dismounted one of the sabers. He placed his right hand beneath the hilt, and with a tug he freed the blade from its scabbard and drew it with a soft metallic scrape.

The little girl’s attention was rivetted as her father adopted a hanging guard stance and proceeded to demonstrate a variety of cuts and parries. The blade glinted in the beams of sunlight shining in the windows. He grinned. “What do you say, very dashing, no?”

Fontania merely looked on with eyes wide as the stallion got down on one knee so that she might take a closer look. The sword’s dark patina only made it more mysterious. She reached out for it. “Don’t touch the blade now,” her father cautioned. “The edge is still keen!”

He set the scabbard down on the hearth and held the weapon with just his thumb and index finger around the grip. “Here, hold it with both hands… I daresay this sword is a little large for you!”

Following her father’s instructions, the girl took the saber. Once she had it in hand, he released it. The blade dipped as its weight became her responsibility, but with her two-handed grip she foisted the weapon into a guard position. Its length nearly equaled her height.

Emboldened by the deadly artifact of gleaming steel and ornate brass, Fontania stepped forward and attempted to imitate the motions of her father. The oversized sword wobbled to-and-fro, and the girl’s small arms quickly began to ache under the strain.

When the stallion saw his daughter winding up for a swing, he snatched up the scabbard and shot it out in a flash, arresting the fall of the blade before it could deliver an accidental coup de grâce to the elegant rug.

“Ah ha ha…” Faustus laughed as he hurriedly took the saber back from the girl. “Your mother would have a fit if she saw that!”

“I was being careful, Pa-pa!” protested Fontania, still catching her breath.

“Let me get something a little more manageable,” said Faustus, standing up and sheathing the saber.

With gentle hands he restored the weapon to its home over the fireplace, then walked across the room. On a decorative plaque sat a fan of foils, all much smaller and finer than the stout saber. The stallion returned carrying a pair of them. “Here, one for each of us!” he said with a grin.

* * *

“Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” The joyful cries of the young child echoed through the high halls of the house.

A rapid cadence of clip-clops preceded the small white-grey equine’s kinetic arrival in the well-furnished living room. Nearly stumbling as her tiny hooves crossed from polished hardwood to thickly woven rug, the little girl raced to her father and bounced energetically. “Pa-pa! Pa-pa!” she exclaimed again, the hem of her frock undulating, and her long, platinum blonde locks swinging to-and-fro behind her.

Seated in his favorite armchair, Faustus Eraclare glanced up from the day’s newspaper. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not yet the morn of Winter’s Solstice… So what has you this excited, Fontania?”

“Pa-pa! Look, Pa-pa!” In the girl’s outstretched hand were two ordinary-looking sticks from the yard.

Faustus folded his newspaper and withdrew his hooves from the ottoman so he could lean forward for a better look. The shorter of the two sticks appeared crudely snapped off at one end, while the other appeared to be freshly fallen from one of the trees dotting the estate.

“Hmm, those look to be rather sticky,” he said, thoughtfully twisting the end of his dark moustache.

“Pa-pa!” scolded Fontania. She gestured with the sticks as if he was missing the obvious, before shuffling them in her hands and holding up the stick with the blunt, frayed end for him to appreciate.

“I’m afraid the point is lost on me, my dear,” the dapple grey stallion admitted.

The girl sighed melodramatically and then stepped back from the chair. “Watch this, Pa-pa!”

Standing in the center of the spacious rug, Fontania switched the unbroken stick to her right hand and held it out in front of herself as if wielding a mighty sword. After glancing back to confirm her father was paying attention, she stared intently at the stick.

Faustus rested his hands on his knees and watched his daughter with curiosity and some amusement. Moments passed. The little girl continued to stand motionless, seemingly about to burn a hole in the stick with the sheer intensity of her gaze. The old grandfather clock ticked quietly on the other side of the living room. Nothing appeared to be happening.

The older equine opened his mouth to speak but paused when he noticed a faint light surrounding the stick held firmly in his daughter’s grasp. His eyes widened, and a soft gasp of astonishment escaped his velvety muzzle. He leaned forward in anticipation. The stick began to glow, then to smolder. Fontania’s expression hardened. A moment more and there was a hiss before the stick suddenly flashed as bright as a struck match.

BANG! The outer end of the stick exploded as if struck by lightning.

Faustus flinched at the sound, but as sawdust wafted down to the rug, his charcoal lips drew back into a broad smile. “You can channel—You’re using magic, Fontania!”

The little girl stood still, momentarily stunned by her own destructive demonstration. Gradually, a grin spread across her muzzle, and she turned, beaming, toward her father.

“Did you see, Pa-pa? Did you see!?”

Faustus stood up, skirting the ottoman and throwing his arms wide as he nodded enthusiastically to his daughter. “Yes, yes, I saw!”

The young equine whinnied and bounded across the rug to throw her arms around him. With a laugh he leaned down and lifted the girl from the rug so that their faces were level. She giggled and held the two sticks up for him to see, both now sharing their distressed truncation.

“Shall we show your mother?” asked the stallion. Fontania nodded confidently.

Faustus set his daughter down on her feet again and she rocketed out of the room, her fine, fair tail streaming out behind her. He straightened his silk smoking jacket and followed her at a stroll, knowing the folly of trying to match her reckless abandon.

The clatter of small hooves again filled the long hallway, and it was with little difficulty that the senior Eraclare located his exuberant offspring. Entering his wife’s sunlit study, he spied the lady of the house speaking with one of the black-clad servants—A bay mare of rich red-brown fur, and Fontania’s nanny. Fontania herself was enthusiastically tugging at the side of her mother’s elegant gown.

“Freya, darling, do you know what our dear daughter has discovered?” inquired Faustus.

“I have felt it,” replied the tall, white-grey mare. “Roberta has told me they were practicing out in the yard this very morning.”

“I can channel now, Ma-ma! I can channel!” said the little girl, bouncing up and down.

“You’ve inherited your mother’s talents, Fontania. Nothing shall stop you now!” chuckled her father.

“She’ll need proper instruction to make use of them,” said her mother.

Faustus smiled at the graceful woman. “And who more qualified to provide it?”

“You’ll teach me, Ma-ma!?” asked Fontania breathlessly, still holding onto the gown.

Freya smiled and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “In time… For now, you must listen to Roberta; she will help you with the fundamentals.” The little equine’s eyes widened. She turned with a squeal to the Morgan maid. “Let’s gather more sticks, Ms. Roberta!”

When the nanny’s questioning glance was met with a simple affirming nod by the girl’s mother, the young Fontania sprang forth from the study and cavorted through the house towards the back door. After a quick curtsy to her lord and lady, Roberta dutifully followed her charge back out into the yard.

Now alone together in the study, Faustus Eraclare embraced his wife. “Aren’t you proud, darling?” he said, scarcely able to contain his joy. Freya touched her soft velvet nose to his for a moment before speaking. “I will be… Once she develops her skills. A little sorceress running around is not safe for anyone, including herself… But if she concentrates on her studies, she’ll make a master mage.”

Faustus hugged his wife, holding her close to his chest and kissing her on the forelock. “I’m sure she will, darling. I’m sure she will.”

* * *

“I think that shall be more than enough for now, Miss Fontania,” called the girl’s guardian from across the expansive lawn of the Eraclare estate. The cooling autumn weather had brought with it wind, and that wind had provided many fallen sticks for exploding. “Look Ms. Roberta!” cried Fontania, triumphantly waving a larger branch over her head as she galloped across the grass.

“Oh, that one is quite impressive,” remarked Roberta, humoring the child, who had amassed a rather sizable collection of twigs this morning. “Will you be detonating it as well?”

“No, this one is my sword!” replied Fontania, kneeling down in front of her stockpile.

Placing the prized stick aside, the girl selected a small branch and held it out in front of herself, much as she had done nearly a week earlier. This time however, she stared at the stick and within moments it began to hiss. With a confident smirk, Fontania willed the branch to violently rearrange itself into a woody mist of steam and splinters.

After watching her charge claim her umpteenth victim, Roberta lowered herself to the lawn opposite the child and smoothed her black dress neatly by her sides. The little girl cast the stub of her stick to the lawn and reached for the next one.

“Miss Fontania… Now that you’ve become quite adept at that skill, why don’t we try something new?”

The smaller equine looked at the chosen stick in her hand, then up to her nanny. It wasn’t the first time the suggestion had been made, but after a week of obsessive stick-blasting, the idea of expanding her magical repertoire was beginning to have more appeal.

“What are we going to do, Ms. Roberta?”

“Let me show you…” replied the mare as she picked up a small stick of her own and placed it in an open palm before cupping both hands under it. Fontania watched intently as the stick began to glow, then slowly rose from the older equine’s hands as if attempting to reverse the course of the season.

“You’re moving it!” blurted the child. “Like you do with the silver!”

“It’s called telekinetic levitation, Miss Fontania. You may learn how to do it too.”

Having leveled off about a foot above the cupped hands of her teacher, the stick drifted toward the girl.

“Cup your hands.”

Fontania did as she was instructed, and the stick calmly deposited itself in the palms of its new master.

“How do I make it… Levitate?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about the stick just yet; channel the magic as you’ve done before.”

The child’s face tensed with concentration as she glared at the stick.

“You must calm yourself, Miss Fontania. Allow the magic to flow through your hands.”

The little girl frowned at the notion, but then took a deep breath and let her posture settle.

A faint light began to appear from her palms, illuminating the underside of the stick before gradually engulfing it. “Very good! Now keep it flowing” remarked Roberta. Fontania did not look up, instead keeping her gaze on the stick and her breathing steady.

“This method of levitation is natural, like channeling itself, so it is something you feel more than consciously think about… Let the magic rise from your palms like the steam from your supper.”

“Like steam…” whispered Fontania, still focused on the stick.

The intensity of the light grew stronger until the stick itself began to glow. The little girl tensed with excitement, but once again calmed herself. Thin wisps of vapor began to rise from the stick. As the seconds passed the wisps began to rise with greater velocity.

Roberta chuckled apprehensively. “Perhaps I should have chosen a different metaphor…”

By the time a loud hiss was emanating from the unfortunate twig, Fontania’s face had turned to a frown.

“Why isn’t it levitating, Ms. Roberta?”

“I think you’re still channeling directly into the stick, Miss Fontania. But don’t be upset, it takes much practice to precisely control magic, and you are only still beginning...”

“I wish that it would levitate now!” whined the little girl, causing the stick to crackle and pop.

Before a minor disaster could arise, the older equine magically lifted the tortured twig into the air and propelled it several yards away with a flick of her hand. It left a trail of wispy smoke in its wake, popping and sparking in the grass as if pulled from a bonfire. Following in kind, the maid hurriedly rose and stamped the stick out with her hoof.

“Let’s do that again, Ms. Roberta!” said Fontania, trotting over to examine the extinguished embers.

“Perhaps it would be better if young miss tries some exercises which do not provoke a conflagration,” replied the mare, exasperated. “Your hands could have been burned if that stick had remained in them.”

Having brought her prized bough with her, the little girl held it up and looked from it to the maid. “But why, Ms. Roberta? It doesn’t hurt when I make the sticks explode.”

“Your textbooks you will describe such things in greater detail, but it all depends on how the magic is channeled. When you hold the stick like a wand, the energy flows from one end to the other; pour too much in at once, and the far end pops from the sudden heat, but applied more slowly and evenly, it will begin to burn. A fallen stick does not a wand make, after all.”

Fontania frowned at her once-prized stick, apparently less assured of its significance now.

“Heat is just one result of channeling; it can also be manifested as kinetic energy, like with levitation,” Roberta continued.

“How do I choose which one I want?” asked the girl.

“It isn’t something that can simply be instructed; you need to feel the magic and direct it with your will… Some things may come more easily to you than others.”

Roberta smiled. “I know that isn’t the most helpful answer, but for now you just have to keep practicing your channeling. I’ll see if we can fetch you some supplies that won’t be so… Combustible.”

* * *

As autumn progressed, the young Fontania Eraclare found that even without mittens she could warm her hands by simply willing magic through them. Despite her teacher’s warnings, she also found that with practice, she could now reliably ignite sticks and explode them. Though her father continued to be delighted by her demonstrations, she was none-the-less told to only engage in such destructive activities outside in the yard, away from anything flammable.

“Have you seen her with those knitting needles, darling? I could have sworn she produced a tiny bolt of lightning while going through her exercises today! Simply marvelous!” Faustus beamed as he stood by the crackling fireplace, snifter in hand.

“They’re mage’s quills, dear. And yes, she’s developing her channeling most rapidly,” said Freya, not looking up from the living room’s grand piano.

“Ah, quills, I knew that… But with Roberta teaching her, you can’t be sure,” chuckled the stallion.

His wife continued to play a serene melody. “If Fontania keeps up this pace, she may be allowed to enter school early.”

Faustus glanced up from his brandy mid-sip. He swallowed. “Enter school… Early?”

“Yes, -she would benefit from a more focused environment.”

The stallion brushed a drop of alcohol from his ascot, then softly strode across the room. “I’m all too aware of how important one’s early years are for cultivating magic use, darling, but…”

“But what?”

“She is so joyful here… And with Roberta instructing her, it’s not as if she isn’t receiving proper guidance. Let her enjoy her childhood—she’ll attend school in due time.”

Freya watched her husband trade his glass of brandy for the violin on wall.

“Fontania will need instruction greater than Roberta can provide… Besides, she’d be around children her own age as well—Mage’s schools aren’t graduated strictly by years, you know.”

As the mare’s fine fingers depressed the ivory keys, Faustus put bow to strings and joined in accompaniment.

“I know you only want the best for her, darling, so when Roberta has taught all that she can, that’s where you’ll step in… A senior professor of the university is certainly more than qualified!”

“You know I can’t teach her full time, Faustus… And my instruction would be far more useful to her when she is older.”

The stallion sighed in tune with the lament of his instrument.

“I understand, darling… But perhaps we can just… Keep playing it by ear.”

The mare paid mind to her keys for a moment more, then frowned.

* * *

The morning sun shown in the large windows of the dining room, bringing with it warmth enough to cast off the late season’s chill. The porcelain plates clinked as breakfast was served.

“What do you say, Fontania?” quizzed Faustus Eraclare from the head of the table.

“Thank you, Ms. Wheatley!” shouted the little girl, seated to her father’s right.

The chestnut-furred maid spread a silk napkin over the girl’s frock. “You’re very welcome, young miss.”

With the table now fully provisioned, Faustus smiled and nodded to the younger mare, who curtseyed in turn before taking her leave.

“Well, dig in!” he said, picking up his utensils.

Fontania didn’t need to be told twice and immediately began shoveling roasted carrots into her mouth. The older equine thoughtfully chewed his food, then dabbed his grey muzzle with a napkin before sipping a steaming cup of tea. “You’ve quite the appetite this morning!” he remarked.

“Ms. Roberta says I must feed my mind!” said the little girl in between mouthfuls.

“I see you’re taking her advice quite literally,” said her father.

“Mmm! When did you learn to cast, Pa-pa?” asked Fontania, with her mouth full of carrot.

Faustus leaned back in his chair. “Well, as a boy, I spent much of my summers on the lake… There were some truly fearsome fishes in those depths, I’ll tell you!”

“Pa-pa!” Fontania groaned. “I mean channeling!”

“If I recall, the channel was already dug many years before…”

The intensity of the child’s glare nearly brought the stallion to laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… To tell the truth, if you asked your mother, I still haven’t learned a thing about magic.”

Fontania tilted her head as she reached for her orange juice. “But you can channel, can’t you Pa-pa?”

Returning to his plate of food, the stallion sighed. “Yes, I have the capacity to, I’m just not very good at casting…” He smiled at his daughter. “Didn’t practice enough when I was young, I’m afraid.”

There was a momentary silence as he chewed, and she drank her juice.

“You have time to practice now, don’t you Pa-pa?”

“I suppose I do, don’t I? But it’s much easier to learn while you’re growing… In fact, if you don’t develop your channeling before you mature, you won’t be able to reach your full potential as an adult.”

The little girl contemplated this before setting down her empty glass.

“Pa-pa… If you didn’t practice channeling when you were little, what did you do?”

Faustus gazed into the distance and twisted the end of his moustache. “Ahh… I suppose I was occupied with boyish pursuits; rough-housing, sailing, sports… Mostly mischief, though I did take to dueling quite well in college.”

Fontania’s small white ears pricked up. “You were sword duelist, Pa-pa?” asked the girl, kneeling in her seat and leaning forward over the pristine white tablecloth. “Can you show me? Can you show me!?”

Her father chuckled and raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “Well, since your mother is busy at the university, I suppose we could save your exercises for the afternoon… But you must promise to do them later.”

“Of course, Pa-pa, that’s easy!”

“Good! Then let’s go to the living room” said Faustus, getting up from the table.

Fontania squealed and jumped off her seat before taking off at a sprint ahead of him.

When the stallion arrived at their destination, he found his daughter bouncing on her hooves next to the fireplace, expectantly eying the pair of crossed sabers mounted above it.

“I want to see these swords, Pa-pa!”

Faustus stopped at the fireplace and gazed at the aged weapons. A smile formed on his lips, and he carefully dismounted one of the sabers. He placed his right hand beneath the hilt, and with a tug he freed the blade from its scabbard and drew it with a soft metallic scrape.

The little girl’s attention was rivetted as her father adopted a hanging guard stance and proceeded to demonstrate a variety of cuts and parries. The blade glinted in the beams of sunlight shining in the windows. He grinned. “What do you say, very dashing, no?”

Fontania merely looked on with eyes wide as the stallion got down on one knee so that she might take a closer look. The sword’s dark patina only made it more mysterious. She reached out for it. “Don’t touch the blade now,” her father cautioned. “The edge is still keen!”

He set the scabbard down on the hearth and held the weapon with just his thumb and index finger around the grip. “Here, hold it with both hands… I daresay this sword is a little large for you!”

Following her father’s instructions, the girl took the saber. Once she had it in hand, he released it. The blade dipped as its weight became her responsibility, but with her two-handed grip she foisted the weapon into a guard position. Its length nearly equaled her height.

Emboldened by the deadly artifact of gleaming steel and ornate brass, Fontania stepped forward and attempted to imitate the motions of her father. The oversized sword wobbled to-and-fro, and the girl’s small arms quickly began to ache under the strain.

When the stallion saw his daughter winding up for a swing, he snatched up the scabbard and shot it out in a flash, arresting the fall of the blade before it could deliver an accidental coup de grâce to the elegant rug.

“Ah ha ha…” Faustus laughed as he hurriedly took the saber back from the girl. “Your mother would have a fit if she saw that!”

“I was being careful, Pa-pa!” protested Fontania, still catching her breath.

“Let me get something a little more manageable,” said Faustus, standing up and sheathing the saber.

With gentle hands he restored the weapon to its home over the fireplace, then walked across the room. On a decorative plaque sat a fan of foils, all much smaller and finer than the stout saber. The stallion returned carrying a pair of them. “Here, one for each of us!” he said with a grin.

* * *