It was an unexpected complimentary ticket for a show.
It arrived in her mail with nothing to indicate who had sent it. She was intrigued as it was a performance put on with marionettes; a puppet show. She hadn’t been to one of these since she was a child. She decided to go. Her latest book was doing well and she had hardly started on her research notes for the next one. As a bestselling author, she had done very well out of debunking black magic and its practitioners. As a result of her diligent research she knew as much about the craft of the mystics as they did themselves. She was an expert regarding their rituals and ceremonies, their incantations and spells. Not that any of it was worth a fig. She’d been exposing all such mumbo jumbo long enough to know just how worthless it all was. Nevertheless, it had provided her with a very good living. She checked her busy calendar. Yes, she should take a break.
On the night, the theatre was full. This was obviously a very popular show. She was enjoying the experience of revisiting an art form not seen for so long. It was during the final act that it happened. Quite suddenly she became aware of the puppets hand movements. They were very precise, and as far as she could tell they had been made several times. They were slow, specifically performed motions. The fact was, she recognised them. She was sure that these were hand movements used to cast a spell. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember what the spell was for, but it was a spell.
She looked up into the curtained darkness above the stage. She knew that somewhere above, hands would be manipulating the strings. Twisting and jerking the cross bar, skilfully pulling strings and deliberately causing the puppet, now standing forward on centre stage, to make these carefully chosen movements. She’d seen diagrams of such hand actions a number of times when researching this kind of spell casting. It was annoying that she couldn’t bring details of it to mind. She planned to look it up when she got home. After all, there may be something of a story in it.
That plan, along with any others that she had regarding her future, changed radically that night.
Her recently published book would be her last, and thanking the girl who had directed her to her seat was the very last thing she would ever say.
