Phoebe was
sitting on the front door step drinking coffee as I got ready to go
to the audition at Quake.
"You're
up early." I commented.
"I
couldn't sleep." She replied, looking up at me.
I sat down
next to her, "So what? You put on a black conical hat and go flying
around the neighbourhood on a broomstick?"
"No,"
she replied, "The only broom I have ever owned lived in a cupboard
next to a mop. I was reading. Is Prue around?"
"Reading?"
I echoed, "Out loud by any chance?"
"No,"
she replied getting more defensive, "According to the Book of
Shadows, our ancestor Melinda Warren was a witch."
"And we
have an aunt who's manic, a cousin who's a drunk and a father
who's invisible." I replied. I chose that moment to stand up and
make sure I had everything I needed in my car. The mechanic had fixed
it yesterday.
"I'm
serious," she responded indignantly, "She practiced powers. Three
powers. She could move objects with her mind, see the future and stop
time. Before Melinda was burned at the stake, she vowed that each
generation of Warren witches would become stronger and stronger,
culminating in the arrival of three sisters." I turned and walked
to my car, hoping the speech would end. "Now, these sisters would
be the most powerful witches the world has ever known. They're good
witches and I think we're those sisters."
"Look,"
I replied, "I know what happened last night was weird, but as far
as I know, we are not witches. Besides, Grams wasn't a
witch, and as far as I know, neither was Mom." I gave her a quick
peck on the cheek. "So take that Nancy Drew."
"We're
known as Protectors of the Innocent!" she added excitedly, "The
Charmed Ones!"
I got into
my car and drove off.
While I
was driving to Quake, part of me wondered, 'Are we witches? Was
Mom a witch? Was Grams a witch? Does this make me evil?'
I arrived
at the restaurant early, and Chef Moore made me wait while he
auditioned another chef. This gave me time to go over the recipe
meaning I could save time by looking at it as little as possible.
I had an
hour to do my recipe to the best standard possible, and things were
going well. I had five minutes to go, and he walked in, and with his
false French accent proclaimed "Your time eez up!"
"But
Chef Moore," I protested
"What?"
he asked
"The
port." I started to say
"Yes,
without the sauce it is nothing more than a salty marinara. A recipe
from a woman's magazine. Puh!" He almost spat at me
"I
didn't have time for…" he cut me off again
"Ah-ah!"
he exclaimed and he grabbed a forkful and put it to his mouth.
For some
reason I wanted time to just stop so I could fix it, and I put up
both hands as if to stop him, and I got my wish.
Chef Moore
was frozen there like a statue.
"Chef
Moore…" I said, waving my hand in front of his face. "Chef
Moore?"
I grabbed
a baster and added the port to the sauce on the bite he was trying
and just as I moved back, he unfroze.
He put the
fork in his mouth.
"Mmmm,
c'est magnifique!" he exclaimed happily.
After that
I had some forms to fill out, and I was on my way.
On the way
to where I had parked my car, I thought to myself, "Phoebe was
right, we do have Powers."