The Cottage of the Vanished Wizard Chapter 2 – The Things That Refused to Obey Part 1

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For the briefest heartbeat, everything went dark. Mara felt Liora's hand on her arm and instinctively held her breath. Then the green light returned. The tall shadow carrying a lantern in which a tiny storm swirled still stood at the far end of the corridor. Its outline shimmered as though it were made equally of smoke and forgotten memories. "You are not the wizard," the distant voice said again, sounding more disappointed than threatening this time. Mara cleared her throat carefully. "No... I'm afraid we're not." The shadow slowly nodded. "What a pity. Then you must be guests." Before either of them could answer, the figure silently dissolved into thousands of glowing green sparks that drifted through the hallway and disappeared between the ancient stones. Only the lantern remained floating for another moment. It gave a polite little bow before fading away as well. "I'm sure this is perfectly normal around here," Mara muttered. Liora answered only with a crooked smile. The broom tapped the marble floor twice before proudly marching through the large double doors. Beyond them they expected a gloomy hall but instead discovered an enormous country kitchen. Copper kettles hung from the ceiling, towering shelves reached all the way into the roof beams, and everywhere stood books, jars, bottles and strange magical devices. The room felt warm, welcoming and incredibly peaceful. Too peaceful. The moment Mara and Liora crossed the threshold, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Then a quiet voice whispered, "Are those the ones?" Another replied, "No... far too young." "Perhaps apprentices?" "Or tourists." In the next instant the entire kitchen erupted into lively chatter. Cups rattled excitedly, a pepper shaker bounced joyfully across the table, a wooden cooking spoon stretched itself as proudly as possible, and even an old frying pan peeked curiously over its own rim. Mara stopped with her mouth hanging open. "They're... they're all talking." "Of course we talk," said a deep, tired voice. On the countertop stood an old coffee grinder made of dark polished wood. Its brass handle drooped sadly, and its tiny eyes looked as though they had long ago given up searching for the meaning of life. "Hardly anyone bothers to listen." Mara stepped closer. "Are you feeling alright?" The coffee grinder sighed so deeply that several coffee beans rolled from its drawer. "I'm exhausted. For decades I've been grinding beans every single morning. The same work, day after day. And for what? Five minutes later the coffee is gone, and nobody remembers the effort I made." "She's having one of her gloomy days again," whispered a sugar bowl. "She has even refused to grind coffee for an entire week." "I am thinking," the coffee grinder answered with dignity. "It's called an existential crisis." Mara couldn't help smiling.