Perhaps, to Maddness Burnswitch, then, now, and always, he remains simply, “Grandpa Maddock.”

—FROM “THE NINE LIVES OF THE VINTAGE BROOMSTICK COLLECTOR: A BIOGRAPHY,” BY DIEGO MARTINEZ-WOLFSPAWN.

He spoke Sorcerertongue with an Eastern Witch dialect. A telltale sign, the little girl knew from a particularly bulky linguistics encyclopedia, that he was a man raised in a matriarchal guild or noble house somewhere in the far east.

Mr. Mechanic is from the Eastern Witch. He has to be. His every fifth sentence is passive, and he always avoids masculine nouns, Maddie thought. He’s nothing like the obnoxious sorcerers who visited for Witch’s Day. Is it rude to ask him where he’s from?

Biomechanical runic tattoos danced like clockwork across the pale skin of the man’s dextrous hands as he worked his tools, as if orchestrating the sublime movement of his fingers and arms with each rotating gear and torquing hydraulic flexor. To the little girl, the dynamic, enchanted ink transformed him into a living machine. But Maddie knew better. The man was flesh and blood, a truth reaffirmed every time he allowed her delicate fingers to trace the lines of his tattoos.

“Here for the drag race, young heiress? It’s postponed,” said the man, as he rolled his mechanic’s creeper from underneath a black muscle car with tinted windows. He wore a white tank-top tucked into blue conti suit pants stained with engine oil and exhaust soot. “We’re tied up servicing the Lieutenant General’s vintage car collection all week. The General’s auctioning a ride for the fundraiser.”

“Um, I know that, Mr. Mechanic, I’m attending the gala as Grandpa’s date,” Maddie said, a contagious smile crossing her lips. “I didn’t mean to disturb your work. But Grandpa said I should pick out a broomstick and get it serviced while you’re at it. We’re going flying today.”

Maddie met Mr. Mechanic’s deep brown eyes. His ruggedly handsome face smeared with dark oil stains. The man stood a little shorter than her grandfather and father did, but he was still much taller than she was.

“Are thieving seagulls being chased again?” Mr. Mechanic asked, smiling.

Passive, Maddie thought.

“Uh-huh. But I’ll be steering the broomstick today!” she replied.

“First time in the pilot’s seat, huh? Remember my advice when you first took the wheel?”

“Keep a level head, have my eyes straight ahead, and, um, try not to shut them when I panic, but pull over? But how do I pull over in the sky?”

“You don’t. How it’s done will be shown by the General. There’s a neat trick to it. Which brings us to the most important thing.”

Passive! Maddie thought.

“Trust in my partner?”

“That’s right. Keep that in mind and you’ll do just fine, young heiress,” said Mr. Mechanic.

“I will. Thanks.” Maddie said, smiling.

Mr. Mechanic then narrowed his eyes and through a wicked grin he said, “When you ran into the garage, I was sure you’d say you couldn’t wait to kick Ms. Patissier’s ‘big butt’ on the racing course.”

Maddie’s eyes went wide and her smile froze. She covered her face, looking over her shoulder, and in a voice caught between a whisper and a scream, she said,

“Mr. Mechanic! Don’t say that out loud! Grandma might hear you—I’ll drop dead if I eat another giggling-tart!”

Mr. Mechanic stifled a laugh as he secured an oil drain pan underneath the car.

“I’d heard from Ms. Gardener, but did Advocate Crowspawn really make you eat a dozen in six days as a poetic binge-eating apology to the chef?”

“It’s not funny. I couldn't stop laughing at the silliest things for hours. Grandma said it’s what I get for telling crude jokes. I have to laugh myself to tears, ‘cause no one sensible will.”

“What did your parent do?”

Father, she thought.

“Daddy ate them with me,” Maddie said, a wry smile crossing her lips. “He said he missed when Grandma made him eat the tarts when he was a boy and being naughty, too. So Grandma stuffed a handful in his mouth.”

They both laughed out loud as the mechanic wiped his hands clean with a stained cloth.

“Can we get to the broomsticks now?”

“You know the way, young heiress,” said Mr. Mechanic.

Maddie grinned, then walked ahead of the mechanic, passing by more vintage cars with exotic builds. There were sports and luxury cars. Some had massive wheels, so massive it was a wonder how one would scurry in; one in particular had exhausts as large as rockets with a tip as sharp as that of her mechanical pencil (probably retractable, too); others were simpler in design, like the ergonomic RV with omnidirectional wheels.

While Maddie admired her grandfather’s collection, cars didn’t interest her much beyond the adrenaline high when navigating the formless drag racing course on Black Water Beach with Maddock or Mr. Mechanic behind the wheel, it was the workmanship and dedication to their craft that kept her coming back to the garage. It fascinated her.

Many of the vintage cars were replicas Maddock and Mr. Mechanic built from scratch, but a few were centuries old and worth millions of pentacles. Over the years, she’d seen dozens of car logos she didn’t recognize, brands which, according to her grandfather, were once industry leaders in the Pre-sorcery Era.

The little girl observed that there was a unifying trait among all the cars in Maddock’s collection: a touch of whimsical design eccentricity blended with dark colors—her grandfather’s signature style. So it was unusual when, as Maddness approached a black metallic door with shimmering runes, she saw a rather ordinary white, posh convertible.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

A woman with long, silky hair, pale skin, and the most stunning eyes Maddie had ever seen fitted the upholstery. She met Maddie’s gaze for a moment. The little girl smiled and waved, only for the woman to look away. Maddie’s shoulders sank, but Mr. Mechanic’s hand gently consoled her.

“Isn’t she a beauty? That color… a Western Wizard ambassador gifted Lord Burnswitch the ride. Your parent quite liked the color.”

How contrarian! Typical Daddy move, Maddie thought, smiling.

“I bet he did.”

And as those words left Maddie’s lips, the metallic, sliding doors parted and the shimmering runes made a low-pitched hum. Inside the narrow, well-lit room stretching as high and as far as the little girl could see were metal shelving units filled with hundreds of wooden contraptions, all levitating.

“A trainer with comfortable seats, intuitive handlebars, pedals, and a fixed orientation is recommended to you, young heiress.”

Passive!

“You’re the expert Mr. Mechanic, I trust your judgment,” the little girl said, smiling her contagious smile.

***

By a massive sheer cliff where frigid winds howled with a fury, a little girl stood next to a strange, levitating, contraption that looked like a wooden unicycle with pedals, brakes, handlebars and two seats, one higher than the other at an incline—the end of a broomstick sticking out of the lower seat.

“Aviator goggles?”

“Check.”

“Knee and elbow pads?”

“Double check.”

“‘Chute?”

“Snug as a bug.”

“Hmm. Where’s your helmet, Tadpole?” Maddock asked as he inspected the little girl’s parachute harness and deployment mechanism.

“I wouldn’t know where it is, Grandpa.” Maddie said, smiling but looking away as her arms fidgeted behind her. The little girl wished she’d had enough time to hide the helmet somewhere discreet.

Her grandfather squinted his hazel eyes, a knowing grin on his face as he peeked over her shoulder, saying, “I don’t know about that, Tadpole. What’s this I spy behind you?”

“That’s not spying, Grandpa. You’re just looking over my shoulder.”

The little girl pursed her lips as she met her grandfather’s sharp gaze. Maddie wore dark-tinted aviator goggles that had Salemite runes etched on the lenses. Maddock couldn’t see his granddaughter’s eyes, but she saw him with startling depth: the old man was well-built with toned muscles brimming in... something she knew was there but couldn’t quite perceive—mystia. Maddock stood with his back straight, sporting a scruffy white beard and slick dark hair turning white on olive skin.

Maddness’s gaze went higher, settling on words that floated above her grandfather’s head in Sorcerertongue. ‘Grandpa Maddock’, she read. Wherever Maddness looked, she saw runes identifying something. From the plants, and the arthropods on their leaves, to her coverall jumpsuit and leather lace-up boots.

“Looking over people’s shoulders is spellbreaker training 101.”

“Boo! Maddox never did. You’re not supposed to find the helmet that way, Grandpa, it’s no fun,” Maddie said as she stuck out her tongue and the old man shook his head. “Cast Finders-Keepers—use sorcery, Grandpa!”

Maddock reached for a blue helmet the little girl hid behind her. His hand traced its hard surface, grooved with dark runes as he gazed at the horizon.

“That’s a spell I can’t cast, Tadpole. It’s a jinx unique to Maddox. Chances are low he’d lose control on-island, but your brother should’ve known better than to be so careless around you.”

Maddie took a sharp breath, covering her small mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. Don’t get mad at Oxie, okay, Grandpa? It’s my fault. I’d tell him I wouldn’t wear the stupid helmet if he didn’t show me a cool spell first. I really don’t like wearing it.”

“But you must,” Maddock said as he strapped the helmet onto his unruly granddaughter’s head. Maddie kept swaying her head to avoid his hand.

“It gets my hair all sweaty and tangled. It’s just gonna remind Grandma of how I ruined my perfect hair. Remember how she lost it when I cut it short? What if she scolds me again?”

“Are you still playing with scissors?”

“Trust me, Grandpa, getting grounded for a month teaches you things. Now I just visit Ms. Barber for a trim. I like it short.”

“Ah, then you’ve nothing to worry about. Still, better a scolding than a split head, don’t you say?”

The little girl looked amused at his words, saying,

“Did Oxie learn that from you, Grandpa? He said it all the time, too. But I’ve never come close to falling off a broomstick. You can ask him, maybe he’ll talk to you. He even said I had a wicked grip once,” Maddie said, smiling. “Besides, I don’t need any of this when I’m flying with you or Maddox, Grandpa.”

“Hmm. Are you certain you don’t need these up there?” Maddock asked, grinning as he held up a black pair of fingerless leather gloves with a galaxy spiral logo on them.

“Nélisse & Co Flux-Controller Gloves?!” Maddie asked wide-eyed, as she brought her small hands to her face, the little girl’s legs giddy. “So we’re really doing this, Grandpa? I get to steer the broomstick?”

“You sure do. I even asked Mr. Butler to pick out your favorite spell crafting brand.”

“It’s technically my second favorite, Grandpa,” Maddie said. “Miss Nélisse is so pretty and smart and funny and she doesn’t care what people say about her weird hair (she calls it quirky) or those crazy outfits she wears--”

“But?” Maddock asked.

“Promise you won’t tell Daddy?”

The grandfather and granddaughter’s hazel eyes met for a moment. Then the old man broke the stare contest when he winked, crossed his heart, and zipped his lips. Maddness giggled, hesitated, then said,

“I know Daddy and Miss Nélisse do really important work. But I wanna be a sorcerer like O’Hara when I grow up.”

“You want to explore old Witch’s Labyrinths and Wizard’s Towers, eh, Maddie?”

The uncaring wind rustled through the old man’s hair as his granddaughter took a deep breath.

“And taste hundred-year-old Witch’s Brew, and invent spell craft, and kiss a hundred boys, and make friends with many Mystian Fauna and Flora, like Ezekiel. Oh, and graduate top of my Seed at Littlegiant’s,” said Maddie, running out of fingers. “Imagine all the vintage broomsticks I’ll collect along the way!”

“Kiss a hundred boys?” asked the old man, laughing.

Maddie frowned. What was so funny? She said, “O’Hara kissed a hundred girls in The Whizzard of Spell Craft. I counted.”

“Don’t let Melinda hear you say that,” the old man wheezed. “She’ll ground you for a hundred years and convince the Sorcerers’ Assembly to ban all your favorite books.”

“Why would Grandma do that? There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?” Maddie asked, pointing to her rosy cheek as she showed her grandfather her profile. “Daddy does it to me all the time… and I’ve seen you and Grandma do it, too. On the lips—gross. Ban that.”

Maddock laughed his mad laugh, saying, “Oh, little Maddie. You really are but a tadpole in the gray waters of young adult fiction. Why don’t you ask your mother about it next time you visit?”

“Um… okay,” Maddie said, looking straight at him. “And it’s not all fiction, Grandpa. The Whizzard of Spell Craft is based on O’Hara’s real life.”

“Is it? I never liked writers. What is real and what isn’t? The only way to know for sure is to leap into your own adventures, Tadpole. So how about we chase down those thieving seagulls now?” Maddock asked with a wide grin as a massive shadow loomed above them and Maddie’s jaw dropped.

***

To be continued.