“Miss?”
I flinch at his voice.
“Here we are, miss.” The wagon driver stares at me with his hand extended.
Giving him a faint smile, I drop a gold coin in his palm before helping myself down.
“Is this it?” I ask no one in particular.
“You were wantin’ to come to the tower, weren’t you?”
I mean to nod. But suddenly, I’m not so sure.
“I’ll be seein’ you, miss!” he says, whipping the horses. I watch, maybe a little desperate as he disappears around the bend, a dust cloud chasing the wagon like a ghost.
Commitment sets in like a knife to my back. No way out of this now. Throwing my cape behind me, I take a big breath, puff up my chest, and . . . slowly creep up to the front door.
The black tower splits the midday sun in half, the flowers on my right and left basking in its golden rays. But those asleep in its narrow obsidian shadow are pale and wilting.
It’s been ten years since I’ve last seen him. That was when he took me in after my parents were killed in a bandit raid. And like any good grandfather who just so happens to be the most powerful wizard on Oros, he sent his favorite granddaughter off to magic school to become a witch.
Mom would be so proud.
The door creaks open before I can knock. But only darkness greets me.
“Hello? Grandfather?” I call out.
Maybe I should go back, I think, already turning my heels.
“Lucy! Is that you?”
I release a breath. But I really should have held on to it.
“Don’t just stand there, child! Inside! Quick!” A hand seizes me by the arm, yanking me inside, and the door slams, shutting out the light.
“Grandfather?” I squeak, clawing at shadows. “What’s going on?”
“Shh! Hush, child! He’ll hear you!”
I blink once or twice and maybe a third time after that. “Who?”
“Confound it, child! He’s right outside! Didn’t you see him?”
“I didn’t see anyone, Grandfather.”
Even in the dark, I can almost make out the stunned expression behind the white beard that gazes back at me. As if the gods command it, he snaps his fingers, and a hundred torches illuminate the tower from top to bottom.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” I say politely. But I’m sure he can tell I’m just a touch irritated.
“Why, child, isn’t it obvious? He’s gone! Broke free! Why, oh Borolax, why?”
“Boro-who?”
His eyes bulge out like a bug’s. “Confound it, child! Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Yes, Grandfather. I’ve got your letter right here. But you never told me about Borolax.”
As if using that name started a litany, he ascends the stairs, eyes searching the distant ceiling. “Borolax! Oh, Borolax! Where have you gone, dear Borolax?”
I watch as he spirals upward. “Do you want me to, like, go look for him or something?”
That must have been a joke. “Look for him? You? Why, he’ll scorch the flesh right off your bones!”
Scorch the flesh off my . . . Borolax must be another wizard! One from the fire class, no doubt. Probably one of the renegades from the Isles of the Seven Flames. “Grandfather, if some wild mage has dared pick a fight with you—”
“Wild mage?” he spits. “Why, my dear child, Borolax is my dragon!”
The torches stand still as I stare up at him. There’s no mirror to see just how incredulous I look.
“Borolax! Come back! Oh, my dearest, sweetest Borolax!”
Borolax? A dragon? Grandfather’s dragon?
I clutch his letter in my hands. And to think I came here to get the dwarves out of his basement.
At least I had fair warning.
This story was a writing exercise based on the following prompt: Your grandfather, the most powerful wizard on Oros, has started developing Alzheimer’s/dementia/memory loss.
