The Magistrate's Magician

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. It was a sordid dance on most nights and while the ancient city of Sleetmore slept—Abigail Fourpetal lie awake in her bed as the sounds of chanting and cheering rose from the pulpit below. Echoes of the gavel preceding her arrival. Imperial waves of chalky mist would soon appear frolicking with each other like prancing lilacs and lunar junipers in a windswept field—comingling, intermingling, becoming one; but the show wouldn’t last forever.

Nothing in Sleetmore lasted longer than a fortnight; all the clocks were set till twelve—that’s when the world would reset itself and wind down. Crowns of ice blanketed the idle city—but as it were no tufts of chimney smoke were tickling the moon. The residents of Sleetmore were out—dressed to the nines—their homes dark and empty. Instead, packing the halls of the high-courts; this would be the trial of the century if Abigail Fourpetal was lucky, and it was here, upon gated breath she would wait.

Normally the saying was bated but tonight—it was anything but.

Abigail Fourpetal felt locked in, trapped with no foreseeable way out; she was lucky to have lived another day, lucky to see the burning violet clouds and all their royal glory as they crept inward through the Temple of Dreariset high above the city of Sleetmore. It was dawning the third midnight and she was growing desperate.

Slender tendrils of purple enveloped all fifty of the crepe tea-stained alabaster columns; adding to the sinking feeling of dread and isolation.

Angelic carvings of winged gods and roving centaurs braced for battle illuminated under the lighting of heat. The moon appeared to dome the temple, swallowing everyone whole.

Tonight it appeared the crowned oracles were mad, angered at Abigail’s dissonance; she could see their furious faces whisking around the settling fog—turning the purple clouds into brightly lit lava as it neared closer to her bare, shackled feet.

Suddenly the ground shook and began to crack, deep splits fractured the stone; Abigail braced for what she thought was death. Instead, fourteen shadows appeared before her very face—or were there seven? She couldn’t quite tell, in some light that number tripled, quadrupled; made even more difficult by the fact that she hadn’t been allowed to wear her glasses.

Before long a whole army of teeming, rapidly ravishing jurors stood above Abigail, circling—waiting to delve out whatever swift sentence they could conjure. Abigail couldn’t spare to think of what would happen next.

It was bad enough they’d waited this long—but a second more, pure torture.

“Abigail Fourpetal—a jury of your equals has made their decision,” a bulbous man’s weary words cut into the fray, grounding her shakily to the podium where guards flanked her every twitch. Abigail gave a silent, inward sigh—her peers, her equals—several robed women with no shape or form, no individuality or even a slight hint of any scars or moles to set them apart had cast their vote.

They had nothing in common with Abigail Fourpetal, nothing.

They all appeared shapeless and haunting, looming high overhead with severely shadowed features as the gavel slammed down onto the solid wooden pulpit.

“Order, Order, Order,”

Each word accentuated by the same bone-chillingly rapturous hammer from earlier.

“What say you, Head Juror—your consensus?”

Consensus—there it was, another word that on any other ordinary day might seem normal, inviting, or even friendly had now became a weapon, an anchor—a sword wielding through any future hopes and dreams Abigail Fourpetal might have had.

It’s funny how words can elude a sense of discussion or invoke emotion depending on who utters them—but here, today these simple words meant Abigail’s fate could go from permanently being shackled behind bars to worse, being banished from her job or having her powers forcefully removed forever.

“There might be some hope for you yet…” the bulbous man hissed in an irritated fashion as he ordered more silence among the masses.

Abigail’s lungs cinched, she held her breath tight—waiting for the words that never came.

**

“What’s happening,” Abigail screeched as loud crashes of lightening swirled around and the sounds of gavels slamming echoed in her head and the room disappeared.

“There will be a brief recess…we will resume shortly…remain seated…” a short man with robes trailing behind him spoke like helium into a floating microphone.

All aside Abigail Fourpetal couldn’t garner which would be worse—it’s not like she had just any old job—she wasn’t a waiter, or an accountant, a lawyer or an optometrist, no, not her, she worked for the Magistrate. Yes—THE Magistrate, the very place she was being accused, and besides, it’s not like she used her magic at work—that would be stupid. She’d done it all in the safety and security of her home, or so she’d thought.

Mind you—it was a dreadfully boring job to most, but to Abigail, it was a place that gave her hope—that was until three days ago. A sullen, regular day in April and if you asked her everything was going according to plan. Abigail was supposed to go home, cook dinner and prepare for the next day but it would seem someone else had different things in mind.

“Improper Use of Magic,” Abigail whispered nervously—eyeing the faded moss colored ticket in her hand. What was so abnormal or improper about it? She’d just done a few small errands for a friend—nothing more, nothing less. Besides, it wasn’t illegal.

“Yes…” the uniformed man replied—“careful, step this way, arms out,”—his royal velveteen robes were cinched willfully to his body as he tapped his wand just a smidgen from the tops of Abigail’s blood-drained hands.

Heavy silver shackles appeared within an instant, cuffing large iron locks around each of her wrists.

“Wait…this is a mistake, am I being arrested?”

“Yes ma’am… on behalf of the Society of the Ethereal Seal, the Panel of Magistrates, and the Ever Luminous and Esteemed High-Court Judge Marigold Thornsbleed—you have been ordered to confinement pending your sentencing at the Midnight Courts.”

“Midnight Courts, that’s serious…Can’t I be on house-arrest instead...or speak to a lawyer…I’m sure there’s some sort of misunderstanding—maybe another Abigail Fourpetal?”

“I highly doubt it miss…your house is under lock and my orders were clear. I’m sorry but we have to go downtown. Please don’t make this difficult…”

Just like the day she was arrested—shackled and stripped of any of her former clothes—Abigail Fourpetal sat in an old, moth-eaten gown that barely covered the tops of her toes as she made way back into the likes of Judge Marigold Thornsbleeds graces. They’d passed by rows of cowering, nervous bottlebrush, sneezing roses, and shivering petunias until the steeping columns of Judge Marigold Thornsbleed office appeared—looming high overhead like the arches of a forlorn church—dilapidated and disintegrating before them.

Even the flowers Marigold Thornsbleed planted were afraid.

“Enter,” the sharp, rapturous voice of Marigold Thornsbleed bellowed down the dark stone hall. Once inside it was amazing to see the towering room had windows. Maybe hell was out-there—it was particularly foggy—a red, tinged mist rolled in from the rambling cliffs nearby—a fitting locale for such a formidable woman.

“Abigail Fourpetal, I’m surprised to see you in my office under such…circumstances. I honestly didn’t know you’d worked here so long, almost forgot you were still…oh never mind, please sit and make yourself comfortable while we await your brief recess…”

Comfortable…Abigail Fourpetal eyed the dingy, dusty high-back draped chairs with disgust. She’d never kept such grim quarters; even the fire seemed dull and complacent.

In all the years of working for the Magistrate Abigail had yet to catch a glimpse of Marigold Thornsbleed. She’d heard stories, none of them great. Now she was face to face with a monstrous witch of a woman. Her red coils silvered slightly at the ends, her plump face and darting green eyes set high into their sockets watching Abigail cheerfully—a sense of satisfaction dawning her face.

“I called you in to keep most of this off record. I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you all the options afforded to you but it’s a shame to me that you’d waste your talents on such…foolish ways.” Marigold Thornsbleed paused as she donned thin cats-eye glasses and began to read the charges—“Out-of-Season Conjuring, Sentence Altering, Phantom Magic, Star Sorcery…I can’t believe it. I really can’t…of course, your position is a dime a dozen—you can and will be replaced immediately once sentenced.”

Abigail’s stomach dropped further and further with each word spoken.

“That is unless you give me the names of those you were colluding with…maybe then we can give you some sort of deal, immunity maybe? Remove some of those abilities you have? Think about it…but quickly dear girl, once court resumes my offer will disappear…”

Abigail would never, she couldn’t—or would she? What would be the harm in saving herself, she wouldn’t last in this world without her magic—she couldn’t imagine what her life would be like once morning came; her mind raced, there had to be another way.