Chapter Two - Felicity learns the family secret
The bus pulled away from the curb as Felicity found a seat. She held the bag with her father's lunch on her lap and watched the streets of Providence drift by in the late morning sun.
The bus passed St. Andrew's School, with its aging brick and fenced-in playground, standing next to St. Andrew's Church. Long rows of houses, each with a stoop leading out to the sidewalk, were occasionally broken by a small corner store selling milk, beer, and lottery tickets.
The bus stopped here and there to take on or let off passengers, generally young people or older women carrying bags for shopping.
It turned the corner and headed down the hill to the center of town and the city's waterfront; down Washington Street to Kennedy Plaza, where all the bus routes came together. The bus eased to a stop and Felicity stepped out onto the platform. She could see her father standing off to the side and reading a newspaper.
Felicity walked over to him. As she did, he folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. Just for a moment, Felicity thought she saw the picture on the front page of the paper move, as if it were a movie.
"Hello, pumpkin, " he said to her with a smile. Pumpkin was her father's pet name for her. It came from her hair color. While Felicity didn't mind it so much at home, here in the middle of the city it made her feel, well, funny.
"Oh, I'm sorry to call you that here," her father said, seeing her unease.
"It's all right, Daddy. Here is your lunch. This is the first time I can remember that you have ever forgotten it."
Martin Stockwell look down at his daughter and sighed. It seemed to him that it was only a moment ago that she had been a baby, and now look at her.
"To tell you the truth," he confessed, "I didn't forget it at all. I just needed some reason to have you come down here for a birthday surprise."
"A surprise?" blurted Felicity. For Martin Stockwell was not a man of surprises. On each of Felicity's previous birthdays, he had acted exactly the same. He had come home one hour early, had changed his clothes and, at supper, had presented Felicity with a gift. It had always been a book of some kind, usually a fantasy book.
"What sort of surprise?" she asked.
"Oh, it's a very big surprise," he said, smiling in a way that Felicity could not recall having seen before.
They began walking down the street toward the banks that made up the center of the city. As they walked, her father asked her who had sent her cards. She told him about Aunt Joan's card and of Roger's unusual gift.
Just then, they came to the front of a large office building. By now it was well into the noon hour and the street was filling up with people. Martin Stockwell reached into his suit-coat pocket and removed a stick about 12 inches long, which he proceeded to shake in the air twice.
What happened next was indeed a surprise; the first of many that Felicity wo uld have that day. For, in an instant all of the people and traffic around them suddenly froze in place, leaving Felicity and her father the only ones who could move.
Felicity's eyes grew wide with amazement; but before she could take in the sight, her father took her hand and stepped through the glass window in front of them.
She gave out a little shriek as she and her father passed through the window. On the other side, they found themselves standing on a stone sidewalk of a part of town Felicity had never been in before.
She turned around to see the people, who only moments ago had been frozen in place, returned to their normal activity; apparently unaware of the events that had just occurred.
Felicity, however, was completely aware of what had just happened. She stared at her father as if he were a total stranger. She stared at the strange street with its stone sidewalks. She stared back at the window with its view of the normal world. She tried to think of something useful to say, but no words seemed to come to her. The street they stood on looked very old, even for Providence, which is filled with old streets. Down the center of it was a set of streetcar tracks. Above them was a web of wires needed by the streetcars.
As she watched, a trolley moved down the street. From time to time a voice would call out from it, saying, "Step aside, please" or "Coming through." Felicity realized after a moment that these warnings were not coming from the conductor but from the trolley itself. For on the front was a large jolly looking face, which issued the warning in a good-natured way to the pedestrians in the street.
"Martin, Martin Stockwell, is that you?" The voice came from behind them. Felicity and her father turned to see a short man approaching them. He wore a tweed suit coat that fit him badly and a pair of wool knickers. Over all of this was a billowing, if somewhat decrepit-looking, cape, which flowed out behind him like a river.
"Grimsby Goldstine," Felicity's father said, extending his hand. "What brings you to Providence?"
"Oh, the usual," the little man said. "Some of the boys down here have been using magic on the muggles again without permission, we can't have that, you know."
Felicity perked up at the word "muggles." This was the first time, outside of the schoolyard three years ago, that she had heard the term. She pulled at her father's arm, fully intending to ask just what a muggle was, but before she could open her mouth, Mr. Goldstine interrupted.
"And who is this?" he asked, with the kind of air that suggested he knew the answer already.
"This is my daughter, Felicity," her father replied.
"Oh, yes, why of course it is. And what a pretty thing she is, too."
Felicity could feel her face growing warm under the compliment.
"And from the looks of it I would say this is her first visit to the magical world." Grimsby smiled and went on. "Well, nothing to worry about, my dear, it's as normal as can be. I suppose that you will be going to Salem Academy next school year, won't you?"
Felicity, who had yet to get her voice back, managed a nod in agreement.
"Excellent!" exclaimed the little man. "My granddaughter Sarah will be starting at Salem next year, as well. You never can tell, you might just be roommates. Well, Martin, I had better be going. It was nice seeing you again." He then reached over and took Felicity's hand and gave it a soft kiss. Felicity giggled, more out of embarrassment than anything else. "And nice meeting you, my dear," he said, before turning to walk into the crowd.
Words finally came back to Felicity.
"Father, what on earth..." her voice trailed off as her father looked at her.
"Felicity, I know you must have a thousand questions right now and I will try to answer as many as I can. But could we talk in my office and not out here in the street?"
Felicity nodded and took her father's hand.
They walked for a bit down the odd little street, which housed bookshops, apothecaries and clothing stores, offering a strange array of articles such as capes and hats. At the end of the block they came to a grey granite three-story building. Above the door inscribed in the stone were the words: "Gringotts Bank North America."
"This, pumpkin, is where I work," her father said as he held the massive bronze door to the lobby open for her.
Felicity looked about. It seemed like a normal bank. Just the sort of place she had imagined, except for the owls.
Lined up on a bar above the old teller cages were about 20 owls of different sizes. Attached to the talon of each was a small satchel made of leather. From time to time, one of the tellers, who all appeared to be in their mid-twenties with serious looks upon their faces, would gesture and one of the owls would flutter down from its perch to his side. The teller would then insert a paper or a small number of coins into the satchel. The owl would then take flight, flying high into the top of the room before exiting through a small window in the ceiling.
"This way," her father indicated with his arm to a great stone staircase at the back of the foyer. The stairs went up for a flight before requiring the climber to choose another set to the right or left. Felicity followed her father up the right-hand staircase to a balcony overlooking the foyer below.
They walked the length of the balcony, Felicity running her hand along the brass railing. From the looks of its brightness, quite a number of people had done the same.
They reached the corner office; the oak door held a brass plate, which read, "Martin Stockwell, North American Manager."
Her father opened the door to a bright office with bookcases running from floor to ceiling. There was a large roll-top desk at one side of the room and a leather couch and chairs at the other. It could have been any office, except, again, for the owl. This one had perched itself on a brass rod held in place by a pole and resembled a lamp without the shade.
Felicity could stand it no longer. "Father," she stammered, "how is all this poss..."
"Possible?" her father asked, completing her sentence. "It is all quite real, I assure you of that, pumpkin," he said with a smile. "Have a seat and I'll explain."
Felicity perched herself on the edge of one of the leather chairs. Her father sat comfortably on the sofa.
"Would you like a drink of water?" he asked, gesturing to the glass pitcher of water on the low table between them. "Yes, please." Felicity replied, for she really was quite thirsty following all the events she had just been through.
Her father moved his hand ever so slightly and the pitcher rose into the air before tipping itself and pouring two glasses of water. The pitcher returned to its location and one of the glasses then floated over to Felicity, who grasped it gently as it floated in front of her.
"How do you do..." Felicity was still stammering, trying to take in the amazing events she was seeing her father perform. Martin Stockwell had always seemed to be a perfectly normal sort or person, until today.
"It's really quite simple, pumpkin. In fact, with a bit of practice, you can do it, as well.
"You see, there are really only two types of people in the world: Normal people like you meet every day; and magical people --- wizards and witches and the like."
Felicity just blinked at her father. She drank her water and looked at him for a moment. "But you don't look like a wizard," she said. "You look like, like a banker."
Martin Stockwell laughed. "Yes, I do look like a banker don't I?" he replied, looking down at his conservative three-piece black suit with the gold chain, which held his Grandfather Stockwell's pocket watch in the vest pocket.
"You see," he continued, "there are magical people everywhere, there always have been. More in some places like England and fewer in others."
"But I'm not magical," said Felicity.
"Oh, but I assure you, you are, my dear. You just didn't know you were. But others did. Take that Williams boy, for example; he has known you were for many years now."
"Is Roger.."
"A wizard?" said her father. "Not yet, I fear, he needs training for that. But, yes, he is magical, just as you are."
"Does all this have something to do with why he called Mary and Alice Ômuggles,' when they were teasing me at school?" Felicity asked. "And that man in the street talked about muggles, too."
Martin Stockwell sighed. "Muggles is an old word for non-magical people. It is not really polite to use it. It is sort of an insult. Do you understand?"
"Uh-huh," Felicity nodded.
"And don't every use that word around your mother," her father warned. "She really hates being called that."
"So Mother isn't a witch or anything?" Felicity was now getting used to the idea of witches and wizards, as strange as it was.
"No, your mother is not magical, at least not in the way you are thinking of; but she knows all about the magical world. In Europe it is rare for magical and non-magical people to marry, but here it is really quite common."
"But why didn't you ever tell me about this?" Felicity's face grew red with the question, a sure sign of her rising indignation.
"Felicity," her father's voice took on a serious tone, "not everyone is as accepting of magical people as your mother. Do you remember in your history class when they talked about the Salem witch trials?"
Felicity remembered quite well the stories of the young girls her age accused of witchcraft in Salem, Massachusetts, so long ago. She had even seen a play about it last summer with her parents.
"But, Daddy, that was hundreds of years ago."
"True," her father continued. "But those events left an impression on the magical people here in America. After that we began to wait until our children were old enough to learn how to use these powers before we told them of their existence. Salem was our darkest hour.
"Pumpkin, there are still people who fear us; who burn books they do not understand or like; who fear a religion, or a belief or a power they find strange. It is for your own protection that your mother and I kept this from you until you were ready to leave home for school. Do you understand?"
"I think so," said Felicity, looking at the glass in her hand. She was sort of ashamed that she had become angry with her father.
"Good, then," he said. "We should be going now. Your mother will be waiting for us, most likely with a cake, I suspect. And on our way out, you can pick out your own book as a gift at the bookshop on the corner. I bet there is something there you would find interesting."
Felicity stood up, still holding the glass.
"Felicity," her father said, "why don't you give it a try?"
"What?" she asked.
"The glass," he said, pointing at the tumbler she held in her hand. "Have it land here next to the others."
"I don't know how," protested Felicity.
"It's quite simple, just let go and tell it in your mind where you would like to land."
Felicity thought for a long while and then let go of the glass while telling it to go to the table with the others. She watched in wide-eyed wonder as the glass floated across the table and landed, a bit hard, next to the others.
"Did I do that!" she gasped to her proud father.
"You certainly did, pumpkin," he replied, with a wide grin. "You most certainly did."
The bus pulled away from the curb as Felicity found a seat. She held the bag with her father's lunch on her lap and watched the streets of Providence drift by in the late morning sun.
The bus passed St. Andrew's School, with its aging brick and fenced-in playground, standing next to St. Andrew's Church. Long rows of houses, each with a stoop leading out to the sidewalk, were occasionally broken by a small corner store selling milk, beer, and lottery tickets.
The bus stopped here and there to take on or let off passengers, generally young people or older women carrying bags for shopping.
It turned the corner and headed down the hill to the center of town and the city's waterfront; down Washington Street to Kennedy Plaza, where all the bus routes came together. The bus eased to a stop and Felicity stepped out onto the platform. She could see her father standing off to the side and reading a newspaper.
Felicity walked over to him. As she did, he folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. Just for a moment, Felicity thought she saw the picture on the front page of the paper move, as if it were a movie.
"Hello, pumpkin, " he said to her with a smile. Pumpkin was her father's pet name for her. It came from her hair color. While Felicity didn't mind it so much at home, here in the middle of the city it made her feel, well, funny.
"Oh, I'm sorry to call you that here," her father said, seeing her unease.
"It's all right, Daddy. Here is your lunch. This is the first time I can remember that you have ever forgotten it."
Martin Stockwell look down at his daughter and sighed. It seemed to him that it was only a moment ago that she had been a baby, and now look at her.
"To tell you the truth," he confessed, "I didn't forget it at all. I just needed some reason to have you come down here for a birthday surprise."
"A surprise?" blurted Felicity. For Martin Stockwell was not a man of surprises. On each of Felicity's previous birthdays, he had acted exactly the same. He had come home one hour early, had changed his clothes and, at supper, had presented Felicity with a gift. It had always been a book of some kind, usually a fantasy book.
"What sort of surprise?" she asked.
"Oh, it's a very big surprise," he said, smiling in a way that Felicity could not recall having seen before.
They began walking down the street toward the banks that made up the center of the city. As they walked, her father asked her who had sent her cards. She told him about Aunt Joan's card and of Roger's unusual gift.
Just then, they came to the front of a large office building. By now it was well into the noon hour and the street was filling up with people. Martin Stockwell reached into his suit-coat pocket and removed a stick about 12 inches long, which he proceeded to shake in the air twice.
What happened next was indeed a surprise; the first of many that Felicity wo uld have that day. For, in an instant all of the people and traffic around them suddenly froze in place, leaving Felicity and her father the only ones who could move.
Felicity's eyes grew wide with amazement; but before she could take in the sight, her father took her hand and stepped through the glass window in front of them.
She gave out a little shriek as she and her father passed through the window. On the other side, they found themselves standing on a stone sidewalk of a part of town Felicity had never been in before.
She turned around to see the people, who only moments ago had been frozen in place, returned to their normal activity; apparently unaware of the events that had just occurred.
Felicity, however, was completely aware of what had just happened. She stared at her father as if he were a total stranger. She stared at the strange street with its stone sidewalks. She stared back at the window with its view of the normal world. She tried to think of something useful to say, but no words seemed to come to her. The street they stood on looked very old, even for Providence, which is filled with old streets. Down the center of it was a set of streetcar tracks. Above them was a web of wires needed by the streetcars.
As she watched, a trolley moved down the street. From time to time a voice would call out from it, saying, "Step aside, please" or "Coming through." Felicity realized after a moment that these warnings were not coming from the conductor but from the trolley itself. For on the front was a large jolly looking face, which issued the warning in a good-natured way to the pedestrians in the street.
"Martin, Martin Stockwell, is that you?" The voice came from behind them. Felicity and her father turned to see a short man approaching them. He wore a tweed suit coat that fit him badly and a pair of wool knickers. Over all of this was a billowing, if somewhat decrepit-looking, cape, which flowed out behind him like a river.
"Grimsby Goldstine," Felicity's father said, extending his hand. "What brings you to Providence?"
"Oh, the usual," the little man said. "Some of the boys down here have been using magic on the muggles again without permission, we can't have that, you know."
Felicity perked up at the word "muggles." This was the first time, outside of the schoolyard three years ago, that she had heard the term. She pulled at her father's arm, fully intending to ask just what a muggle was, but before she could open her mouth, Mr. Goldstine interrupted.
"And who is this?" he asked, with the kind of air that suggested he knew the answer already.
"This is my daughter, Felicity," her father replied.
"Oh, yes, why of course it is. And what a pretty thing she is, too."
Felicity could feel her face growing warm under the compliment.
"And from the looks of it I would say this is her first visit to the magical world." Grimsby smiled and went on. "Well, nothing to worry about, my dear, it's as normal as can be. I suppose that you will be going to Salem Academy next school year, won't you?"
Felicity, who had yet to get her voice back, managed a nod in agreement.
"Excellent!" exclaimed the little man. "My granddaughter Sarah will be starting at Salem next year, as well. You never can tell, you might just be roommates. Well, Martin, I had better be going. It was nice seeing you again." He then reached over and took Felicity's hand and gave it a soft kiss. Felicity giggled, more out of embarrassment than anything else. "And nice meeting you, my dear," he said, before turning to walk into the crowd.
Words finally came back to Felicity.
"Father, what on earth..." her voice trailed off as her father looked at her.
"Felicity, I know you must have a thousand questions right now and I will try to answer as many as I can. But could we talk in my office and not out here in the street?"
Felicity nodded and took her father's hand.
They walked for a bit down the odd little street, which housed bookshops, apothecaries and clothing stores, offering a strange array of articles such as capes and hats. At the end of the block they came to a grey granite three-story building. Above the door inscribed in the stone were the words: "Gringotts Bank North America."
"This, pumpkin, is where I work," her father said as he held the massive bronze door to the lobby open for her.
Felicity looked about. It seemed like a normal bank. Just the sort of place she had imagined, except for the owls.
Lined up on a bar above the old teller cages were about 20 owls of different sizes. Attached to the talon of each was a small satchel made of leather. From time to time, one of the tellers, who all appeared to be in their mid-twenties with serious looks upon their faces, would gesture and one of the owls would flutter down from its perch to his side. The teller would then insert a paper or a small number of coins into the satchel. The owl would then take flight, flying high into the top of the room before exiting through a small window in the ceiling.
"This way," her father indicated with his arm to a great stone staircase at the back of the foyer. The stairs went up for a flight before requiring the climber to choose another set to the right or left. Felicity followed her father up the right-hand staircase to a balcony overlooking the foyer below.
They walked the length of the balcony, Felicity running her hand along the brass railing. From the looks of its brightness, quite a number of people had done the same.
They reached the corner office; the oak door held a brass plate, which read, "Martin Stockwell, North American Manager."
Her father opened the door to a bright office with bookcases running from floor to ceiling. There was a large roll-top desk at one side of the room and a leather couch and chairs at the other. It could have been any office, except, again, for the owl. This one had perched itself on a brass rod held in place by a pole and resembled a lamp without the shade.
Felicity could stand it no longer. "Father," she stammered, "how is all this poss..."
"Possible?" her father asked, completing her sentence. "It is all quite real, I assure you of that, pumpkin," he said with a smile. "Have a seat and I'll explain."
Felicity perched herself on the edge of one of the leather chairs. Her father sat comfortably on the sofa.
"Would you like a drink of water?" he asked, gesturing to the glass pitcher of water on the low table between them. "Yes, please." Felicity replied, for she really was quite thirsty following all the events she had just been through.
Her father moved his hand ever so slightly and the pitcher rose into the air before tipping itself and pouring two glasses of water. The pitcher returned to its location and one of the glasses then floated over to Felicity, who grasped it gently as it floated in front of her.
"How do you do..." Felicity was still stammering, trying to take in the amazing events she was seeing her father perform. Martin Stockwell had always seemed to be a perfectly normal sort or person, until today.
"It's really quite simple, pumpkin. In fact, with a bit of practice, you can do it, as well.
"You see, there are really only two types of people in the world: Normal people like you meet every day; and magical people --- wizards and witches and the like."
Felicity just blinked at her father. She drank her water and looked at him for a moment. "But you don't look like a wizard," she said. "You look like, like a banker."
Martin Stockwell laughed. "Yes, I do look like a banker don't I?" he replied, looking down at his conservative three-piece black suit with the gold chain, which held his Grandfather Stockwell's pocket watch in the vest pocket.
"You see," he continued, "there are magical people everywhere, there always have been. More in some places like England and fewer in others."
"But I'm not magical," said Felicity.
"Oh, but I assure you, you are, my dear. You just didn't know you were. But others did. Take that Williams boy, for example; he has known you were for many years now."
"Is Roger.."
"A wizard?" said her father. "Not yet, I fear, he needs training for that. But, yes, he is magical, just as you are."
"Does all this have something to do with why he called Mary and Alice Ômuggles,' when they were teasing me at school?" Felicity asked. "And that man in the street talked about muggles, too."
Martin Stockwell sighed. "Muggles is an old word for non-magical people. It is not really polite to use it. It is sort of an insult. Do you understand?"
"Uh-huh," Felicity nodded.
"And don't every use that word around your mother," her father warned. "She really hates being called that."
"So Mother isn't a witch or anything?" Felicity was now getting used to the idea of witches and wizards, as strange as it was.
"No, your mother is not magical, at least not in the way you are thinking of; but she knows all about the magical world. In Europe it is rare for magical and non-magical people to marry, but here it is really quite common."
"But why didn't you ever tell me about this?" Felicity's face grew red with the question, a sure sign of her rising indignation.
"Felicity," her father's voice took on a serious tone, "not everyone is as accepting of magical people as your mother. Do you remember in your history class when they talked about the Salem witch trials?"
Felicity remembered quite well the stories of the young girls her age accused of witchcraft in Salem, Massachusetts, so long ago. She had even seen a play about it last summer with her parents.
"But, Daddy, that was hundreds of years ago."
"True," her father continued. "But those events left an impression on the magical people here in America. After that we began to wait until our children were old enough to learn how to use these powers before we told them of their existence. Salem was our darkest hour.
"Pumpkin, there are still people who fear us; who burn books they do not understand or like; who fear a religion, or a belief or a power they find strange. It is for your own protection that your mother and I kept this from you until you were ready to leave home for school. Do you understand?"
"I think so," said Felicity, looking at the glass in her hand. She was sort of ashamed that she had become angry with her father.
"Good, then," he said. "We should be going now. Your mother will be waiting for us, most likely with a cake, I suspect. And on our way out, you can pick out your own book as a gift at the bookshop on the corner. I bet there is something there you would find interesting."
Felicity stood up, still holding the glass.
"Felicity," her father said, "why don't you give it a try?"
"What?" she asked.
"The glass," he said, pointing at the tumbler she held in her hand. "Have it land here next to the others."
"I don't know how," protested Felicity.
"It's quite simple, just let go and tell it in your mind where you would like to land."
Felicity thought for a long while and then let go of the glass while telling it to go to the table with the others. She watched in wide-eyed wonder as the glass floated across the table and landed, a bit hard, next to the others.
"Did I do that!" she gasped to her proud father.
"You certainly did, pumpkin," he replied, with a wide grin. "You most certainly did."
