Chapter Text
1. find the best magic shops near you! (number four will surprise you)
The first shop on her list is downtown. In the middle of downtown, on the South-East corner of a square so known and trafficked, that business should be blooming by proximity. From the outside, it looks like any other tourist trap in the vicinity; a place that could be a souvenir shop, if not for the strange mixture of rare and mundane showcased in the front display. As it is, it looks like an oddly placed pawn shop.
The bright neon light is the only indication that it is open: the place is poorly lit inside, so much so that it looks closed from the sidewalk. The front sign recites: Tabitha’s Magical World. And under it, only slightly smaller, another neon light signals: OPEN.
Sara sighs, double-checking the address. But, if the name of the shop had left any doubt, the scrap of paper in her hand confirms it: this is the first shop in the short list of places she has found online when drunkenly deciding she would give this silly plan a try. She walks in, shoving the paper back into her pocket. Her regret is as immediate as the smoke coming from the machine triggered by her entrance.
“Welcome,” a thunderous voice – altered through at least a dozen sound effects – comes from a speaker above her own head, “to Tabitha’s Magical World, where everything your heart desires becomes a reality.”
Pompous and a bit preposterous, Sara thinks, but alright.
She walks to the front desk, eyeing the short woman she can clearly see crouched behind the counter. She clears her voice; nothing. Then, she sees the sign on the counter, pointing to a little lobby bell that looks completely out of place away from a cheap motel’s desk, citing: “Ring to start your magical journey.”
Pursing her lips, trying not to sigh again in earshot of what she must assume is the owner, Sara rings the bell. Another puff of smoke is elicited, and when it starts to dissipate the woman is finally standing straight.
“Welcome,” she offers Sara a bright smile, in an accent she thinks may be her attempt at an old-timey-British-nanny, or fairy, or something. “I’m Tabitha. What wishes will we be turning into a reality, today?”
Sara hesitates: this is a monumentally bad idea.
“No, don’t tell me. Perhaps, you wish to find your true love! I have just the right potion for you, my dear!”
She immediately brings out a small bottle, filled to the brim with a golden, sparkling, and sparking, liquid. When Sara’s head shakes vehemently, the woman hums. She’s not getting into that horn’s nest, thank you very much.
“Well, then, perhaps you’re here to find your way to unbelievable riches and fortunes!” She bends down, lifting up from under the counter a large display of necklaces of various forms, designs, and with different stones encased in their medallions. They all look heavy and cheap as can be. “One of my amulets will surely-”
“Uhm, no, thank you,” Sara interrupts, curtly. “My father is ill. I’m here for a cure.”
“Oh.”
The woman gives her a sour look; as if to tell her, using her eyes only: of course, you had to go and carry yourself to me with a sick relative, and not something simple and exploitable, like a whimsical request for the intangible.
“I’m afraid we don’t do that here. We make your wishes come true, my dear! Nothing less and nothing more than advertised.”
“My wish if for my father to not be hill,” she deadpans. The woman doesn’t flinch. Sara bites the inside of her cheek. “Of course. Thank you for your time.”
As she walks out of the deserted shop, she hears the owner yell after her that she’s welcome back any time, if she changes her mind about finding her true love. Without turning, she scratches out the name and address from her list.
The second shop doesn’t look particularly more authentic, if a little less fishy. For one, it’s not in the middle of a tourists’ spot. And it’s not filled to the brim with clutter. But the name is not much more encouraging than the last: Darhk, Darhker, Darhkest. It sounds like a BDSM cruise bar, more than a magic shop.
She still opens the door and walks inside, less and less hopeful that there might actually be magic in this world – actual, real, true magic – that could help her dad.
At least there are two or three people shopping when she walks in, one of them even has a small shopping basket he’s filling with various things from around the shop. It inspires a certain degree of confidence, if nothing else.
There’s a girl behind the counter, lazily browsing through a magazine – the same number is also displayed over the counter on a small pedestal. Apparently, Witch Today is the best weekly if you want to “Find Out Who Your Last Reincarnation Was!”
“Excuse me, I wanted to ask-”
The girl – she can’t be older than twenty – sighs heavily, black hair thrown over her shoulder as she stands up straighter to shift her attention to Sara. “Yes?”
Sara realizes it for the second time, almost joltingly: this is a very, very bad idea.
“My dad is very sick. Do you have anything that could help him get better?”
The girl sighs again, fishing a laminated items list from under the desk. She goes through it quickly, reciting out loud: “Curses, hexes, dark enchantments… Sorry, I don’t think we sell anything of the sort.”
It’s a long list, and she’s barely even looked it through. Sara tries her best to remain cordial. “Could you, uhm- check again, maybe? Or is there someone else I could ask?”
She almost rolls her eyes. But, after a moment, she turns to the back of the store and yells: “Dad! Dad. Da-ad!”
A moment later, a man appears from the back: he’s bald, dressed in black, a little more similar to what Sara would describe if she was asked how she thought someone with actual magic powers would look like in real life.
“Nora darling, I’m doing inventory. If you keep interrupting, we’ll be here until I’m dead.”
The girl rolls her eyes at her father, then glances to Sara. “She was asking if we have anything for sickness.”
He looks on the verge of reprimanding her for not dealing with a costumer on her own; but then thinks better of it, when he realizes Sara is waiting. He walks to the counter, after one last chastising look to the girl beside him. Without minding him much, she goes back to her magazine.
“Sure, a simple spell should do it. What were you looking for? We can do anything, cold, headache, burning fever, projectile vomit… you name it. These are our best sellers, but we can go into something darker if you need to. Or, you can give us your target’s details and we can surprise you both,” he offers with a barked laugh.
Sara does not find it amusing.
“I’m looking to cure someone, actually.”
He looks at her with utter bewilderment. “Nora darling, did you not explain? We’re specialized in Dark Magic here, the name is pretty self-explanatory. If you want to curse or hex someone, we’re it! But we’re not very prominent in the business of ‘saving’ folks.” He air-quotes the word saving, like the thought alone is ludicrous.
“Right. I thought it was a pun on a family run business? You’re the owner, Damien Darhk?” Sara glances to the girl, still bored out of her mind by a magazine she won’t take her eyes away from. “I guess she’s supposed to be Darhker?”
He gives her a look full of contempt. “A name can be two things at once. It is a pun, it is also an explanation.”
Sara feels exhausted by this conversation. Talking to them without rolling her eyes is requiring all the strength she has.
“Right. Well, thank you for your time.”
The girl raises her hand, palm up, without even glancing away from the piece she’s currently reading: “It’s twenty dollars for the consultation.”
Sara forces a laugh, thinking she’s making a joke. The girl looks up expectantly, beckoning her with her fingers when her palm remains empty.
“You’re joking, right?” Sara asks the adult.
He shrugs, pointing to a sign placed on the desk: Consultations 20$.
“You don’t even have the spell I need. You didn’t even advise me on where or how to get it! You didn’t solve anything. At all.”
“But we still consulted, didn’t we?” He asks, rhetorically, nodding to the girl’s empty hand.
Sara stares daggers at him a moment longer, before fishing a bill from her pocket. This is ridiculous. But it should serve as a lesson: always read the signs on the counter. She should’ve learned from the first shop alone.
By the third day, when she makes it to the last shop, she has somewhat admitted to herself that this is nothing more than a stalling tactic. A way for her not to have to sit at her father’s side, holding his hand as he slips away, with Laurel sitting beside her and rambling on about his car lease and how they’ll have to rescind it once he- once he’s-
Sara can’t stand it. The wait. The not being able to do anything.
So, she’s trying to do something.
Something impossible. Something unthinkable.
When she walks in, a simple bell above the door alerts the owners a new costumer has arrived; not that they notice: they’re too busy bickering to pay any attention to her.
“I told you a hundred times, you have to boil the tails before you add them to the potion. If you stir everything together and then boil it, that’ll leave you with a very expensive batch of useless slob. When you’re making potions, you never, ever-”
“-boil mint. I get it, John. You’ve told me thrice already. I didn’t know it yesterday, and no matter how many times you repeat it to me, I can’t go back in time and undo it.”
“I’m not telling you so you can undo it, Astra! I’m telling you to double – triple! – check with me, before you mix the most expensive ingredients we have in the whole shop, and all for a ridiculous attempt to make some potion that controls the mind!”
On one of the shelves, as she walks by, there is a little display of green potions labeled: “Strength potions, to heal the body” which makes her think there may something to help here, somewhere.
“I wouldn’t call it ridiculous. We’ve seen some stuff that is pretty close to control, John.”
“Of course, we have! But any slightly talented warlock worth their salt knows that you’d need a spell for that, not a bloody potion.”
“Oh, so I’m not even slightly talented now, am I?”
“That’s not what I’m-”
Sara clears her throat for the third time, and that’s apparently the charm. The both of them turn in her direction, surprised looks on their faces.
The self-proclaimed warlock murmurs something along the lines of: “The doorbell must be broken,” before fishing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it up. He walks the few feet to the counter unhurriedly, puffing some smoke into the air as he nears her.
Sara’s jaw involuntarily clenches as she waves her hand in the air, in an attempt to steer the smoke away from her own face.
“What can we do for you, love?”
Not wanting to spend more time than necessary in this particular shop, she goes straight to the point: “Do you have anything to cure illnesses?”
He puffs again. “Depends on the illness, love. Are we curing the mind? We have nerve quelling potions, if you got anxiety. Or, a little something-something to pick you up if you’re depressed, or tired. If we’re talking body, that’s a whole different basket. I can perform a ritual on you, but those aren’t cheap.”
“It’s for my father. He’s in a hospital.”
He takes another drag from his cigarette, then nods distractedly. “Yeah, it could still work, I could come by to do it. What are we talking about here? I know something for bone-healing, it’s painful but it can spare him weeks of recovery, speed up the process. Better for small bones, though. I can do spells to strengthen the immune system, if he has an infection, works even on those nasty bugs that make you leak from both ends, if you know what I mean,” he laughs at his own joke, while the woman beside him rolls her eyes. “Or, if it’s an ulcer, we could-”
“He has lung cancer,” Sara tells him, her eyes traveling to the lit cigarette between his lips. “Terminal, stage four.”
After a long pause, he lowers it to a nearby ashtray. He clears his throat.
“Right. I’m sorry, love. No magic cure for that kind of thing. But maybe we can do something about the pain.”
“The doctors have morphine, for that,” Sara notes sourly.
He nods, averting his eyes, subtly swatting away the thin line of smoke still coming off the cigarette. “Yeah, well, if that’s not enough anymore, you know where to find us.”
“Sure,” she murmurs with an eyeroll, turning her back on him, with no intention of ever setting foot in the shop again.
She steps outside, grabbing the paper scrap with the list from her pocket, staring at the crossed-out names on it. She knew this would be a long shot, anyway. And maybe it’s even for the best that none of these scammers have given her any kind of false hope. She crumples it in her hand.
As she sighs, a voice from a few feet behind her makes her turn.
“Hey, I’m sorry about John. He can be a little… insensitive. Look, if you’re actually looking for someone who can help you-”
“Thanks, but I’ve already tried every single ‘magic’ shop in this town,” she air-quotes the word magic. Then, she realizes maybe that’s impolite to do in front of a self-proclaimed witch. “Sorry, I just-” she sighs. “It was a long shot to begin with, you know?”
The woman doesn’t seem offended by the remark, she just nods and dismisses her apology with a wave of her hand. “Listen, you should try going here. This isn’t a place you can find online, it’s more of a… word of mouth kind of thing,” she explains rather vaguely, handing Sara a business card. “She can do the kind of thing you need. You should know, her prices are very steep. Highest in town, probably in the Country. But if there’s anyone who can help you, it’s going to be her.”
After pointing to the card that is now firmly in Sara’s hand, the woman murmurs a “good luck” before heading back into the shop.
Sara looks at the card for a long moment, before sighing heavily and pocketing it. Why the hell not, right? This will keep her away from the hospital for another afternoon, at least.
Spellcaster Inc.
Wholesale for Witches and Warlocks
For all your magical needs!
Sara has been staring at the card for the last twenty-four hours. There is something about it that irks her the wrong way. It’s too simple: nothing whimsical, nothing peculiar; just a business card, serious and professional in a way that makes it seem too real. Just black words on white paper, so different from the flashy, obvious signs and sites she’s seen for every other magic shop in town.
And that is not even getting into the wholesale thing. What does that even mean, magical wholesale? Shouldn’t everything be discounted, then? Yet, the woman from the last shop had told her they had the steepest prices in town. How odd. Well, odder. Odd for a magic shop, that is.
There’s an address on the back of the card, in a part of town Sara hasn’t been to since the last time she had to talk to her insurance company. From what she can recall, there were no whimsical magic shops in the area; but, then again, she wasn’t exactly looking, back then. When she gets to the right street, she starts looking around for a bright sign, an odd name, any kind of shop or store that looks like it could have anything magical in it. There is nothing: the street, just as Sara remembered, is crowded with tall, grey, anonymous buildings, filled with offices and monotony.
Everything is so dull that she walks past the right door without even noticing. She doubles back until she’s at the right building number again, and looks up. Four stone steps lead to an average-looking cast iron entrance door; there’s an interphone on the right side of it, with the floors listed. Ground floor: a doctor’s office. First through fifth: a lawyers’ firm. Sixth: Spellcaster Inc. Seventh: a private investigator.
Sara has to stare at the name for a moment, because she’s sure she must be in the wrong place, even after reading it on the interphone.
A moment later, she shrugs her disbelief off and rings it.
She expects a voice to come through the speaker but, instead, a moment later, there’s a buzz, and the door clicks open. Sara walks just past the entrance, where a security guard approaches her in the space that leads to a big foyer, after putting down a very heavy-looking historical book.
From the uniform he’s wearing – a simple navy-blue pantsuit – he doesn’t appear to be much more than a glorified doorman, but there’s a taser hanging from his belt; Sara would very much rather not discover if it’s real. He gives curt instructions, checks her identity card, makes her go through a metal detector, then quickly pats her down.
“Business building,” he offers as the only explanation, as he gives her back her ID. “Lawyers are paranoid, you get it. If you’re here for the doctor, door straight ahead. Otherwise, stairs are on the left,” he nods to the end of the foyer.
Sara thanks him, crossing the ground floor lobby. She starts looking left and right for an elevator; out of order, of course. With a heavy sigh and a defeated look back at the entrance, at the less-than-useful doorman, she heads for the stairs. Despite her training, her breathing is a little ragged when she gets to the sixth floor. When she arrives on the landing, she’s faced with an elegant black-painted wooden door. There’s a doorbell on the right side of it that she presses; once again, the door opens a few seconds after the buzz, without her having to justify her presence.
Once she’s past the entrance, she’s faced with a front desk. There’s no old-timey counter, no displays of unconvincingly magical clutter, no smoke or sound effects; just a normal looking desk, with a phone ringing on top of it and a receptionist sitting behind it.
“Spellcaster Inc., how may I help you?”
He looks a little dweeby, with his headset on. His thick glasses don’t help his already unthreatening appearance, and the slightly oversized pantsuit he’s wearing makes him look like a kid playing adult. There are three chairs on the opposite wall from the desk, on the left of the entrance door, so Sara sits for a moment.
“Hi, John,” his voice changes, from professional to slightly flirty. “Sure, we can put in your order right away. The usual? Ah-ah,” he nods, to no one in particular, seeing as the man he’s talking to cannot see him and Sara isn’t part of his conversation. “Mh-mh.” He starts typing away on the computer in front of him, still humming every few seconds. “Ah-ah. Yes, we can do that. It should be arriving in one week. See you then,” he sing-songs, pressing a button on his headset a moment later, ending the call.
Sara waits patiently for him to stop typing on the computer and look up at her, before she approaches the desk.
“Hello.”
“Hi, how may we help you today?”
“Yes, uhm, I was given this card-” Sara briefly shows him the business card she’s been clutching for the better part of the afternoon. “I was told someone here might be able to help me.”
He nods along, and gestures for her to go on once she pauses: he doesn’t list services they offer so he can stack on a large bill, he doesn’t present her with options she may want to explore, he doesn’t try to act like he’s walked out of a wizards’ book; he listens to her, and nods.
“My dad, he’s very sick.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that,” he offers, sympathetically.
“Thank you,” Sara swallows, trying not to think about it too much. This has been an effective distraction during her afternoons, for the past few days. It would be a shame if it failed her now, when she’s trying to milk one last silly visit to a magical shop before dropping the whole thing. “I’m looking for a cure, or something that could help in any way.”
He nods, then starts typing on the computer. He asks for her name, surname, phone number, e-mail: Sara gives them on auto-pilot. Then, he asks: “May I ask who referred you to us?”
“Uhm, someone from the Hellblazer shop, in-”
“Oh, John Constantine?”
Sara’s lips involuntarily purse in a displeased frown. “No, the woman who works there.”
“Ah! Miss Astra Logue. Very dear friend of my boss.” A few more seconds pass as he clicks around and studies the screen. “So, we don’t really do retail. My boss usually just sees a handful of people a year. Let’s see, first open spot is on the twelfth-”
It is March 2nd. Sara cannot wait ten days for an appointment.
“-of June.”
All she can do for a long moment is stare at him in utter disbelief. “I can’t wait that long. My dad he- he’ll be dead by then.” A grim silence follows the confession, as he realizes – as Sara herself realizes – how serious of a matter this is. “Please,” she whispers. “This is his last hope.”
It’s not completely accurate; this isn’t, because he doesn’t have any. He’s getting everything in order, resigned to the fact these may be his last few days on Earth. Everyone is acting like all that’s left to do is bury him, and Sara just can’t accept that. Hence, the visits to places of the occult; places where she has found, up until now, charlatans and scoundrels, although none of them cruel enough to give her any shred of false hope.
The man hesitates, studying her face a moment longer. Then, after taking a deep breath, he presses a few buttons on his desk phone, and readjust his headset.
“Yes, there is someone here. No, the four o’clock hasn’t arrived yet. Well, it’s a young woman who- no, I know. Retail, yes. Yes, of course, but the thing is… she’s here about her father. He’s very sick. No, that won’t work for her, she says he may not have that long. Yes, I understand. Okay.”
He hangs up, and then stares at the receiver on his desk for a long moment. Then, almost suddenly, he looks back up at Sara.
“You can go in, now.”
Sara’s eyes follow the direction he’s pointing to, on the wall to Sara’s left, where there is a – albeit smaller – black wooden door reminiscent of the one on the floor’s landing. She almost asks him if he’s sure she can go, before she thinks better of it. She nods, and thanks him briefly, before heading to the other room. There is a plaque on it, black as the door, with a silver name written on it: Ava Sharpe.
She knocks on the door, and waits for the muffled “come on in”, before turning the handle and stepping inside.
The office looks like any other white-collar place she’s ever seen. There’s a desk, with two chairs in front of it; a filing cabinet on the right, a display cabinet on the left. The woman, who’s sitting down at the desk, is not what Sara had imagined she’d find. She’s young, but older than Sara, and she’s dressed properly but not flashily, in a pantsuit identical to the one that the dweeb at the front desk was wearing; her hair is tied up in a bun that makes her look like a mean, strict teacher. She’s writing down on a notebook, while glancing to the computer screen on the right side of the desk, angled so she can read while scribbling down what she needs.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she tells Sara, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk. “I’ll only be a moment longer.”
Sara nods, although the woman isn’t looking in her direction, and goes to sit down. She tries to recognize anything that would indicate the presence of magic, but she’s struggling. The pen she’s using isn’t a quail, or even a fountain pen, but a regular ballpoint pen. The paper she’s writing on is a normal notebook, not any kind of weird parchment. Even in the display cabinet to her left, where she thought she would see potions and mouse tails, all she can see is a bottle of whiskey, a few glasses, and some completely average ornaments.
“Never underestimate the power of a good keepsake,” the woman tells her, as if she’s reading Sara’s mind.
When Sara turns back to her, there’s the hint of a smile on her lips. She finishes writing a sentence, then puts the pen down.
Sara feels the need to apologize: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s alright. We’re not your average magic shop,” the woman outstretches her hand. “My name is Ava Sharpe.”
“Sara Lance, nice to meet you,” she responds on autopilot.
There is a brief shock when they touch, and Sara retreats her hand promptly. The woman doesn’t falter, turning to her computer again, clicking with her mouse a few times, until she finds what she’s looking for. Then, she turns her notebook to a blank page and picks her pen back up, while still reading quickly from the screen.
“I see Miss Logue recommended us to you. They couldn’t assist?”
She shakes her head. “No. My dad is very sick.”
“Right, my colleague mentioned. Would it be okay if I asked for a few more details?”
Sara almost wants to refuse and see what happens. If she says she doesn’t want to discuss her father’s illness, will they still be able to help her? Or rather, pretend to help her, selling her a generic run-of-the-mill, all-encompassing miracle cure? She swallows. She’s come this far, after all.
“He has lung cancer. Stage four.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Have his doctors offered any options? Surgery, chemotherapy?”
She shakes her head again. “He’s done both, nothing worked. Now, they’re just saying they can make him comfortable. Your friend’s boss offered the same, with a little less tact,” she adds, sourly.
The woman looks like she’s refraining from rolling her eyes at the mention of him. “I understand. Well, let’s give you some options. Has Astra explained how our payments work?” When Sara shakes her head, the woman adds: “Has Gary? My colleague from the front desk?” Again, Sara signals a clear no. “Alright, let’s take it one step at a time.”
She writes Sara’s name at the top of the blank page; then, on the first line, she writes the number one followed by Reduction. As she starts adding to it, she also explains out loud to Sara what this first option entails.
“The simplest thing we could do is reduce his tumor’s mass, make it removable by surgery. Of course, it is not curative, and we cannot guarantee that the consequent surgery would work. Our payment would be due after his next X-Ray, upon proof that the spell has worked, independently from when his next operation would be.”
Payment upon proof.
Payment upon proof of magic.
How is this company still in business?
“How much?”
“Oh, no cash.”
Sara must look at her like she’s nuts, because the woman pauses her writing again, to give her an explanation.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lance, is this your first time dealing with magic?” she asks, not unkindly. Sara has to concentrate so she won’t roll her eyes – as if magic could be something to deal with, as if it could be real – and only offers a nod. She goes on to explain: “We only accept cash wholesale, from those who profit from magic. Like Hellblazer,” she mentions the shop she’s sure Sara knows. “They use the magic, or magical items, that we provide, and have to pay the inner price of using it themselves, so we accept cash from them. But I don’t take money for retail. We only provide services to people in actual need, and do it so seldom that it would not be much of a profit.”
“Right,” Sara says, despite having understood very little of what the woman has tried to explain. “So, what is the… inner price, for reduction of a tumor’s mass?”
The woman searches something on her computer, scrolling down for a few moments. Then, she picks up the pen again, drawing an arrow steering from the number one. “An object of your choosing, that you’ve had since childhood. It should be loaded with happy memories, something you would never willingly part from. Can you think of something like that?”
Sara gives herself a moment to think it through. There are a few, actually. Her favorite plushie. A printed mug with a family picture on it that Sara and Laurel got Quentin for a Father’s Day when they were teens, but that is not technically hers. The necklace her parents gifted her for her sixteenth birthday, a beautiful silver piece with an emerald. But she knows, there is one particular object that fits all the criteria: a jersey from her dad’s favorite baseball team; he would take her to see them play sometime, and she’d wear it with the upmost pride, even through all the losses. It reminds her of him, of them bonding, of happier times.
“I do,” she murmurs. It occurs to her that, of course, if the spell somehow does work, if she gives up the jersey, and her dad still gets worse, it would be very precious memories of him she would have given away. And all for nothing. “You said it might not work?”
“The spell will work,” she explains patiently. “But the rest would be up to his doctors. We have other options, of course.” She traces a horizontal line, then writes down the number two: Partial Remission. Sara feels her heart jump to her throat. “We can enchant an amulet. This would work as if he’d received aggressive treatment, but without the side effects. Some of his cancerous cells may survive, he’d need a CT scan, possibly a PET scan, and he’d need follow-up. It could come back, like with any early remission. And it is important that you remember that the effects only last three lunar cycles, that’s a little less than three months. Then, we’d need to re-enchant it.”
Sara tries not to hope. “How much- well… What would this cost?”
“We’d need an object of his to act as the amulet. Best if the same kind of emotional attachment we talked about for option number one applies. He’d need to keep it on himself at all times.” After another brief look at the computer, she goes on: “You would also have to provide a blood donation for the enchantment, unfortunately, every time we have to re-do it. And payment would entail something that holds a piece of yourself. A diary, for example. A collection of hand-written letters, at least twenty. Or, if you write poetry, or songs, half a dozen of those will suffice.”
She’s never written a poem in her life, let alone a song. She doesn’t do letters. The only diary she has is from when she was ten.
“Can the diary be from my childhood?”
She takes note of Sara’s answer, while telling her: “Yes, that would be fine. For the first payment, that is. But as I mentioned, you’d need a new batch every three months if you wanted me to renew the enchantment.” After she traces another line, she writes down the number three. Time. “Is he still feeling strong? Can he talk, walk?”
“On some good days,” Sara answers honestly.
The woman nods. She hesitates. Then: “Do you believe he would want to prolong his life, as it is now?” When nothing but stunned silence comes from Sara, she goes on to explain. “There is a particular potion that could… let’s say freeze his illness. It wouldn’t be gone, but it wouldn’t kill him. He could live years, the rest of his natural lifespan, even. He wouldn’t get worse. But,” she says, in the tone of a warning, “he would never get better. Once he takes it, the potion is not reversible.”
Sara swallows. On his bad days, he has too much trouble breathing to get up from his bed. On some particularly bad ones, he doesn’t manage to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. And he would never get better, get his old life back. But, he would not get worse. He could have years with them, and they could have years with him.
“Do you have any pets?”
The question almost startles her. “No. Why?”
“Well, you would need to get one, raise them for one or two years. That would be your price.”
That is cold, even for the standards she’s set with her other offers. An invaluable object, blood donations, hand-written diaries, now even a puppy. This woman is turning into a cartoon villain right before her eyes, the longer their conversation goes on. The girl from the last shop hadn’t lied when she had mentioned steep prices. And for what? Nudging the doctors along, partial remission with no guarantees of long-term success, a life of agony?
“I’m here for a cure,” Sara points out.
The woman almost recoils, but she’s quick to scold her expression back into a neutral one. “I understand these options may seem feeble, but they would give him an actual fighting chance. Especially if we combine them. Maybe trying option one now, and option two if the doctors can’t do much. After he starts feeling stronger, we integrate option three.”
Sure, and pay all of the above, Sara wants to point out.
“Listen, I don’t care about the price. I’d pay anything, but only if you cure him. No more hospitals, no relapses, no more pain. He needs to be healed.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “What you have to understand is, as I’ve mentioned, performing magic has a price. I accept cash when someone else performs the enchantment, but when I’m the one performing it, I’m the one paying that price. The things I ask in return, are meant to cover that. Replenishing my magic, so to speak. What you’re asking- there is nothing that could replenish that. I would have to accept the cost for myself. And, this kind of magic, would come at a very grave cost.”
Now, Sara is starting to get it. She mulls it over for long moments. Then:
“Well, there must be something else you want, to repay that. Something that is equal in value, to you. Maybe not to replenish what you’d have to give to perform the spell, but something that…” she looks for the right phrasing for a moment: “that fulfills a need, rather than restock something you spent. Something you couldn’t get any other way.”
For her father’s life? Sara would sign over the house to this woman, her dad’s car, anything. Especially upon proof.
For a moment, she looks almost angry that Sara would suggest something like this: that she could gain something for herself from this kind of magic. Sara thinks she’s going to refuse her and possibly ask her to leave. But, after a few moments, the anger starts to dissipate from her features. She leans back into her chair. She eyes Sara’s body up and down for a few times, trying – and failing – to be subtle.
“How old are you?”
She frowns. “Twenty-seven.”
“You work out regularly?”
Oh. Well, she’s not really sure she would be willing to do this kind of payment. Although, if it would cure her dad… “I’m a martial arts instructor so, yes, daily,” she answers politely, if a little reluctantly.
“Any medical history? Or family medical history? Aside from, well…” she gestures to her notes.
Sara shakes her head no, almost on auto-pilot. Then, she remembers her grandfather. “Heart issues on my father’s side. And my sister fainted a couple of times in high school, but it was just low blood pressure.”
The woman hums, leaning forward again. Her elbows rest on the desk and she looks deep in thought for a long moment.
“Well, there is one thing I want more than anything else in the world. But it doesn’t seem to be a possibility for me. And there is precedent for these kinds of payments, in ancient times. Perhaps…” she glances at the computer, then looks back at Sara. “Yes, I think I would do the spell, if you’d be willing to pay that.”
That. Sara needs to know what they’re talking about here, exactly. A date? A kiss? A long, sleepless night of lovemaking? They need to go into details, to establish boundaries.
But then, the fourth and final offer comes, and it is definitely not what Sara had expected:
“I will heal your father, in exchange for your firstborn.”