One
Of all the days to get stuck in traffic, why does it have to be on the most important day of my life? The clock on the car’s dashboard reads 6:56. Having a meeting at seven in the morning is bad enough, but for there to be this much traffic at seven in the morning is the devil’s doing. I’ve got four minutes to drive half a mile, which would be doable under normal circumstances, except the roads are completely gridlocked.
I can’t be late for my first debrief as a junior recruit for the Bureau. Making a good impression is key, especially if I’m ever going to fill Dad’s very big shoes.
Sweat dampens the collar of my suit jacket as I try to maneuver around the cars blocking the intersection. Lying on the horn does nothing. Every minute lost feels like an eternity. I make a sharp left around an SUV, hoping to cut through the alley.
A garden gnome darts in front of me.
I slam on the brakes and watch as the little green-and-red terra-cotta statue hobbles past my car. I squint. Am I hallucinating?
Two more gnomes race past. Nope. Not me. There are now three garden gnomes running through the intersection of Rosewood Avenue and Juniper Lane. Most cars swerve to avoid them. One driver is too busy trying to take a picture to notice that a car’s stopped in front of them. The crash happens in seconds. The loud crunch of plastic bumpers colliding is enough to make me pull over completely and climb out of the car.
The gnomes aren’t close enough for me to see the charm dust animating them, but I know it’s there. As a Mystic, I can help. As a junior recruit for the Bureau of Mystical Affairs, it’s my duty to.
As I jog after the gnomes, I spot a vaguely familiar boy around my age who’s built like a linebacker and has brown, disheveled hair. He jumps out of a dark green Volkswagen and runs over. The quartz crystal in his hands is already pulsating, faint filaments of magic ready to suck up the charm dust that has these gnomes causing chaos. The similar crystal I keep around my neck warms, activating. Together, we chase after the gnomes while carefully avoiding oncoming traffic.
I swerve around someone on a scooter, hop over part of a car’s hood, and reach for a gnome in a green hat. The little minx slips right through my fingers.
The boy helping me is having a much easier time. His quartz crystal glows when he grabs the leg of a gnome just as it’s trying to nosedive through a man’s open window. The driver swears, and the boy grunts as he snatches the gnome before it can escape again. Its flailing limbs immediately still. Some of the residue from the charm spills to the ground, while the rest dissipates into the air.
Movement to my left catches my attention. The second gnome slides underneath a van in front of me. I race around the front and dive for it, seizing it by its pointed red hat. It stiffens into a lifeless piece of clay and pink charm dust
falls to the pavement, as fine as grains of sand. I grab my collector, a glass jar lined with quartz crystals I keep in my bag, and scoop the dust inside. As long as most of the residue is contained, there shouldn’t be any future mishaps.
The boy captures the last gnome and collects all the remaining dust on the pavement. I can hear clapping coming from people in their cars and the crowd on the sidewalk. The boy gives me a thumbs-up, tosses the two gnomes he caught—now lifeless—onto a grassy bank, and heads back to his car. I do the same with the one I captured and then jog to my old sedan. The time on the dashboard reads 7:06. Ugh.
I shift the car into drive and cut through the alley as planned. While I close in on my destination, I try to work out a good way to explain my tardiness.
A bunch of fairies decided to have a block party this morning.
Rosewood Avenue was closed for the annual lawn-gnome parade.
Never a dull moment as a Mystic, am I right?
Cringe.
Fair Glen, Illinois, is full of charms, vials of magic dust meant for people, and charmed objects that were leftover from a time when Mystics could create magic. Fifty years ago, Mirror Lake, the source of Fair Glen’s magic, dried up from a drought. With it gone, there’s no magic for Mystics to draw from. Mystics can still see magic but can’t make new magic. We’re stuck with the charms made during the time before the lake dried up. Since charmed objects are old, they sometimes degrade, causing mishaps like with the garden gnomes. What was likely a simple charm to make the gnomes wave or dance expired, resulting in them running through traffic like a herd of wild deer.
That’s where the Bureau comes in. We stop the mishap and clean up the leftover dust so it doesn’t cause trouble. Bureau agents also investigate contraband—mainly charms given to people illegally, which often have unpredictable and dangerous consequences, but also charms that are used as weapons.
Contraband is the reason I was awake before seven today.
I turn into the parking lot and pull into the first spot I can find. I give myself a millisecond to admire the metal building in front of me, small white lettering at the front reading:
Bureau of Mystical Affairs
Fair Glen Field Office
The Bureau has field offices around the country, each with the aim to study magic, approve charm usage, and investigate and prevent mishaps. I’ve been to the Fair Glen office countless times between visiting Dad at work and taking tours during school field trips. I spent my first semester of senior year as a trainee. On the weekends and after school, I shadowed agents and basically did grunt work like cleaning crystals and organizing reports filed on contraband. In the interim, like all trainees hoping to be promoted to junior recruit, I studied for the written exam on charms and crystals, passed the endurance test, secured recommendations, and successfully deactivated a charmed object in under sixty seconds. All that hard work paid off.
When I walk through those doors, it will be as a junior recruit. I’m finally getting assigned a case. No way am I blowing this opportunity.
Inside, Larry, the security guard who sits at the front desk, is nursing a large cup of coffee and listening to something on his phone. He’s been working the desk since I was in diapers and has always seen me here wearing a visitor pass. Today, I flash him my official badge with a wide grin.
He takes out an earbud. “Nice job, Monroe! I knew you’d follow in your dad’s footsteps. Head up to Operations. Seventh floor. And be quick.
They’ve already started.”
“Thanks, Larry!” I call over my shoulder as I sprint toward the elevator.
I tap my foot on the tile while I wait for the doors to open. Dad’s picture hangs on the wall across from me, along with other honored Bureau agents. I’ve traced his name on the plaque countless times since it was installed ten years ago. I’ve imagined my own name beside his for just as long. I grew up thinking he was a superhero. I saw how happy working at the Bureau made him. So when I was old enough, I didn’t even think twice about applying to be a trainee. Getting into the Bureau last month was a huge life accomplishment, but I’m not done yet. There’s a whole ladder to climb. And I want to leave behind a legacy like Dad did.
Just as I’m about to bite the bullet and take the stairs, the elevator arrives, and I dash inside. I check the time on my phone: 7:12.
The elevator dings, and the doors creep apart to reveal the dark-carpeted flooring and plain white walls of the seventh floor. Voices drift through an open door halfway down the hall. I bolt toward the sound, checking that my shirt didn’t get too wrinkled during the gnome incident. Then I smack into something hard.
A muffled yelp sounds as pain erupts in my forehead and shoulder. I step back, holding my head, and someone gasps.
Once the dizzying haze clears, I realize I’m staring like a deer in headlights at the heart-shaped face and round dark eyes of Iris James, the Director’s daughter. I know her from school and the random Bureau functions Dad would bring me to over the years. Her hair is styled in brown boho braids that fall in waves to her waist. Her white crop top looks good with the flowers she’s drawn on her loose jeans. She’s stylishly put together as usual, although I don’t think I’ve ever seen that expression on her face before.
I follow her line of sight. The white button-down shirt I’m wearing under my navy suit for today’s meeting—ironed perfectly, exactly like Dad taught me—is now covered in some kind of pink, glittery smoothie. As soon as I see the
mess, I feel the cold seeping into my skin.
“Monroe, I am so—”
“It’s fine,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “Do you have a napkin or something?” I manage to keep my tone even this time, but panic is seeping in faster than the smoothie.
“No, but I think there are sweats in the maintenance closet on this floor. Fair warning: They’ve probably been in there for a while.”
An old sweatshirt is better than a shirt soaked with smoothie. Besides, I’m pretty sure you can see the outline of my sports bra now.
Taking off my blazer, I sidestep Iris without another word. Not only am I late, but I’m also going to be underdressed.
I find the closet, then grab the first sweatshirt I see. I do what I can with a few paper towels in the bathroom, and by the time I’ve changed and head to the conference room, it’s 7:20. I glide inside the room silently and creep toward an open chair while Director James points at something on a PowerPoint slide.
I’m hoping not to draw too much attention to myself, but since I’ve been saddled with the worst luck today, I trip on a power cord. My hand juts out, catching on the edge of a swivel chair, which bangs into the table and jostles everyone’s coffee cups and tablets. All eyes snap to me, including the Director’s. Fantastic.
“Ms. Bennett, is there a reason you’re late and out of dress code?” the Director asks. She’s a stern-faced woman in her midforties with black hair styled in large finger waves and wire-frame glasses. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her tailored blue pants and frowns. Her doubts about my competence are basically written on her face while she waits for my reply.
“Um…There were garden gnomes in the road.”
A few snickers erupt around the room. I glance at my peers
. There are four other junior recruits this spring, three I recognize from Fair Glen High, the public high school in our town, and one who must be from St. Mary’s, the tiny local K–12 Catholic school.
The Director inclines her head. “Garden gnomes?”
I nod, grabbing the contained magic from my bag and carefully sliding the jar across the table. “I collected the residue.”
The Director scrutinizes the swirling pink dust. The properties of magic make charms appear as pink dust on objects, and gold dust on people. The Director glances back at me.
“It’s admirable that you helped to contain and gather degraded charm dust, but you missed the icebreaker and introductions. I was just about to start the debrief. Are you aware of the charm making its rounds at Fair Glen High?”
Everyone looks at me. Suddenly, my throat is desert dry. “Um…no.”
“You haven’t noticed the mishaps around school?” asks Taylor Evans, a dark-haired girl in my grade who has a sharp jaw and piercing blue eyes. She arches her brows challengingly. Sitting next to her is Jude Featherstone, her best friend. She’s enviably tall with a stunning number of freckles and a curly brown afro.
The Director seems to be curious about my response. I don’t want to get caught in a lie, so I reply honestly. “I haven’t.”
I’ve been a little busy trying to become a junior recruit. I may not have known about the charm at my high school, but I do know that, as a recruit, it’s my job to figure out who is using or dealing the charm dust and stop them because it’s strictly prohibited. Unlike charmed objects, which sometimes degrade and can cause minor accidents, charmed people almost always lead to mishaps because the conditions for the magic to work on them must be perfect. It’s hard to know exactly what those conditions are.
The Director hums before turning back to the smart board in the front of the room. She probably thinks I’m inattentive now too. Great. I’m trying
to make a name for myself. All I’ve managed to do today is arrive late, underdressed, and unprepared. I plop into an open seat with a heavy sigh.
“Well, someone has gotten a hold of contraband and is using it on the students at your high school,” the Director says. “A love charm, to be exact.”
She clicks to the next slide: a bullet-point list about what the Bureau knows so far.
“The charm was first spotted three weeks ago at the Illusion Salon & Spa. A few of you were present during the event, but for those who weren’t, interviews were conducted and outlined in the case notes, which you can access on our database. Essentially, a delivery boy was injured while conversing with the spa owner’s daughter. Based on analysis provided by Research and Development, we believe the intent of the charm is to find the perfect love match.”
She clicks to the next slide: a photo of the softball team next to a dozen balls lodged into a chain-link fence. I remember my best friend mentioning something weird happening with the team, but I didn’t realize it was magic-related and, therefore, the Bureau’s business.
“Charmed students keep having accidents when they try to pursue someone romantically. Flirting, hand-holding, asking someone on a date, you get the gist. Aside from the incident at the spa, the situation is presently contained to Fair Glen High, but we’re concerned it could spread. We’re under pressure from the mayor to figure this out before someone gets seriously hurt. As this has only hit teenagers so far, we want our junior recruits leading the investigation. With my direct oversight, of course,” the Director says.
“Are we sure it’s only one charm causing problems?” Taylor asks.
The Director moves to the following slide. Two pictures side by side show a girl in a softball uniform and a boy in a delivery uniform, both with flakes of gold dust beneath their skin. “We tested the dust. It’s the same.”
“Has the charm worked for anyone?” I ask. Or is everyone just shooting their shot with the wrong person?
“Good question. Mishaps stop once the charm’s intent comes to fruition. In this case, the person charmed should be cured once they find a true romantic match. We haven’t seen this happen in real time yet. It’s very possible that other people, besides those we have recorded, were charmed but their feelings were reciprocated and thus no mishaps occurred.
“Research and Development is trying to find a dissolver that will dispel the charm dust from persons affected. In the meantime, you five need to find out who’s behind its distribution.”
A phone number appears on the next slide. “Save my number. I have all of yours from your applications. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need advice or run into trouble. Don’t try to contain a situation if it seems too big to handle alone. Call it in. Remember your training. Look at this as a test of your skills, not only to analyze charms and theorize suspects, but to communicate and problem solve. We’ll have regular check-ins to go over your findings. Any other questions?”
I look around the room, taking in the rest of the recruits. Around the table are rapid nods and eager smiles. Taylor and Jude look giddy as they furiously scribble down notes. Am I the only person who’s terrified? This is all I’ve ever wanted, and now that the opportunity is here, I’m afraid I’m going to mess up.
“Okay,” the Director says. “Meeting adjourned.”
I gather my things as quickly as I can, hoping to have a word with the Director before she leaves, but Taylor blocks my path.
“Cute shirt. Is that the nicest one you own?” Taylor asks and Jude snickers.
I roll my eyes. “Very original.”
“Don’t think you’re getting special treatment just because you’re a legacy kid,” Taylor says. “Some of us actually had to work hard to get this.”
“Me included,” I grit out.
I knew facing nepo-baby hostility was a possibility. Dad was one of the Bureau’s shining stars until last year, when he retired to start his own private magic-cleaning business and to spend more time with me. Dust-B-Gone is doing great, and he travels way less. Still, his legacy here remains. I don’t want to be treated differently because of it. In fact, his acclaim is more of a reason for me to prove myself.
I brush past Taylor and her amused expression, beelining for Director James. She’s tapping on the glass window of the break room to get Iris’s attention.
“Excuse me, Director. I’m sorry for being late to the debrief. I did leave on time, but the gnomes caused a huge traffic jam and, well, I also needed to change after my shirt got ruined.” I know I’m rambling, and the truth sounds like a bad excuse.
The Director turns to me. “Tardiness is not something you want to make a habit of, Monroe.” She peers over the rim of her glasses. “Your dad was an excellent agent. I’ve been looking forward to seeing how you do as a junior recruit. This was not the first impression I expected. This first assignment will not be easy, and I was a bit surprised you were out of touch with what’s happening in your school.”
Shame floods me. Iris, who has slunk out of the break room with her hands tucked into the front pockets of her jeans and purple headphones covering her ears, gives me a curious look.
“I’m not as social as Taylor,” I reply, “but it won’t stop me from doing my best to solve this case.”
“Good. No more showing up late and unprepared. Do you need a ride to school? I’m dropping off Iris.”
“No thank you, ma’am. I drove,” I say.
“Okay. Don’t forget to take the residue from your
morning collection to R&D before you leave,” the Director reminds me as we walk out.
She jabs a manicured nail at the elevator call button and turns her attention to her phone. The other recruits waiting to go downstairs are chatting quietly among themselves. I feel very awkward standing here doing nothing. As I head for the stairs, my shoulder brushes Iris. She trails her gaze from my windswept hair to my loafers, and I suddenly forget what I’m doing. She smirks.
The elevator dings, and everyone piles inside but me. By the time the doors close, I’ve managed to come back to earth. I shove the whole encounter with Iris from my mind and take the stairs down to the fifth floor.
Research and Development, aka R&D, is a row of labs and storage lockers where the Bureau studies, categorizes, and houses charms, charmed objects, and their residual dust. Once an agent collects residue, it’s processed, then archived.
I shuffle down the tiled hallway, aware that school starts in ten minutes. Enormous glass windows reveal blocks of tables lined with microscopes, beakers, droppers, and bins full of crystals. Researchers in lab coats and gloves run about, pushing bins full of random charmed objects ranging from rugs to doorbells.
Inside one of the rooms, microscopic views of magic are displayed on flat monitors docked at each station, appearing as pink or gold strings. On a shelf, I spy glittering pink swirls of charm dust in glass vials.
In another room, a technician sprays a silver substance onto a dish. The gold dust in the container disintegrates before my eyes. Although no one can make new magic, R&D uses different counteragents like that silver substance, aka the dissolver, to dispel charms from human skin. Crystals work on a small scale to fix
wonky charmed objects, but charms given to people, which are contraband, need much stronger magic to undo. Depending on the charm’s anatomical properties, dissolvers can be anything that fights the original charm’s intentions—from witch bells to sage sticks to other charms. While it’s amazing to see the scientific side of magic, I love being in the field more—seeing magic in action.
“Um, excuse me. Where can I drop off a collection?” I ask the first person who passes me, a boy with his head down moving in long and quick strides.
He looks up. “End of the hall. I’ll be there in a minute.”
With a start, I realize that it’s the same familiar-looking boy who helped me with the mishap this morning. I must’ve seen him around the Bureau. “Hey! You work here?”
Recognition washes over him slowly. “Gnome girl. Yeah, I’m an R&D recruit. I handle collections during this time. What’s your name?”
“Monroe Bennett.”
“Bennett. Like Jeffrey Bennett?”
“Yep. ...
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