Interlude I

No matter where I was on this lonely planet, I felt at ease so long as I had my personal library — especially my complete sets of The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis and the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling — and my deep love of science.

Both are gifts I received from Greg. Though, upon reflection, only the books were by his intention. Those two epic heptalogies, considered solely juvenile reading material by non-magicians, give me a strange sense of awe even in my adulthood. As a child curious about what lay outside my family’s secluded hilltop castle, those two classics were to blame for my wild fantasies of saviors teleported from another plane or of an orphaned chosen hero at a magical boarding school.

Sadly, no one ever came to deliver me from my restlessness, and my parents took charge of my education rather than sending me off to an academy somewhere, magical or otherwise.

Though I am thankful to my parents for tolerating my fascination with non-magical literature, back then I wished that they were more like the many magicians who decide to live in mainstream human communities and enroll their children in public schools. There was no longer any endangered Narnia to be saved, nor any whimsical Hogwarts to be explored. As much as one might wish that reality may make room for fiction, it seemed that magical adventures would never come my way.

Luckily, even the small sphere of reality around me was filled to the brim with other worthwhile pursuits — and Father was more than happy to help sate my natural curiosity with the help of our esteemed guests. Though I can hardly be considered an expert on non-magical culture and customs, I can confidently assure any sheltered magical readers that everyone I have met in the outside world would be shocked to hear that magicians often keep scientists as their closest companions. There was no greater honor to the oldest magical households than to host professors and researchers of the sciences, and to lend assistance through whatever means available — whether that be offering funds from the ancestral coffers or producing rare and expensive materials through magical manipulation.

As dismissive and indifferent as he was of the practices of other magical families, Father could not help but also be fond of the company of these accomplished pedagogues and pioneers. Not that anyone else minded these warm friendships. Their frequent visits kept days fresh and lively, and it gave purpose to Mother’s meticulous decoration of our large residence. My best childhood memories were of sitting with Father and his companions while Mother would toil with dinner preparations. The looks on the faces of those men when they discussed new discoveries and technological advancements convinced me that I would one day join them as equals.

Of course, there was still much to learn. And though Father would try to teach me all he could about science, he himself was only an amateur when it came to rigorous explanations for how everything worked. Moreover, he too would struggle to follow along the more complex topics. A hobbyist could seldom pretend to true expertise, in the end. It was Greg who would lean into my ear and whisper explanations for whatever was going on. I often could not understand them, but I would nod and conceal my giddiness at being afforded special attention by a grown-up.

And sometimes, if the conversation became overly technical, he would excuse himself and take me out to the garden, where he patiently addressed my most pressing inquiries. “Why do I fall after I jump?” I asked while bouncing around on one such occasion. “Who made up that rule?” 

He patted my head, and I was stayed. “I’m not sure if anyone made it up, sweetie.” That was when he answered one of the oldest of scientific questions by repeating one of the greatest stories in scientific history. He told me about Newton and the apple that changed everything, and I hung on his every word. 

Sweetie. Unlike Father and Mother, who spoke to me with refined and reserved distance, Greg treated me as a child — his child. Back then, I thought that non-magical children must have been so lucky to have such warm parents. It was only after leaving my bubble that I learned that this sort of genuine kindness and understanding toward children was a rarity everywhere. For every one Digory Kirke out there, there was another Vernon Dursley. In Narnia and on Earth, between wizards and among Muggles, there are better and worse parents.

When I asked Mother how she and Father had chosen Greg as my godfather, she answered that they had seen how much he loved his own daughter. It bothered me that there was another that Greg doted on, but I decided that it was such a lovely thing that two girls could be made so happy by one man. And the idea that I had an older sister of sorts somewhere out in the world, who was also trying her hardest to become a scientist, only increased my burning desire of joining her and Greg one day.

Alas, the bloodline covenant dictated that the head of the family can never leave the ancestral grounds. I, as Father’s only child, was bound to live the same life that he lived: confined within the perimeter of the family property, watching as his servants and friends left and entered the front gates as they wished. No matter how many magical adventures and scientific inquiry beckoned to me, I would remain a mere observer, researching the familial magical arts from day to day and forcing myself to be satisfied with only books and chats with visitors, through which I would vicariously live a free life.

I would be arranged to marry a second or third son from another family, selected for their strong affinity to magic and their sensibilities regarding the outside world. With time to consider the idea, I might come to accept him and love him as my husband. By his sire, I would conceive a healthy firstborn, and would raise them as my eventual successor. For the rest of my long life, my greatest duty would be to perfectly perform my purpose — to ensure my genetic and magical lineage, to stay within the stony walls.

On my deathbed in the master bedroom, after the usual two hundred or so years of a magician’s life, I would see the same ceiling that my predecessors had seen. I would be the seventh in a line of respected heads who would never see past the end of the path leading out the gate, down the hill, through the forest, and away to places forever outside my reach.