Free Princess Ben by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

leapt backwards. Breathless with alarm, I rubbed my hands, searching out a burn. There was none, naught beyond the welts and grime already present.
    However unscathed I was for now, caution dictated I attend more closely. I returned to the book. The next illustration was of two hands cupped; another sequence showed the hands working in unison through an elaborate snap and fluttering move. Once burned, as it were, I now doubled my vigilance, and practiced the nonsensical words with my arms held straight out from my sides, fingers stiff and wide to avoid any possible misunderstanding.
    Across the two pages, I could see now, every chain of pictures ended with cupped hands, and each set of hands held a different substance. One clutched a lump resembling soil, another water with rippling surface. The third pair held what could only have been fire, sans a single indication of discomfort. The last hands I puzzled over, for they appeared to harbor a puff of mist, much like the clouds forever swirling about the base of our waterfall. These pictures meant
something,
I knew, but what?
    Suddenly, as I scanned the pages' title, it struck me. The
elemental spells
these were, and such they produced: the four elements of earth, water, fire, and air.
    What good such spells would accomplish I had not a clue. The ability to make dirt, or air, seemed rather a waste of magic. Fire, however, particularly a flame one could hold without danger—that was a different situation altogether. I made another attempt at the hand gestures, enunciating as clearly as possible and struggling to align properly my words and movements. Finishing, I gripped my two hands together, determined to cup the flame for a moment at least.
    My palms filled with a brilliant glow as flames lapped upward. Reflexively I jerked back my head, afraid my curls might catch fire. But I felt not a hint of pain. The fire, in fact,
soothed my inflamed skin. Hardly daring to breathe, I lifted this magical fire to my face. I blew on it. The flames danced as flames will, burning more brightly still. Marveling at this miracle, I noticed the dust-caked candelabra and the drooping, mouse-gnawed candles. Careful to hold my fire out of harm's way, I blew dust from the curled wicks. This could not work—and yet, when I held my flame close, the first wick caught with ease. The room brightened as the candle flame grew. Thrilled beyond measure, I lit the remaining candles, and this warm yellow glow mingled with the pure white moonlight to suffuse the room with brightness. The page before me now read clearly, and, emboldened by my success, I set to work deciphering the tight prose.
    This, too, took time, as the writer's spelling was creative at best, his phrasing archaic, and his penmanship, lovely though it appeared, lacked that crucial element of legibility. Halfway through the first sentence, I was already cursing him—or her, I should say in fairness, for the script, with its elaborate flourishes and illuminations, did have a feminine quality. With the greatest effort, I made my way through the first paragraph, which consisted of a series of warnings, the most important being that the spells could not be used for profit, that the manufacture of ice presented unique
challenges and might result in frostbite, and that attempts at flight would require additional spell work. The warning against profiteering included a most disturbing sketch of a man fabricating a large crystal, only to lose his hands. It had never occurred to me that "earth" might include gems and metals. Even so, wealth held little appeal. Far more interested was I in the concept of flight. Is that what the warning meant, that one produced the element of air in order to
fly?
To fly like a ... like a witch, on a broom? My mind reeled.
    I spent the rest of the night in practice. Lucky I was that my first attempt had been so successful, else I would have forsaken the effort entirely. Try as I might, I could not construct air, not