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Now they can go anywhere, even on a nighttime flight around the neighborhood! What adventures will they go on next? And will they ever meet the witch who left her broom behind? Now that they are in print again, a new generation can fall under her spell and fall in love with reading. B Magical 6: The Superstar Sister.

Book 6. Beatrix is back with more magical adventures -- this series spells F-U-N! B's older sister Dawn has the perfect act -- a dance routine that's sure to steal the show. But when sneaky Jason Jameson gets his eye on the prize, nothing can stand in his way. This sweet and funny series is perfect for readers who love mystery and magic! Floods 2: Playschool. Book 2. The second book in Colin Thompson's brilliantly funny series about a family of witches and wizards who might be living in your town. Look through the cobwebbed, murky arched window in deepest Patagonia, and this is what you might see Every day five of the Flood children travel halfway round the world to Quicklime College, the ultimate school for witches and wizards.

There's no time for silly games flying around on broomsticks. Sports day is coming up, and before you even wonder how four-legged Satanella copes with the three-legged race, here's a secret for you. Orkward Warlock, the vilest child in the school, and his sidekick, The Toad, hate the big happy Floods family. And they're plotting to kill the Floods - on sports day. Potter and other great wizards and witches of the Wizarding World have used in the Harry Potter series. This book contains all the spells, what the spells do, and how they are pronounced as well as special essays on magic.

With this book you can learn great spells yourself and become a great wizard or witch like Harry Potter! The Harry Potter Spellbook Unofficial Guide is the original convenient and comprehensive guide to the spells and magic of the wizarding world of Harry Potter. Both as a fun magic guide and as an indispensable addition to any avid Harry Potter fan's collection, The Harry Potter Spellbook Unofficial Guide is the perfect book for you.

Similar ebooks. Nora Cooper and her brother Tad don't know what to make of their new neighbor Maggie Brown. She loves animals and has lots of them—a cat, a parakeet, a dog, and a large black lizard. The other cats and birds in the neighborhood seem to like Maggie as well. And Maggie makes the most delicious fudge. In fact, her fudge is so good, after one piece it almost seems as if Tad and Nora's father are becoming animal lovers. But what happens when you eat one piece too many?

Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Judy Blume. Living with his little brother, Fudge, makes Peter Hatcher feel like a fourth grade nothing. Whether Fudge is throwing a temper tantrum in a shoe store, smearing smashed potatoes on walls at Hamburger Heaven, or scribbling all over Peter's homework, he's never far from trouble. He's a two-year-old terror who gets away with everything—and Peter's had enough. When Fudge walks off with Dribble, Peter's pet turtle, it's the last straw. Peter has put up with Fudge too long. How can he get his parents to pay attention to him for a change?

On that day, she goes looking for trouble! And one Wednesday, Mary Jane hears a knock on her front door. A mysterious old lady with a skinny black cat has come to visit. It must be a witch! But what mischief is she up to? Book 1.

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Not a rotting smell, not the falling-apart scent of meat gone sour; this was an unearthly aroma. It reminded Samuel of old paint and leather, lemon furniture polish, rich and dense; attics left unopened and antiques in boxes. He took up the habit of chewing mints to shed the dark taste it left in his mouth. It was a witching thing, he thought; he had not smelt or tasted it before, when he had not yet learned magic.

He spent a lot of time at the top of the staircase, talking to the ghost of Ned. Despite his silence, he was a comforting presence. No one knew if ghosts could talk, but they never did. Ned fingered often the black flower he wore in his buttonhole, and looked sad, and sighed: a sound like leaves in the wind. He made no more attempts to touch Samuel on the shoulder or ruffle his hair. I was too young. I suppose he was very good at witchcraft. He would have to have been. He used to pinch me when I asked him for favours.

But once he filled my closet up with fireflies, so no monsters could get in. I think maybe Mother influenced him a lot. Too much. I never missed her. But you—you did. He left it behind. I thought I would grow into it, but I never have. You always seemed so sad. Seb had to tell me. We never really talked, you and me. I was just a kid. The ghost looked sadder. He flickered at the edges, going out of focus.

Samuel had noticed that the ghost looked less like Ned as the years went on, as though time were copying him over and over again. Someday there might not be much of Ned left. Just an outline in the air where a figure had been.

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What did you think then—did you think your life was over? Before it could touch the floor, it vanished. Ned, too, looked on the edge of disappearing. Sometimes he did this, and Samuel saw nothing of him for days on end. It was after he died that I first started thinking—what the best thing to do was; you know, how to protect myself from all of it. All of you , he almost said. Ned vanished. Samuel found himself sitting alone on the landing.

A Matter-of-Fact Magic Book: What the Witch Left by Ruth Chew | Penguin Random House Canada

He felt an incipient ache in his head. The smell of death rose from the dust on the stairs. He heard his father moving quietly in the kitchen, shuffling across the grey-green linoleum. His father had come to the funeral, tossed earth on the coffin, yet now seemed not wholly aware that Patchett was dead.

He felt it physically, flooding his body. He remembered being twelve years old, and longing for France. This was the same, a similar feeling. Then, he had pasted above his bed a torn-out magazine picture of Provence, the sort of place where he imagined that Jacoby would live. Rosebushes brazened a wrought-iron railing.

A stone Roman goddess benedicted plants. Samuel had begged Seb to show him, with witchcraft, more such pictures in their decrepit bathroom mirror, and Seb—lowering his eyelids with suppressed compassion—had: a scatter of crows over a golden wheat-field, the streaming sun in the distance, fat rivers flowing by the spine-shapes of cathedrals.

Then Seb himself had slipped on board a boat and not even looked backwards, Seb who got seasick even on short holidays out to the Isle of Man. Samuel had unfixed the photograph of France from over his bed. He had it still, in a box somewhere, neatly folded. But he did not think now that he would ever go to France. You could not simply go to another country. It was not enough. This had been demonstrated. Another, more drastic kind of action was called for.

Samuel had known the right spell the instant he saw it. It made Samuel feel close to him. He slept for a time with the book under his pillow, but found that when he did, he dreamt that smoke crept up through the floorboards of his room. The smoke was thin, sulphurous, acrid. Samuel often woke to find the ghost of Ned sitting in his desk chair, sad-eyed and watching him.

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He had little faith in his witching skills. He was self-taught, and did nothing more difficult on a daily basis than transfigure the glass of the windows to let more sun in. True, from time to time he took on harder projects—he had once bewitched a very small star, speeding towards Earth, so that it would spin northwards of its normal destination.

No one had said for certain it was magic. Stars fell out of the sky in phenomenal numbers, so often that, seeing one, you tagged it with a wish and then let it slip to the corner of your mind. They nodded warily, not entirely convinced. He levelled dirt over the ruptured garden. Its warmth took weeks to diminish. So he was not unused to serious magic. But this was still more serious than anything he had attempted before. If he did it badly, he might well die. With this in mind, for years he had postponed it.

He had thought he would wait until he turned eighteen, came of age. Then the death of Patchett had altered his feelings on the matter. The spell could not wait. He imagined another year—six months even—without it; it would not do. He should have done it long before Patchett died, in the lull between sorrows. Cowardice had stopped him. Six weeks after the funeral, he gathered the ingredients for the spell.

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He was aware of himself as an odd, thin figure, in his oversized coat. He wondered sometimes how others regarded him. For a moment I thought perhaps we had met. The preliminary arrangements for the spell took him some time. It was necessary to get a small steel knife from the kitchen and let it sit for seven days, crooked, on top of a mirror. Samuel kept returning from school in the afternoons to find the ghost of Ned attempting to straighten the blade of the knife. On the seventh day, Samuel was awakened by a chill in the house, a cold dark ambience of November. Every room was filled with the smell of death.

He walked from doorway to doorway, down every hall, disturbed by the wet, black ubiquity of the scent. The spellbook had not said that this would happen. Nor did he see Ned anywhere in the house. Resolutely, once he had clearly established that no windows were open and—a moment of bleak and fearful conviction—that his father was not dead, Samuel ignored it.

He went on preparing himself for the magic. It was a process that required a kind of limbering-up of the focus, a limiting of the attention. He had set aside, the night before, some rue and the sleek red peel of an apple, the former so brittle it broke at a touch, the latter waxy and slightly damp. Now he placed them in a silver bowl with the stub end of a candle and a Roman coin. The coin was irregular, tiny and rubbed. Hardship, over centuries, had left it black and mostly flattened. He struck a match and watched its flame flare up.

The air filled with the sour white scent of sulphur—then, as he tossed the match into the bowl, the warm smell of wax and herbs burning. There were words to be said over the bowl. He consulted the book. It was slowly vanishing. Samuel tried to bring an image of Benjamin himself into his mind, and could not. He looked down at the steady flame. It yellowed and widened hungrily. It husked the apple peel bit by bit. Splinters of rue bent, curving as though in agony.

What The Witch Left

Everything looks skeletal when burning, he thought. He found the idea troubling. He read the words of the spell aloud. He tried to filter his thoughts. Smoke covered up the smell of death. It was a simple spell, really; a classic, from the days of fairy tales and fables. It had used to be standard for a witch to put his heart into a tree, or a rock, or a locket, or some kind of running water. Any place that you could put a heart separately, so that it would not shudder and ache and cause you to suffer—so that it could not be suddenly pierced, so that it would not, one day, break.

The habit had fallen somewhat out of fashion in the early part of this century, experiencing, at the time of the First World War, a momentary resurgence. Samuel had learnt all this from Patchett, who, after all, had taught magical history. Witches during the war did not put their hearts into objects. These might be lost, or even stolen: your heart in the hands of your worst enemy.

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  • Instead, a witch would put his heart into his little finger and cut it off. Thus it could be stored, remote and safe, and returned to your body after the armistice or at some other, later date. It was the best and most complete way to sever a heart, if you were willing to suffer the pain.

    Patchett had shrugged; as ever, he was tetchy. Ask me a real question, Sam. Can you live without a heart? Of course, yes. Then paused. But life was not harder then, Samuel thought. Life was life, from that age to this. If you were lucky, you scarcely noticed your heart; unlucky, and you were crippled by it. He set the fallen star on top of his desk, and then placed next to it the Greco-Roman statuette that Jacoby had left him. The statuette had eyes like clean white sheets, empty and unclouded.

    He did not know why he said it. The smoke from the silver bowl had settled all throughout the room. Samuel put his hand flat on the desk. He picked up the knife and touched its tip to his forehead. It burned. He felt hot. A kind of fever gripped him. Only a current of cool, sad air, strange and foreign against his skin, made him turn to see that Ned was sitting cross-legged on the floorboards: not interfering, just watching him. Samuel crossed his heart with the blade of the knife.

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    He felt it move inside his chest—an insubstantial, spiritual motion. It nauseated him. Something in the smoke caused his head to spin. He closed his eyes. For an instant he was flying over the grass-green mountains, bird-boned, a grey wisp of dust on the wind, and the wild sense of nothingness overwhelmed him. The raw air burned against his face.