Spellbook of the Lost and Found

It`s like my mother said: everybody`s lost something. They may not know it, but everyone`s got their defining loss: a parent, a pet, a trinket, a treasure, a memory, a belief. Some people have more than one. And if you`re not careful you can spend your whole life looking for what you`ve lost. But the truth is we`re alwyas losing something. Every day stray hairs fall from our fringes; we discard fingernail clippings; we shed skin. We`re all made up of all of it: of longing, of belonging, and of all the things we lose along the way.

"Don`t be silly. It`s not just the spellbook. We`re all magic. Magic`s all around us, all the time." "Oh, come on," I say. "You don`t come across an ancient spellbook every day." "You don`t need to," Ivy replies. "There are spells everywhere. You cast a hundred a week without realizing." "I assure you," I tell her, "I do no such thing." "Knock on wood," says Ivy. "Superstition," I reply. The others watch in bemusement, as if we were a spectator sport. "It`s a spell," Ivy insists. "You say Bless you when somebody sneezes. That`s a spell." I roll my eyes. "It`s a common courtesy." "You drink ginger tea with lemon and honey before you even have a cold. You take baths when you feel tense." I say, "Ivy--" but she`s not done yet. "Your parents are married, right? Saying I do is a magic spell. They`re just words like everyo ther word, but said in a ritual, with intent, it`s a spell. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. When they named you, it was a spell. When they let you pick flowers and keep dried leaves, it was a spell. Your dolls came to life because of your spells. Your invisible friend. Your dreams. The way you write your initials and somebody else`s in hearts all over your notebooks. What is that if not a love spell?" I don`t even try to stop her now, but I can`t help picturing my mum`s Claddagh ring, the collection of things like talismans above my bed, the words written on our arms in marker. "You cast spells every day. Your make-up is glamour magic. Hiding and highlighting. The clothes you pick out to make your legs look longer, your waist smaller. The red you wear for confidence; the black when you`re sad, the blue for clarity. Your favourite bra. Your lucky socks. The way you take an hour on your hair. It`s a ritual. It`s never just about clothes, or make-up, or perfectly messy buns. It`s about magic." I touch my hair self-consciously. All this cycling has downgraded my bun from perfectly messy to bird`s nest. I reach into my bag to find some pins to try and tame it and I come out with my charm bracelet. I stare. What is that if it`s not magic? "Embrace the unexplained, Olive," Rowan says to me with a grin. Rose laughs low, her hand in Hazel`s. "Embrace the uncertain," she adds. We share a secret smile. "Embrace the magic," Ivy breathes. Hazel prodcues a marker from who knows where and writes the words on our arms.

We`re all lips and tongues and hands in hair and it`s so easy to lose sight of the things we`re not sure of. Both of us like monsters casting spells that destroy other people`s lives because they`ve destroyed ours. It would be easy not to believe it. To say they`ll both show up someday -- Cathal and my dad. To tell ourselves there`s no such thing as magic. Except: I had the spellbook in my pocket. I felt it there the whole time we cycled home. It was there when we found the house broken into. It was there when we went dow to the woods. It was there when I looked out of the window and saw Rose walking towards me and I put my hand into my pocket and touched it just to make sure. I felt the leather cover and the threadbare elastic band. I felt the crinkle of well-worn pages. My fingers were round it. I felt it when it disappeared.