Free A Snicker of Magic by Natalie Lloyd

head and a fuzzy white mustache. He wore faded jeans, and a flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows.
    “Hey-yo!” Oliver grinned at me. “And good morning and welcome!” He didn’t talk like a millionaire, either.
    When he reached to shake my hand, I noticed a dark tattoo on his forearm. But I couldn’t make out what it was just yet.
    “Hey-yo and thanks,” I said.
    Oliver glanced at Jonah and raised one fuzzy eyebrow. “Pumpernickel?”
    Jonah nodded. “Felicity’s the one I told you about. Remember? She’s cool.”
    “All righty, then.” Oliver nodded. “Jonah says you’re interested in the Weatherly brothers, Miss Felicity?”
    Yes!
    Yes!
    Yes!
    “Yep,” I answered.
    Oliver pulled a picture frame off one of the bookshelves and handed it to me.
    The photograph was old, black-and-white, and faded. But I could tell that the man in the picture was young. His dark, shaggy hair fell down over one eye. He wore overalls sized a bit too short for his long, lanky frame, and he held abanjo high up, right across his chest. I could tell he wasn’t playing that banjo, though; his hand clutched too tightly around the neck. I wondered if he was in a habit of holding his banjo over his chest to protect his heart. Maybe that banjo was a shield to him. Maybe he felt safe behind it.
    Oliver tapped the picture frame. “Berry Weatherly. He was a famous magician, but you’ve heard that already, I reckon?”
    I nodded.
    “Well,” Oliver sighed. “There is always more to the story than what you’ve heard. Here’s what most people don’t know about Berry: He liked cold weather and hot coffee. He loved to sew. And he loved to tell stories. Stories were his best magic. And” — Oliver’s fuzzy mustache turned up at the edges when he smiled — “Berry Weatherly was my grandfather. I’d be happy to tell you more about him. The truth about him.”
    Yes. Yes. Yes , my heart pounded over Oliver’s words. My heart always pounded out a YES when people were fixing to tell me a good story.
    “Felicity,” Jonah finally said, “in case you haven’t figured it out yet, this is Oliver Weatherly … the original Beedle of Midnight Gulch.”
    “Charlie Sue!” hollered Oliver. “Could you bring me a —”

Before he could finish, Charlie Sue bumped the door open with her hip. She set down another glass ice-cream dish and a new carton of ice cream on the table.

    “You’re a wonder!” Oliver said to her.
    “And don’t you forget it!” Charlie Sue said with a nod. She pulled the door closed when she left.
    “Jonah says that’s your most popular flavor,” I said, pointing to the pale purple carton.
    “Hey-yo! You better believe it,” Oliver answered. “People buy it by the gallon because it helps them remember. The problem is that you don’t know what kind of memory this ice cream’s going to dredge up. We make every carton out of the blackberries that grow wild down by Snapdragon Pond. If you take a bite” — he tapped the carton with his spoon — “and the blackberries taste sweet, you remember something good. But if you take a bite and the blackberries are sour, well … that means you’reabout to have a sad memory. Remembering is still important, though, no matter if it’s good or bad. You want to try it?”
    “I’d better not.” I shook my head. Because there was one memory in particular I’d worked too hard to forget.
    Oliver nodded. “Jonah says you’d like to know about the Beedle.”
    “And the Brothers Threadbare,” I said, trying to sound casual.
    “I know plenty about both,” Oliver said, “… as long as I have some Blackberry Sunrise to help me along.”
    Oliver’s shoulders slumped as he took his first bite. I wondered how good a memory could possibly be if it weighted so heavy against him.
    Oliver began, “I was a rotten kid, Miss Felicity. Spoiled, self-centered, and careless. Honest truth: I used to sit up in that very window and shoot ever’ dove that flew past here. Just for