Read Online A Stroke Of Magic by Tracy Madison - Free Book Online

explored the small space. “Mama? Is that you? You can’t stop me. He deserves to be cursed, for all he did, for all his lies. For my pain. For my baby.”
    She shook her head as if refocusing, slanting her gaze downward. In front of her were several objects lying in an uneven row on the bare ground. She picked up the object on the end—a knife—opened her hand, and lightly cut the skin from thumb to pinky, like I’d just seen on my own hand. Really it wasn’t more than a deep scratch, but the blood bubbled out and the pain returned once again and I curled my hand into a fist.
    “No,” I said. “Stop.”
    This time she didn’t hesitate, didn’t turn her head to search the shadows. She held her bleeding hand over a bowl. Plop. Plop. Plop. It dripped slowly, not in a gush, into the bowl, and as it did, her lips moved silently. I couldn’t hear her, but I knew to the depths of my soul what she was doing. And why she was doing it. Power hung in the air, as heavy and forceful as an oncoming storm, and I wanted to tell her to stop. I wanted to tell her not to curse the man who’d hurt her, the father of her unborn child who hadn’t lived up to his promises, like Troy hadn’t. It wasn’t worth it, even if I understood the agony she felt. But when I opened my mouth, nothing issued forth. I’d been silenced; I no longer had a voice.
    With a shaking hand, the one she hadn’t cut, she picked up a hairbrush and pulled strands of hair from it. Holding them over the bowl, her body swayed and her lips moved. Light and color swirled around her, and I knew—just knew—that the second she dropped the hair into the bowl, the die would be cast. And that it would be a mistake of such magnitude, it could never be corrected.
    I screamed soundlessly for her to stop. The power grew stronger, rushing through the little tent like fabled giants crushing people beneath their feet. I closed my eyes. I didn’t know why I was being shown this, but I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to see any more.
    My baby moved, as if to say Hey, Mom, what do you think you’re doing? Not the flutter of nearly weightless butterfly wings, but a solid kick with way more pressure behind it than was even possible at this stage. I laughed at the surprise of it, at the strength of it, and as I did, the power in the room evaporated.
    Oh-so-slowly, I peeked through half-opened eyes. Miranda still sat there, her body tight, frozen. Her mouth hung open, her complexion drained of color, and a whipcord of tension emanated off of her. One hand remained clenched over the bowl; the other rested on her stomach. I waited…watched…compelled by the unknown to somehow comprehend. And with a slow, deliberate movement, she pulled her arm back and dropped the hair—not into the bowl, but to the ground.
    A breath of relief slipped out and I began to relax. Miranda tipped her head to the side, waiting for something. A sign, perhaps. I continued to watch, sure there was more I was meant to see. More I was meant to experience. She dumped a jug, spilling water onto her hands, washing them briskly, as if she couldn’t clean them fast enough. At that moment, my baby—her baby?—kicked again, even more forcefully than before. She gasped, cradled her arms around her stomach. Tears rolled down her cheeks, fast and furious, in a flood of emotion.
    Wetness on my face surprised me. I brushed the tears away with my fingertips, and as I did, a heady swirl of sensations swept into me, through me. Once again, I was her, but I was still me too. This time, a light of hope took center stage, instead of anger, instead of retribution. This hope mixed with happiness, and while the sadness still existed, it wasn’t the all-consuming, gnawing pain of earlier.
    Miranda stood and paced the small space, her arms never leaving her stomach. Even if I couldn’t feel what she felt, the expression on her face, the brightness in her eyes, would have told me all I needed to know. Whatever hex