Dragons in the Attic

Winslow laid on the floor of her grandpa’s bookshop, the rough floorboards pressing into her back. The room was entirely normal, except that a miniature galaxy, complete with swirling constellations and burned-out stars twinkling in the distance, hung where the ceiling should be. She traced the constellations and reached up to touch the northern star. When she pulled her hand away, her fingertips were stained silver. The familiar sound of the old bell at the front door rang through the bookshop. Winslow wondered who on earth wanted to buy books in the middle of the night, but she didn’t have to wonder for long. Blocking her view of the night sky was a grave-looking woman with a halo of white-blonde hair just like Winslow’s. She grasped one silver-stained hand and pulled Winslow to her feet.

“Mom!” Winslow realized, and went to hug her, but her arms fell through an incorporeal frame. Her mom was wearing a white dress, which billowed in a phantom breeze. How very Edwardian. Winslow looked down at her overalls and Pink Floyd t-shirt and felt underdressed.

“Shh, he’ll hear us,” She told her. Winslow wondered who she could possibly mean. Her grandpa? Why did it matter if he heard them?

“Mom, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for so long.”

“I know, sweetie, but I have to go.” Winslow reached out to grab her arm, but all that was there was white-blonde fog. She looked up, and the stars were falling out of the sky one by one. Great, white-hot spheres hurling toward her, toward the bookshop. As they fell, the shelves swelled and burst, sending books flying through the windows and across the floors, which then burst at the seams. The walls cracked and folded like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Miraculously, Winslow was untouched by the onslaught. But before long, an unseen hand wrapped around Winslow’s body and pulled her into the inky darkness.

Winslow woke, but the residue of the dream remained. Her mom, the stars, the bookshop. Her mom, the stars, the bookshop. She lifted her hand out from beneath the covers, examining her fingers one by one, but she couldn’t make out even a glint of silver, even if she squinted and turned each one in the light. Winslow tried to shake off the memory of the dream, but the harder she tried, the more the it clung to her mind like a dusty film. Outside her window, the sound of morning traffic, yelling, and the general hullabaloo of New York City was in full swing. Usually, the ruckus was comforting to Winslow, like a more interesting white noise, but today it only amplified her cluttered mind. Defeated, she crept downstairs to the bookshop, just to make sure. With every step she imagined the walls crumbling, the books flying. But when she reached the bottom, she saw that the old wooden floor and the older wooden bookshelves were standing as strong as they always had. She looked up where the galaxy had been, and in its place was the familiar ceiling, painted dark blue with thousands of silver stars all over it, this time made of silver craft paint. They’d never had enough money to get the place officially enchanted, but still, there was something inherently magical about the place. Winslow often crept downstairs at night, after her grandfather had gone to sleep, to lie on the old floorboards and stare at the ceiling, imagining what creatures lived in the book-strewn galaxy and building stories surrounding them until she fell asleep. She would wake up the next morning with a sore back and a highly amused grandfather telling her she needed to get ready for school. Maybe it wasn’t as magical as it had been in the dream, but it was real, and maybe that was better. At least, she knew it wouldn’t fall on her in the middle of the night.

Winslow went back upstairs to get ready when she caught the familiar sight of a golden spine on her bookshelf. Winslow pulled it down from the shelf and brushed her fingers over the raised metallic lettering, which spelled out, A Thousand and One Tales of Valor, Vengeance, and Villainy. As she flipped through the pages with her thumb, the smell of old paper wafted through the air of her bedroom. Written on the corner of the book were the words, “Happy Birthday, from Mom” scrawled in a familiar half-print half-cursive. The only point of contact Winslow had with her mom was the day after her birthday, which happened to be tomorrow. Every year, a present appeared in the apartment, perhaps tucked behind the curtains or under the couch, once hidden in a flower box outside the window. The book was the first gift Winslow ever got, the day after she turned three. It flipped pages on its own, and the pictures within it moved like actors on a stage, even though they were nothing more than ink on paper. Winslow used to sit for hours, before she could read, watching the little men get into sword fights to save the little maidens. Winslow’s friends joked that Santa was supposed to come in December, not June, but she didn’t care. Even though Winslow had never seen her, every year the night after her birthday, she knew her mom had been close by, and that was as good as it was going to get.

When Winslow got to sit down for breakfast, her grandpa was whistling and reading the morning paper, clearly in a much more chipper mood than she was.

“That is just so sad.” He shook his head emphatically. “Look here, another bookshop closed last week. I guess people just don’t read anymore. And if they do they use those stupid e-lectronic books on their phones … I just don’t know what to make of it.”

Winslow hummed in assent.

After a couple of minutes he continued, half to himself: “Those little screens are gonna run me outta business one of these days.”

Winslow pushed her eggs around on her plate. She remembered the dream, how her mom had been afraid that her grandpa would hear them, and Winslow wondered for the billionth time why he never told Winslow anything about her mom. Winslow mused that he didn’t say anything about her dad either, but somehow that didn’t bother her as much. Familiar, burning curiosity seized Winslow’s mind. Just a tiny question. An itty bitty one, she bargained with herself, so small he won’t even notice the answer as it leaves his mouth. Even though she knew how it would end, the same way it always did, she had to try again. Maybe, if she kept asking, he would finally crack.

“Oh look, somebody taught a two-year-old boy pyrokinesis, and he burnt down a city block. Who on earth thought that was a good idea … ”

“Grandpa?”

“Hmm?”

“What color was my mom’s hair?”

He pretended to continue looking at the newspaper, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page anymore. The question was not itty bitty enough.

“I suppose she had hair like anyone else’s. That’s a strange question to ask.”

“That’s a strange way to respond.”

A strange stillness hung in the room for a little longer than it should’ve, until finally, “Winslow, didn’t you say you wanted a miniature dragon? They’re usually so expensive, but the shop on fifth avenue is having a sale. Your birthday’s today, what do you say we go find one?”

Yes, she did want a baby dragon, very badly. She had been wanting one for years, and he knew it. Did she want this miniscule, tiny little detail about her mom more? She thought about their little scaly wings and bursts of flame, hardly strong enough to singe the hair on your arm. This may be her last chance to get one, and she would have plenty more chances to pry information out of him. But that was exactly what he wanted, and Winslow was not about to fall for his tricks, no matter how appetizing they seemed. Winslow knew she was playing with knives, but so was he. She was tired of being diverted. Her heart was beating against her ribcage, but Winslow didn’t want to let him win just because she was scared. “Why won’t you talk to me about her?”

More silence. Silence that felt like a punishment. Silence stretching on a little longer than it should’ve, until every syllable that came after felt like falling glass. “If your mother wanted you to know who she was, she would have revealed herself by now. And anyway, she’s not the kind of person you should want to have as a mother.” The longer he spoke, the more acidic his words became.

So that was it. That was what she had been fighting for all these years. So her mom was a horrible person. Probably a sorceress working children’s parties who got pregnant and couldn’t take care of herself, much less a baby. But that wasn’t quite it, was it? If she was nobody, why would he have any issues talking about her? There had to be something else there, Winslow could feel it in her bones. Still, he’d been prodded enough. And she did want that baby dragon.

“What kind of sale are they having?”

“50 percent off the entire store.” He sounded decidedly less chipper than he had been earlier, but also relieved to be freed from the sensitive subject matter. “But you have to run the shop today, don’t you? I guess we’ll have to wait and see if the sale is still happening tomorrow.” Key word: Winslow was running the shop, not her grandpa. He could still go by himself. And if he really wanted to, he could call Justin in to take over while they both went. But Winslow received the message. She missed her chance. Had it been worth it? She wasn’t sure. Somehow she had more questions than answers, but something was better than nothing, right?

After breakfast, Winslow opened the shop, propping the huge oak doors to let the summer air waft through the shop, and the customers started pouring in as usual. She wasn’t going to have time for baby dragons anytime soon. Teenage girls posed too long for Instagram photos. College students monopolized the armchairs. A little girl threw a tantrum when her mom wouldn’t let her buy the new issue of Teen Witch, specializing in romantic divination (“Does he love me? Does he not? Find out with these beginner-friendly spells!”). Mr. Tellers, smelling particularly dusty, browsed after his doctor’s appointment and bought two western romance novels. Someone rang the service bell continuously while Winslow was trying to reshelve books upended by a stray toddler. When she finally got to the desk, the man hardly worked to hide his discontent. Really, Winslow thought, he looked more like a vulture than a man. He was mostly bald, except for a few wisps of hair clinging pathetically to his head, and he was wearing a rather large black, floor-length coat. She hurried to the desk as quickly as she could, but he continued ringing the bell, like a child presented with a big red button, until Winslow had her feet firmly planted behind the counter.

“I’m looking for Mr. Morrison,” he said, peering down at Winslow through his thick spectacles. Only book collectors asked for her grandpa by his name, but many more have asked for the owner, in one way or another. Winslow hated customers who thought she couldn’t do anything just because she was young. She’d grown up in the shop. Anything her grandpa could do, she could do, even if that meant dealing with the snobby collectors that came through looking for exotic books.

“I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment,” Winslow said, as properly and sarcastically as she could manage, “How can I help you?”

The vulture frowned. “Are you the granddaughter?” Winslow replied in the affirmative, although she wasn’t too fond of being addressed as an object, and he continued, “I’m afraid this is a serious matter. I must speak with the owner.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’re welcome to come back another day, but I promise you I am more than capable to help you with whatever you may need,” She said, practically dripping with enthusiasm.
The vulture huffed before pulling a large book out of his messenger bag and laying it on the desk. It was wrapped tightly in brown paper. “I bought this first edition of Leopold’s Voyage two weeks ago. It was displayed on a gorgeous little antique mahogany stand in my study, entirely undisturbed. When I woke up this morning, ink was spilling out the sides of the book, and by the time I could call a priest, my entire office was flooded. My hardwood floors were soaked with the stuff, and my walls were completely ruined, not to mention the books on the bottom shelves, all of which were utterly indispensable. If Mr. Morrison does not cover these expenses himself, I will go to the court immediately, and,” he added, giving Winslow a onceover, “I doubt this shop has the ability to withstand the financial implications of being sued.”

Winslow’s eyes took on a vengeful gleam as she replied coolly, “If you’re such a prolific collector, you should have known that curses can be applied by anyone at any time, and I find it difficult to believe nobody would want to curse you.” At this point, the man’s face swelled with anger, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Winslow continued, “We’ve been sued many, many times, but, unfortunately for you, magical misuse is the crime of the customer, not the shop. Any good collector would know this, and they would always have an exorcism done with any new book. Now if you please, the exit is right over there,” she said, pointing at the door, “and I insist you use it. Have a spectacular day!”

After some more yelling about customer service, respecting your elders, and the state of the world, the man finally left, and Winslow slumped on her stool. Some birthday this was. At least the shop was slow, no doubt due to the vulture’s appearance, and Winslow decided to drop over to the fruit stand next to the shop. They had persimmons, which Winslow had never tried before, so she bought a bag of them and ate them behind the counter while she sorted through new arrivals. They were sweet and rich, yet mellow, kind of like honey. She’d never had anything like it before, but she was greatly satisfied by her discovery.

Her grandpa came back from wherever he had been to drop off some bills in the apartment. On the way back out, supposedly to see a friend who just came into town, he saw the persimmons laying on the counter and said casually, a little too casually, “Your mother always liked those” before leaving again.

Winslow couldn’t believe it. After twelve years of asking about her mom, their conversation this morning was what finally did it? She should be relentlessly persistent more often. She looked at the half-full bag of persimmons lying on the counter. Did her mom think they tasted like honey, too? Winslow wondered if she ever unknowingly copied her mom in other ways. Did her mom always jump in rain puddles for the fun of it? Did she always sleep with her feet out of the covers? How much of Winslow was actually Winslow, and how much was her parents? Winslow wished there was some way to pick all the pieces apart and read their labels. This habit came from your science teacher, this facial expression is genetic, you only eat a cupcake like a sandwich because your friend did it once.

Today was her birthday. Tonight, her mom would come, either that or one of her spells would, and by morning, there would be a gift hidden somewhere in the apartment. She used to stay up for hours and hours, waiting for her to show up, but she inevitably fell asleep before the sun rose, and she always missed her chance. Her mom might have enchanted her so that she fell asleep before she came, so there probably wasn’t a chance that tactic was ever going to work, but what if Winslow left something for her, maybe she would see it. Maybe she would care.

After the shop closed, Winslow got to work. She had never baked before, but recipes seemed simple enough, and she had plenty of persimmons to spare. She supposed she could just leave them out on the counter for her mom, but something seemed impersonal about that. And baking was very intentional. Her grandpa always eyed his ingredients and called it measuring with his heart, whatever that meant, so when Winslow pulled out the only cookbook out of the cabinet, she had to shake the dust off. After successfully retrieving an apple pie recipe (close enough, right?), Winslow mixed the ingredients. They had only a small bottle of vanilla extract, Winslow hoped it was enough, and her latticework looked more like a kindergartener’s work than a twelve-year old’s. Other than that, it went quite smoothly.

Winslow was sliding her pie out of the oven, face aglow with oven heat and pride, when her grandpa came back. Winslow realized she hadn’t seen him since noon, she must have been so busy that she forgot all about him. She set the pie down on the counter.

“Winslow, what are you doing?” Suspicion dripped off his words. He would know eventually, he probably already knew, Winslow had never cooked a day in her life. Winslow’s stomach churned. Perhaps it was guilt, or fear, she didn’t have time to sort that out right now. But even if she was afraid, there was no point hiding it. You don’t cook a pie and leave it on the counter, untouched, when you’ve never baked before, if you didn’t have a good reason.

“I’m leaving something for mom.” She could see the alarm swimming behind her grandpa’s eyes, so she started talking faster, “I know she’s a bad person, but what if she just needs some help? She’s been sending me presents for so long, she obviously cares to some capacity. She just needs to know I care about her, and maybe she’ll come back and talk to you-”

“Winslow.” He said it quietly, like a plea. “Winslow come here. I’ve waited far too long. Please, please, just listen.” But she already knew. Why did she already know?

“Your third birthday you were so excited. You had been romping about the place all day wearing a pink ruffled dress and green leggings and cowboy boots, it was truly horrendous. And, then the party came, a bunch of my work friends showed up and a bunch of kids from your daycare. You wouldn’t open your presents or dance or anything, you kept insisting she would show up. I still hear you asking where she is. And I just couldn’t do it. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give you something and say it was from her, you’d forget it by next year. So I gave you that book. You were so happy you could’ve died. You didn’t put down the book for months, because she had given it to you.

“And then the next year came and you remembered, and I still couldn’t tell you. So I got you a pair of boots. The next year you said you were going to stay up late and meet her, so I gave you hot chocolate and snuck Benadryl into it. You were out before you knew what happened. And then you got older and older, and it got so much harder to tell you. Every year on your birthday, you looked so happy to have something from her, how could I? I understand if you won’t forgive me, but understand I only wanted to help you. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but maybe you got a better childhood out of it, even if it wasn’t real.”

“So, she isn’t real either?”

“She hasn’t been for a long time.” His eyes held what meaning words couldn’t. And when there was too much, the meaning spilled out of them and across his cheeks. Winslow had never seen him cry before. It broke her in a way tears never had. That piece of her, the piece that dreamt of falling skies and pestered her grandpa and baked pies, finally broke. Broke easily and cleanly, as if it had been wanting too for a long time.

“What … made her not real anymore?”

“She always wanted to be a sorceress. Not those silly little ones that make those little glow-in-the-dark tattoos. The real ones, you know, like that team they had in 06’ fighting ogres on the coast of Switzerland. And she was good at it too, but you have to be careful working with that stuff, it can take you over. The magic. Too much, too fast. It’s not good for people. We’re not meant to hold that much. But too much was never enough for her. In the end, I think, she had so much that she became magic.”

“The magic. Do you have any? Did you ever learn?”

“No. I could never, not after what happened to her.”

“Then how did the gifts have magic? Did you get them enchanted?”

“What do you mean? They don’t have magic.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Winslow, I bought them. I would know if they were magical.”

Winslow rushed upstairs and came back with the book and opened it in front of him, but nothing happened. “I don’t understand. The pictures have always moved, and the pages flip by themselves. What happened?”

“I don’t know, dear.”

“You believe me, right?”

“Yes, of course I believe you. You know, your mother had so much magic in her when she died, there’s a possibility she’s still here, in one way or another” That made sense, almost.

“But if her magic is still here, why can’t you see it?”

“We bickered a lot in our time together, maybe she simply doesn’t wish to be around me anymore. Anyhow, we’ll likely never know the true reason. It’s best not to think on things you can’t control or understand. I guess I should’ve taught you that a long time ago.”

They stood there for a second, and in the silence they heard a low thumping noise coming from above them.

“What is that noise?” asked Winslow, and followed her grandpa through the apartment and up the stairs. In the hallway, he pulled down the hatch door to the attic, through which they saw a small creature with shining blue scales so dark they were almost black. It appeared to be tugging on a rolled-up carpet like it was a chew toy, and the carpet had dark burn marks all over it.

“A baby dragon!” Winslow exclaimed, and retrieved it. Once in her arms, it started flapping its wings excitedly, and then went to gnaw on her arm like it had the carpet, its rounded nuzzle digging excitedly into the crook of her arm.

“Watch out for its mouth, now. Those things are sharper than they look.”

Winslow obeyed and asked what they should name it. She looked around the old kitchen and spotted the leftover persimmons lying on the counter before exclaiming, “Percy!”

While Winslow fawned over her new friend, her grandpa took in the kitchen.

“Haven’t I ever taught you how to clean?” he asked.

It was true, there were ingredients on the counter and dishes in the sink and a little pile of flour from where Winslow had been messy with the dough. And the oven was still on, but it miraculously didn’t burn the place down. They cleaned up the mess together, dodging Percy, who was attempting to catch their feet, the entire time. Then they tried the pie. Winslow’s grandpa let out a sound similar to when the alley cats had furballs.

“Why does it taste like there’s alcohol in here? How much vanilla did you put in this thing?”

“A bottle,” She said slowly, “The recipe said to use two teaspoons, but that seemed downright skimpy.”

“Winslow! That was a full bottle! We’re gonna be drunk!”

They both fell over laughing. Somehow it was easier to laugh than it was to cry, and there would be plenty of time for that later. For now, for once in her life, Winslow felt as if she had everything she needed.

“Grandpa?”

“Hmm?”

“What color was my mom’s hair?”

He smiled at her, his eyes getting lost in the wrinkles, and said, “The same color as yours, my dear.”

Winslow looked out through the window, into the rushing darkness of the city beyond, and for a second, she swore she saw white-blonde smoke through the window.

***

Alyssa Pierce is an English major at Stephen F. Austin State University in northeast Texas. Her work has been featured in the university’s newest publication, Words of Art. Alyssa is 19 going on 83. She much prefers crocheting sweaters for her cat, Edith, or yelling at the contestants of Jeopardy, than socializing with human beings. But when she is not browsing the isles of Goodwill, Alyssa loves to write little tales with lots of magic in them.