The Capramancer Next Door

Her lips worked inward momentarily. “Luck” and “contractors” did not go together in the same sentence, let alone the same reality. And she hadn’t finished unpacking, so who knew where her luck talisman was hiding. Probably in one of those Trader Joe’s paper sacks she’d used to pack up her staff-care drawer. She’d thrown a lot of sundries from around the house in that paper bag.

Pride in one’s mage staff was emphasized at the University of Rivermoon (waxing), with staff inspections carried out by the TA’s every week, and special staff inspections carried out by the head mages of the department every month (and only once a month, if you’d chosen well; randomly two to three times a month if you’d chosen the wrong major), and a final staff inspection upon graduation by the dean.

But since she’d become a practicing capramancer, she’d found she only brought the staff out twice a year, max, at summer solstice and Easter. And even then, it was mostly for show. She’d attempted to use her mage’s staff—which, of course, had a crook on the end, like any self-respecting shepherd’s staff—to herd the goats only once, because something about the blue glassy stone from which it was made enticed Elvis (the herd’s voice) to try breaking it. Via ricocheting off it. Of course, that had been when she’d first taken in the herd; she and Elvis were cool now, so maybe it’d be different…but Wilhemendra didn’t want to risk it.

So for now her staff hung from a hook on the inside door of the wardrobe with the winter coats and boots. Her hand went to the wardrobe key around her neck, disguised as a dainty bronze choker. Still, she was a mage, and it was her staff, and it did merit some protection. So the wardrobe was kept locked year round.

Will heard the rumble of plastic wheels on pavement. She looked next door to see a man walking his garbage out to the curb. He wore a rugged hat with quite a brim (it reminded her, somehow, of Australia), a long-sleeved shirt in a color she believed they were now calling “greige”, and pants a shade darker. Coyote brown boots completed the ensemble, or so Will thought, until the man turned around to return up the driveway. Then she saw the sturdy yellow gloves tucked into the waistband of his pants. Gardening gloves.

“Morning!” she called, waving her free hand in a wide arc. They may have been next door neighbors, but unlike the tract housing she’d grown up in, their houses weren’t jammed up next to each other like sardines.

The man blinked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she were there. Then he smiled and walked towards the brown picket fence that delineated his front yard from hers.

Will grabbed the neck of her fuzzy purple bathrobe (she had full-length flannel PJ's on underneath, and the cuffs of her pants were clearly visible beneath the hem of her long robe, but figured it best to keep a tight rein on the girls, lest her new neighbor get the wrong impression) and crossed the damp grass to meet him.

“Hi, I’m Will,” she said, sticking out her hand to shake. “Your new neighbor.”

“Rickert Nash.” He took her hand with one that was rough and dry. Will’s smile widened. His voice was as rough as his hand—but it was coated in one of those buttery English accents that had always made her “wibbley in the knees” as one of her college roommates used to tease. He also wasn’t bad looking, with a few uneven teeth that gave him a cowboy character she liked. Sure, he looked a little older than her…but what was age to a wizard?

Rickert, her neighbor, looked down. “If I’d known you were in your slippers, I would’ve come over there.”

Will shrugged. “They’ll wash. I’ve got a dozen of ‘em.”

Their hands were still clasped. Reluctantly, Will let go, and the man—her neighbor, oh boy—let her hand slip out.