Ann Gimpel

Learn magic they said. Or at least shore up your paltry skills. Talk is cheap, and that edict has cost me dearly. I had a comfortable life, once upon a time. A quiet life. One where I’d carved a realistic niche for myself. No more. Power is seductive, and a bitch of a mistress. Once I pulled the cork out of that bottle, a million genies sallied forth. None of them were nice. No one offered me three wishes, or any wishes at all. I’ve been working my fanny off for the last two years. Most days, I slog along from dawn to dusk and beyond. Sleep has turned into a distant memory. When I do lie down—or fall on my face, which is what really happens—my mind whirls in circles as I relive the failures du jour. And the very occasional success. I am stronger. So much stronger it scares me. My talent sparkles, flowing bright and clean. Soon, I’ll leave the well-hidden spot that’s allowed me time to claim what’s mine. Whether my crash course in sorcery was wise remains to be seen.

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