Chapter 111: Substitutes
The grimoire spoke of the implements common to a spellcaster: the wand and the staff. The wand was a short, slender rod, like a conductor’s baton, easily held in one hand. The staff, however, was a different beast entirely—a long pole, generally taller than its wielder, much like the iconic weapons of the wizards I remembered from the films and games of my past life.
Crafting a staff, the witch’s notes explained, was an art of a higher order. The materials, the methods, the requirements—all were exponentially more complex than for a simple wand. A staff had to be a bespoke creation, tailored to the magician’s own magical signature; a conflict in properties, a flaw in the design, could result in a catastrophic backlash, a spell turning inward to consume its master.
A witch’s art, however, was a more casual, chaotic affair. It lacked the stringent, academic rigor of the magician, and so a staff was an unnecessary extravagance. The notes mentioned it only as a cautionary tale, a reminder that even a witch could suffer a magical backlash. The probability was lower, yes, but should it occur, the advice was simple and brutal: immediately cease casting and discard the wand.
There were other tools, of course—the scepter, a mid-length staff of metal used for spells of a specific, esoteric nature, but these were even less suited to a witch’s needs. The grimoire dismissed them with a page, a testament to its nature as a personal, practical record, not an exhaustive encyclopedia.
Next, the grimoire listed the witch’s most iconic tool: the broom. The previous owner confessed she had no knowledge of how to craft a proper magical broom, but she had added a characteristic, almost flippant note: an ordinary household broom would suffice, though the flight would be slow and far from comfortable.
Then came the cauldron, for the brewing of potions. A witch was no alchemist, the notes insisted, so there was no need for the delicate glass of beakers and distillation flasks. If a great cauldron was unavailable, a simple crucible would do. And if even that was beyond one’s means, a common cooking pot could serve as a last resort—though one was strongly advised against using it for any recipe involving highly corrosive ingredients.
Okay, I know I’ve already complained about this once, but I have to complain again. Sis, are you really this casual? Can everything truly be substituted?
I had only just begun to delve into the grimoire, but it was already saturated with this same reckless, make-do philosophy. If you have no dragon sinew, please use lizard sinew as a substitute. If you can’t pronounce an ancient word, just muddle through with a similar sound. The book even offered specific techniques on how to blur and slur one’s incantations, a guide to magical imprecision.
The author hinted at it everywhere: being a witch was a freewheeling, intuitive art. One should not be bound by the rigid doctrines of the magicians. Often, a witch needed only to fix her will upon the desired result; the process, however haphazard, would bend to her intent.
I couldn’t tell if this casual, almost heretical approach was a quirk of this particular witch, or a fundamental tenet of witchcraft itself. In either case, it was a style I found deeply, profoundly unsettling.
The notes went on, listing the minor accoutrements of the trade: a ritual knife, a magic quill for inscribing runes, a proper robe, a small animal to serve as a familiar. I had no leads on any of them, but thankfully, they were not of immediate, desperate necessity.
Then I found a passage of chilling, practical advice, a piece of wisdom born from a life spent in the shadows. A witch must never use her craft in public to cause a disturbance. She should refrain from flying by day, and exercise restraint even at night. And under normal circumstances, she must never let another soul know what she is.
If it becomes necessary to name your profession, the witch had added, you may call yourself a magician, or a sorcerer. An outsider will not know the difference. As long as you do not make this claim in the presence of a true magician or sorcerer, your secret will be safe.
I had suspected it before, but now I was certain. This grimoire was not just a personal journal; it was also a manual, intended for an apprentice. That was why it was filled with such basic, fundamental knowledge. And now, by a stroke of grim fortune, it was all mine.
I had read this passage before, during my initial translation. At the time, I had assumed it was a simple warning: don’t draw the attention of the Church. But after hearing the old man’s cryptic advice to Jared, his warning against the reckless use of holy light, I was no longer so sure.
I had been in Candon for several days now. I had witnessed a public execution, a riot, a murder. And yet, I had rarely seen anyone use supernatural power openly.
And since my own sight had fractured, I had seen through the mundane disguises of a dozen different creatures who were not human at all. I had seen vengeful spirits and hungry ghosts, a maid with the head of a flea, a shambling mass of tentacles hiding within a cloak, and a creature with the head of a goat, dressed in a fine suit, calmly walking into a factory.
But they all restrained themselves. They moved through the city like ordinary people—walking, working, shopping—and the oblivious crowds showed no sign of alarm, for in their eyes, these anomalies were just ordinary people. The sight of it had made me doubt my own sanity. I often felt that I was hallucinating, that these creatures were not real, that they were just law-abiding citizens and my own mind was playing tricks on me.
Until I found the diary entry. The witch wrote that she had encountered a werewolf, disguised in a crowd, who had snatched a little girl and devoured her. She had not provoked the creature, because they were extremely dangerous. Her own mentor had taught her the first, most important rule of survival in this city: no matter what strange, terrible things you see, you turn a blind eye. You do not provoke them.
The passage was a grim, chilling reassurance. I was not alone in my sight. Others, like Jared, could see these things. And these things were dangerous. My choice to feign blindness was the correct one.
As I was lost in these thoughts, Jared led me to a marketplace. It was a sprawling, chaotic affair, a temporary city of canvas tents and makeshift stalls. Farmers from the countryside hawked their wares from carts piled high with produce, their calls mingling with the shouts of the city merchants. The market was a river of humanity, a bustling, jostling torrent of bodies. It was also appallingly filthy. The ground was a slick of mud and sewage, and a strange, mixed, fishy stench hung heavy in the air.
But for me, the squalor was a blessing. The foul smell masked the tempting aroma of the food stalls, and the dense crowd blocked my view. As long as I was careful, as long as I avoided the sight of cooked food, I could keep my monstrous hunger caged.
Our first stop was a wine stall. A cart was laden with wooden barrels, and several assistants were shouting their wares to the passing crowd. “Fresh wine from France! From the Brownie Winery in Burgundy! We have Cabernet Gernischt, Grenache, and Chardonnay!”
The names of the grapes were familiar, echoes from my past life. And France, Burgundy—a world-renowned region, famous for its wines.
“Does Parula want to buy wine?” Jared asked. “But I heard the wine here is actually fake.” He knew this market like the back of his hand; it was his home turf, his hunting ground.
“What, it’s not French wine?” I asked. With France so close, it seemed a strange thing to counterfeit.
“No, it’s local,” he said with a shrug. “And definitely not from a famous winery. This is all cheap stuff.”
He was right. The people gathered at the stall were common folk in plain, homespun clothes. This was wine for the poor, a cheap comfort in a hard world.
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