If you’re a One, you obviously think I’m crazy for asking. Ones tend to be extremely logical, the sort of people who were rational, even-minded adults in the womb. Twos, on the other hand, are more easy-going. They might think the question is too ridiculous for words, but they don’t mind answering, not as long as they can get a laugh out of it.

If I had different parents, or if my parents had different jobs, I’m fairly certain I’d be a One. It’s not the most flattering thought. Twos are always more fun, popular, and pleasant to be around, but I don’t think I could ever be that unassuming. As it is, I’m not a One or a Two, so it doesn’t matter either way.

Yes, I know I only gave you two choices. However, you might have noticed the word usually. As in, there are other choices, even if they aren’t all that common. You’ll want to pay closer attention to things like that; they are almost always more important than the glaring, neon-sign variety of hint. I can see you’re getting impatient. Onto Reply 3, then?

Now, I know you feel rather confused right now. After all, everyone knows magic isn’t real. Well, all I can say is you should have known better. I started off with “Do you believe in magic?” for heaven’s sake. Really, what else did you expect?

However, since you are one of the unwitting masses, I’ll take pity on you and explain.

Despite any thoughts you might have to the contrary, Threes are by far the smartest of the bunch (and I’m not saying that because I am one). Although smartest might not be the best word for it. Well-informed seems much more appropriate. I’ve met plenty of Threes who are complete wankers, so I suppose it’s safe to say that being a Three doesn’t affect your intellect (or lack thereof).

I’m rambling, aren’t I? I tend to do that; one of the many reasons I avoid public speaking like the plague. I did promise enlightenment, though, so here I go.

Magic is real.

You’re laughing. Of course you are. If you stop for a moment, you’d see that I am not. So, clearly, this is no practical joke. If you still aren’t convinced, look around you. There aren’t any hidden cameras, and Ashton Kutcher isn’t likely to jump out from under the bed with a microphone.

I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re thinking right now, but I do know that eventually you will look up and sputter “Broomsticks,” “Cauldrons,” or, my personal favourite, “Hello, Hermione.” Then you will go right back to your oh-so-consuming task of laughing your arse off.

Naturally, nothing could annoy me more.

This is not a fairy tale, bad Hollywood film, or Harry Potter. All of that is absolute rubbish as far as I’m concerned. Entertaining rubbish, certainly, but it is still completely unrealistic. And if I hear one immature crack about “Willow” or “Paige”, I’ll smack you. I won’t apologize for it either. If you don’t understand the words “absolute rubbish”, then there really is nothing I can do for you. Besides, if J. K. Rowling couldn’t get it right, what makes you think a television program will?

Magic is different from everything else. Whatever you have seen or imagined about magic is probably as likely as the Teletubbies becoming Rulers of the Universe. In other words, not very. It isn’t fairy dust or miracles, but something more. It’s energy, power, and that tingly feeling deep inside that lets you know anything is possible. Magic is more than anything I’ve ever seen, felt, or heard of. It can be overwhelming, but in a good way. Every sense heightens, gets sharper, and suddenly you feel alive. When you feel like that, it’s hard to understand why people bother with drugs.

We really shouldn’t call it magic. That word is too heavy with superstition. Witches and wizards don’t run around in flowing robes, stirring cauldrons and spouting spells. It just doesn’t work like that. If you want to get technical about it, magic is simply another form of energy. It’s the energy, more plentiful than any other type in the universe. With the right tools, anyone can manipulate magic. Of course, that’s not necessarily a good thing; if it was, you’d already know all about it, and I wouldn’t be trying to explain this to you.

Certain objects can be great conductors for magic. Elements in their natural form are the best, so gold and silver have always been big favourites with alchemists and storytellers. There are other conductors, of course, but do you want to know the most important conductor? Hmm, it looks like you do. Could you actually be interested in this? And yes, I have every reason to look this smug. Now, back to the conductors: it’s us. Technically, human conductors of magic are referred to as “conduits”, but you get the idea. Not everyone is a conduit, of course. Some people are naturally suited to magic; the ability usually runs in families. There’s supposedly some gene variation involved, but I’ve never paid much attention to that.

You’re stunned. How could you not know about this? Gene variations? Conductors? Shouldn’t this be on the news?

There is a reason most people don’t know about this. Magic is dangerous. In the wrong hands, it can wreak as much destruction as a nuclear warhead. It’s addicting, too, having that much power within your grasp. People are afraid when someone else has that sort of power.

Magic users went into hiding ages ago. Witch hunts and pretty bonfires with us as wood are two of the tiny reasons why. Note the sarcasm – I haven’t enough faith in your dazzling skills of observation to trust you to notice it on your own. Yes, that was more sarcasm. We’re very good at hiding. There are magic users everywhere, if you just know where to look: in executives at corporate meetings, scientists who talk with kings and presidents, even some physics professors. If anyone wants to do anything with magic, they better be working with us, or there is going to be hell to pay.

Who are we? We’re Norris, Green, and Warren Incorporated. Yes, that business. NGW, Inc. Obviously, you weren’t expecting that answer, but didn’t I tell you to pay attention? How many high-powered organisations are out there that you know virtually nothing about? If you listen to the news, you’d notice that no one ever mentions what NGW, Inc. actually does.

You might even have heard of my parents once or twice. Meg and Jim aren’t celebrities, not by any stretch of the word, but they have been on their share of news programs, mostly talking about the “unclassified” (doesn’t that sound terribly militant?) versions of their research.

 You’d have heard of them as Margaret and James Warren, of course. They’re the joint Department Heads of Research at NGW, Inc. Like I said, it’s a family business.

Do you finally believe me? Is it all starting to make sense? Lord, I hope so, because I only have four hours left to get some sleep before we get on the plane.

 

That imagined conversation didn’t go is about as close as I’ll ever get to explaining this to someone: talking to myself at four in the morning. It really isn’t fair. No matter how many ways I try to work it, I can’t find a realistic situation where I could tell someone about magic and they wouldn’t think I’m mental.

We move a lot. Meg and Jim constantly locate and research magical “hotspots” (the official name is something like Areas of Above-Average Magical Concentration, but hotspots works better), so we naturally have to be near said hotspots. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to make anyone believe in magic. I suppose I haven’t become close enough to anyone for them to know when I’m being serious about something, especially here in Rome. It’s a bit hard to convey personality when you barely speak the language. Whenever I feel like letting someone into this part of my life – my family’s life – they always come up with the One or Two response. I’m sure I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to continue explaining after that. It’s not like they’d believe it, anyway.

Where is that famed girlish intimacy from books? Aren’t I supposed to be able to confide anything to my five or six best friends on the blasted planet? I haven’t heard any world-shattering confessions from my friends lately. It’s mostly “What do you think of Luca?” or “Do you want to go shopping with Carla?” Of course, I’m not what you’d call socially adept – more like socially retarded. People are always impressed when they find out I can speak seven languages, but what they don’t understand is the price involved. If you move from place to place every year or so, learning words and grammar is easy but knowing what to say and when to say it? Definitely not.

I should be sleeping. Meg and Jim are; I can hear Meg snoring (who can’t, she sounds like a chainsaw – a rusty chainsaw). I had every intention of going to sleep when I changed for bed, I really did. My iPod is playing through my Sleep Sounds playlist, but I  don’t feel a bit tired, which is odd. Usually, I’ll be practically catatonic by the third or fourth song. I’ve never been this restless before a move, even one as far away as this. I keep wondering how much longer this can go on. How long will it be until someone figures out what Meg and Jim are doing? The firm might be obsessed with secrecy, but they aren’t. They never remember to hide what they’re doing. Thankfully, most people have no idea what the equipment they leave lying around (yes, lying around, where anyone could just pick it up and donate it to the friendly neighbourhood news station) does. I’m convinced some conspiracy theorist or the other will eventually publish an illustrated colour manual detailing the uses for each and every tool my parents use, but Meg and Jim just laugh and call me paranoid. Which I am not. Really, I am not in the least bit paranoid. Well, perhaps a little, but no more than anyone else. It’s not my fault my parents are bonkers.

The point being, I’m dreadfully worried about this move. It’s to America, and everyone knows how nosy Americans can be. I’ll be an oddity there. A freak. It won’t be like things are here in Europe. It’s not that strange to be from another country. Sure, the national pride can be scarily strong, but I’ve never felt any hostility for being from England, France, Belgium, or wherever the last place was. Americans, though…Well, they’re unpopular for a reason, aren’t they?

Crash.

Oh, bloody hell. That damned cat. I just knew he would knock things over while we slept (he has that shifty look to him), but does Meg listen to me? No. She can’t bear to leave the “poor darling” in the street where it belongs. Oh, no, it’s “Katherine, look at those paws!” and “Katherine, isn’t he the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen?” Ugh. But who always has to clean up the evil little thing’s messes? That would be me.

I’m scowling as I roll out of bed. I’d promised myself I would never scowl or frown again after seeing this little old woman on the train with deep, dark lines around her mouth that make her look positively frightening, but I can’t seem to stop. Stupid cat. It even wants me to get wrinkles! What more proof does Meg need to throw it out? I bet it does this on purpose, just so I will have piles of lines on my face by the time I turn sixteen.

I’m in the hall now. It’s too dark to see anything, so now I’m mad at the cat, whoever designed this apartment without windows looking in on this hall, the cat, the Italians, and the cat. In that order. Really, would it be that hard to put just one window in this hallway? It’s not like people don’t get out of bed to use the loo or anything.

I just walked into the wall.

“Gatto maledetto stupido,” I mutter.

The living room is a mess. I don’t think anything is where we left it when we went to bed. Oh no, it’s all on the floor. Papers, lamps, laptops, pictures – if there is a single thing left where it is supposed to be, I can’t see it. The cat really is possessed. I knew it. I hear another crash, this time from somewhere in the dining room. I don’t go in after the cat, because there is no way I’m cleaning this up, not again. I turn back around and head straight to my parents’ room.

“Meg! Jim!” I shout. “Your cat left you a going away present in the living room!”  

As soon as I hear someone grumbling and getting out of bed, I walk back to my own room and the comfort of my bed. There’ll be plenty of time to worry; I want to be well-rested when I gloat about the demon-cat tomorrow.