Page 31 of Everything She Does Is Magic (Fableview #1)

Anya

The haunted house looks like a night at Aunt Cal’s after she’s turned off most of the lights.

Dark and a little strange, but not very frightening.

There are the famed bedsheet ghosts, who chase you through the first three rooms. There is a fake clown dummy that pops out of a closet at what Grace estimates to be seventeen-second intervals. She has a very strong internal clock.

There’s a motion-censor skeleton that sits up in bed and lets out a moan of agony when you pass. Some ominous noises playing on a loop. And another fog machine again at the very end, carrying the weight of the world on its cloudy back before returning you to the rest of the carnival.

Grace does have a plan. It’s wild and way too ambitious, asking more of me than just my magic. But it exists, and it could be a good one, if we can pull it off. Very heavy emphasis on if .

To get the lay of the land, we go through the haunted house four more times.

Our last round catches the Holtzenbergs’ attention, Kyle’s mom whispering to Grace, “Is everything okay?” like we might be here doing a quality control check on behalf of the Fableview Fall Planning Committee.

That’s when we decide it’s time to move into phase two.

Grace has packed a lot of stuff in her backpack.

At first glance, it all seems random and excessive.

She has four flashlights that she’s covered in blue gel sheets.

A bunch of plants, from flowers to succulents to vines, all in various states of distress.

A bag of fake blood. Two costumes that look like cheap Victorian gowns.

Random accessories, like necklaces, rings, and wigs. A rubber snake.

“Sorry,” Grace says, holding the snake. “That’s not for this.”

Hidden in the shadows behind the tent, we change our clothes, pulling the scratchy polyester dresses over our heads.

“I’ve never seen you in yellow before,” Grace says.

“Memorize it,” I tell her. “Because it will never happen again.”

Grace smears fake blood onto my face. I drag bloody handprints across her dress.

We practice our plan as best we can. It’s very hard with the limited space we have, not to mention the lack of an audience. The only way to really know if we will be successful is to try it when it counts.

We’ve memorized the haunted house’s layout, and we make our way to the side with the skeleton bedroom. There’s a tear at the bottom of the tent, not unlike several others I’ve noticed on our walk-throughs.

Closing my eyes, putting my hand on the small tear, I let every stress and worry of the past month bear down on me. Instead of mending together, the tough, sturdy fabric of the tent begins ripping apart, a jagged opening stretching upward until it’s tall enough for us to pass through.

Grace pats me on the back. “That was cool .”

Even though it’s a silly gesture, it does make me feel a little proud of myself. There is something freeing about exploring this other side of my magic. None of my lessons have ever focused on breaking things instead of fixing them.

Inside the tent, we set up as fast as possible, then crouch in the corner of the bedroom.

“Are you ready?” I whisper to Grace, hearing the soft rumbles of laughter and screams from a group in the distance.

“I’m nervous,” she says back. It’s the first sign of weakness she’s shown since we started this, and even in the low light of this tent’s fake bedroom, I can spot an unfamiliar worry in hereyes.

A plan is different when it’s in the talking stage. Everything seems exciting. Daring. Now the reality is here, and what we’re attempting is bold. Dramatic. And risky.

The incoming group is only a room away, letting out fake high-pitched shrieks for the clown dummy, then laughing at each other. They sound like high school students, and it spikes my adrenaline to an all-time high. Our first audience will be a group of teenage boys.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Grace doesn’t move into position. We can’t both be nervous. We can’t both second-guess ourselves.

“C’mon,” I whisper. “Let’s show the world your dark, gothic soul.”

It’s quick, but it’s enough. Grace goes to her designated spot.

Our skeleton friend does his part first, sitting up in bed, prompting another round of fake screams from the boys.

Grace seizes my wrist. She yells, in something sort of like a British accent but not quite , “No, please, no!” while thrashing on the ground.

I assume my position, looming behind her. I have the vines in my hand, and I bring them over her head until they land in front of her neck. We’ve got the flashlights positioned on us to make sure everything is bright enough to see. The blue gels make it look appropriately moody.

I pretend to choke Grace with the vines.

We’re dressed kind of old-timey, like we’re from the 1800s, but if a teen soap opera with a limited budget and no fear of historical inaccuracy dressed us.

It might matter to someone, but if Grace has taught me anything, it’s that commitment is all that’s required to pull off a unique ensemble.

“ Lady Marbles ,” Grace cries, still using her quasi-British accent. “Release me at once.”

“Never!” I pull the vines tighter, knowing Grace’s hands on them are preventing me from doing any actual harm.

The boys are watching us silently, not yet sure what to make of this spectacle.

The pressure of their judgment heightens my nerves.

That would be a bad thing under any other circumstance.

Right now, for what I need to do next, it’s exactly right.

Grace is faced out toward them, her back pressed into mine, the vines against her throat as she makes coughing, choking sounds. “Please,” she begs, her voice hoarse.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture the hot breath of the worst summer day, a sticky July afternoon that would smother out any plant unlucky enough to be in direct sunlight. I picture every unkind thought these boys are probably having about how silly and immature this whole thing is.

Magic pulses through me—that wiry, jagged feeling I get when I have too much of it, pooling in my hands like how sweat builds when I’m nervous.

The vines begin to crackle . Spark.

For a moment, they’re actually on fire.

When Grace startles, it severs my connection to my magic, and the fire snuffs out immediately. The vines turn to dust, as we initially planned, crumbling into nothing.

Grace looks at me with genuine malice. She’s still in this, all the way committed.

The way we’ve staged it, she looks like the one who magically destroyed the vines, breaking free of my hold.

She said this would be her Carrie moment, covered in blood and out for revenge.

She wanted it to come off like she’s snapped, like whatever my character has done is bringing out some unexplained power in her.

She plays it perfectly, her desire to get me back so believable that it isn’t difficult for me to rise, lunging at the guests in the room like they might be my next target instead. I chase them out of the skeleton room and into the final hallway before theexit.

This time their screams are real.

Grace pretends to pull me back—to catch me.

“Run!” she tells the guests. “Save yourselves!”

And they do. They run like they’re truly scared I might do something to them. Or Grace might.

When we return to the skeleton room, we’re both still so in it that we don’t say anything at all. We’re standing side by side, breathing hard, in utter disbelief.

The skeleton rises from his bed to greet us.

We laugh. Only a little. Low and proud.

“It really worked,” I whisper.

“That was amazing ,” Grace says. “They were actually scared. I can’t believe the vines caught on fire. It looked so cool. That was Matt Bautista, Isaac Diaz, and some other guys I didn’t recognize.”

I didn’t know any of them, but Grace goes on to tell me about their reactions in more detail as we set up our act again, waiting for the next group to come through. Apparently, Matt had tears in his eyes at one point. Isaac was holding on to his jeans when he ran out, like something had happened.

Grace pats my back again. “They completely believed it.”

We hear the next group approaching, and we hurry into position. I find myself even more committed, certain now that this will work. The fire doesn’t catch again, but the effect is still cool when the plants turn to dust.

It’s the most rigorous magic practice I’ve had in a long time, and I know with certainty that it’s also the most consistent magic I’ve ever done, the same way I know when food tastes particularly good or when music is well written.

It’s a soul-deep satisfaction that makes me wish there was a Doyle here to seeme.

I don’t want to give this up , I realize.

This power makes me who I am. And I like it about myself.

The groups start coming through closer together. At one point, the entire bedroom is packed with people, and I don’t even have to chase them out. They start running when the vines disintegrate, the youngest kid among them screaming with genuine terror.

It’s such an adrenaline high that I don’t even notice the Holtzenbergs enter. Not until Grace is tugging on my hand, whispering my name over and over. Both of Kyle’s parents are struggling to get their ghost costumes off their heads to see us in full.

“ Go ,” I whisper, shoving Grace toward the hole in the tent. She thinks I’m following right behind her, but once she’s through, I mend the tear in the tent.

It’s only me who will take the fall.

The Holtzenbergs get free of their bedsheet costumes right as I finish patching up the hole.

I’ve been practicing magic so much that I don’t even have to think hard to do it.

I’m already centered, already steady. The rest of the Doyles really should see this.

They would be amazed at how one night in this haunted house has done more for my training than several years in their homes.