Page 124 of The Witching Hours

“If you have to ask, then I didn’t do it right.”

“Hmmm. You’re definitely feminist-leaning. What about Amelia Earhart?”

“Winkleman, for the last time, I’m not interested in time travel with ghoulish overtones.”

“Noted.” He brightened, cheerfully adding, “You could be Henry VIII.” I gave him a look and waited for the implication to dawn on him. “Oh. Never mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll be choosing time travel. What else ya got?”

We passed the sports section that featured every sort of equipment along with information on famous players, champions, and record breakers. “Not for me,” I said.

“Are you sure? At one time you were infatuated with figure skating.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. It was beyond strange to have a stranger recounting bits of my life like my history was widely publicized. What he said was true, but that was before I’d learned to skate and found out what it feels like to fall on ice. Peggy Fleming was a robot with a beautiful exterior. Flirtations with this or that occupation are part of life. Maturity has a way of adjusting the filter by which we view choices. In my life I’d been infatuated with many things I chose not to pursue. Each of thosehas its own set of reasons why I opted for something different. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Oh!” He sped up a little as we neared the central display. “What about talent? Acquisition or expansion?”

I looked at the items in the display case. Whereas many of the sections we’d passed were quite literal and to the point, this section required an effort of association. A quill pen a little less flamboyant than the one I’d seen in the window to represent writing. An assortment of vinyl records, music score sheets, and a microphone. Various musical instruments in miniature. A twelve-inch-high ballerina in arabesque wearing a white tutu with rhinestones scattered in the layers and white satin ribbons cascading from the bun at the back of her head. A miniature blank canvas on a redwood easel with paints and brushes nearby. A sculpture of a rabbit sitting on its haunches winking. And so on.

Winkleman registered that I was more engrossed than in previous departments. “See something you like?”

“I like it all, but…”

“But?”

“For the sake of discussion, let’s say that there is such a thing as magic and such a thing as people who understand how to manipulate it. Further, let’s say I’m not dreaming, and you are such a person.”

“Yes?”

“Hypothetical.”

“Very well.”

“What if I wanted to experience being a star?”

“Such as whom?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “It’s your hypothetical. You may as well dream big.”

“Taylor Swift.”

He raised both eyebrows. “Well done. Go on with your question.”

“So, let’s say I spend some time as Taylor Swift, part on tour and part doing commercials or editorial features.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“What if I liked it?”

“I would hope you would.”

“What if I liked it so much that I could never be satisfied with my life again? I’m no spring chicken, but I’m not a late fall chicken either. That’s a long time to be dissatisfied with my life. Orrrrrrr. What if I wanted to continue being Taylor Swift? There can’t be two of us.”

He laughed. “My dear Ms. Campbell. You’re far more analytical than most.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.”

“Now back to my question.”

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