I pictured a bunch of women who looked like clones of Teel, all gathered in a huge conference room, masquerading as the Lawyers of the Round Table.
Teel didn’t change my mental image substantially when she said, “Magic.”
“Magic?”
She clicked her tongue. “MAGIC,” she repeated, a bit more forcefully. “The Multijurisdictional Association of Genies and Imaginary Creatures. We just concluded our Decadium last week.”
“Decadium?” I parroted, as if I’d forgotten how to speak a full sentence.
“Our group meeting? Every ten years?” She rolled her eyes, and I was pretty sure she was saying that only an idiot would be unfamiliar with the concept. “All the genies in the Northern Hemisphere get together to discuss important things like case distribution and wish escalation. And simplification of contract terms.”
She made it sound so simple. So normal. So absolutely, positively commonplace. Still, I couldn’t quite picture the meeting. “You get together? You mean, like a conference? In a hotel?”
She pursed her lips. “Not exactly. MAGIC doesn’t convene on your plane of existence. Or in your time, for that matter. It can be a little complicated.”
“Complicated…” I repeated, my eyes straying back to the brass lantern. Somehow, I could see that my entire life had just become a lot more complicated. “Wait a second. You said genies and imaginary creatures. So am I only imagining you?”
“Well, everyone would think you were imagining me if you ever told them about this conversation.”
“That’s not really an answer,” I pointed out.
“That’s as much of an answer as I can give. Isn’t it enough to know that you’re talking to me? And I’m answering? And I’m offering you a wish contract with the most current terms?”
I reached behind me for my desk chair, locating the familiar padded arms without too much fumbling. As I sank onto its seat, I shook my head. This was crazy. Absolutely nuts. Sure, my morning had been a disaster, but had it been so stressful that I was actually hallucinating? Imagining a genie? One who spouted words that sounded like the sort of institutional technospeak that every human trade association gives itself? I recognized self-aggrandizing babble when I heard it—I had a masters degree.
I reached out to touch the contract again. The paper was real enough—a little heavier than the cheap stuff the Mercer used in its laser printers, but absolutely, unqualifiedly real. If I were hallucinating, I wouldn’t be able to feel the paper, right? I mean, hearing was one thing, and seeing nonexistent creatures was probably relatively commonplace. But if the contract on my desk was a pure figment of my overstressed imagination, would I really be able to feel it?
I reached a shaky hand toward my office telephone. 9-1-1. I could place the call, even in my compromised state. An ambulance could be here in minutes. They’d take me to the hospital; they’d make sure that I got whatever care I needed. They’d protect me until my obviously overtaxed brain could stabilize.
Which hospital was closest to the theater? I glanced at my bulletin board, at a neat printed sheet that I’d received during my very first rehearsal for my very first Mercer play. Kira had typed up the list of hospitals, along with a summary of local drug stores, bodegas, and late-serving restaurants. She took her stage manager duties seriously. As seriously as she’d taken our conversation, just a few minutes before. When she had given me the lantern.
She’d known exactly what it was. She’d known what would happen. That was why she had looked so strange after handing over the blue pillowcase. That was why she had told me that she was fine, and that I would be, too.
“Kira knows about all this, doesn’t she?”
“Kira Franklin?” Teel narrowed her eyes, as if she were searching through a gigantic filing cabinet in her mind. I nodded. “Kira doesn’t know about the Decadium. It never
Teel didn’t change my mental image substantially when she said, “Magic.”
“Magic?”
She clicked her tongue. “MAGIC,” she repeated, a bit more forcefully. “The Multijurisdictional Association of Genies and Imaginary Creatures. We just concluded our Decadium last week.”
“Decadium?” I parroted, as if I’d forgotten how to speak a full sentence.
“Our group meeting? Every ten years?” She rolled her eyes, and I was pretty sure she was saying that only an idiot would be unfamiliar with the concept. “All the genies in the Northern Hemisphere get together to discuss important things like case distribution and wish escalation. And simplification of contract terms.”
She made it sound so simple. So normal. So absolutely, positively commonplace. Still, I couldn’t quite picture the meeting. “You get together? You mean, like a conference? In a hotel?”
She pursed her lips. “Not exactly. MAGIC doesn’t convene on your plane of existence. Or in your time, for that matter. It can be a little complicated.”
“Complicated…” I repeated, my eyes straying back to the brass lantern. Somehow, I could see that my entire life had just become a lot more complicated. “Wait a second. You said genies and imaginary creatures. So am I only imagining you?”
“Well, everyone would think you were imagining me if you ever told them about this conversation.”
“That’s not really an answer,” I pointed out.
“That’s as much of an answer as I can give. Isn’t it enough to know that you’re talking to me? And I’m answering? And I’m offering you a wish contract with the most current terms?”
I reached behind me for my desk chair, locating the familiar padded arms without too much fumbling. As I sank onto its seat, I shook my head. This was crazy. Absolutely nuts. Sure, my morning had been a disaster, but had it been so stressful that I was actually hallucinating? Imagining a genie? One who spouted words that sounded like the sort of institutional technospeak that every human trade association gives itself? I recognized self-aggrandizing babble when I heard it—I had a masters degree.
I reached out to touch the contract again. The paper was real enough—a little heavier than the cheap stuff the Mercer used in its laser printers, but absolutely, unqualifiedly real. If I were hallucinating, I wouldn’t be able to feel the paper, right? I mean, hearing was one thing, and seeing nonexistent creatures was probably relatively commonplace. But if the contract on my desk was a pure figment of my overstressed imagination, would I really be able to feel it?
I reached a shaky hand toward my office telephone. 9-1-1. I could place the call, even in my compromised state. An ambulance could be here in minutes. They’d take me to the hospital; they’d make sure that I got whatever care I needed. They’d protect me until my obviously overtaxed brain could stabilize.
Which hospital was closest to the theater? I glanced at my bulletin board, at a neat printed sheet that I’d received during my very first rehearsal for my very first Mercer play. Kira had typed up the list of hospitals, along with a summary of local drug stores, bodegas, and late-serving restaurants. She took her stage manager duties seriously. As seriously as she’d taken our conversation, just a few minutes before. When she had given me the lantern.
She’d known exactly what it was. She’d known what would happen. That was why she had looked so strange after handing over the blue pillowcase. That was why she had told me that she was fine, and that I would be, too.
“Kira knows about all this, doesn’t she?”
“Kira Franklin?” Teel narrowed her eyes, as if she were searching through a gigantic filing cabinet in her mind. I nodded. “Kira doesn’t know about the Decadium. It never
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