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“The strands don’t work by logic, Edwin.”  His mother gave him that slightly exasperated smile that she had given him so many times it must be automatic, like saying “bless you” when someone sneezed or “you too” when they wished you a good day.  “They work by feelings and by intuition, and if you attempt to apply too much logic to them, like any emotion, they’re going to slide away from you.”

“There have to be rules,” he protested, although he knew it was a waste of time.  “There has to be some pattern, some way that explains how things work.”

“They work by connections.  How does your connection to your aunt work, or to you best buddy?  They just work, Edwin.  I’m sorry, but it’s the way it is.”

The way it is.  He made his escape when she was done lecturing him and hid in his room.  There had to be a way.  He’d found a book buried in the back of the family library, the sort of thing that nobody ever read, and inside a very boring cover had found descriptions of magic. Continue reading →