S e c r e t s

Sharazade nestles down inside one of Wizard Fezziwig’s magic slippers. She joined him shortly before his ascendancy to the position of Court Magician, although, it is true, his powers have seen better days. In short, he has become somewhat absent-minded. This morning has been a long and frustrating one, as Fezziwig came down the worn stone steps of the workshop to light the furnace and give the cauldron a wake-up stir, and then went on to curse as he wandered the icy flagstones searching for his other magical slipper. “Have you seen it, Sharazade? No, of course not …” And so on, muttering to himself. Sharazade purrs gently to herself, sitting in plain view near the alchemy table. On the interior, an old lamp is marked with a tag indicating that it works as good as new.