I could write a whole post on ‘excerpt’ and how when I say it too many times, it starts to sound weird.

Believe it or not, there is a term for that phenomenon: semantic satiation. But we’ll leave that for another day.

Irredeemably Ordinary

Cole Balfour has no magic, but unless she can crack an unreadable spell and reveal a killer wand, she’ll lose her sister, release a curse, and destroy the world. 

The crows eavesdropping outside Cole Balfour’s apartment window should have been her first clue that something was wrong. 

“Oh, piss o—” She caught herself. The Council’s snitches looked the same as regular crows, and what she didn’t need was another citation for Civility Non-compliance by an Ordinary, so she balled up a sheet of paper and threw it at the glass, startling them into flight.

She returned to her keyboard, where she was mid-reply with a disgruntled customer, trying to overcome their distrust of non-magic telemarketers—namely, her. 

‘I understand your concerns,’ she typed the company-approved script by memory, ‘and I am pleased to assure you, all Rest ‘O Night Long employees, Special and Ordinary, are certified in Unremarkable TM work practice standards of online order fulfillment. Regardless of the Rest ‘O Night Long employee’s magical status, your purchase is fully covered by the money-back guarantee as outlined in our FAQ section. Furthermore—’

Thwack-whack. Thwack-whack. Thwack-whack. A Corvid Autopost bird whacked repeatedly against the mail slot. This should have been her second indication that something was wrong.

She glanced up and willed the racket to stop. “Oh, for goddess’ sake! What is with the birds today?” Cole shoved her computer off her lap, stalked the four feet to the door and flung it open.

Shredded paper—that had been her mail—littered the welcome mat. A geriatric crow with one lazy eye and an official Corvid Autopost kerchief tied around its neck picked at fragments of the utility bill.

“Don’t worry, Agnes. I got it.” Cole stooped to scrape up handfuls of macerated paper.

The crow squawked what might have been, “Thanks,” or just as likely, “Screw you, Ordo.” Cole knew only a smattering of Corvidae. The bird flew off down the hall and straight into the wall eight inches to the left of the open Autopost chute.

Cole winced. The scraps of mail in her hand fluttered like dying moths. She almost dropped them. Cole spread her palms and watched as half the torn pieces inched towards each other and knit themselves back together with a squelch. Magic envelopes were the worst. Written across the front in the unmistakable font of the Council of Special Practitioners was COLETTE BALFOUR. The blood-ink slithered and contracted across the paper to form the words OPEN IMMEDIATELY.