Misdirection Is One Of My

“nothing's Impossible,” Poppet Responds. She Smiles At Him And Jumps, Her Red Hair Trailing Out Behind Her As She Falls.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

Have You Tried The Cinnamon Things?" Poppet Asks. "they're Rather New. What Are They Called, Widge?" "fantastically Delicious Cinnamon Things?

This Is, In Part, Why There Is Less Magic In The World Today. Magic Is Secret And Secrets Are Magic, After All, And Years Upon Years Of Teaching And Sharing Magic And Worse. Writing It Down In Fancy Books That Get All Dusty With Age Has Lessened It, Removed Its Power Bit By Bit.

I'm A Firm Believer That Lighting Affects Mood, And Twinkly Lights On Strings Bring Something Magical To Occasions Ranging From Concerts To Weddings, Though I'm Fond Of Using Them As Year-round Home Decor. There's A Reason Why They're Sometimes Called Fairy Lights. When The Night Is Right, There Aren't Any Strings At All.