Gifted Read Free

shrugged. “I know where you
live.”
    “How?” She was frightened again.
    “I told you: Magic. You wished for help, and
I answered that wish. You were unconscious; I returned you to your
place of residence. You are my chosen mistress, and I must grant
two more of your wishes.”
    “Magic, is it?” She snorted, and tossed the
bedclothing aside. “Did you take any money out of my wallet?”
Without waiting for an answer, she stalked over to a large dresser
and pulled open the slim, upper drawer.
    At a loss for words, the Genie shook his
head.
    “Magic.” She snorted again. “What will you
young folk dream up next? I’m old, dammit, I’m not senile.” So
saying, she pulled a small, leather case out of the drawer, and
from it, an old pair of glasses. These, she perched upon her nose
with great authority.
    “Well,” she said, still squinting, “you don’t
look as bad as you did last night. And I’m grateful to you for
saving my life.” She came a little closer.
    “But—but—”
    “I can probably give you a little more money,
for food or whatever. But you can’t stay here.”
    “But—but Mistress, I
am
a magical
creature! I am—I am the last of the Genies!”
    “I don’t care if you’re the last of the
Mohicans. You aren’t staying here, and that’s final!”
    * * *
    The horrible bitterness of the brew that the
old woman called tea was a new experience—and not a pleasant one at
that. He took the opportunity to mix cream and sugar with it until
the entire liquid was a syrupy, horrid concoction. The scones and
the lumpy butter were at least a little more familiar, and he
played at eating them while he sat in one of the two rickety chairs
at the tea table.
    “Look, son, why don’t you just tell me what
your real name is?” She poured herself another half-cup of the
unpleasant liquid, and busied herself making it palatable.

    “I don’t have a name,” he replied. Then,
although he knew the answer, he asked for hers.
    “Mine?” She laughed. “Didn’t read the old
driver’s license very carefully, did you?” But her smile was
good-humored, and she hadn’t snorted in at least two minutes. “I’m
Mrs. Susan Clarkson. Sue.” She buttered half a scone, and reached
for the jam, before suddenly looking up to meet his eyes. “Don’t
you ever blink?” As usual, she gave him no time to answer. “I want
to let you know that I’m grateful for what you did out there.”
    He shook his head, bemused.
    “But I’d feel more comfortable if you’d admit
to the truth.”
    It was pointless to argue his case, but he
felt compelled to it. “Mistress—”
    “Sue.”
    “Sue, then. I am the last of my kin. I am a
Genie. I grant wishes. That is my purpose in life. What can I do to
prove it to you?”
    She snorted; he knew she would. He had never
heard of anyone disbelieving a power they had called upon before.
One third of his life had been given and granted—and it earned him
mockery and the oddest twinkle of a human eye.
    “You can grant wishes, eh?”
    “Yes.”
    “Could you make me young?”
    “Yes.”
    “Could you make me rich?”
    “Yes.”
    “Could you take me back to the town I grew up
in?”
    “Yes.”
    She laughed. “Could you make it summer, you
funny little liar? Could you bring back the dead?” And at that, her
face grew still, and her laughter became a heavy silence.
    “Yes.”
    “That’s enough, boy. It’s not funny anymore.”
She pushed her tea aside with such force it splashed out onto the
lace cloth beneath it.
    “But I am trying to tell you, Sue—I’m not
joking. This isn’t a game—it’s my life. Test it, if you will. Make
a wish, and watch it come true. Shall I bring back the dead for
you?” He raised an arm, and felt a tingling warmth that made him
dizzy.
    “Bring back the dead?” She muttered. “To
this? He’s in heaven, he is. He’s happy. You think he’d appreciate
being dragged back?” She made a joke of it, and hollow though it
was, it was still