Witch's Bell Book One

her wishes never were. It was a way of writing her future while still keeping it a surprise. Different wishes, different wants, may indeed come to her as she'd written they would – but in the random, capricious order she'd decided. And she never kept track of old pages – once written, they remained unseen.
    Ebony flung the door open, her hand now hot where it had once held the handle. Her other hand was clasped around her gun, which she'd quickly recovered from the wet grass after her altercation with the gargoyle. The funny thing about her Journal of Life, as she'd so plainly named it, was not just the order it chose to unfold in - but the order in which she'd filled it with her heart's desires. It was a common witch rule, and a fundamental rule of magic, that you could never wish for the same boon twice. You could only wish to win a fantastic sum once, go on a free holiday a single time, or meet your favorite author for just one day. You couldn't repeat wishes, because magic was all about novelty. So when it came to those fundamental life experiences such as love, children, achievement and so on – you had to be extra special careful.
    Ebony had a very vivid memory of the moment her mother had given Ebony her Journal of Life. Avery Bell had sat on the Edge of Ebony's bed, the light of a full moon filtering in through the half-open curtains. While journaling wasn't a necessary witchly activity, it was certainly a Bell family tradition, one that Ebony's mother had been sure to pass onto her daughter at just the right time.
    Her mother had handed her the journal, that old knowing smile on her lips. 'Here you go, little witch, here's a present for my daughter'. Ebony had been so excited, that she'd snatched up the book and instantly leafed through the blank pages. Her mother had just laughed at the confused look on her face when Ebony had realized there simply wasn't anything in the book. She'd probably been expecting a book of spells, or some great story, or at least a picture book – but not something empty.
    'This, my child,' her mother had played her fingers against the spine of the book, 'is possibly the best gift you'll ever give yourself.' Ebony's mother had gone on to explain the process as best she could to a young child. 'But you have to promise me,' she eventually warned, dipping in low to ruffle Ebony's wispy fringe, 'that you'll be careful what you wish for, and especially when you wish for it. There are things, little witch, that everyone wants - love, wealth, a meaningful life. But as a witch, you have to be very careful when and how you form these desires, and especially when and where you write them down. I don't doubt that someday you'll form the thought of the man of your dreams, and with the carefully practiced words of a witch, you'll be able to write exactly what you want on the pages of your journal. But right now, little Ebony,' she patted the tip of Ebony's nose, 'you must wait. I'm giving you this journal now, because it is tradition. But I want you to promise me that you won't start writing in it yet – not until you're old enough to know what you really want. The wishes and dreams of a child aren't the same as an adult, trust me on that.'
    Ebony couldn't quite remember, but she was sure her mother's words had been completely lost on her. All she'd cared about was the funny blank book she had in her little hands.
    Her mother had left the room, with one final warning, 'promise me, darling, promise me you'll be careful what you wish for.'
    Ebony had promised her mother, only to drag the journal out from under her pillow that very night, steal down to her father's office and borrow one of his pens - and start writing in it at once. She'd snuck out onto the porch, and under the full light of the moon, had scribbled down different little wishes on random pages throughout the book. As an adult, Ebony could no longer remember exactly what she'd written, but the moment still haunted her to this day. Oh why, oh why, hadn't she been able to listen to her mother? Who knows what ridiculous things the young Ebony had written? She was a child, for crying out loud, she'd probably written about saving the world, riding dragons, and eating more cake than was humanly possible. Ebony sometimes shuddered when she imagined the possibilities. She couldn't remember what she'd written, let alone where she'd written it – so it was fully possible that a doddering Ninety-year-old Ebony would open the front