It's In My Nature

Chapter 1 - "What Is . . . Not"

Ephraim Forest considered himself something of an expert in depression. He was wandering in the woods alone - as usual - and had plenty of time to organize his thoughts. His first major conclusion was: Anyone who tries to tell you what depression is . . . is wrong. Depression is not an "is." Depression is an "is not." Depression is not caring enough . . . to care about not caring. Depression is not even caring enough to off yourself. Why bother? Depression is not wanting to do anything at all - including doing nothing at all. So instead of making any decisions as he wandered through life, Ephraim had just drifted. Someone would urge him to do something, and he would just . . . not argue. He had worked at a suitably meaningless job packing boxes at Amazon, not working hard enough to meet their quotas, but not slacking enough to warrant immediate attention.

Story of his life: Not worth anyone's attention.

Those who thought they understood depression tried to tell him he had plenty to be happy about. He had a family: Father, one each, more interested in rebuilding cars than rebuilding a worthless son's life. Mother, one each, more interested in beer and cigarettes than . . . well, apparently than anything else. Siblings, none each. Thank god. But his parents didn't beat him or anything. And he had food, clothes, that sort of thing. If they noticed him at all, it was as likely to be some small praise as some small complaint. In general, they just stayed out of each other's way.

Of course, his Amazon job ended after the Christmas rush; a great present, though they didn't know it. Now he would not have to bother to show up. Instead, he was wandering through a wooded area near his soon-to-be-evicted-from apartment. Not that the apartment was anything but a place to keep the rain off his head - or at this time of the year, snow. The temperature was low enough that Ephraim knew he was courting hypothermia, but despite a lot of involuntary shivering, it didn't seem to matter. He could go home and not freeze or starve, but it did not seem like it was necessary to make that decision. At least, not yet.

The 'funny' - as in strange, not humorous - thing was that Ephraim didn't even know why he was depressed. There was not anything really 'wrong' with him. He was average (or a bit less) in height. Average (or a bit more) in weight. Average features, though his glasses put him more into the nerd category than he wanted to think about much. Ephraim had never let anyone know, but it was clear to him that he had more than average intelligence based on the way he had skated through high school. If he'd have tried, he could have been one of the top students in his class, and a shoe-in for just about any college. But there was that word again: "try."

Ephraim's problem - one of his problems - was that he just never felt like he fit in anywhere. The 'cool' guys were all into sports, and that was entirely too much effort. The macho types, in addition to sports, were all about loud cars or motorcycles or whatever. His father would have loved it if he had been bent in that direction - he certainly tried to bend his son that way - but no matter how much his faither wanted it, Ephraim's particular twig didn't grow that way. The actively nerd guys were as much into video games as the jocks were into sports, but spackling virtual space with virtual gore was not interesting enough to . . . well, to bother.

And the girls . . . well, the girls didn't seem to share any interests with Ephraim, either. He knew he would not be the only guy to die a virgin, but being in that company of losers did not motivate him enough to try to find a different identity.

Having reached these conclusions, he punctuated his success in a typically depressing way. He tripped and fell full-length on the muddy, moldy floor of the little section of woods.

Ephraim would have cursed, but that would have meant displaying emotion.

His shoe had come off when he fell - of course - so he was looking around for it in the fallen leaves when he found something that was too smooth for a root.

"This must have been what I tripped on," Ephraim decided, speaking out loud as he often did when there was no one else around to hear.

Poking at it with his fingers he saw a bit of gleam, so he dug around a little more. In a couple of minutes he had enough excavated to identify it as some sort of bottle; shaped like one of those fancy liquor containers - wide around the bottom but with a longish, smaller neck you could get your hand around when you wanted to pour something out. It was hard to tell from all the mud, but it didn't seem to be broken or chipped in any way and there was some sort of stopper in the end.

"Wonder if there's anything in it?" he asked himself. And let himself actually do a little work finding out. After a moment, the stopper came out, followed by a spray of white fog that looked like a fire-extinguisher discharge.

When the fog cleared, Ephraim turned and started running. There was a big thug standing in front of him. Calling him a thug was not racial animus; he was European heritage like Ephraim, just three times as big. But he was all dark - hair, stubbly beard, leather jacket - almost a stereo-type of the inner-city thug . . . though from the 50's maybe. Ephraim figured the bottle and fog were some sort of distraction while he snuck up to mug him, and it never occurred to the young man that the whole tripping-over-a-bottle-in-the-forest was a pretty low-probability way to set up a rich mark.

Running didn't do any good. First off, Ephraim wasn't in good enough shape to outrun a tired turtle, let alone a monster guy with about 1% body fat. But in a moment he realized it wasn't really about running anyway. They guy was in front of him again, and Ephraim hadn't even seen him move.

His voice was about what you'd expect, sounding like someone was hitting a big barrel with a heavy wrench, though he could make out the words. "Good afternoon, mas . . . um . . . well, good afternoon."

Ephraim had already turned around again, but even as he looked back the way he had come, the thug appeared in front of him. This was the first time Ephraim had seen him actually 'appear' but it was as instantaneous as a movie cut. One frame the guy was behind Ephraim, the next in front. No pop, or smoke, or whoosh. Just standing there blocking the way.

"Let me go!" Ephraim ordered.

And the big guy stood out of the way.

As Ephraim started past him, the guy said, "I don't think I'll count that as a wish, because I haven't explained the rules yet."

"What?" Ephraim asked.

"It doesn't count as a wish until I explain the rules," the guy repeated, not quite impatiently. It was more like he was tired of doing something he had done many times before.

"Rules? For a wish?" Ephraim repeated stupidly.

"Right," he said. "Look, the sooner you make your wishes, the sooner I can get back to . . . well, you don't need to know about that. So, here are the rules . . ."

"Wait," Ephraim said. "Are you telling me that you're a genie from a bottle and going to grant me three wishes? With rules like, 'no killing someone, or bringing them back to life?' I've seen that movie. And I don't believe it."

"Maybe 4," he said. "Maybe 2."

"What?"

"I don't always do just three wishes," he said with tired patience. Obviously, he'd been through this conversation before . . . and before . . . and . . .

"I thought it was three," Ephraim said - still being pretty stupid. Wishes? And he was focused on whether it was three or four? Really?

"Some genies . . . actually, the proper term is 'djinni' grant three wishes. Some only one. I'm . . . variable."

"You mean you get to pick how many?"

"Well, yes and no," he said. "It's not so much as a choice as a . . . reflection of our nature. When Sulieman ben Daoud - Solomon, son of David in your culture - linked the djinni to objects he let their nature guide the conditions."

"And you're a four-wish genie," Ephraim said, not quite snorting.

"'Djinn,'" he repeated. "And sometimes it's two. Or three. There is a sort of pressure of magical energy that I get when I come out and eventually it gets used up. Besides, after a few wishes, I get unbearably bored with one person's desires. They are either so stupid that they spend their wishes trying to undo prior wishes, or they've just about taken care of what they need for a happy life."

"Happy life," Ephraim repeated, this time bitterly.

"Uh, oh. I sense a story there," the guy said. With an idle wave of his hand there were nice easy chairs on either side of a small table supporting what looked like a mug of hot chocolate and a beer. Another wave of his hand and a crackling fire started in a wasn't-there-before free-standing fireplace.

"You get the chocolate," he said, pointing at the mug. "No getting drunk until after you make your wishes. That's one of my rules."

"Rules," Ephraim repeated yet again.

"Right," he said. "Okay, you got the things about killing and resurrecting people. And you need to make the wishes formal. 'I wish for . . . whatever.' No 'I want,' or 'Djinni do this,' or 'I'll bet you can't do that.'"

"Right," Ephraim said, still not believing it. He had about reached the conclusion that he had hit his head when he tripped and was out of it. Ephraim would have reached up and felt for bumps or something, but in a dream/hallucination he didn't figure he'd feel anything anyway.

"Basically, my main rule is that you can't wish to harm someone," the djinn said. "I don't like it . . . no, it's more than that. I can't do that. It's against my nature."

"Your nature," Ephraim said. "But . . . why did Solomon imprison you in a bottle if you're, well, a good guy?"

"Imprison?" the djinn repeated. "Hardly. It's more of a sanctuary. You wouldn't believe what some of you humans were forcing my kind to do. I mean, there are more levers on us than just locking us in a bottle. Now, don't get me wrong. Some of my kind are just as nasty as any human who ever lived. That's why Solomon started putting us in things in the first place. But he was, or I guess, *is* known as Solomon the Wise for a reason. He put us each in a . . . situation that was compatible with our nature. In my case, I have a nice sanctuary which can't be found by someone who wants to do harm to others."

"Can't be found? You mean, I was, like, meant to find you?"

"More that only someone like you would be able to find me. I mean, being buried in a forest is a pretty good hiding place. Let me see . . ," the djinn paused and got a vacant look in his eyes for a moment . . , "I've been here for about 60 years this time, as you measure time."

"Trapped in that bottle for 60 years? How is that not a prison?"

"You haven't seen the inside of my bottle," the djinn said. "It's a lot bigger than it looks. And it's under my control. If I want a beach, I get a beach. If I want a castle, I get a castle. The only limitation is my imagination, and time doesn't pass the same in there anyway. For some djinni . . . well, Solomon made sure they'd never be found, but he didn't want even them to suffer. So they live a stimulated, fulfilling, evil life and no one is harmed by it. In fact, Solomon told me that some of the djinni don't even know they're in a bottle, or lamp, or whatever. Think of them as pocket universes, and they're as real as the djinni's imagination can make them."

"Why aren't . . . I mean, if that, um, sanctuary is so great, why did you come out again?"

"Oh, I like people," he said. "Every now and then when I come out, I get a raft of new ideas for my own little world. Some of that is just the way things change on the outside. I mean, TV was pretty new when I was out last. Is it still big, or do you have, oh, virtual reality or something?"

"TV," Ephraim replied more distracted than focused on the state of technology. "So, you were, like, dropped in this forest just waiting for me to come along?"

"No," he replied. "The last thing I remember - from the outside - is that my last master had made his fifth wish - undoing wishes three and four, by the way - and I was able to get back into my bottle and suck the stopper in after me. We were in a little curio shop in New York, as I recall. Where are we now?"

"What? Oh, um, Iowa. Just outside the University at Ames."

"Iowa," the djinn repeated. "Never been there."

"Haven't missed much," Ephraim said, not even trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He took a sip of the hot chocolate, thinking that it might hide his expression but not really caring.

"So, that's my story," the djinn said. "Now tell me yours."

"Nothing to tell."

"Obviously not true, but I'd like for your wishes to turn out well. I always want that to happen, but I don't read minds so sometimes what someone says and what they want are different. If I know the background, I might be able to help."

"Why?" Ephraim asked. "Why help me? Why not just climb back in your bottle and leave me alone?"

"Well, unless you have your wishes all lined up and ready to go, I was expecting to spend a little time in the outside world. And you don't seem stupid, for all that you're obviously not happy. So I thought you might have some worthwhile wishes. You know, something interesting."

"Oh, another rule," he said. "Your wishes have to be, ah, personal. No wishing for world peace, or an end to hunger or whatnot. And they all have to be completed in a reasonable time - a lifetime for you."

"How many rules do you have?"

"Oh, lots of them, and not too many," he said easily. "It all comes back to wanting to do something nice for the person who finds my bottle. Or at least not harmful. That's one of the reasons I do several. Most people find themselves wanting to undo something."

"Like my whole life," Ephraim said. "Can I wish never to have been born?"

"No," he said. "And I'm not going to want to grant any wishes, no matter how you word them, until I know why you feel that way. So spill."

"No," Ephraim said. "Just . . . go away. Find someone else, or have yourself a nice time on the outside. Just leave me alone."

"Careful," the djinn said. "If you word that as an actual wish, I'd have to grant it, but I would have to hang around - in the background somewhere - until you came up with the rest of your wishes. That's the way it works."

"So you're a nag as well as a genie?"

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly nag . . ," he said, but his grin said he'd make simple nagging better than what he might actually do. All in the, um, 'master's' best interests, of course. Like everyone else who was sure he knew what Ephraim really wanted, or should want.

"Look, Genie . . . wait, do you have a name?"

"Yes," he said. "But it would take you a week - or a wish - to learn how to pronounce it. You can call me, oh, 'Gene' will do. And you?"

"How creative," Ephraim said dryly. "Okay, look, um, Gene, I'm Ephraim - as in 'Eff'n Loser,' 'Eff'n Idiot,' or 'Eff'n Asshole. But I'm not stupid, or, like, clumsy or whatever. If I knew what I wanted, I'd probably be able to do it on my own. I'm not after world domination or anything. I just don't care enough about anything to, well, to work for it."

"Right," Gene said. Then he waved his hand again and a total babe was suddenly sitting in Ephraim's lap. Curves in all the right places, with tautness where that was the right way to be. Lots and lots of hair, but so soft it was like a silk blanket wafting over his shoulders. She was so hot that the chair started to melt under her. Until he realized it was actually softening into a near-couch that was just made for more than sitting. It took a while for Ephraim to realize that because she was inhaling his tongue and her hands were burning his skin in places that even he didn't spend that much time touching.

Which was yet another sign of depression, because his body didn't really respond. He felt the heat and her soft, warm hands were having an effect, but "it" was sluggish and not all that interested.

Ephraim heard Gene go, "Hmmm. . . ." and the next thing he knew the body in his lap was a lot firmer. And the cheek brushing Ephraim's had a definite bristle to it.

"Oh, god, no!" Ephraim said. "Look, I'm not gay!"

He stood up quickly enough to dump the. . . . person off his lap and looked down the forest path again wondering if he just started down it Gene would let him go. "Forget it. This is not working for me."

"Which is why I want to talk," Gene said. He sat back attentively, but with the sort of rock-solid (or rock-headed) patience that said they weren't going anywhere until he got his way.

"Look, um, Gene, I appreciate your interest, and your good intentions and all, but . . . I just don't know what to say. I mean, I can wish for lots of money and, I don't know, being taller and all if that's what you want. Use up the wishes and you can go back to . . . wherever."

"But riches and being taller are not what you really want," he said. "Even you realize that. What's really missing in your life?"

"That's just it!" Ephraim said. "I don't know! Something has been missing, but I don't know what it is. I mean, I never have fit in with anyone, but I don't know why."

"Quite," Gene said thoughtfully.

"Hey, that's an idea," Ephraim said. "Gene, I wish you would tell me why I don't ever seem to fit in anywhere."

"Oh," he said, then looked even more thoughtful. "That's a valid wish," he said, "but granting it is not simple. To do that, I'd have to access your memories. I told you I don't read minds, and basically I can't. But if it's in response to a wish, I can. That's a pretty serious violation of your privacy, though."

"I don't care," Ephraim said. "Just do it."

Chapter 2: "I Am Not!"

Ephraim's sense of invasion when Gene started crawling around in his mind was worse than creepy. It was a violation of his very being. In another of those strange-but-not-humorous funny things, he found myself wondering if his apathy helped him through that. At one level he felt he should be screaming about the intrusion, but at another he was not . . . intense enough to care. The depression was winning out as he watched flashes of memory boil and swirl - showing just how much he had *not* done with his life. There were places - memories - where he could, in hindsight, see an opportunity to build a linkage to someone. And see himself not take it. Needless to say, the pathetic waste just reinforced his feelings of inadequacy.

Ephraim never knew how long it took. With the fire going his shivering had ceased and sitting there was placid enough that time wasn't particularly important. Again, at one level it was torture to see his wasted life replayed. And at another it was . . . done. Regardless of what might have been, what *was* as he sat there was inconspicuous emptiness where a life should have been. Nothing to get emotionally engaged about.

"Wow," Gene said finally. He said it quietly, no real emotion on his side either, except maybe wonder. "Were you actually going to just walk around out here until you froze?"

"What? No," Ephraim denied, then sat back. "Well, not, um, really, but . . ."

"But you were shivering pretty hard when I found you - or you found me - and you weren't heading toward any place warm."

What could Ephraim say? He just shrugged.

"Tough life," Gene said. "Just bad enough to be no good, but not bad enough to justify anger or vengeance or, I don't know, going up in a tower with a high-powered rifle."

"How did you know about people doing that? I didn't think the first one was that long ago."

"You mean that sort of thing happens now?" Gene asked, then he shook his head and added, "Look, that's not the point. Your wish was about why you don't fit in, and . . . I don't know."

"What? What about my wish?"

"I'll get there," he replied. After a moment he continued, "Have you ever heard the expression, 'If the only tool you have is a hammer, everything starts looking like a nail?'"

"Yeah, I suppose. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'll get there," he repeated. "Here's the first, ah, issue. You have a submissive personality."

That set Ephraim off, which surprised even him. He hadn't been that emotional about things in longer than he could remember, but this one just about made him explode.

"No, fucking way. I am *not* into kinky things with whips and chains. No way, not now, not ever, and if that's what you think is a good way to grant one of my wishes, then get back in your damn bottle."

"Patience," the djinn replied. "First off, not everything is about sex - even kinky sex - or physical gratification of any sort. I would say that your immediate focus on a sexual aspect of my comments is a sign of your perspective. It might explain some of your isolation, except for young adult males *everything* is about sex, so that's no more than normal. If it suits your sensibilities better, consider it as being inclined to a life of service. Certainly that is noble enough. What it means is that you find fulfillment - what fulfillment you find at all, anyway - in helping others. The downside is that you'd just as soon not have to make the decisions on what to do. You want to be told what to do rather than have the responsibility for choosing what should be done..

"So I'm a wimp," Ephraim said.

"Perhaps," Gene said, and the young man could have wished he wasn't so quick to accept that. "But the question was not, 'what should you do to be a success, or gain respect, or whatever?' It was, 'why don't I fit in?' I assure you, there are plenty of people who would love to have helpful followers. You'd fit in fine as a gopher."

Not what Ephraim wanted to hear, but something resonated enough that he knew there was some truth to what he said. But not enough.

"Look, I've had team projects in school, and you might be right about me being, um, me not wanting to boss people around. But I did okay, and I still didn't fit in, not really. I mean, they used me as a gopher, like you said, but that didn't make us friends."

"No," the djinn agreed. "But that brings me to issue two. When I looked in your life, I didn't see any attractive women that you've ever been close to. None at all."

"Great. Have *you* ever heard the expression: 'Rub salt in the wound?' If you rummaged around in my memories you already know that I expect to die a virgin."

"Sorry," he said. "But the point is that you don't have any attractive women in your life that could be a role model."

"A role model?" Ephraim repeated. "Why do I need a female role model?"

"Everyone needs a female role model, or confidant, or friend, or whatever you want to call her. Just as everyone needs a male role model, or father-figure, or hero. Your father fills that role, not well, perhaps, but adequately. He's the provider and he has the strength to keep the main threats at bay."

He paused, then continued, "But your mother is *not* an adequate role model, particularly of attractive women. She disgusts you."

At one level Ephraim felt he should argue, but . . . he didn't do argue very well and that didn't seem the topic to choose if he did. So Ephraim did what he usually did in life - just shrugged and said nothing.

"For a woman, particularly in your society, being attractive is both extremely important and the result of a lot of focused commitment. And in this case, 'attractive' is more than just appearance. It's a combination of basic appearance, fashion or style, gestures and manner, and above all, attitude. A pretty girl is pretty because she does what pretty girls do."

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Ephraim said, wanting to move on past one of the few topics that was painful enough to make avoiding it worth an argument. "Move on."

"Right," he said. "Well, here goes with the real issue. It's possible that you should be a girl."

"What?"

Gene knew the young man had heard him, so he continued. "If you had the opportunity - if you had a feminine example or role model whom you felt close to - you might have found that you like feminine things. It's clear that stereotypically masculine things like sports or violent video games do not interest you. So, you are a male with only one tool - a hammer - to identify things to do in life. But not everything is a nail to be hammered down. You never had the chance to see if more stereotypically feminine things like fashion or gossipy relationships were interesting."

"I am *not* gay," Ephraim insisted.

"Perhaps not," the djinn agreed . . . sort of. "Certainly when I, ah, offered you that opportunity your dislike was immediate and intense. But being a girl and being 'gay' as you used the term - meaning attracted to boys - are not the same thing. Again, this is not primarily about sexual relations, but about a . . . perspective that carries with it a set of interests."

Ephraim said. "Well, if you think you can meet my wish by telling me that I should be a girl, then try again. I'm not buying it."

Now Gene shrugged. "If it were that simple, I would already have done it . . ."

He clearly intended to say something more, but Ephraim found himself interrupting him with a snark of his own. "If that's the way you grant wishes, it's not surprising most of your, um, clients end up wishing to undo what you do."

Gene twitched a little and Ephraim knew the shot had hit home - which was probably pretty stupid on the young man's part since the djinn seemed to be determined to 'grant' Ephraim wishes whether he wanted them or not. Pissing off a magical creature with power over you was probably not a good strategy.

"Perhaps," Gene said after a moment. Then he repeated, "Perhaps we should just say that seeing things from a girl's perspective - even second hand through the example of women in your life whom you respected - is a void that offers one explanation for why you don't seem 'to fit in anywhere.' So the conflict was that you were naturally submissive in a society where men are expected to be aggressive and dominant, yet with no respectable female role model you could not see any desirable opportunities there, either. Hence, you don't fit in."

"Yeah," Ephraim admitted. "Okay, as a *possible* explanation I won't rule it out, but I'm not just accepting it, either."

"I don't blame you," Gene said. "I can't say that I've seen this particular situation before, particularly in the context of a wish where I could really look into it. Interesting. There is another point . . ."

Ephraim sighed and nodded for the djinn to continue, mentally bracing himself.

Gene waved his hand around our little tableau - easy chairs and a fire in the middle of a mini-forest. "Do you think it's common for people, when offered wishes, to ask for a question about social interaction to be answered as their first wish?"

"I don't care," Ephraim said.

"I'm not surprised," Gene said. "But it is a sign of your, ah, serving nature that instead of making a real decision and choosing wealth or fame or physical desirability, you asked for something nearly passive; something that, once granted, really changed nothing."

He shrugged, then sat back in his chair. "Well, that's one down. Four to go."

"Four?" Ephraim repeated. "I thought you said it was a total of four."

"Yeah, normally," Gene agreed. "Or less. But that one was interesting enough that I can, ah, feel that you still get several more."

"Look, um, Gene, I really don't need any wishes. Just . . . go away."

"Sorry, not happening," he replied. "That is one of the things about my nature. My geas doesn't work that way. Once I've been summoned, I can't rest until I've granted some wishes."

"Geas?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. It's a sort of . . . compulsion. Like a sworn duty, except it wasn't me who swore to do it. It was Solomon who bound me to my duty."

"Him again," Ephraim sighed. After a moment, he continued. "Okay, so this is not going to become one of my wishes. Not exactly. Or at least, not just because you say it. But it will help me think the problem through. So, what would you wish for yourself?"

"Now that is a good question," Gene said. "Not that I'm going to answer it, but it's the sort of question a smart person would ask. Reduces the risk of unintended consequences. Of course, if I were one of those nasty djinn, you couldn't trust whatever I'd say."

"If it's such a good question, why won't you answer it?"

"Because *you* are the one with the submissive nature," Gene replied. "You don't want to make a key decision like this, but it needs to be *your* wish anyway. I won't tell you what to wish for."

"Yeah, well, so what if I wish you would tell me what to wish?"

"Same issue."

Ephraim opened his mouth, but before he could say anything the djinn interrupted.

"Not going to allow you to use your wish on me, either. I told you that rule," Gene said. Ephraim nodded that he understood, then the djinn continued. "Okay, let me explain my life again. I live in a fantasy world where whatever I can imagine I can create. But because my imagination is limited - anyone would run out of ideas after a couple of thousand years - I come out now and then to grant wishes. In the course of that, I get to see how civilization has progressed - or regressed - and get lots of ideas for new fantasies. So, my life is pretty good, particularly since Solomon set it up so that I don't get really nasty people as masters, no matter how temporary. You with me?"

Ephraim nodded again, so Gene continued. "The one thing I might wish for would be to have a, um, companion. Someone who was not part of my own imagination, but had an independent outlook - a different perspective on things. Oh, and *she* would have to be absolutely gorgeous."

He smiled at the last bit, provoking an unaccustomed smile from the young man. And then it hit Ephraim like an east-bound and down semi . . .

"Gene, I wish for you to make me a genie. Or Djinni, or whatever the right word is."

"Careful, Ephraim, " he said with a twitch followed by a frown. "I'm not Solomon."

"So you can't do it?"

He shook his head. "Oh, I can do it. But unlike Solomon, I can't tell what your real nature would be like as a djinni. First place, you're not starting out as one. Second . . . well, I'm not Solomon the Wise. You might end up miserable as a djinni. Or evil . . . except, I guess I have been in your head enough to know that you're not evil. But you might end up without the protections he gave me. You might be found and compelled by an evil person. I don’t even know if you have my sort of wish limit in your nature. You might be stuck with the same person forever."

"Miserable," Ephraim said, repeating only one of the words, but a key one. "You think I'm not miserable now? How bad could it be?"

"Pretty bad," he said. "Suppose you were found by, oh, Hitler or Stalin? Do people still remember those names?"

"Yes," Ephraim answered, but he wasn't going to be sidetracked. "Look, Gene, you found me wandering in the winter woods, near frozen, and in a place where no one was even likely to find my body. You need to rethink the scale of miserable."

Gene started to say something, but Ephraim held up his hand in a way that was pretty abrupt for dealing with an elder - and the djinn was certainly the elder - but Ephraim was starting to focus with an unaccustomed intensity. "Can becoming a djinni change my basic nature? I mean, about good and evil?"

"I don't think so," Gene answered. "In fact, I'm pretty sure or Solomon would have done that with the bad ones."

"And . . ," Ephraim continued slowly, trying to work something out in his mind, "this, um, 'nature' thing - that's part of you, right? Not part of whoever finds your bottle?"

"Yes," Gene answered, "though it's more that Solomon set it up so that no one can find my bottle who is not compatible with my nature."

"So, the chances of someone evil finding me are . . . well, basically they can't, right?"

"I don't think so," Gene answered.

"Right," Ephraim said, shrugging. "So, the worst that can happen is that I get stuck with someone long-term instead of just for a few wishes."

Gene shrugged in turn. "I don't know. I'm not Solomon. I can't even guarantee that you'll have the sort of pocket universe that I have in my bottle."

"So how do we fix that?" Ephraim asked. "You said I have several wishes left. Let's line them up and make sure that things go right."

"Let us?" Gene said. "I told you these are *your* wishes."

"And they will be," Ephraim said. "I just need . . . um . . . would appreciate some advice on how to word them."

"I see," the djinn said slowly. Then he smiled and said, "Why not? You don't have to take my advice, so in the end it will be your wish."

"Right," Ephraim said. "So, how do we proceed? What should I wish for first?"

"You know I won't tell you that," Gene said.

"No, I mean, just as advice. What order should I take care of, y'know, things? To make it so I have a nice, well, bottle. And so that I won't get stuck with some creep."

"Sorry. You need to do the first, ah, draft of your wishes. I might offer some refinement, but not the whole thing."

Ephraim frowned, but the djinn wasn't budging, so the young man sat back and thought for a minute. Finally he tried out a plan. "Okay, so first, when I get around to wishing for real: I'd like to be sure that I don't have to, um, serve some real jerk. I want a nice guy who wants to do nice things. Suppose I were to wish for that?"

"Might work," Gene said. "Except you're not likely to get only one guy, so you need to say something like, 'I wish for all my masters to be nice guys who don't want to hurt anyone else.' Except that 'nice' is ambiguous, of course."

"Right. How did you work that out?"

"I didn't," Gene said. "Solomon the Wise did."

That wasn't helping. So, round two. "Suppose I wish that the, um, masters will not wish for anything that goes against my nature?"

"That's better," he replied. "I have looked into your soul and you are basically a nice person. Submissive, but nice. So that should work."

"Good," Ephraim said, finally making some progress. "Next, how do I, like, describe your bottle or - what did you say? - pocket universe or something?"

Again, Gene just sat there. Finally Ephraim got tired and said, "Gene, I wish you would provide for me a description of a pocket universe similar to yours where I could reside between times that I am, um, serving someone."

The djinn twitched a bit, then grinned. "Okay. This will use one up, but do it like you just did. That should work, except you might also want some sort of description of the vessel that holds the pocket universe."

"Oh, right," Ephraim said. "So make it look sort of like yours - nice enough that people don't just think it's trash, but not so gaudy that it ends up on a shelf in a museum. Make that my wish."

The young man was expecting some sort of incantation, or at least a puff of smoke, but with none of that, a bottle appeared on the table between us. It met the requirements: not so fancy that someone would put it in a museum, but nice enough it wouldn’t just be thrown away or broken out of boredom.

Gene grinned and said, "Is that a good enough description for you?"

"Oh," Ephraim said, sitting back quickly in his chair. "Is that . . . it?"

"It is if you go through with the rest of it," Gene said.

"But it's clear. I mean, people could, like, see me."

Gene shrugged, but he waved his arm and the decanter turned a dark translucent blue that would still let some light in, but not really allow anyone to see inside.





And then - seemingly all of the sudden, though actually they'd been talking for a while - the discussion was done.

Ephraim gulped and looked at Gene. Of course, the djinn was impassively waiting for the young man to make the next move. He thought about asking Gene for more advice, but his expression made it clear it was time to make a real decision on something. No more being passive, even to the extent of just walking around aimlessly until he froze. Ironically, Ephraim couldn't even do that. Gene made it clear that just walking off from him wouldn't work, nor wishing to be left alone. Even killing himself would now require a real, active choice - even if it were a choice to become . . . nothing.

For some reason, it seemed appropriate to stand up.

"Gene, after I become a djinni, I wish that anyone who is able to find my bottle and command me must only wish for things that are compatible with my nature."

The djinn nodded, but aside from that did nothing. Nonetheless, Ephraim felt a sort of . . . tension in the air, an almost-electric sense of hovering energy, like a lightning bolt was about to strike. He almost looked around to see if the were a thunderstorm building behind him, though at some level Ephraim knew it was only a perception of some unknowable personal sense, not something others would see.

So he took a deep breath. And then took another one. And then another one.

"You're stalling," Gene said, but his voice was surprisingly gentle. Maybe he felt the truth had enough power that he didn't need to emphasize it.

Of course he was right, so . . .

"Gene, I wish you would make me a djinni."

Chapter 3: "Djinni"

This was apparently important enough that Gene decided to stand up, too. He pointed his fingers in several strange directions - a couple were pointed at Ephraim, but a couple were directed away. It didn't make any sense (at the time) but what was even weirder, so silly that Ephraim almost laughed out loud, was when Gene *blinked*. Right out of "I Dream of Jeannie" and the djinn hadn't been out of his bottle since before that show was on.

At first, Ephraim didn't notice anything. There wasn't any flash of light or puff of smoke or lightning bolt out of the fingers that were pointed at him. It took a while - a couple of seconds is a long time when you're waiting like that - before Ephraim noticed that he wasn't able to move. In fact, he was losing feeling . . . well, it was more like losing contact with his fingers and toes. It wasn't just that they were numb. It's was like they were just . . . elsewhere.

About the time Ephraim was noticing that, he realized that he was losing his vision as well. He'd have panicked and screamed at Gene to stop, but he couldn't breathe or speak or move in any way. Yet with his loss of vision, Ephraim seemed to gain some other sort of sense. It wasn't like vision, yet it was in some ways more . . . complete. It was an awareness of everything around him. He knew that a bare branch behind him had dropped a bit of snow, and in another moment - however long that was to the rest of the world - Ephraim realized that there was a mouse in the pile of dead leaves under the snow at the foot of that tree.

As he began to absorb the new sensations, he recognized Gene standing in front of whatever Ephraim had become - except the djinn was more of an aura that showed something . . . something . . . amusement?

Ephraim's awareness told him that his body had sort of evaporated, or pixilated, or whatever. Now he was a cloud of white smoke, like the fire extinguisher discharge that Gene had first showed, but despite the wind, his smoke was not dissipating or drifting away. It had a cohesiveness that had nothing of a body about it, though it was about the young man's height in a fairly slim column.

He didn't know how long that transformation took, but it didn't seem all that long before he felt himself begin to coalesce again. It was, not surprisingly, pretty much the reverse of the previous event though in a strange way just a bit disappointing as the generalized awareness he had possessed faded into the normal senses.

But what coalesced was not what Ephraim was expecting.

"What did you do to me?"

It was not his voice. It wasn't a great deal higher, but the cool resonance was infinitely more interesting - tubular bells tuned to perfect harmony.

"What you wished for," Gene asserted with a grin. "You're now a djinni."

"But I'm a girl," the newly feminized creature said. In one of the monumental failures to prioritize of all time, Ephraim noted - and was glad - that at least he wasn't wearing a harem costume. But *she* was definitely female - complete with new curves and missing . . .

"I did not wish to be a girl!" she asserted.

"Yes you did, or at least, a djinni," Gene said patiently, though still smiling. "Djinni is also the plural form, but as a singular it refers to females. Males are called djinn, as I said when I told you what I was. You clearly wished to become a djinni, and since there's only one of you . . . that makes you a female."

"This is a trick!" the girl yelled. "You tricked me."

Gene shrugged. "No, I did not. It's not in my nature. If you were careless, well, I offered you plenty of time to talk things out, and a chance to change your mind."

The djinni stamped her foot - clad in a nice walking boot that was a lot warmer than Ephraim's shoes had been - and might have ground her teeth but in that delicate mouth it wasn't noticeable. "I thought you were a nice genie."

"Djinn," Gene corrected. "Look, after we talked about you and women, about how you might have been better off as a woman, I thought you just decided to try it out. Frankly, I think it suits you." The last was said with an even wider grin, but he did try to make amends, at least a little.

He waved his hand and a full-length mirror appeared. The burly, needed-a-shave thug was in the mirror, but standing next to him was an incredible vision of loveliness. Inky dark hair flowed in caressing waves to an absurdly tiny waist. The curves continued to flow along a sweep that first swelled to hips that shouted femininity before revealing sleek contours highlighted more than hidden by impossibly tight jeans. Black knee boots as shiny as her hair accented tiny ankles and delicate feet and provided the balance to a snug short black jacket that tried - and failed - to hide a bounty that didn't seem at all cold despite being half exposed to the winter air. Only the face seemed discordant, and that was not because of a lack of beauty. A heart-shaped face framed, arched brows that accented sparkling blue eyes above a trim upturned nose that was in turn above deep red lips so swollen they looked like they might burst open. But a frown didn't belong on that masterpiece of artistic expression.





"You still cheated," she said, but her voice was soft and full of wonder. "You knew that wasn't what I wanted."

Gene shook his head, but his grin showed he was still amused. "No, I did not. I knew this wasn't what you *expected*, and I admit it was fun to surprise you. But I still think it might be what you really wanted - deep down inside."

"Right," she said. "Deep, deep down inside. Where I never knew it existed . . . and still don't."

Suddenly her eyes glowed with an idea. "Gene, for my last wish, I wish to be turned back into a boy, um, man."

"Sorry," the djinn said, though no sorrow showed in his eyes. "Can't do that."

"But you said I had four wishes," she protested.

"Yes, but this last one was a pretty dramatic wish. It, ah, fulfilled my geas." He shook his head and continued. "Though that doesn't matter. You're a djinni now, not a mortal. I can't work magic on you anymore."

"A djinni," the beauty repeated. Then she said it again, "A djinni!"

"If I'm a djinni," she said - now looking at Gene, "then I can do magic, right?"

"Yes," he said, "but - just like me - you can't do your magic on yourself. Except to change your clothes, maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Well, everything has to be in accordance with your nature. You couldn't dress as a man, for example, and I just don't see your nature as being, ah, satisfied with a burkha that hides everything."

"Well, maybe I do," she said. Then she frowned again. "So, how do I do, y'know, magic?"

He smiled again, and waved his arm at their surroundings. In place of the cozy sitting arrangement, they were now back on a forest trail, the only out-of-place elements were two ornate bottles resting on a thick, waist-high stump. A gust of wind whirled around them, carrying both new snow and harder crystals lifted from the ground. The girl shivered and hugged her jacket around her, then her brow furrowed in a frown of a different flavor.

"Hey, why isn't it cold?"

"It is," Gene said. "You just don't feel the cold. You could be naked and just as comfortable."

"Not on your life, jerk!" she snapped. "Ohmigod, this is *your* fantasy, isn't it? Someone who could be a companion. And who, to use your phrase, has to be 'absolutely gorgeous.' Right?"

Gene looked sheepish for a moment, which was strikingly discordant on his dark, thuggish features, then he shrugged. "Well, when you wished to become a djinni, I did, ah, take advantage of the opportunity to make you a pretty one. I think you should thank me."

"For turning me into a girl? Not on your life!" She looked like she was going to grab him by the throat or something, when he raised his hand.

"Magic?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she said, calming down, though her eyes promised she wasn't finished with the topic. But, who wouldn't want to learn how to do magic first?

"Okay," Gene said, "Eph . . . um, you need a new name. You don't look like an Ephraim anymore. Who would you like to be?"

"Name?" she repeated, looking inward for a moment. Then she shrugged. "What difference does it make? I don't care. Pick something."

"Back to your submissive nature, hmm?" Gene replied. "Always wanting others to make your decisions for you. Pick one yourself."

His visage was firm and she knew he was prepared to out-stubborn her on it, so the dark-haired vision thought for a moment. "Ephraim. Nothing like that. Nothing even close. As far as I can get from that. Maybe . . . . backwards? Mireph? Miraeff? Mira . . . nda. Miranda?"

"Good enough. In fact, pretty," Gene said. Then he straightened a little and lapsed into a lecture more. "Magic requires three things. First, you need the power. I don't really know anything about that. I'm not sure even Solomon the Wise really understood where the power comes from. But djinni have it. That includes you, now. Second and third are imagination and faith."

"Faith?" she repeated. "Like in God or something?"

"I don't know," Gene said thoughtfully. "I never thought of that. King Solomon certainly had faith in his God. I wonder . . . well, it doesn't really matter. What you need is faith in yourself."

"Yeah, right," Miranda said. "That lets me out."

"If you really believe that, then it does let you out," Gene said. "But I want you to remember that you're not mortal any more. You are a djinni! And you have magic power."

"Wow," she said softly, looking down at her slender hands as though they belonged to someone else.

"It works like this," Gene said. "You have to visualize the way you want things to be - see it in your mind as real and tangible and solid . . . or liquid or whatever. See the people as the wish would make them be. Make it *real* in your mind. Then *believe* that your vision is real, and the memory of what was is not."

"And then," Miranda asked.

"And then it will be real," Gene said.

"But what about all the arm waving, and you did something with your fingers. And blinked!"

"Actually, what I was doing was my fingers was more on the order of counting on them," Gene said. "Some things, like what it means to be a djinni, were coming from me to you. Some things, like becoming female were neither of us, so I pointed a finger away from both of us so that I would remember that aspect. I was counting down the things I needed to change, and reminding myself - as I considered further aspects - of the decisions I had made."

"And the blink?" she asked.

"Oh, that's like the arm wave. I see the old on one side of my arm, and as I wave it, the new flows in behind it. So there are chairs, or not, depending on my vision. The blink is a more . . . intense form of that. I see the old reality, then close my eyes, and when I open them again the new reality is in place. I suppose you can come up with your own ways to focus the change, but those work for me."

"Wow," she said again. "And I can do that?"

"Yes," Gene said firmly. "Just *believe* you can, and it will happen. Try something simple, like . . . bringing back the chairs."

She was like a kid with a new toy, excited - for the first time in a long time - at the prospect of playing with it. Her delicate brows furrowed in yet another flavor of frown, and she closed her eyes. Gene could see them moving under the softly shadowed eyelids as she visualized what she wanted to make happen. Then she squeezed her eyes tightly and snapped them open.

In front of her were a couple of chairs. She moved to sit in one to see if it was real but Gene stopped her. "Okay, first. They are real. You did that just the way you should, except you need a lot of experience to make them durable. Watch."

He picked up a fallen branch and tossed it at one of the chairs. As soon as the branch touched it, the chair collapsed - not into dust as a sign that the magic was undone. It just broke like it was as strong as a soap bubble, which was probably true.

He sighed. "I remember when I went through that phase. It was a long time ago, but the frustration still lingers. However, there is one more thing that I need to show you."

Gene walked over to the stump that held their bottles. He picked up Miranda's bottle and - showing her what he was doing - pulled the stopper out.

Miranda immediately started to ghost into white fog again, but this time instead of her cloud staying where it was, she was drawn irresistibly into the opening, her fog narrowing to a finger-wide stream that was gone in just a few seconds. Gene put the stopper in the bottle, then set it back on the stump.

A few minutes later, he took the stopper out and the fog reappeared. The transition from narrow stream to full column to human figure to beautiful dark-haired girl was continuous and took less than a minute.

When Miranda finished her transformation, she blinked a few times then looked at Gene. "What did you do? I mean, I know you pulled out the stopper, but then what?"

"I just let it sit there for a few minutes," he said. "What happened to you?"

"I was sucked into the bottle," she said. "But inside, it was sort of like that infinite white room in the Matrix. I was looking around, trying to see . . . well, anything, when I felt myself drawn back out."

"Good," Gene said. "That's the way it's supposed to work. So, here's the good news/bad news. Inside your bottle is a good place to practice your magic. It works just like out here. You can create - well, I told you how I use mine to make castles or whatever. The bad news is, once you get into your bottle and the stopper is put in place, you can't get back out until someone removes it."

"So it's a prison!" she said.

"For some," Gene admitted. "Solomon set them up that way. But for others, it's a playground and sanctuary."

He put the bottle back on the stump. "So, here's your choice. You can stay out here, with no place to go. Your family doesn't know you. You have no job, no ID, no documented skills. You can't legally drive a car. You won't get cold or hungry. But . . . you don't know how to use your power. You're a girl - a beautiful one - in a world where predators roam, and you're not strong enough to fight them off. You can find a shelter or something. All your knowledge of your world remains so you can figure out where one is if you knew before."

"Or . . ," he continued, "you can go into your bottle. In there you can practice your skills and build a world that pleases you. But you'll be in there until someone who would make wishes compatible with your nature finds your bottle. Your choice."

The pretty girl twisted her delicate fingers together and her eyes took on the glisten of tears about to fall. "Oh, Gene, what should I do?"

"I think this is where we started," the djinn said. "You need to start making your own choices, at least until you get a master."

"A master," she repeated. "How will I know who is my master? I mean, if I stay out, can just anyone command me to grant a wish?"

"I keep telling you that I'm not Solomon the Wise," Gene said. "I don't know what form your geas will take, or even if you'll have one. Mine is triggered by the release from my sanctuary. Maybe you'll be free to do whatever you want anyway, and masters won't . . . . well, be your master. I'm sure they won't wish for things that are against your nature because that was one of the wishes that was made before you became a djinni - but neither one of us really knows what your nature is, except that you're not evil."

He shrugged and added, "I tried to make your . . . situation as much like mine as I could. That was what was in my mind and intent when I granted your wish. So if it worked, you'll find yourself needing to grant a few wishes for someone, then the need will pass and you can go back into your bottle."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

Gene smiled. "No cheating. You still need to make your own choice. I'm going to stay out for a while. I'm a djinn with proven skills. No one will bother me, and if I need a driver's license, I'll just create one - one that won't pop like a soap bubble when I hand it to a cop. Same with money or whatever else I need. I usually stay out for a week or so after my geas is complete. But I like my pocket universe, and after I find a few new ideas from this current world, I'll be happy to go back."

Miranda looked at him, and at her bottle. "How long would I be in there?"

"I don't know," he said. "If I get a chance, I'll check on you. But I know my bottle moves when I'm in it. Like I said, I was in a curio shop before you stumbled over me. I can leave your bottle here and come back, but there's no guarantee you'll be here. And if no one finds you . . . . well, I hope you have a good imagination. You'll need it to form good wishes, but you'll need it to flesh out your sanctuary, too."

He looked at her and said, "Oh, one other thing. Time moves differently in there. I was in for sixty years or so, but it didn't seem very long - maybe a few weeks. If I had to guess, or if Solomon were setting this up, you'd have about enough time to learn to use your power before your first master calls you forth."

"So you think I should go in my bottle?" she asked.

Gene just smiled, not falling for her trick - poor as it was.

Miranda looked at him for a moment, looked around the woods for a longer moment, then looked at her bottle for a very long moment. Finally she raised her eyes to the tall djinn and said, "I'll take the bottle."

Gene nodded and pulled the stopper out once again. In a moment, the fog was gone and he put the stopper back into place, then placed it on the stump as though it were the artifact's natural home.

Chapter 4: "Artistic"

Amelia Brubaker - "Amy" to anyone who wasn't trying to get something from her - sighed as she put her latest purchase on her shelf. It was about the only purchase she had made lately, and it was just an old liquor decanter she had found in a garage sale. When she asked the price the owner had seemed surprised even to see it, like maybe one of the neighbors put it out with the other stuff. So the homeowner just asked for an offer, and seemed satisfied with the $5.00 that Amy offered. Hopefully the real owner wouldn't feel cheated.

Actually, Amy thought she might have been the one who was cheated. The decanter looked nice enough - with an interesting dark blue tint and not chipped or broken - but it didn't really fit with her décor. If it were part of a set, maybe . . .

Still, it interested her for some reason and so she had picked it up. "Maybe I just wanted to buy something unnecessary," she thought. She was pinching pennies so hard they were sweating copper blood, and guilt was causing her to regret the frivolity.

"Whad'ya get, Mom?" asked Caitlin, her 11-year-old daughter and only true love . . . now that her ex-husband had taken off after some pro-sports cheerleader with a bust size bigger than her IQ. He had left her with a lot of run-up credit cards and an ignored child support order.

"Just something pretty," Amy replied. "Do you like it?"

"Sure," Caitlin replied. "Pretty color. What's in it?"

"I think it's empty," Amy replied.

"You mean you didn't check?" asked Caitlin.

"No," Amy said. "It's pretty light, and nothing, like, sloshes or anything."

"Well, let's see," Caitlin said. She took after her father, whether she knew it or not, because she was always tinkering with things. There was not nearly as much interest for Caitlin in an intriguing mystery as in an answered question. Amy realized that not knowing what was in the bottle, if there were even anything in it, was part of her enjoyment but not something Caitlin could stand.

"I suppose we should find out," Amy said, then she allowed herself a bit of indulgence. She could put Caitlin off for just a little while, anyway. "But not until after you do your homework."

"Oh, Mother," Caitlin wailed, but it was an old play that they had rehearsed many times. They knew their lines and their timing so it wasn't long before Caitlin exited stage left to her room.

After homework came dinner. No excuses, no exceptions. It was their time together. Of course, if they couldn't be home for some reason, then they just did what they needed to do. But if they were both home, then they ate together and shared what had happened in their lives that day.

After dinner their plans went awry. They couldn't open the bottle. They tried twisting and pulling, cold water and warm, even tapping it (lightly) on a counter. Nothing would dislodge the stopper.

"Looks like you got cheated, Mother," Caitlin said.

"Looks like," Amy agreed ruefully. So much for an indulgent purchase. "Well, kiddo, it also looks like we'll have to work on this in the morning."

"Oh, Mother," Caitlin wailed, but she was grinning when she made her complaint. Amy laughed, too, and they both headed off to bed.

The next morning, Caitlin left for school with access to the bottle unresolved. Amy worked as an office manager / secretary at a small law firm specializing in estate planning, though they had helped her with her divorce. Lawyers sometimes work very long hours, but they don't usually start that early in the morning so she had a little while to spend before she had to leave. Amy decided to spend it working on the bottle. She walked into the family room where they had left it and grabbed it by the stopper just as a convenient handle.

It came off in her hand, followed by a cloud of fine white smoke. The smoke consolidated and in a moment, an incredibly gorgeous young woman stood before her . . . blushing.

"Oops, sorry," the girl said. She tried - with little success - to hide her body from Amy. There were a lot of curves to cover, and the harem outfit that was her only other option was much too sheer to do any good, for all that there were a few, strategic spots where the dark-red color could be seen.

The curvy brunette, tried to explain. "I wasn't expecting a, um, summons quite yet. So I was just, y'know, playing around." With that she waved her hand down her body and replaced the harem gauze with an outfit similar to Amy's. Well, similar in how it might have been described, anyway. Not at all similar in actual shape.

The older woman was dressed as a professional secretary with a rather ordinary white blouse and a dark skirt. Amy wore makeup, but it was quite subdued. Her shoes, like her hair, were sensible in design. Her hair would still have been a nice, rich auburn with no real hints of gray, but it was almost too short to tell and just looked brown. Amy worked hard to keep her figure, but with too many late nights she had . . . settled just a bit. In contrast, the young girl wore a soft white blouse that seemed to glow with an inner light. It fit very well, highlighting wonders that were more than hinted at by the plunging neckline. Her skirt was dark, but it loved her abundant curves even more than the blouse, tapering to sky-high heels that showed the tell-tale sole color of a very famous designer.





"Oh, god," Amy sighed. "I wish I didn't look so frumpy."

"Good start," the girl said. She crossed her arms across her own assets and studied Amy for a moment, then blinked slowly.

The first thing Amy noticed was that she was growing taller. Then other sensations flooded in; hair that billowed around her head and draped over . . . "Ohmigod," she gasped.

Her unremarkable white blouse had been replaced by a rich hunter green that brought out the red in her newly long hair. As she tried to look down to see what else was happening, the girl waved an arm and a full-length mirror appeared.

"I gave you the basic 'Mommy Makeover' package," she said. "Boob job, tummy tuck, and a bit of a face lift though you really didn't need much. Plus new clothes and a bit more flattering makeup. None of it is actually surgery, of course, but it doesn't look like it requires magic. I hope that's okay, Mistress."

Amy - despite the contrary evidence of a poor choice in husband - was a lot smarter than her secretary job might imply. If she ever got caught up, she intended to go to night school and work on her law degree. She already knew nearly as much about estate law as the lawyers in the firm where she worked. So she used her fine mind to draw some immediate conclusions, and her strength of character to accept the impossible results.

'You're a genie," she exclaimed.

"Djinni," the girl said.

"Do you, I mean, really grant wishes?"

The black-haired girl nodded. "I think so. I guess I did, already."

"You - what is your name, anyway? - you don't know if you grant wishes?"

"I'm Miranda, Mistress," the djinni said.

"Miranda," Amy repeated, then she said, "Oh, sorry. I'm Amy, um, Amelia Brubaker."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia," Miranda said.

"Real wishes?" Amy returned to the topic.

"I think so," Miranda said. "Actually, I'm, um, new at this. You're my first master, or, I mean, mistress."

Amy asked, "You really don't know if you can grant wishes? I mean, you already granted one for me."

"Yes, but I'm not sure what the limitations are," admitted Miranda. "I was just turned into a djinni a little while ago, and one of the . . . protections is that I don't have to grant wishes that are against my nature. But I'm not entirely sure what that means. I mean, I don't want to do anything evil, but that leaves a lot of room."

"How many wishes? Have I used up my only wish?"

"I don't know that, either," Miranda said. "Except, I can feel that you have at least a couple more. That's part of the 'what is my nature?' thing. The djinn who turned me into a djinni said he tried to make my protections as close to his as he could, and he usually feels the need to grand three or four wishes before the geas releases him."

"Geas," Amy repeated, but it was not a question. "Do you have any idea at all on your, ah, limitations?"

"Well," Miranda said slowly, "I have to be able to visualize the new situation. So the wish needs to be clear enough that I can imagine the result. And I think the, I guess, 'standard' limitations apply. No killing anyone, nor bringing someone back from the dead. No making someone love someone else because that's, like, taking away their free will and I think that's very bad. And the djinn who transformed me said that all the wishes he grants have to be personal to the master - or, um, mistress. No 'solving world hunger' or anything like that."

Miranda twitched with a memory and then added, "Oh, yeah, he said that a lot of his, um, clients end up using their last wishes to undo earlier wishes, so I guess you need to be careful what you wish for." The gorgeous young woman giggled and said, "Hey, that's a cliché, but it's real!"

Amy smiled, but asked, "So, if I asked you to make all my problems go away . . ?"

Miranda shrugged. "Well, in the first place I'd have to understand your problems - which I am totally willing to try to do - but we'd, I mean you'd - have to be careful or you might find other problems flooding in behind the ones you got rid of. Like, if you asked to be rich I could put a couple of million dollars here on the floor, but then the Treasury Department would be after you for counterfeiting, and the IRS would be after you for taxes, and . . . well, I don't know what else."

"I see," Amy said thoughtfully. "How long do I have to make up my mind?"

"As long as you need," Miranda said. "Of course, I'll sort of be hanging around until then. Nothing I can do about that. It's part of the deal."

"That's fine," Amy said with a nice smile. "I'll welcome the company."

She walked over to her phone and hit a speed dial. In a moment, she said, "Mr. Danvers? This is Amy. I'm sorry but some business has come up and I won't be in to work today. No, nothing you can help me with, I'm afraid. I'm sure I can handle it, but it will take some time. The Richardson brief is all typed up and in the folder on your desk. Yes, that's all I was working on right now. I was even thinking about asking for a day off anyway. Thank you, and you too."

As Amy turned away from the phone, she saw her reflection in the mirror again.

"Oh . . . my . . . god," she whispered. Then she said louder, "Oh my God! What am I going to tell everyone about . . . this?" She waved her hand down her enhanced form and clothes.

"Well," Miranda said, "I don't suggest you tell anyone that a djinni did it."

"Thanks," Amy said dryly. But there was a smile twitching her lips and crinkling her eyes.

"Do you have a computer?" asked Miranda.

"What? Oh, sure," Amy said, lifting one newly shaped eyebrow in a question.

"I wonder if we can find, ah, reasons for your improvements. Reasons other than me, that is. Unless you want to use another wish to undo that one?"

"No," Amy said sharply. As though even the thought of undoing it was something that needed immediate exorcism, she headed toward the computer. In a short while they had found non-magical, non-surgical ways to achieve what magic had done. They were uncomfortable and temporary, but they were 'real.'

"So," Amy said. "We'll say that I am just, ah, trying out a new look. If I like it - of course I do, but that's the story - then I might do something more permanent."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia," Miranda said. "What else can I do for you?"

"Oh, my, what a question," Amy said with a sigh. "How many wishes do I still have?"

"Probably three," Miranda said. "I think it depends on how, um, dramatic the wishes are."

"Right," Amy said. She thought for a few minutes, then asked, "Just how good is your imagination?"

"I wish I knew," Miranda answered with her own sigh. "I guess I see it as layers. I can easily see the first level of response - like making a pile of money. I have a vague idea of the second level of response. 'What would the Treasure Department or IRS do?' I might be able to do something about that. Maybe. But I'm sure there's a third and probably a fourth level of response for anything big, and I don't even know what they might be."

"What could we do instead of just, um, creating a pile of money?" asked Amy.

"I think you're the one who has to decide that," Miranda said. "I guess I knew what you meant by 'frumpy' and could fix that, but I'm not very good at, um, making decisions. That's why I became a djinni."

"You chose to become a genie?" asked Amy.

"Long story," Miranda said, "and not particularly relevant, except that making decisions is not something I do well."

Amy nodded, then looked around her little house. There were so many things that they needed. But even three more wishes was not enough to fix all the detail problems in her world. She needed to think bigger.

"I need a continuing and 'official' source of money," Amy said.

"I can do the continuing easily," Miranda said. "But 'official?' I don't . . ."

"That's all right, Miranda," Amy said reassuringly. "I can work on that."

She stood up from the computer and walked around the house, unconscious of the ease with which she balanced on her own very high heels. And then she was conscious of it . . ."

"I could never walk in heels this high," she said in amazement.

"Oh, well, neither could I," Miranda said - not telling Amy it was because before she became a djinni she was a guy. "But I've been practicing, and I guess I learned enough about it to, y'know, include it in my solution to the frumpy issue. As I said, if I can imagine it, I can make it happen."

"Right," Amy said. She walked over to an art print that she had had for longer than she had Caitlin, eyes lighting with an idea. "Can you make me an artist? A famous artist, whose works command enough money that I could live well on it?"

"Oh, well, maybe," Miranda said. She thought for a moment, then added, "I think you'd have to describe the style of art you want, and I might have to study up on it a while. And, um, becoming famous might take a while if it weren't to look, like, magical. So perhaps an art showing where you are 'discovered' and then let the word spread."

"That would work," Amy said, "and I know just the style I want to be able to paint."

She showed Miranda the art print. It was an interesting combination of impressionism and abstract shapes. There was a soft pattern to the lights and shadows that showed a definite composition, but it was too abstracted to pick out details. In fact, it was easier to 'see' from across the room than close up.

"Genie, oh, sorry, Miranda, I wish to be able to paint in this style, and have my works become popular enough that I can sell them and not have to worry about money any more."

Miranda nodded and closed her eyes, using her imagination to set up the before-and-after condition. Before she did anything, though, she opened them again. "Are you going to get in trouble for copying another artist's style?"

"Well, if you do my wish right, then no," Amy said. "I don't have to be renowned solely for originality. All I want is to be able to paint well enough to take care of my money problems."

"Okay, here goes," Miranda said. She closed her eyes again, crossed her arms, and furrowed her brow in concentration. After a moment, she opened them and drew a card out of her décolletage. She showed Amy the card.

"Introducing Amelia," it said. "An artist whose works give your innermost thoughts form and depth."

There was a location and a time specified, three days in the future.

"Is this real?" asked Amy.

"Well, the show is real, and as best my imagination can capture it, you have the skill. But you need to have a few paintings, too. I can make those, but you have to describe them very carefully or they won't be what you want, or can do in the future."

"Maybe I'll just paint them myself," Amy said. "With a little help."

Miranda nodded, then she smiled and said, "As you wish, Mistress Amelia."

Amy gathered up her things and they were quickly on their way. She knew of an art supply house already, but as soon as she started looking at the array of items, she felt the power of Miranda's spell. Amy *knew* with unconscious certainty what she needed in everything from brushes to paints to pre-stretched canvases. All Miranda did was stand by, distracting all the men and some of the women with her beauty.

Amy was so caught up in her new ability that she didn't realize the effect Miranda was having on others until they were once again in the car on their way home. "Oh, dear, what will we tell Caitlin?"

"About what?" asked Miranda.

"About you, for one thing," Amy said. "And about, well, this . . ." Her arm waved over both her new figure and the stack of art supplies in the back seat.

"Well," Miranda said with a grin, "I don't suggest you tell her that I'm a djinni."

"Right," Amy said with equal dryness. "What do you suggest?"

"I'm not, um, very good at making decisions, Mistress Amelia," Miranda said, her formal address reminding Amy that she had to work out her own problems, at least to the point of a well-formulated wish.

"The good news . . ," Amy mused after a thoughtful moment, " . . . is that I can claim that I did things or knew a lot of people from before Caitlin was even born." She thought for a while as she drove, then a confident smile lit her face. "So, Miss Miranda . . . what ?"

"Whatever you want, Mistress Amelia," Miranda replied. "Nothing from before applies to me any more."

"Okay, Miss Miranda Cambridge. You're an art agent. You found some paintings I did when I was in college - I actually did a few, though without much talent - and hunted me down because you saw something in them. You've come to set up a show for my work because you think they are good enough to sell. You'll be staying with us for a few days . . ?"

Miranda nodded. "If you want. My bottle is actually quite comfortable. It's a lot bigger on the inside than it looks. I can stay there if you want."

"No, not if it's my choice," Amy said. Miranda nodded quite agreeably. "We have a spare room, and you can help explain . . . well, the rest of this to Caitlin." Amy waved her hand down her improved appearance again.

"Ah, yes," Miranda said. "I thought it would help your art sell if you looked more . . ."

"Less frumpy," Amy interrupted, but she laughed.

"If you say so, Mistress," Miranda said, but her eyes danced with agreement.

It turned out that Caitlin was a lot more interested in her mother's new look than in her mother's new friend. And even more interested in the bottle that she had been unable to open. When they got to the room with the bottle, she was disappointed to find the stopper lying next to it.

"Ah, mother, how could you?"

"Actually, we must have loosened it last night. This morning I was just moving it and the top came right out."

"Right," Caitlin said, but she picked up the bottle and looked inside. "It was empty?" she asked.

"It's empty," Amy said casually, not quite confirming what her daughter had assumed.

Caitlin looked again at her suddenly elegant mother and said, "So, you're an artist?"

"Your mother is an extremely talented artist," Miranda said.

"Doesn’t surprise me," Caitlin said so easily that Amy looked at her sharply.

"Oh, Mother, I always knew you were special," Caitlin confirmed. Then she looked at Miranda and said, "If all you do is convince . . . or maybe remind her that she's pretty, then I am very grateful to you."

"My, Mistress Amelia, you have a wonderfully polite daughter," Miranda said.

Caitlin snickered, then executed a fairy-tale princess curtsy to her mother, "Mistress Amelia."

Amy laughed, then reached out and hugged her daughter. "This one has always been a brat. A precocious, 11-going-on-17, brat."

"And I learned all that I know from you, Mother," Caitlin said with a smile so innocent you could just see dimples even though none showed on the outside.

"Homework," Amy ordered with another chuckle, sending Caitlin on her way with a pretend slap at her bottom.

The evening passed quickly, in part because Caitlin bubbled with stories of school and appreciation for her mother's new look and for how pretty 'Miss Miranda' was and how she wished she'd have been there when the bottle was opened and how it was a pretty bottle even if it didn't really fit in with the other things in their house and how come Mother didn't tell her she was such a good artist and how did 'Miss Miranda' track her down after all these years . . .

In part, Caitlin monopolized the conversation because she was an 11-year-old girl. In part, she was allowed to run on because Amy was clearly distracted. She smiled at intervals and answered direct questions, but her eyes were lost in the distance for most of the evening. It was almost a relief when they finished cleaning up and Amy offered to make a bowl of popcorn if everyone got into their nightgowns first.

Then she gasped and looked at Miranda, who would definitely not fit into any of her clothes. In fact, Amy wouldn't fit into most of her own clothes any more. But the djinni-in-disguise just smiled and nodded. Caitlin scampered off to her own room while Miranda walked with Amy to the master bedroom. The djinni waved her arm and Amy's closet and dresser glowed with an inner light for a moment. When the delighted mother opened them she found much more stylish clothes and one look at her lingerie showed it was sized to her new form.

"Thank you so much, Miranda," Amy said.

"All part of the service, Mistress Amelia," Miranda replied, but she reached out to hug the older woman for just a moment. "If you'll excuse me," Miranda said after their embrace, "I'll just 'move' into the spare room. It wouldn't do for Caitlin to find I don't have any clothes but what I'm wearing."

As Amy had planned, they all gathered again in the family room to watch a movie and eat popcorn. Amy had discovered a long, flowing nightgown in a soft green pastel, with an accompanying negligee that together looked both sensual and dignified - or at least as dignified as eating popcorn would allow. Caitlin wore flannel pajamas that were clearly comfortable but made no pretensions in the sensual domain. Which was appropriate for an 11-year-old girl, but certainly set her apart from the others. For when Miranda arrived, she had a wine-red nightgown that was so dark it looked almost black. It was snug everywhere it touched, and it touched everywhere that a man might find interesting - except for a long slit up one leg that showed - maybe - that she wasn't wearing any underwear.

Amy smiled when Miranda joined them, no longer feeling frumpy but neither feeling like she had to compete. Caitlin, on the other hand, stared at first, then sighed.

The popcorn binged in the microwave and Amy moved to get it for them. While she was out of the room, Caitlin looked at Miranda and sighed again. "I wish I was older," she said. "So I could look as hot as you and Mother do."

Miranda nearly flinched, trying to determine if she was under a compulsion to grant the girl's wish. "It's a good thing she's not the one who opened the bottle," she thought when she realized the wish had no power over her. It allowed her to respond more normally. "Why? You're cute, and you will have so much fun growing into a beautiful woman."

"Cute," Caitlin said, sighing even deeper. "I don't want to be cute. I want to be sensual and gorgeous and hot enough to melt boys' hearts at fifty paces."

"Wow," Miranda said, laughing. "That's a vivid image. How old are you, really?"

Caitlin shrugged. "Little enough that none of my . . . self is growing yet. I wish, well, maybe not to be older, but to be a little further along in my, yknow. Janie Cameron is wearing a bra! And not just a training bra. She has real, y'know . . . shapes."

Miranda reached out and patted her hand, sighing with her. "I'm sure you'll develop into a beautiful woman. Your mother is certainly pretty. But I'm also sure you're very, very tired of hearing everyone tell you that."

"OMG, for sure," Caitlin said, and while it wasn't a wail, it was only because she deliberately held her voice down.

Amy returned with the popcorn and they munched quietly for a while, allowing the movie to provide an excuse for the silence. Each had her own separate thoughts and Miranda didn't need any magic to make a pretty good guess what each was thinking. Her own thoughts were on what it was like to be with women, doing stereotypically feminine things. "Gene might have been right," she considered silently. "I've never done anything like this, and I like it. Maybe he was right to make me a girl djinni."

Her musings were interrupted by Amy, who stood up and put the half-empty bowl of popcorn on the table. "Bedtime, Catie," she said.

"Oh, Mother," Caitlin protested. "Just a little while longer."

"This is a recorded movie," Amy said. "You're ten minutes late for bed already, and we've seen this movie half a dozen times at least."

"Oh, Mother," Caitlin protested again, but she was already moving toward her room.

Amy did a few hostess things like making sure that Miranda knew where the towels were, but the older pair were not too far behind Caitlin.

Chapter 5: "Star of the Show"

In the morning, Miranda got up early enough to prepare Caitlin a nice breakfast - early enough that the young girl never knew that none of it had actually seen a pan en route to her plate. But the young girl showed her appreciation both in words and by eating quite a bit of it before dashing for the door. Amy came in with just enough time for a quick hug and kiss to her vanishing daughter.

"I've been thinking," she told Miranda as soon as Caitlin was safely elsewhere.

"You seem to be good at it," Miranda replied with a twinkle in her sapphire eyes.

"What? Oh, yeah, well, whatever. Look, here's the problem: I need to get at least three or four paintings done in the next three days - well, two and a half. And it takes a week of hard work for a single painting. What am I going to do?"

Miranda looked at her, showing full attention but no intent to supply an answer.

"Right," Amy said, as though she expected that non-response. "So, if I made a wish to be able to paint faster, could you grant that?"

Miranda thought for a moment, trying to envision how to meet that request. "I think so, but it might make you very tired if you work that hard."

"Good enough . . ," Amy said thoughtfully. " . . . So, here's my wish. Between now and the show, I wish to be able to finish 60 hours of painting every four hours, including things like paint drying fast, with no loss of quality or artistic content, until I get at least 4 . . . no 5 paintings done. Oh, and without impeding my ability to be effective in showing my work at the display."

Miranda looked thoughtful for a moment in turn as she absorbed the wish. "I'm not sure I know enough about, y'know, biology to do that right. I mean, I can grant your wish, but there may be consequences."

"Fair enough," Amy said. "As long as I can get some paintings done, and be okay for the show, I'll take that chance."

"Yes, Mistress," Miranda said, recognizing the power of the decision. She blinked her eyes more for the mental concentration than because there was any before-and-after change in Amy's appearance. But as soon as her eyes opened, the older woman was moving at nearly a run for the glassed-in porch that ran across the back of the house.

Amy moved so quickly that it looked jerky at first, but in fact every motion - at least with a brush in her hand - was smooth and controlled. The first thing she did was prepare several canvases with a white lead base layer, and by the time the last was covered the first was dry enough to allow a true beginning.

Miranda found it almost tiring to watch the other woman work so fast. Amy - or 'Amelia' - worked in soft colors and her first canvas was mostly blues on one side, with an arcing fan of white to subtly pink or peach tones on the other side. It provided a pleasant, relaxing combination of colors that would sooth the observer, and yet . . .

Perhaps it was the speed at which the painting developed, but suddenly Miranda saw the story behind the colors. It was her own appearance. The blues on one end suggested both the color of her bottle and the intricate cut-glass exterior. The arc of white was her cloudy appearance, and the pink was her shape - just recognizable as female - forming as the mist consolidated. She found herself tilting her head and moving closer . . . then backing off to see the whole. If she had any doubts about the composition, they were removed when Amelia provided a visual link between the blue on the left side with what were clearly strands of long, bluish hair above the female figure. None of the painting used dark tones like her actual hair, but the contrast with the bright white of the smoky arch linking the sides made the impression real.

The result was a painting that offered reward on several levels. The soothing colors offered relaxation to begin with, but the embedded shapes provided a reason to study the image for as long as one wanted to spend. It would never grow old or seem to have revealed all its secrets. And for one who truly understood the context, it was amazing.

"Wow," Miranda said as Amelia stepped back and started to clean her brushes. "That's awesome."

"Thank you," Amelia said curtly, but the abruptness was due to her speed, not a lack of courtesy. She was already moving to another canvas. Miranda looked at a clock and conjured a sandwich and coffee, interrupting Amelia before she started the next painting and convincing her she needed to eat something to avoid running out of energy. The artist gulped down the offered meal, already mentally engaged with the second painting.

Miranda took advantage of her concentration to make a call. "Mr. Danvers? This is Miranda Cambridge. I'm Amelia Brubaker's agent. Yes, an agent for her artwork. You didn't know she was - is - an artist? Well, she's actually very good. In any event, I'm in town for a short while and have arranged for her to show some of her new work at the Mannheim Gallery this Saturday night, but I'm afraid it means she will have to have today and tomorrow off as well, to finish the pieces. I'm sorry if it inconveniences you. Could I interest you in some tickets to the show? I'll bet you find enough clients to make up for the inconvenience. Yes, very well. Two tickets, and I'll have them delivered to your office."

That evening, the 11-going-on-17 Caitlin had the wisdom to leave her busy mother alone. She looked in on the artistic energy, but turned back to the kitchen to make herself something to eat. Miranda followed her out.

"Let me get something for you," the djinni-in-disguise offered.

"No, let me get *you* something, Miss Miranda," Caitlin said. "I'm not much of a cook, but I can make a decent salad.

"Sounds good," Miranda said. "We can make enough for three and get your mother to eat some, too."

"Good luck," Caitlin said. "When she gets like this she hardly eats and doesn't sleep until she collapses.

"Does she get like this often?" asked Miranda, wondering how much - if any - magic was involved in Amy's last wish.

"She hasn't for a long time," Caitlin said with a sigh. "She, um, I guess the cliché works - she threw herself into her work after Daddy left. It wasn't a good time."

"She didn't have time for you?"

"She didn't have time for anyone," Caitlin said. "I never blamed her. It was all Daddy's fault. I hope that bit . . . witch he ran off with is fat and sloppy now. Mama is good looking when she lets herself be."

"Yes, she is," Miranda agreed.

Caitlin sighed deeply and said, "I wish she could find someone else. Someone nice and loving and . . . well . . . attentive to her."

"And attracted to her? Do you want another father?"

"Not really," Caitlin said. "I mean, who wouldn't want someone to do daddy-daughter things with? But I'm okay. I just think she's lonely."

"But you're not?"

The girl blushed brightly, and ducked her head.

"You have a boyfriend!" Miranda said.

"I wish," Caitlin said with an even deeper sigh. She looked where her mother still worked then whispered. "Do you promise not to tell anyone?"

Miranda smiled. Apparently, for all that she said she wasn't lonely, Caitlin needed a best friend to share secrets with. The one-time loner could understand that, and nodded.

"There's this boy," Caitlin began. "He's nice. He's smart and he's strong and, well, he's nice. Some of the other big guys are jerks, always pushing people around and putting them down. But he's not like that. I mean, he's big enough and all, but he like, saves it for the field, where the opponents like, signed up for the roughness. In school he's polite and . . . nice."

"What's his name," Miranda asked.

"Mike Bannon," Caitlin said softly, looking again toward her mother.

Miranda leaned closer to make it clear the conversation was private. "And does he think you're . . . nice?"

"He doesn't even know I'm alive," Caitlin said, her voice holding a tiny note of despair within the whisper.

"Yet," Miranda said.

"What?"

"He doesn't know you're alive yet," Miranda said. "If you grow up to look like your mother, boys will notice you."

"Right," Caitlin said, sighing again. She finished up the salad and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Caitlin clearly changed the subject. "Do you think Mother will really eat something?"

"Yes," Miranda said. "She knows she can't run herself down too far or she won't be in shape for the show."

And so it turned out. They timed their return to the sun room for when Amelia had finished another painting, but with that opportunity they were able to prevail upon her to eat something.

Miranda decided, after looking at the painting, that the cheerleader who had captured her husband's attention had been blonde. This painting was angry. It was not dark, but the colors were more saturated and tended toward reds and yellows - some of which revealed an abstracted shape that became feminine as Miranda studied it.

"You even got the dark roots," she commented with amusement.

Amelia twitched and said, "What? What are you talking about?"

Miranda just laughed. "This is a good one, too."

"Thank you," Amelia said, but she smiled and nodded that Miranda had indeed seen the correct image - or at least the one that Amelia had intended. The artist knew that part of the value of abstract art is that the viewer can put her own interpretation on the image as it triggered her imagination, but the artist's intent was at least one interpretation.

They let Amelia return to her painting, but the caveat she had included with her wish allowed Miranda to be successful, a few hours later, when she urged Amelia to get some sleep. If not, she wouldn't be 'effective in showing her work' at the gallery. The artist was up and active again the next morning. While she worked, Miranda used a combination of her own magic and the magic of 'sufficiently advanced technology' known as the internet to do a little research.

Since Amelia was completely absorbed in her painting, after her research Miranda spent a little time with Caitlin. They talked about boys, and about fashions and about boys, and about schoolwork and teachers and boys and . . .

Actually, as might be expected, Caitlin did most of the talking. But after she had done a first pass through all of the experiences of her young life, she took a deep breath and looked at the patient Miranda.

"You don't talk much," Caitlin observed.

"You've been doing enough for both of us," Miranda replied, but her eyes smiled and it was not a complaint. In fact, Caitlin could see a sincere appreciation for the time they had spent together.

"I'm not boring you, am I?" she asked anyway.

Miranda shook her head quickly. "Goodness no. I enjoy our time together . . .

Her voice trailed off and the young girl thought she had done something wrong. She saw a sheen of tears in Miranda's eyes and wanted to ask about it, but sometimes adults don't want to admit when they are being emotional so she just sat quietly for a moment.

After that moment, Miranda smiled again. "I was just thinking about . . . my life. I never had a chance, really to do 'girly' things like sit and chat. I appreciate your patience with an 'older' person."

"Ohmigod, Miranda - I mean, Miss Miranda - you don't need to apologize to me for anything! You've done wonderful things for Mama, and you've treated me like an adult, mostly, and that's . . . great."

"You are like an adult . . . mostly," Miranda replied. She decided it would be a good time to reveal a secret. "I've been working on something," she began. "Your mother needs a chance to rest once she gets her paintings done, but tomorrow we need to take her to a salon. She needs to be 'fabulous' for her artistic premiere."

"Ohmigod, yes!" squealed Caitlin. Then it was her time to get quiet, and for a sheen of brightness to show in her eyes.

"Oh, silly girl, of course you're going, too," Miranda said. "Now, you're not getting made up like a 25-year-old tart. It will be tasteful, but we can do a little something for your first public appearance. I'm sure your mother will agree."

"Oh, really," Caitlin replied dreamily.

Miranda leaned over and whispered, "What sort of dress would you like?"

Caitlin had some ideas on that. And on hairstyle, and on shoes, and on . . .

"Oh, Miss Miranda, could I have a little . . . help? Please?" She touched her not very shapely body in a few places, her eyes pleading.

Miranda frowned, but then she smiled. "Perhaps. Nothing too much, now, but . . . perhaps."

Caitlin giggled and started on another flood of opinions on that, justified by the very carefully studied examples of others in her class. Miranda giggled along with her, not promising anything but not saying no, and even that possibility was enough to have Caitlin floating six inches off the cushions on the couch they shared.

"But now you need to go to bed," Miranda said after Caitlin started to get repetitious. "You're not an adult yet, and you'll need a good night's sleep before the big event."

Caitlin didn't even complain. Dreams of what might be were enough to keep her floating as she went through her nighttime routine and then to her bedroom.

"Miss Miranda?" she called as she reached for the light.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. I don't know if Mama will agree, but thank you even for the hope you gave me."

"Oh, I think she'll agree," Miranda said. "But thank you in turn for giving me a chance to spend an evening with such a wonderful young woman." Then the djinni-in-disguise giggled again and added, "If I ever have a daughter, she'll hate you. Because I will always be using you for an example of how a proper young lady behaves."

Caitlin giggled in turn, but her smile was not just a simple agreement. It showed a deep-seated pleasure at a compliment she wanted more than she even recognized until it was received.

Amelia the artist finally finished her fifth painting just after midnight - making it actually the morning of the gallery show. Miranda was there to see her complete it, then catch her as she almost collapsed with fatigue the moment her wish was fulfilled. Since Caitlin had long since gone to sleep, Miranda used a little magic to get the artist into bed.

The next morning started rather late. It was no coincidence that it was a Saturday; the best art shows are on the weekend. And it was no coincidence that they had reservations at a tony salon several notches up from any place Amy had ever been able to afford.

She arched an eyebrow at her new friend when Caitlin walked confidently into the salon with them, but at an answering eyebrow question from Miranda, she nodded. Amy had a further question, though. "Just what did you have in mind?"

"Well, for you, we want something just a bit edgy," Miranda said. Nearly everyone will be in black, so you will wear an emerald green that brings out the highlights in your hair. And it will be cut just a bit too deep, proving that it's you under the gown. Oh, and your ankles will hate me."

"And Caitlin?" asked an anxious mother, who now had more than a daughter to be anxious about.

"With your permission, I found an undergarment that will give her a few curves - nothing out of the range of her classmates, but more than she has now. Over that will be a pale gray gown that has a few little girl touches like a Peter Pan collar and lace, but it will show those almost-real curves just a bit. And we'll give her kitten heels."

"Oh my god," gasped Amy. "She will love it, and love you forever."

"Not forever," Miranda said - but only on the inside. On the outside she just smiled and said, "I think she will be pleased."

Almost as an afterthought, just to be polite, Amy asked, "What will you be wearing?"

"Oh, I have a black gown, with some sparkly accents," Miranda said. Her gown was quite elegant, with a deep V front and an even lower back that left smooth skin bare almost to the point of showing another cleavage - which had everyone wondering how her more-than-ample assets could be so well behaved with no visible support. The sparkly accents followed the neckline from waist to shoulders and looked like pea-sized rhinestones. Except they weren't rhinestones; one of the benefits of being a djinni. They surely did sparkle though. She was careful not to draw any additional attention to herself; no grand gestures or loud laughter, but of course with her beauty and the provocative outfit, attention followed.





Nonetheless, Amelia's paintings truly were good and the newly discovered artist was the center of the show. At one point, Miranda felt a tug on her arm and looked to see Caitlin with an incredibly complex emotion on her face. She was both eager and scared, breathless and panting.

"He's here!" she whispered with desperate intensity.

"Who?" asked Miranda, as though she didn't know.

"Mike Bannon," Caitlin said with a near-snarl of 'how could you be so stupid?'

"Indeed?" Miranda said. "Which one is he?"

"Over there," Caitlin said, pointing only with her eyes. "But don't look!"

"Why not?" Miranda said. "In fact, let's walk over there."

She took Caitlin's hand with enough firmness that the girl could only have gotten away by making a scene, which she didn't want to do. In a moment they were approaching the young man, who was in turn escorted by a man Amelia's age.

"Hello," the man said as they approached, and to his credit his attention was - apparently - on Caitlin. "My son tells me that this young lady is the daughter of Amelia."

"Yes, she is," Miranda replied.

The man smiled and offered his hand. "I'm Ray Bannon. My son - though the looks she's been giving him and whispered conversation with you suggests you already know - is Mike."

"I'm Miranda Cambridge," the djinni-in-disguise said. "Amelia's agent."

"Ah, yes," the man replied. "I see you have excellent taste in art."

"Thank you, but it is Amelia's talent that is truly excellent."

"Of course," the man said easily. Then, with proper introductions between the adults accomplished, Bannon turned to Caitlin. "Miss Caitlin, you are even more attractive than Mike was telling me, and he's been most . . . talkative on the subject."

"Dad!" Mike said plaintively. Caitlin just blushed like her skin was on fire, but her eyes widened at the revelation that Mike definitely knew who she was.

Bannon turned back to Miranda. "He's the one who insisted we come, when he found out that Caitlin's mother was the star of the show. Oh, and after we received some free tickets from somewhere."

"Ah, I see," Miranda said with a smile at the young almost-teens discomfort. "Perhaps you'd like to meet her."

"I would, indeed," Bannon said.

As they walked toward the crowd gathered around Amelia, Miranda asked a question to which she already knew the answer. "Is Mrs. Bannon with you tonight?"

"I'm afraid there is no Mrs. Bannon," Ray Bannon said. "She was taken from us . . . some time ago."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Miranda said. Her timing was pretty good. They were just arriving at Amelia's location.

It would have been unethical, outside a djinni's powers, and against Miranda's nature to use magic to make Ray and Amelia fall in love. She didn't even try. But . . . there was no restriction on creating a special beam of light that made Amelia seem to be bathed in a soft glow, and to cause all the sounds in the audience to become muted, and to have a puff of breeze carry Amelia's perfume to Ray just at the moment they saw each other.

With corresponding effects on Ray for Amelia's eyes and senses.

Miranda made what looked like a casual gesture to produce a bit of ultrasonic disturbance focused on the other attendees in the gallery so that in just a few seconds the two single adults had a space that gave them a bit of privacy in the crowded room. Even the younger couple felt it enough to walk off by themselves, whispering together.

Miranda did not eavesdrop on the paired conversations. In fact, she moved off to complete the last aspect of Amelia's wishes. She had invited a real art agent to the gathering and in a few minutes she had worked out a deal for him to represent the true - and only partially magical - talent of the single mother. He was too distracted by Miranda's beauty to question anything she told him, and the contract that she just happened to have was more than generous to Amelia - though in fact her future success would repay the agent very well.

Then, despite all the attention she could have had, Miranda moved behind a partition and vanished.

Chapter 6: "Fitting In"

Throughout history a lot of things have been accomplished by people who just didn't know it couldn't be done - so they went ahead and did it. Miranda found one of those on her own. After she finished with the last elements of Amy's wishes - supplemented by the not-quite-magic of introductions that 'assisted' with Caitlin's wishes as well - Miranda felt a definite urge to go back into her bottle and let her newly stimulated imagination run free. But the urge wasn't overwhelming and she spent a few days just sightseeing. In the course of that she gathered up magazines like those she had found in the salon on hairstyles, makeup tips, fashions, and feminine behaviors that were 'guaranteed to get your man to notice you.' Not that she wanted any men to notice her. Or for that matter, could have avoided it if she wanted to.

In fact, that's where her discovery came in. After dissuading - gently - yet another would-be suitor, she remembered that her so-attractive appearance was actually the result of a wish from Gene the djinn.

"I wonder how he's doing," she thought. "Or perhaps I should ask where he's doing it?"

She checked to see that her own bottle was safely within her somewhat oversized handbag and blinked herself to a private location - choosing the same little clearing in the woods where she had - or at least Ephraim had - first met Gene. It was fall now and the weather was just perfect - not so cold that a fire was required to survive, but cool enough that she could recreate the scene Gene had made real, complete with comfortable chairs and free-standing fireplace.

Of course, his bottle was not there. So that's where she extended the magic of djinni even beyond what Gene had known. The djinn told her that part of making magic work was believing in the change she wanted to make happen. Gene 'knew' that magic didn’t work on djinni, but Miranda was new to the djinni business and that particular limitation was not entirely real to her - and in particular, not more real than the situation she wanted to create. She merely closed her eyes and envisioned him in front of her. Perhaps her imagination was up to the task, or perhaps there was something more than that involved in djinni magic, but when she opened her eyes Gene was not there.

His bottle was.

"I wonder if I can get the stopper out," she thought, even as she reached for it. Whether she had some reason to summon Gene, or whether it was just something djinni could always do to another djinn's bottle, she had no trouble getting it off.

The fire-extinguisher fog spewed forth and resolved itself into a shape both like and unlike the one she had seen before. It was clearly Gene, but this time he was blue and had no legs.

"That's a new look for you," observed Miranda.

"It's that damn movie," Gene said. "My last master was a traditionalist and his vision of me was just overwhelming. Even as he spoke, he shifted into a visually human form. This time, instead of a 50's gang member he was dressed in a suit, with a dress shirt (no tie) and what looked like a 3-day stubble of a beard.

"That's new, too," Miranda said, but she smiled in appreciation.

"Styles change," Gene said. "You're looking pretty good as well. Quite . . . co-ed."

Miranda shrugged, but she smiled. Her own soft leggings, thick sweater, and knee-high boots were both flattering and comfortable. With that easy ambiance, they slid into what must have been a fairly standard djinni meeting, talking about their recent masters (or mistresses). Something in the state of the world must have changed for Gene, because he had experienced two masters in the eight months or so since their first meeting; quite a contrast from the 50 years of his prior seclusion.

When it was Miranda's turn to tell her tale, her eyes glowed with remembered joy at the happiness she had been able to give to Amy, and at the closeness she had felt with Caitlin. She even laughed at the memories of suitors who were drawn to her beauty as irresistibly as moths to flame.

When she ran down, her eyes glistened with happiness . . . and something else.

"So, do you 'fit in' now?" Gene asked. "As I recall, that was your first wish, to know why you didn't fit in. Was becoming a djinni supposed to help with that, or just provide you a bottle to hide in?"

"What? Oh, I don't know," Miranda replied. "Probably some of both."

"And now?" he asked. "I presume talking about it is why you summoned me. You know I can't undo your wish since you are no longer mortal."

"Oh, no, I don't want to change back," Miranda said quickly. Then she thought for a moment and spoke more slowly. "You were right, really. I was . . . pleased to make someone else happy. Particularly since I didn't have to make the decisions. It was nice to know - know because it wasn't something I had chosen, where I might be wrong - that it made them happy."

Miranda spoke lightly, with soft enthusiasm. But she spoke quietly, her voice becoming softer and softer as she remembered. The glisten in her eyes brightened until it couldn't be contained any more. A silent tear drew a line down her cheek despite some rapid blinks.

Gene sat silently, but patiently. Clearly he was going to wait her out if he needed to.

Miranda saw his expression and smiled through her tears. "Oh, Gene, I just don't know. When I was with Amy and Caitlin - especially Caitlin - I felt so close to them. They really liked me, and not just because I could do magic. Caitlin didn't even know, but she confided in me like the childhood BFF I never had."

"BFF?" Gene interrupted.

"Best friend forever," Miranda supplied. "You still have some catching up to do."

She shrugged, or shivered as though she were trying to wriggle out of some confining enclosure. "But, every minute, I knew it wasn't real. I knew I didn't really fit in with them. I was only there to grant some wishes. I was glad their wishes - Amy's wishes - made them happy. I guess that's part of my nature because it felt really good. But it was all going to end as soon as her wishes were fulfilled."

"Maybe you're not a three-wish djinni," Gene offered.

"Oh, I am," Miranda said. "Or at least something like that. As soon as her final wish was fulfilled, I felt an urge to get back in my bottle."

She looked at Gene and pulled her own bottle out of her bag. "It's funny, though I'm sure you understand, but it's not so much a 'pull' where I am compelled to return, as a . . . as an opportunity. I have a lot more things to fuel my fantasies now. I'm looking forward to it."

"But you didn't get back in already because . . . ?"

"I don't know," Miranda said yet again. "I guess I just . . . wanted to . . . talk about it."

"And you can't talk about it with any mortals," Gene provided. He nodded and said, "Now you see why a lot of people wish to undo other wishes."

"I still don't want to change back!" Miranda said quickly. "I mean, I didn't fit in before at all, ever. At least I had a few days of feeling like I was a welcome part of someone else's life."

"Wow, how noble," Gene said.

"What?"

"I said you sure are caught up in your own nobility," Gene said. "Are you really trying to tell me that you didn't - not even once - appreciate how men were attracted to you?"

"I'm not into men," Miranda said quickly.

"I will table that for the moment," Gene said. "Because it's not the question I asked. Just because you don't, ah, return the affection doesn't mean you can't enjoy their attention."

"Oh, no, I guess it doesn't," Miranda said, then a little smile tugged at her full lips. As soon as she realized it, perhaps because of Gene's snort, she blushed. "Okay, so being pretty is . . . nice."

"Tell me about your pull into your bottle some more," Gene requested. "How strong is it?"

"Not too bad," Miranda said. "It's more that I'm, um, curious how some of my fantasies might play out."

"So make them play out in the real world, with mortals," Gene suggested. "I told you several times that I'm not Solomon the Wise. I don't know what your nature will require of you. But if you don't have a compulsion to get back in your bottle, don't. Get out and get laid. Satisfy that curiosity with real people, not just in your imagination."

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she said.

"Why not?" Gene prodded. "I assure you, all the parts are in working order . . . including the hormone pumps."

"I just . . . I mean, I don't know if that's what I want. What if I get, um, close to someone, and I just can't go through with it?"

"Then you'll demonstrate you have fully embraced femininity," Gene said with a snort. "And the guy will go home with sore balls like 9 out of 10 guys on 9 out of 10 dates."

"Does that happen to you?" Miranda asked, delicately biting her lower lip.

"Oh, no you don't!" Gene said, but he laughed so genuinely that she couldn't take offense. "I'm not going to be your guide to the trackless jungles of sexual interactions." He let his eyes walk slowly up and down her body, leering and licking his lips. Then he laughed again to show he had been teasing. "Not that it wouldn't be a fun journey."

Miranda blushed again, but then she frowned. "I'm not sure I can do that," she said softly.

"Maybe you can't," Gene said. "But there's only one way to find out, and I'm not it."

He stood up and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the top of her head. "I've enjoyed talking with you, and now that you know how to summon me - by the way, you'll have to tell me how you did that. I didn't know it could be done. Anyway, I'll be very happy to, ah, exchange favorite . . . arrangements with you. But I won't be your first. You need to find that guy on your own."

He moved a bit back and then grinned at her. "Or perhaps you need to find that girl on your own." With that, he blinked his eyes and a stunning blonde stood in his place - naked and showing definite signs of arousal from soft eyes to swollen lips to . . . other indicators. Then she giggled like a school girl and fogged to a stream that dived into her bottle, followed by the stopper.

Miranda looked around the clearing, then sighed. She vanished the chairs and fireplace, then pulled out her own bottle. Placing it carefully on the stump next to Gene's, she put the stopper next to it, then blinked. In a moment, a fog vanished into the opening and the stopper hopped into place.

* * * * * * * * *

Cole Thornton pulled down another section of ceiling. He was demolishing an old trapper's cabin on the side of a gorgeous mountain, complete with cascading brook of just-loud-enough murmurs. He had found the place abandoned, tracked down the title - actually, the lack of it - and finally found someone in the Department of the Interior who was willing to accept it was properly private land - once back taxes were paid. Of course, convincing him cost even more than the back taxes, but that wasn't much of a surprise.

Thornton worked to change the falling-down relic into a private getaway. So private, in fact, that there were still no roads anywhere close. He had found it while hiking, and though a two-day hike in and another one out were not practical on a continuing basis, it did work for long enough that he could clear a landing pad for his helicopter, a Hughes 520D NOTAR. Even though they'd been bought out by McDonnel-Douglas - and therefore Boeing - years ago, he still thought of it as a Hughes chopper. And he didn't have to worry about breaking a tail rotor out in the middle of nowhere.





Clearing that pad had been the first summer's task. The location was high in the Montana mountains and winter was not a time for outdoor hiking. So this summer he was taking down the old cabin, carefully preserving any logs that could be used for the new cabin he intended to build. It was exactly the sort of labor that any rational man would avoid - hard, dirty, and just a bit dangerous. So of course he loved it. His 'real' job, the one that paid the bills, was spent poring over microscopes and design data. Getting out where the air was clear and building something you could actually see were enormously satisfying.

Even when, like now, objects fell from the overhead aimed at his own head, or his feet, or anything else that was inadequately protected. Some of what fell was still living. Some was long dead. And some . . .

"What's that?" he asked Racer. Racer didn't exactly answer. He looked up, wagged his tail, and snorted at the dust. Maybe that was an answer after all. Then the blue-eyed Siberian Husky lifted himself to his feet and walked over to sniff the offending intruder.

"How did that old trapper get a fancy whisky bottle like that?" Thornton asked. Racer licked it, shrugged, then walked back to his more-or-less safe corner.

Thornton picked up the bottle and looked at it. The cut glass decoration was crisp and clear - no damage or rounded off corners despite however long it had been there. It was tinted a dark blue so he couldn't see inside.

"Wouldn't it be something if this was a 200-year-old brandy?" he asked Racer. The Husky didn't respond. Brandy was apparently not one of the words he knew. "Would you be more interested if I said it might be a cookie?" he asked. At that, the dog's ears perked up and he looked sharply at Thornton. "Sorry, big guy," the man said, laughing. "That was a cheap shot."

Still chuckling to himself, he pulled at the heavy glass stopper. As soon as it was loose, a cloud of white smoke gushed forth, though instead of dissipating, it seemed to coalesce. In a moment, a shapely female figure stood before him. She wore skin-tight (and very much appreciated) black leather, with goggles that covered her eyes. At her side a strapped down holster showed the butt of a very futuristic looking handgun of some sort - though 'gun' might not have been the right term.

"Oops," she said. "I always seem to be playing around when the summons comes." She took a quick glance around the clearing, then blinked her eyes. In a flash - well, not really a flash, no bright light or anything - in any event, in an instant her outfit changed. She now wore rugged hiking boots; tight 'Daisy Duke' denim shorts at the other end of very long, sleek legs; a red flannel shirt with the tails knotted below her ample bust; and a flowing ponytail that started swaying in the breeze immediately, looking almost like the flickering of a true pony's tail.





She bowed and put her hands palm-to-palm in front of her regarding the man who had summoned her. He was fit, thirty-something, on the tall side, dark hair just shaggy enough to fit the setting and contrast with astonishingly pale eyes, and about a week's worth of beard that promised a nice fullness if he ever let it out. Miranda finished her internal appraisal and said, "Your wish is my command, Master."

"What?" Thornton said, then before she could respond he added, "Nahhhhh. I don't believe it."

Instead of replying, she just lifted an elegantly arched brow even higher. He noticed that despite the outdoorsy outfit, her eyes were large and tastefully accented, her cheeks glowed with bright energy, and her lips were swollen rubies.

"Okay, what's the trick? How did you even find this place, and who put you up to it?"

"Actually," she replied. "I don't even know where this is. My bottle has this habit of, um, wandering when it's left by itself."

"You did *not* just come out of that bottle," Thornton insisted.

Again, she said nothing.

"I don't believe in genies," he said.

"Djinni," she corrected, smiling patiently.

"You're serious," Thornton said incredulously.

She just nodded. Then her bright lips twitched in a smirk and she said, "It was hard for me to believe at first, too."

"This is stupid," Thornton said sharply. "Not the least of which is that there isn't anything I want to wish for."

"Good for you," the dark-haired girl said, though something in her tone made her agreement seem less definite than her words.

"No, really," he insisted. "If there is anything I want, I just work for it. I don't need it handed to me on a platter."

"Good for you," she repeated, this time with more sincerity.

"Look, um . . . ?"

"Miranda," she supplied.

"Right, um, Miranda - and I'm Cole Thornton - I'm serious. I don't even like the idea of wishing for something. Anything worthwhile should be earned, not just . . . like, um, magic. I don't believe in magic, either."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is . . ." she began.

"Indistinguishable from magic. Yeah, I know the quotation. Are you saying that your, um, appearance is some sort of advanced technology?"

"I'm not saying anything about magic," she replied. "Just pointing out that your smart phone would be considered magical just a few years ago, and not many years before that so would the helicopter over there."

"Right," he said. "So I'm supposed to believe that whatever you do is real, even though I don't know how it can be done. Like magic."

Miranda smiled, waved her hand down her outfit, and looked pointedly at the bottle. In looking at the bottle, she saw the big dog who was regarding her with careful, but not antagonistic eyes.

"What a beauty," she said brightly.

"Yeah," Thornton echoed, then he twitched and looked at the dog, too.

"Hey, Meathead, why aren't you defending me?" he challenged. Racer just yawned and looked back and forth between them, then put his head down again.

"Maybe he doesn't think I'm a threat," Miranda offered.

"Yeah, well, what does he know? You've just turned my world upside down and I'm likely to have a mental breakdown - maybe I'm already having one."

"Maybe," she said, giggling. "While you're deciding, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Back to the wish thing," Thornton said. "Can you really do wishes? Really?"

"Really," she said. "Though there are limitations."

"You mean, like the movie? Those are real?"

"Mostly," she replied. "The key thing is that I don't grant wishes that go against my nature. Some of the things are real - like no raising dead people - but mostly I won't kill anyone for you because that's against my nature. And I won't make anyone love you because that steals their free will, and that's against my nature."

"I see," Thornton said. "So, assuming I believe you, just for laughs, how many wishes?"

"That's, um, complicated," Miranda said. She looked around again and said, "Do you mind?" With a wave of her hand, two comfortable chairs appeared but instead of a stand-alone fireplace, she just created a teepee of burning logs in the firepit that Thornton had already built.

Thornton shook his head in continuing disbelief, but he moved to one of the chairs as she moved to the other. A snifter of brandy appeared by his seat as he reached it, and a fizzy soft drink by hers.

"This stuff doesn't count as wishes, does it?" he asked.

"That's part of the 'complicated,'" she replied. "I guess the best way to explain it is that there is a sort of magical, um, energy that I have when I come out of the bottle. I can spend it on one or two really big wishes - though even then they have to be personal to you, no 'solve world hunger' sort of things - or lots of minor things. Most people seem to get three or four real wishes before it's, um, used up."

"I see . . ," he said thoughtfully. Then he shrugged and said. "It doesn’t matter anyway. Anything worth having should be worked for."

"So you don't want me to finish this cabin for you?" she offered.

"Not at all!" he said sharply. "Down off the mountain I work in a laboratory. I spend my time frying my brain to solve real, but um, intellectual problems. Up here I want to do things the old fashioned way, with muscle power."

"Like the helicopter?" she asked, smiling.

"That's just how I get here," he insisted. "Once we're here - Racer and I - the rest is . . . well, mostly . . . man-powered. I'm not stupid. I brought up a chainsaw to clear the landing area because if I hadn't the stupid trees would have grown back before I cleared a large enough area. And I'll use one to cut the logs to length. I'll fly in a generator when I get that far, and bring real pipes for the plumbing. I want this place to be comfortable - which is to say, modern - when I get it done. But I also want to build it myself."

"I see," she said, and the light in her eyes showed that she really did. "Money?" she asked.

"I have more than I can ever spend," Thornton claimed. "Both because I've patented some very important medical devices on my own, and because my parents are rich enough to have all sorts of things in the 'if you have to ask, you can't afford it' category."

"That’s . . . interesting," she said thoughtfully, sitting back in her chair.

After a few minutes when she didn't say anything, Thornton asked, "How long were you in that bottle, anyway? This cabin has been empty for like, decades."

"Oh, let's see . . ," she replied, closing her eyes for a minute. "About a year, I guess," she said.

"How'd you get up there, then?"

"That's the interesting part," she said. "I told you my bottle, um, wanders when I'm in it, so I don't have any idea how it ended up here, except . . . well, it shows up when someone needs me to help them. The only people who can find my bottle, or open it, need something that they can't get on their own. I guess that's part of my nature, too. I want to help people, but only to do, um, 'good' things. So I don't get greedy or revengeful or, well, bad masters."

"I'm glad I don't fall in those categories," Thornton said, "but I really don't need anything."

"Yeah. That's what's interesting," she repeated.

As they had been talking, the sun was setting. With it, the temperature started to drop and she shivered despite the fire. Thornton had the helicopter, of course, but other than that - and the ruins of the cabin - all he had was a small tent and a single sleeping bag.

"Look, um, can I at least give us some shelter for the night, and maybe something to eat? I promise I'll make it all go away in the morning."

"Using up wish energy?" he asked.

"I guess," she said. "When I come out of the bottle I'm so full of power that I really need to grant a few wishes. But in this case, I guess they can be my wishes."

With that, she waved her arm and a new clearing appeared well beyond the old cabin. In it was a compact A-frame structure with welcoming lights and the smoke of an internal fireplace coming from the chimney.

"Oh, um, okay," Thornton said after a guilty glance at his tent and sleeping bag.

Inside the cabin they found a pot of hearty stew simmering on a gas stove, with a table already set for two.

"Damn," he said. "This is exactly what I don't want. I mean, I'm grateful . . . except, well, things really should be earned."

"Fair enough," Miranda said. "If you want to go back out to your tent and eat cold beans, you can. Or . . . you can trust that I really did 'earn' this. Share in my, um, reward if you want. Or not."

"Oh, well, that's different," Thornton said, then snickered. "So okay. I enjoy a hot meal and a warm bed, too. And it's not like I, um, wished for this."

"No, you didn't," Miranda confirmed. She proceeded to dish up the stew, along with warm bread fresh from the oven.

"Okay, okay. I'm convinced," Thornton said with a laugh.

Miranda joined his laugh and then looked at Racer, who had followed them in before claiming a spot by the fire as his own. "Can he have the leftovers?"

"Leftovers?" Thornton said. "This is delicious. What makes you think there will be any leftovers?"

The djinni laughed and waved her arm in a causal gesture that ended up with the stewpot completely full again.

"Oh, right," he said sheepishly. Racer, on the other hand, was anything but sheepish as he wolfed down a healthy portion of the stew. True to his manly . . . or at least, masculine nature, after the Husky finished his portion he belched mightily and flopped down to start snoring almost before the sound had quit reverberating through the small structure.

Thornton looked around and didn't see a bed on the lower level. "Look, um, Miranda, it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but I'll just set up my sleeping bag down here."

"Look, um, Cole," she said in deliberate copy of his tone. "It's not that I don't appreciate the invitation, but the bed upstairs is for you. I have my bottle."

"That little thing?" he said. "I thought they were uncomfortable. 'Itty bitty living space' and all."

Miranda laughed and shook her head. "That's one of the things the movie got wrong. It's a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. I'll be more comfortable than you."

"That reminds me. What was with the leather outfit when you first appeared? And was that a gun?"

"A blaster," she said. "It was part of a live-action combat game, except no one gets hurt, of course. Like I said, the inside is a lot larger and I can populate it with people of my imagination."

"Goodness, why do you ever come out?"

"Well, in this case, you opened my bottle," she reminded him. "But I like coming out sometimes, too. It . . . refreshes my imagination. And there's that magical energy thing."

"Oh, right," he said. "Well, if you're sure."

"Absolutely," she confirmed. "Though I may sit down here for just a while. I like the fireplace."

Thornton was hesitant, but then he said, "Would you mind some company?"

"Not at all," she said, and her smile made it true.

Chapter 7: "I Do Have A Wish"

Their decision to spend some more time together in a comfortable, cozy setting had inescapable implications of togetherness - even intimacy. Yet they sat at opposite ends of the couch and just let themselves be captivated by the mesmerizing dance of the flames for a while. They didn't even talk, but the silence was as comfortable as the cabin. From time to time Miranda made a new log appear in the fire. The first time an armwave caused a surge of sparks, Cole was startled and started to rise, but after he realized what had happened, he just grinned wryly and settled back to his corner.

"My cabin will have three fireplaces," Cole said conversationally. "But I forgot to include an automatic log supply in the plans."

"Is that a wish?" Miranda said. "I'm not sure I can do a future wish. I may just have to hang around until you get that far."

"Would that be so bad?" Cole asked softly.

"What?" Miranda replied, then blushed. She didn't answer . . . mostly because she didn't know what to say. Truly didn't know, because the idea was not as disturbing as it should have been.

After a moment, she decided she didn't like that hanging question in the air, so she said, "Tell me more about your cabin. It sounds a little bigger than this one."

"Yes, a bit," Cole said, eyes sparkling. "I call it a cabin, but it will be a real house . . .

Fifteen minutes later, Miranda had another chance to contribute to the conversation, but she used it to get Cole talking again. "Getting all that up here in your little helicopter will be kinda tough, won't it? Will you have to put in a road?"

"No!" Cole said sharply, then laughed and repeated it more gently. "No, no road. I have a friend with a cargo helicopter. The big things like the generator and the fuel tank will be airlifted in. Probably some other things as well. And I'm not a fanatic about no help. I just like doing things myself when I can. I'll have a crew to do the heavy stuff, like the foundation and digging in the fuel tank.

Even with the fire, the room cooled down as the night deepened and Miranda first wrapped her arms around her legs, then found herself shivering anyway.

"I'll just be a minute," she said, not wanting to startle Cole again. She stepped into the small bathroom of the cabin, then returned a moment later. In place of her short-shorts and bare midriff, she had on the soft leggings and thick gray sweater that she found so convenient, this time with equally thick socks in place of boots. Her hair was down from her ponytail, flowing across her shoulders in dark cascades nearly to her waist.





"Wow," Cole said. "I mean, well, I guess 'wow' does just about cover it."

"Thank you, kind sir," Miranda replied with something that might have been a curtsy, or a bow, or a wiggle or some sort.

Then she realized that in her brief absence, Racer had jumped up onto the couch and taken her place. Cole's eyes followed her gaze and he grinned. "At home, that's his place. You should feel flattered he let you borrow it for a while."

"Right," Miranda said, but there wasn't really anywhere else to sit in the small cabin, except a few stools in the kitchen area.

Cole just held out his arm for her to join him on his end of the couch, and she was snuggled into his embrace before she even realized she had done so. And the first shock was not that she was allowing herself to be held by a man. The first - and biggest - shock was how much she liked it. Her servant nature seemed to hold more of submission than she wanted to admit, because she really liked the idea of being protected by a strong . . . by someone strong.

They sat and watched the fire for a while. It was going well enough that she could add larger logs to the stack, and as a result she didn't have to add them as often.

Some time later she woke up, and only then realized she had fallen asleep cuddled against Cole's muscular chest. Thankfully, she woke up without a twitch and she realized he was still asleep without disturbing him. Moving very carefully, she extricated herself from his embrace and only then realized she could have magicked herself free without any effort. That reminded her of options she had forgotten, and in a few minutes Cole was asleep in the loft bed. She had removed his boots but - deliberately and with full intent - left all the rest of his clothes on. Cole rested on top of the sheets, but under a deep, soft quilt.

When that was done, Miranda thought of going back into her bottle, but instead she created and arranged a few pillows and a quilt for herself, putting yet another thick log on the still hot embers of the fire. Despite her careful movements, Racer woke up when she stretched her legs just a bit too far.

"Sorry, boy," she whispered.

In response, Racer rearranged himself so he was lying along her body instead of at her feet, then dropped his head again.

"Warmer than the fire and the quilt put together," she said softly. "Thank you."

Racer didn't answer, unless a sort of grunting snore was an answer.

She didn't know if djinni needed more or less sleep than humans. Since time in her bottle passed very differently, she didn't really even think about whether she had slept in there. It was all a sort of dream anyway. She had slept when Amy and Caitlin had slept, for no more reason than to be quiet when they rested.

But Cole must have been a morning person. The first she knew of the world again was his accusing voice.

"I thought you were going to sleep in your bottle. You told me it was nicer than this cabin anyway. You should have taken the bed."

"Yes, I did say that," Miranda agreed easily. "And no, I shouldn't have taken the bed. I'm the djinni. You're the master. Besides, Racer made me a better offer."

She reached down to ruffle the thick neck hair on her sleeping companion, then popped up cheerfully. Waving her hand, she materialized a full-length mirror, followed by making a grimace, then a shrug, then a wry wave of her hand again. In that length of time she became both natural and salon-perfect, with her casual clothes at odds with her perfectly waved hair and subtle yet effective cosmetics.

"What would you like for breakfast?" she asked. "Bacon and eggs? Waffles? Cold cereal and last night's coffee?"

"What?" Cole said, taken by surprise at her last offering. Then he grinned and shrugged. "You know, I truly do believe that anything worth having is worth working for."

"I believe you," Miranda said. "And if you want to go out and find some grouse eggs and kill a snake, I'll fix that. But unless you insist, and since I'm the one fixing breakfast, I think I'll do it the easy way. You don't have to eat."

Without taking a step toward the cabins small stove, she made the promised breakfast appear, all but the cold cereal and old coffee. A third plate - more of a flat pan, actually - appeared on the floor.

"Racer shouldn’t have pork," Cole said.

"Beef sausage," Miranda claimed. "For us, too. I just like it better, and I'm not a big fan of sage so if it tastes more like hamburger than sausage, sue me."

Cole sighed, but grinned another wry grin and just shrugged. It didn't stop him from eating, though.

"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Miranda asked a few minutes later.

"I was going to finish taking down the internal stuff in the old cabin," Cole explained. "Or at least, I was before I was so pleasantly interrupted."

"Cool," she said. "Can I help, or would that offend your sensibilities, too? I mean help the old fashioned way, with a hammer or a crowbar. No magic. I promise."

"I suppose," Cole replied with feigned reluctance.

True to her word, after putting on her 'work' uniform of lots of bare legs and taut abs, Miranda just pulled down on old material or drug it out of Cole's way. At his direction, she inspected the lumber for anything salvageable - which wasn’t much. About the only parts worth saving were some thick rafter beams that had apparently been made out of something like elm that the original trapper had found.

After a while, she realized this was a chance to get Cole thinking about his - eventual - wishes. That was what she told herself, anyway. "So, Master, you seem to be isolated. Don't you have anyone you like to spend time with?"

"What? Oh, well, yes and no. I really like and respect my colleagues. And I like to think that they respect me, too. Perhaps that's the point. When I want a break, I . . . need to get away from them for a while."

"Isn't there anyone beside colleagues?" she asked.

Cole shrugged. "I guess not. I had some relationships in college, But whenever a girl found out how much money I had - or back then, how much my parents had - their interest changed. I don't want a gold digger, no matter how beautiful. And in fact, no matter how much she might really like to please me, if the reason was that she liked being rich."

"Wasn't there an old Marilyn Monroe movie about that?" Miranda asked. "Something about a guy being rich is like a girl being pretty. It's not the only reason to marry someone, but it helps."

"Yeah, well, it didn't help enough," Cole said flatly. The he laughed ruefully and said, "And since then, whenever I'm 'home,' meaning, with my parents, my mother seems to think that it's her duty to find me 'some nice girl' to settle down with. Admittedly, some of those girls are rich enough that they don't need to be gold diggers. It just doesn't seem right to me, though. Too planned. Too much like a corporate merger."

"I see," said Miranda. "Well actually, I guess I don't see because I never moved in those sorts of circles before I became a djinni. But I think I understand."

Cole repeated, "Before you became a genie, or, um, djinni. So, what were you before that, and why did you become one?"

"Oh, I didn't fit in either," she said lightly. "The djinn whose bottle I found told me that I have a, ah, a servant nature. Meaning I like to help people, but I don't like to decide what needs to be done. He didn’t suggest it - in fact he tried to talk me out of it - but after a little while it just seemed like being a djinni was the right thing for me."

"Is it?"

"I think so," she said. "You're actually only my second, um, master. But the first one was nice. I helped a woman - a single mother - and I think they're happy. It made me feel good."

"That's very noble," Cole said.

Miranda laughed. "That's what Gene - the djinn - said. But I don't care. I like to help others, and I don't like to make decisions. So being a djinni fits me."

"But, when you first appeared, you were in the middle of some sort of combat game?"

"Oh, yeah, well, that was sort of like playing against a computer. No one else was real. It's just a way to get my heart pumping a little."

"Sounds fun," Cole said. "What else do you do in, um, in your bottle?"

"Whatever my imagination can come up with," Miranda replied with a husky tone, and a wink.

"Whoa," Cole said, then he laughed and made a tick mark in the air, adding, "Okay, so it's none of my business."

"Maybe not," Miranda said. "But it's also just fantasies. I do lots of different things, and then sometimes I'll do the same thing over and over, with small variations just to see what happens. I understand chess players sometimes do something similar."

"I suppose," Cole said, but he was thoughtful. After a moment, he looked at Miranda and asked, "Can you control your magic? I mean, if I asked you to, could you absolutely guarantee not to, um, influence something?"

"Sure," she said, then paused. "Oops, maybe I spoke too soon. I certainly think I can do that, but I'm not sure what I'd do if, like a building caught on fire or something."

"Good enough," Cole said. "Here's the deal. Mother is having her annual charity thing. She brings in experts from various areas - including a chess master, which is what made me think of it - and has people make contributions to the charities as a payment for a chance to play chess with a master, or go one-on-one with a pro basketball player, or whatever. It's as much payment for a lesson with the experts as a real contest, but everyone has a good time. In any event, I wouldn't want you to, like, influence a roulette ball, or nudge a putt so that it goes in."

"Okayyyy," Miranda replied slowly. "And you're telling me this because . . ?"

"Because I want you to come with me to the party," Cole said. "If I don't have someone, Mother will be sure to 'fix me up' with someone. And I know you're not just after my money."

"Are you asking me to be your date?" Miranda asked softly.

"Sure," Cole said casually. "In fact, I wish you would be my date for the charity party, which includes spending a few days with my family."

They both felt a tingle in the air and it was clear a wish had been expressed. All of the sudden Cole frowned.

"Oh, wait, I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, it was a wish, but I didn't think that it would force you to comply. I take it back."

"No," Miranda said. "Don't use another wish to do that, unless you truly change your mind, I mean. First off, no wishes can force me to do anything against my nature. And second . . . well, I'd, um, well I'd like to, if you still want me."

"Oh, yeah," Cole said, once again allowing his eyes to take in her beauty. "Oh, and another thing. No strings. I mean, we'll be friends, and you'll be our houseguest, but, you know, separate rooms and all."

"As you wish," Miranda said, but the caution in her eyes was as much to herself as to him. She shrugged as though shaking off a cover or something, and asked. "When is this, um, 'thing'?"

"Actually, I have to head back later this afternoon. When we get back into cell phone range I'll call and tell her you're coming, but I'm sure it won't be a bother. There's lots of room."

"Okay," Miranda said softly, then she looked down at her clothes. "Oh my god, what should I wear?"

"It is formal," Cole said. "Supposed to be black-and-white clothes except for the sports figures, who wear their team colors."

"Okay," Miranda said, wondering if the same gown she wore to Amelia's art show would work.

Cole looked at her carefully again, then looked a little sheepish. "If you don't mind . . . I'd like you to wear something that looked, um, that made you look very sensual, yet also sort of high-class. To show Mother that I can find a girl who is both not interested in our money and, well, hot."

He grinned wryly again and added, "Though you couldn't avoid looking hot even if you wore an old burlap sack."

"Why, thank you, kind sir," Miranda repeated, including the confused little bow/curtsy thing. Then she frowned. "Look, you know I can, um, make whatever clothes I need. But I need to be able to imagine them. And, well, what will it look like if I don't have any suitcases or anything?"

Then, before Cole could answer, she said, "Oh! And how did we meet? I mean, if you were way out here in the middle of nowhere . . ?"

"Why, we'll just tell her the truth," he said with a laugh. "You're a djinni, and I found your bottle in this old trapper's cabin. It will make you nicely mysterious."

"Oh, my, that would be . . . interesting," she said, eyes sparkling.

"The same thing works for your clothes - or almost," he said. "You should maybe have a backpack or a big purse, for, um, essentials. But I'm sure Mother will be glad to take you shopping for a gown. Oh, you won't have any trouble with paying for one, will you? I mean, I can give you the money, but we want Mother to think you're wealthy in your own right."

"Wealthy," Miranda repeated with a chuckle. "I can make all the money, all the gold, all the diamonds, all the whatever I could ever need, but when I'm out of my bottle, it all belongs to my Master. To you, now."

"I see," he said. "Well, then consider it a command - not a wish, unless you tell me that I have to make it one - that you have all the money you need for shopping."

"Your command is my wish," Miranda said, snickering again. "Actually, that's true. This is all part of making your first wish come true. Me fitting in with your high society setting, I mean."

Cole smiled, then said, "You will need to have a last name, too. You dodged my question about who you were before you became a djinni so neatly that I didn't even notice. But I think at least a last name is in order."

"Miranda Cambridge," she said. "At your service."

"Well, Miss Cambridge, I suggest you djinni up a backpack or something, and then we need to pack to go home. I leave the tools in that box over there."

With those directions, it wasn't long before they were loading Racer into the back of the helicopter. Cole helped Miranda get her harness attached, and if her skin burned every place his fingers touched, she tried not to let it show.

She also tried not to let it show that this was her first flight in a helicopter. But something - perhaps it was the white knuckles and panting - gave her away.

"First time in a chopper?" Cole asked.

Miranda managed a weak nod.

"Well," he said. "It's not my first time. Relax."

That didn't really take care of the problem. However, half an hour of non-eventful travel helped. In not much longer than that Cole was bringing the helicopter down to a pinpoint landing on a small platform. After they got out, he walked to a wall switch and opened a hangar door, followed by another switch that pulled the platform - which turned out to be on wheels - into the hangar.

"No muss, no fuss," he said, and if his tone was a bit smug, he'd earned it.

"What's next?" asked Miranda.

"Next we meet my mother," Cole answered.

"Oh, sh. . . . sugar. I can't meet her looking like this," Miranda said.

"Why not? You're certainly covering the 'hot' part, and we can take care of the 'rich' part later," Cole replied.

"No, thank you," Miranda said. "I'm not meeting your mother looking like a refugee from a redneck men's magazine."

"Oooh, there's an image," Cole said, grinning.

"Stop that," Miranda said. "So, what should I wear. Seriously."

Cole sighed, pouting artificially at the thought she would change clothes. Then he shrugged and looked at his own jeans and flannel shirt. "I'm not planning on changing. Pick something compatible."

Miranda frowned, but then her brow lifted and she grinned. "Okay." With an arm wave she changed her attire to painted-on jeans, knee high tan boots with several inches of tapered but not stiletto heel, a chambray work shirt that was tailored very closely to her curves, and a tanned leather jacket with fringes. As a final touch, she added a red bandana snugly tied about her neck and calling attention to the deep cleavage displayed by several undone buttons.

"Good enough?" she asked.

Cole rolled his tongue up and stuffed it back in his mouth, but even with that aid, he could only nod.

Miranda wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or impressed when Cole walked toward a simple pickup truck, several years old and showing signs of hard use (though not neglect). But Racer beat them to the vehicle, leaping from a small wall into the bed of the pickup and she realized it was a good choice for the 'getaway' side of Cole.

She carried her own backpack, which she threw in beside Racer. Cole had the rest of the bags out of the chopper and in the back as she reached her door, then raced over to open it for her.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Thank you," he countered. "Look, I know you're a djinni and can do wishes and all, but agreeing to be my date for this party is a huge favor. It will keep Mother off my back for a long time. I just hope she doesn't push you too hard to make some sort of commitment."

"Cole . . . Master, I'm a djinni. I can't make a commitment like that. Once you make your wishes . . . I'll be gone."

"Then I may never make another wish," he said.

"Now who's making a commitment?" she asked with a slight - and slightly artificial - laugh.

It wasn't far from the airport to the Thornton home. Estate. Mansion.

"You really have a golf course?" Miranda asked in amazement.

"Only six holes," Cole replied. "And mostly par 3."

"Only six holes," Miranda repeated. "How disappointing."

"Do you golf?" Cole asked.

"Never," Miranda replied. "Though if it's important to you, I can learn."

"Natural athlete, are you?"

"Hardly," she said dismissively. "But all it takes is a wish."

"Oh, yeah. I mean, no. No more wishes for me."

"We'll see," Miranda replied, but she had to look away to hide a glisten in her eyes.

Chapter 8: "Don't Make It Look Like Magic"

When they rolled up to the house, there was a young man in khaki work clothes standing there at the driveway level, with a somewhat older couple at the top of the entry stairs. Cole jumped out and tossed his keys to the man in khaki, then moved quickly to open Miranda's door. She actually wouldn't have thought to wait, but she was so busy studying the two at the top of the stairs - obviously parents - that Cole got there before she got out.

As Cole was helping Miranda down from the tall pickup, he called to the man in khaki, "Take Miranda's things to whatever room is set out for her, will you Dave?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Cole," the identified Dave replied. "What about your stuff?"

"The sleeping bag probably needs to be cleaned. Just throw the rest of the clothes in the laundry and put the tools away. Thanks."

"Sure thing," Dave repeated, though his easy agreement was compromised by the strain in his neck as he tried to get a better look at the woman emerging from Cole's truck. Then he was distracted yet again as Racer nearly tackled him with enthusiasm. "Okay, okay," the man laughed, fishing a treat of some sort out of his pocket.

"Sure glad we don't have any spoiled dogs around here," the man at the top of the stairs said dryly. "It would be really bad if we had spoiled any of them."

Dave ducked his head, but it didn't stop him from fishing out another treat - which caused the man to laugh.

By this time, Miranda was clear of the door and turned to face her host and hostess. Cole took her arm with easy assurance - not possessively, but with the grace and confidence of impeccable manners.

"Mother, Dad," he said as they climbed the steps, "I'd like you to meet Miranda Cambridge. Miranda, these are my mother and father."

"Pleased to meet you, sir, ma'am," Miranda said shyly.

"Oh, hell no," the woman said, laughing and stepping forward and embracing her. "I'm Sara. If you call me 'ma'am' again, I'll make you share a bed with Racer."

"Been there, done that," Miranda murmured, but she smiled.

The man stepped forward as well and held out his arms in invitation, which Miranda found herself accepting with surprising ease. He caught Miranda's soft comment and laughed. "And I'm Sam. Welcome to Sunswept. If Racer has accepted you, don't worry about what she says. You're in."

"Thank you," Miranda said trying to remember if she had ever before been in a place that had a name, and not just an address.

As though it were a plan - or perhaps the ease of long practice - Miranda quickly found herself walking with Sara while Cole went with his father. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the older man punching Cole in the arm and giving him a quick thumbs up.

Apparently Sara caught her noticing it. She laughed and said, "Oh, don't mind him. He's old everywhere but between his ears."

"I heard that," Sam said. "And my eyes work fine, too, thank you very much."

Sara laughed, and though Miranda was blushing brightly, she had to giggle as well. "First Racer, then, um, Sam. I guess I get a passing grade."

"We'll see about that," Sara said.

"Mother," Cole said warningly.

"Oh, hush. It's a mother's prerogative," Sara said. "Besides, you get a grade, too. From Miranda."

That made Miranda blush even brighter, but Sara's cheery laugh made it impossible to take offense. Miranda was relieved to see that the older woman was wearing jeans as well, and if hers weren't as tight as the djinni's, they still showed that a very good designer had taken care to tailor them to flatter a still-admirable shape. She wore a simple white sweater that also showed very good tailoring, continuing the celebration of her curves. Western-style boots with modest figuring showed the combination of taste and femininity that most women could only envy.

Sara chattered on her way up the stairs to Miranda's room. With apparent casualness she pointed out Cole's room, on the same floor but two doors closer to the stairs than Miranda's. As the older woman opened the door to the guest room, she said, "Cole made it clear that you are 'just friends'. I'm not one to judge, but I do ask that you keep any visiting . . . discreet. We will have other guests. There's an outside balcony, and the room between you and Cole will not be in use this weekend."

"No, really, I mean, we just met," Miranda protested. And then she added silently, "And I am not that type of girl."

"And you're gorgeous. If Cole were not attracted, then I'd have him checked out by a doctor. And if I do say so myself, my son is quite attractive as well. I learned a long time ago not to try to fight biology. Just be discreet." She said the last with such a friendly smile that Miranda couldn't take offense. "Besides, you're the first girl he's brought home since college, and even though you've just met, I can assure you that he's interested."

Sara looked at the small backpack that Dave had put on the bed in the room. "Is this all you have? How did you two meet?"

Miranda couldn't help giggling, wondering if Cole was getting the same question at the same time. "Actually, I'm a djinni. Cole found my bottle in that old cabin he's taking apart. He pulled the stopper, and 'poof', there I was."

"Right," Sara said, laughing in turn. "Don't worry. I'll find out from him. He won't lie to his mother."

Then she showed a highly artificial frown and added, "At least, he'd better not."

Miranda laughed again, but instead of answering she pointed at her backpack. "Well, all I have in there are hiking clothes and, um, essentials. I'll need to get something. Do I remember Cole saying this is a 'black and white' ball?"

"Yes, pretty much," Sara confirmed. "If you'd like I can take you shopping, or you can borrow a car if you want to go on your own."

"Um . . ," Miranda paused. "Would you mind if I sent for something instead? I've got a dress that I really love, and I've only worn it once. It's black, with some sparkly trim in . . . they're not rhinestones, but they do look nice."

"Sounds perfect," Sara said. "Will you have any trouble getting it here on time? The main gala is in two days."

"Oh, no. That should be fine, except . . ."

"Yes?" Sara prompted.

"Well, it's, um, fairly low cut. And the back is, um, fairly low as well. It might be too . . ."

"Nonsense," Sara said, laughing. "Now it really sounds perfect. If Cole wants to show you off, then you should show off!"

"It does that," Miranda said, but the sparkle in her eyes showed her excitement.

Sara nodded, then said, "In the meantime, you still need some casual clothes. What all do you have in your backpack?"

"Not much," Miranda admitted.

"Would you be too disappointed if I just had Cole run you into town instead of going with you myself?" asked Sara. "If you don't need a gown - he'd be hopeless in helping you pick out something appropriate, of course - then he can probably keep out of the way enough for you to get what you need. Will you need some money?"

She interrupted herself and put an arm on Miranda's arm in apology. "I'm sorry. I just meant that, since you weren't planning on coming here, you might not have brought any money, either."

"Have plastic, will travel," Miranda said. "I'm fine, thanks." It was only later that she realized Sara's question had been a test - deliberate or instinctive - to find out if she were a gold-digger. At least she passed.

All Cole actually had to do was drive her out of sight of the mansion. As soon as they were far enough away, Miranda created a wardrobe that would cover just about any occasion from working in the garden to formal meals, all in addition to summoning her gown from the art show. Only she toned it down just a bit, with 1-carat rather than 5-carat diamonds, and only a few dozen instead of a hundred. Still, it wouldn’t do for them to return too soon so Cole took them on a tour of the estate. Or state, since it was probably bigger than most states in the Northeast. Miranda was beginning to understand why Cole didn't have any wishes, and yet his knowledge of the challenges of running a big estate showed he was not just passive in managing the riches his family had acquired.

As they returned to the mansion itself, Cole saw some cars in the driveway. "Uh, oh," he said.

"What's wrong?" asked Miranda.

"That big Mercedes belongs to Chloe Adkins, now, um, Robinson." He looked at his date for the party and smiled a complicated little smile. "She set her sights on me for a while. I suppose that means my family has more money than Jere's, though we both have all we could ever need. I think she intends to spend the rest of her life convincing me I made the wrong choice by passing on her. Don't get me wrong. She's very smart, and tough-minded. Self-reliant, with great strength of character. It's some sort of commentary on our society that those traits in a man are all desirable, but in a woman they seem . . . well, it's not fair, but that's the way it is."

"She was and is rich enough that she never needed to be a gold digger. And, of course, beautiful. For her, the world revolves around status. She needs to be the best at everything. She and her husband, let's see . . . Jere something. Jeremy. Jeremiah. Whatever. So she has to show me what I missed."

"And . . .?" Miranda asked cautiously.

"And I expect she'll find some way to, um, to challenge you. Just be yourself. Comfortable with who you are."

"A djinni?"

"Yeah, well, we'll certainly tell them that."

Cole confidently drove up to the entrance of the mansion, once again finding Dave tending to guest cars. This time, he wore a more formal uniform with short jacket and bow tie. His primary task seemed to be directing several assistants who were parking visitor cars. When Cole got out, after rushing to Miranda's door he tossed the keys to the lead attendant and pointed at the packages.

"I'll get right on it, Mr. Cole," Dave said, then he looked in the back and said, "Ouch!"

"I didn't feel a thing," Cole said, laughing. "Miss Miranda insisted."

"Good for you, ma'am," Dave said, unable to keep his eyes on her face, though he obviously tried.

It took two of the attendants to carry all of Miranda's new clothes to her room. As they disappeared, Cole pulled Miranda aside.

"My wish was for you to be my date, right?" he asked.

Miranda nodded, "Yes, Master."

"Go easy on the 'master' thing," he said. "But the point I wanted to make is that you should enjoy yourself. Be a happy, cheerful, funny, classy-but-not-stuffy woman of the sort I'd like to date. That's all part of that wish."

"Of course, Master," she said. "Except . . . well, I have to be able to visualize something to make it come true - even if it's my own behavior. I'll try to be cheery and classy. I just hope my imagination is good enough."

"It will be," Cole said confidently. "By the way, did you tell Mother you were a djinni?"

"Yes, Mast . . . oops, yes, Cole,"

"Good. That's what I told Dad, too. And it's what we're going to be telling Chloe as soon as we see her. Hmm . . . maybe the 'master' thing might not be such a bad idea after all."

"Yes, Master," Miranda said, but she smirked and her eyes sparkled.

It caused them both to laugh as the entered the mansion - it was only later that Miranda realized it had been a deliberate tactic on Coles' part so that the first view that the other guests had of Miranda was of her laughing with Cole, as though they were wonderfully happy to be in each other's company.

Of course, it might not have been that hard to arrange.

As soon as they entered the foyer - which had been opened into a sunny verandah on one side and a comfortable lounge on another - Miranda saw Chloe Robinson. From Cole's description, there wasn't any doubt who she was. The blonde was beautiful, and stylish, with a figure that showed a lot of self-discipline. But something about her seemed predatory as well.

Then they were face to face and Miranda's immediate thought was, "Boob job."

It took her a second while Cole was making introductions to realize why it was so obvious. It wasn't that they were too-round half-a-cantaloupe protrusions - worse yet, the huge balloons of a stripper. They curved in all the right ways, a fact made clear by the just-too-tight knit top that claimed to conceal them. What Miranda realized after a moment was that they were too bountiful for the rest of her body type. Her face and hands and hips were slender to the point of leanness. On that slim frame, her ample endowment just looked unbalanced, no matter how perfect they looked within the context of her torso alone.

"Or maybe I'm just catty," Miranda thought, laughter at her hidden analysis lighting her eyes as she shook hands with Jere Robinson.

Once again, they divided quickly into girls and boys, with Chloe giving Miranda an analytical look every bit as critical as the djinni had used on the mortal woman. "So," the blonde said, "how did you meet Cole?"

Miranda repeated her djinni story, the truth of it providing validation to her tone that earned another critical look from Chloe.

"I'll find out you know," Chloe said, a smile on her lips not really continued into her eyes.

"Do I?" Miranda asked, and though the question was legitimate (since there was nothing to find out), it came across as a challenge.

About that time, Sara rescued her son's new "friend" and the three women walked together to the veranda, which overlooked a sparkling, natural-look pool.

"Did you bring a suit . . . Jeannie?" Chloe asked.

"That's, 'Djinni,'" Miranda corrected, smiling easily, "or Miranda, if you'd prefer. And I suppose I have something."

"We'll have to swim tomorrow," Chloe said. "I swim laps every day to stay trim."

"Whatever Cole wants," Miranda said, showing possessiveness even in her outward submissiveness.

The brittle conversation was interrupted by a hand at Miranda's elbow. She turned to look and saw another blonde, a young woman who was obviously a servant for all that she was dressed much like the Thorntons in jeans and a logoed "Sunswept" polo shirt. "Sorry to interrupt," the woman said, "but Miss Sara said I should help you get dressed for dinner. Since it's your first time here."

"Thank you," Miranda said with real gratitude, then looked at Sara who had stepped a few paces away. "And thank you."

The lady of the house nodded, but there was a mixture of frown and smile on her elegant features. The frown seemed to grow a bit more pronounced when she looked at Chloe. "Will you need any help, dear?"

"No, Jere will take care of anything I need," Chloe declared, her voice showing possessiveness without any leavening of submissiveness.

As the young attendant was leading Miranda back toward her room, the djinni asked, "What's your name?"

"Oh, sorry. I'm Constance, um, 'Connie.'"

"Ah, the lady in waiting to the queen. I'm flattered."

"You're not the first person to make that connection," the young woman replied. "Which is why I prefer Connie. Too many of the guests here think they really are queens, or princesses at least."

"I hope I don't come across that way," Miranda said. "I'm nobody, really."

"Not from the way Mr. Cole looks at you," Connie replied with a snicker. "But no, you're sweet." Her eyes flickered back the way they had come and Miranda didn't need magical powers to guess the subject of Connie's thoughts.

When they reached Miranda's room, Connie looked at all the packages. "Goodness, how many stores did you buy out?'

"Enough," Miranda said, laughing. "Or at least, I hope I have enough." She moved to one of the boxes and took out a very short red dress to hold against her body.

"No," Connie said abruptly, then winced and said, "Sorry."

"Why not? Red is supposed to be really attractive to men. Should I wear something long instead?"

"Oh, red is a great color and would look terrific on you," Connie agreed. "And based on what those tight jeans show, short is perfect for tonight. But, um, well, I understand Miss Chloe is going to wear red tonight."

"Ah," Miranda said. "You don't think I can compete with her?"

"Oh, no, it's not that at all," Connie said. "Goodness, you're much prettier than Miss Chloe, and you have a much better figure. Plus, yours is real. Or, I mean, it is real, isn't it?"

"I'm a djinni," Miranda said, smiling to make it seem like a joke. "None of me is real."

"No, really," Connie said. "You're not, um, enhanced?"

"Everything came with the basic package," Miranda answered.

"Right," Connie said. "Lucky you. In any event, wearing red tonight would be bad for two reasons. One is that it would make it seem like you *want* to compete with Miss Chloe, and I don't think you want to play her games."

"And the second?"

"Well, the only thing worse than obviously playing one of Miss Chloe's games . . . is beating her at it. Unless you want a mortal enemy?"

"Not something I had on my to-do list for today," Miranda replied. "So, what color do you recommend."

"The shame is, brunettes look just awesome in red," Connie sighed. "Do you have something that would match your eyes? They're very striking."

"I'm sure I do," Miranda said. "Any further hints?"

"Well, pantyhose are out of style, but they do make legs look a lot better, and I think Mr. Cole likes them - on girls, I mean," Connie said, giggling. "All the heels you can stand, and . . . well, just because Miss Chloe is going to be flaunting her enhancements doesn't mean you can't, um, make your own statement?"

"Something low-cut?" Miranda asked, frowning. "My gown for the black-and-white ball is pretty low cut."

"Then I would suggest something tight, stretchy, and pretending to cover everything - about like a coat of paint. Long sleeves, if you have something like that. Diamonds for jewelry - I know Miss Sara would loan you some if you need her to . . ."

"Hmm," Miranda mused, then a sly little grin lifted her lips. "You know that I'm a djinni. What about a djinni dress? Not a filmy little harm outfit, but an elegant, jeweled dress that looks like it came out of 1001 Arabian Nights?"

"Oh my god, that would be prefect!" Connie exclaimed. "Are you really, truly a genie?"

"That's 'djinni,'" Miranda replied. "What do you think?"

"I think everyone will have so much fun with the idea that you will absolutely *own* the night."

"It wouldn't be, ah, competing with Chloe?" Miranda asked.

"Oh, sweetheart, competing with her is fine," Connie said. "It's just that you can't make it *look* like you're competing. Beating her without even trying is perfect!"

"Okay, let me see . . ," Miranda said, blinking her eyes as she tried to remember which package had which outfit. Apparently she remembered because the first one she opened had the desired dress in basic black accented with blue gems that just couldn't be real sapphires at that size, complete with towering sandals and a box holding more blue gems just on the right side of too big to be tasteful.

When she was dressed, she let Connie help her with her makeup and hair, though she could have done it magically much quicker. Miranda was actually glad she had Connie's aid because the girl had a few tricks that weren't covered in any of the magazines that Miranda had studied. None of the them had as dramatic a look as Connie implemented - darker shadow, longer lashes, glossier lips, and a surprising amount of subtle contouring as well.

"You don't really need much contouring," Connie said, even as she added just a bit more blusher. "And your lashes are the longest real ones I've every seen. They make your eyes look both huge and innocent at the same time."





"Thanks, I guess," Miranda said. "They came with the package, so I don't think I can claim much credit for them."

"Lucky girl," Connie said, with a sigh so distinct that Miranda looked at her sharply.

"Oh, I'm okay, Miss Miranda," Connie said. "Wishing I were prettier is not much different than wishing I were richer. I do what I can, and don't waste a lot of time wishing for what I can't have."

"Wise," Miranda said gently, "and I think you're very pretty." But she checked her magical balance and decided she could spend a bit on someone other than her master. Over the next few weeks - slowly enough that no one would connect them with Miranda's visit - Connie was going to find a few improvements of her own. Like the 'extra' wishes for Caitlin, the satisfaction made the price seem small.

"Besides," she told herself, "If Cole doesn't want anything dramatic with his other wishes, I'll have energy to spare."

They had been using a vanity and its mirrors to build their creation, but when Miranda moved to a full-length mirror to check the overall image, even she caught her breath. "Oh, lordy, Gene, you do good work," she thought, though she turned to Connie with the same praise. "You do good work. I didn't think anyone could ever make so much hair look so elegant."

Connie said, wistful despite her earlier disclaimer. "What I did was no more than gilding a fantastically beautiful lily. Your hair is fabulous. I'm sure Mr. Cole will like it."

"Thank you," Miranda said. Any more was cut off by a knock at the door.

Chapter 9: "I Can't Help It"

Cole was at the door, dressed for dinner. Of course, in his case that meant slacks instead of jeans, a button-front shirt (no tie) and a blazer with the Sunswept logo. But that was not really a surprise. Women are always expected to dress nicer than men. Nonetheless, after he chased down his eyeballs and got them back in their sockets, Cole manufactured a frown at Miranda.

She frowned in reply and looked at her bounteous - and well-displayed - curves. "Do I look okay?"

Cole took her arm with that practiced ease and led her down the hall. "First off," he said, "you don't look okay. You are the most spectacularly beautiful woman I have ever seen and so far past okay that it can't possibly apply."

"Then why are you frowning?"

He dropped the artificial frown and leaned to whisper in her ear. "Because you said you weren't going to use magic unless I ask you to, and you look too good for a merely human woman. You'll give away your secret."

"I can't help it," she said. "I came this way. Besides, all the new magic is just Connie's expertise with hair and makeup. She's an artist."

"Not buying it," he countered, but his eyes were sparkling with laughter. "Like every other guy here tonight, it's going to take fierce concentration to get our eyes up enough even to see your face and hair."

"Oh, you," she said, then shrugged - which did nothing to help him keep his eyes on her face. "Besides, it just adds to the djinni story. Maybe someone will believe it."

"Maybe," he said agreeably.

By this time he was escorting her into the dining room set with about twenty places, each of which had about twenty plates, goblets, and (sterling) silverware.

"Oh, god, I'm never going to pull this off," she thought. "I have no clue what fork to use."

It didn't help that Chloe looked perfectly natural in the sophisticated setting. Wearing red, of course. It also didn't make it any easier when a wave of silence rolled out from the doorway as people noticed Miranda. All eyes locked on her, those needing to turn around either craning their necks or turning completely.

The neck-popping didn't let up when she turned to greet her hostess. From behind, waves of liquid night fell to just below her waist - which was also just below where the dress resumed. It was impossible not to look to see if a slight imperfection in her flawless skin was really . . . another cleavage, or just a shadow from a swirling lock of hair. Of course, from the front there was no ambiguity of all - at least not about what caused the deep canyon accented more than hidden by yet another tumble of dark waves. Though actually, very little skin was showing. Sheer hints of sky-blue closed out the open areas of the dress - well, some of them - providing about as much concealment as her shimmering pantyhose provided to her gleaming legs.

The moment of silence was broken - literally - when a tinkling crash signaled the end of some sort of goblet or cup. That pulled a lot of the eyes to see who had dropped something, and those who still stared at her regained at least enough composure to do . . . something. Take a sip of their own drink, or step to a more comfortable observation point, or even whisper something to a companion.

Silently efficient servants cleaned up the minor disaster even as Sara approached them. "Goodness, Miranda, you are even more beautiful than I expected. Welcome."

Then the woman leaned in for her own whisper to Miranda. "If Cole doesn't make a pass as you the way you look tonight, I'm definitely taking him to a doctor. Of course, you don't have to let him complete the pass."

Her eyes sparkled with laughter of their own at Miranda's blush. She did her hostess duties and introduced Miranda to the gathering. It included several of their obviously rich neighbors, plus a pop star (known singly as "Copper" for her famous red hair) who had been topping the charts a few years before and remained popular. Her music highlighted ballads and soft rock that showcased her voice, which sustained itself well on the radio. The guests also included a NASCAR driver, and of course one each of football, basketball, and baseball stars. Since two of the professional athletes were not in current relationships, Miranda was also introduced to the Hollywood starlets who had been invited as their escorts.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been. The football pro was too big to be anything else and, like the other pro athletes wore a warmup suit in his team colors - complete with number and name on the back like a jersey. The NASCAR driver was similarly attired in a racing suit complete with his name on an embroidered tag. And Miranda actually already knew who the pop star and the starlets were, not because she had seen any of their films or videos, but because they were highlighted prominently in the magazines she had obtained for makeup and style tips. That meant she only had to remember new names for half the attendees. She certainly had her chance, since every guest managed to find the time to talk with her for as long as anything like politeness allowed. Cole was too well trained to 'hover' in some sort of defensive tactic, but his mingling with the crowd flowed well enough that every several minutes he could rescue her from any too-ardent admirers.

Chloe was not an admirer, for all the bright teeth she showed in what was supposed to be a smile.

"I love that dress," the blonde said. "Who's your designer?"

"Oh, this is just something I, um, imagined for myself," Miranda said.

"What sort of tape do you use?" asked Chloe.

"Excuse me?" Miranda replied.

"No more than there is of it, there's no way that dress is following your, ah, shape that closely without something sticking it to your skin. What do you use?"

"Magic, of course," Miranda said blandly. "After all, I'm a djinni."

"Okay, don't tell me," Chloe said tightly. "I was just trying to be friendly."

"I'm sure you were," Miranda said with continuing nonchalance. "I like your dress, too. Red is a good color for you. It makes you quite noticeable."

Anything further was interrupted as Cole came to reclaim Miranda's arm and take her to dinner. Thankfully, Sara had not followed the formal seating rules and the djinni was allowed to sit next to her master. Miranda was even more grateful when she saw that Chloe and her husband were seated far enough away to make direct conversation unnecessary.

Miranda's other side was occupied by the NASCAR driver, Jed Hardesty. He repeated an unnecessary introduction, then made added a very-much-needed re-introduction to his wife, Shayna.

In apparently casual conversation, Jed said, "One a' my sponsors thought I should learn to talk with less of a accent. It didn't take. But in the course a' that, they told me about regional accents. And they told me that your accent - Midwest - is, um, 'neutral' they said. That's what they wanted me to shoot for. So, what part a' the Midwest are you from?"

Miranda twitched, then smiled. She winked at Shayna on the other side of Jed, then answered, "Why, Mr. Hardesty . . ."

"Jed," he interrupted.

Miranda smiled again, then said, "Well, um, Jed, I thought you would have heard by now. I'm a djinni. I 'come from' a bottle."

Now it was apparently Jed's turn to twitch, then smile ruefully.

"Pay up, Bubba," Shayna said from his other side.

Jed's grin became more natural as he fished in one of the many pockets on his racing suit for what turned out to be a quarter. He handed it to his wife and tossed her a casual salute. "You win, Gorgeous. Again."

"We had a bet," Shayna explained. "He bet me that he could use that accent trick to get you to tell us where you're really from."

"Does he try that often?"

"Only every time he meets a pretty girl," she said, but her eyes danced and she patted her husband's hand.

Miranda laughed as well and sighed theatrically. "Oh, you know how it is. A woman has to have an air of mystery or men lose interest so quickly."

"Not your man," Shayna said, eyes flicking toward Cole.

"We've just met," Miranda said. "So I could still qualify for 'quickly' if he dumped me now."

Jed inserted himself back into the conversation, though his words were for Miranda his eyes were focused only on his wife. "Any man who dumped you is too stupid to live. I'd consider it a public service to remove him from the gene pool."

"Why, Jed," Miranda said with a laugh. "You just lost your accent."

"Oh, that ol' thang? Like a bad penny, it jus' keeps turnin' up."

"So, are they trying to pump you for information?" Cole said, taking a break from his other conversation.

"Tryin,'" Jed said. "Not succeedin.'"

"Ah, sweet mystery of life at last I found you . . ." Cole sang . . . well, sort of. More of a murmur with rhythm.

"See?" Miranda said, and all but Cole started laughing. He smiled with good nature though he obviously didn't get the joke.

"Tell you later," Miranda promised. Actually Cole's smile was a bit distracted, as though he were thinking about something else anyway.

It turned to be a good thing - and a bad thing - when Cole joined the conversation. In addition to driving cars fast, Jed Hardesty was a pilot. Inevitably, any conversation involving two pilots quickly became dominated by talking about flying. Miranda met Shayna's eyes along the table and they both sighed theatrically, but they also both smiled. Shayna was apparently used to it, and Miranda was just as happy to have others carry the conversation anyway. She commented just enough on her thoughts from her one trip in a helicopter to keep the men rolling along.

Eventually the food ran out . . . well, it would be better to say that all the courses were presented, since there was clearly no shortage of actual food. That was also a good thing and a bad thing. The good thing was that there was enough cheerful confusion that any miscues on silverware went pretty much unnoticed. The bad thing was that, after the meal . . . what happened next?

In part, that was clear. It was fairly late and as the guests left the table most were obviously on their way to bed. Some of the guests who lived nearby (at least by the standards of these estates) made their way to their cars and home, but that escape was not available to Miranda. This time, Cole held her hand instead of her arm.

It was . . . different. Cole's hand was warm, almost hot, not with any sense of feverish illness, but so incredibly alive it felt like energy was flowing into her own hand. His was hard with the callouses of real work, but gentle. It was comforting and protecting without being possessive. Miranda felt a thrill that ran up to her shoulder and then set her entire arm quivering.

Cole was a gentleman, of course. After escorting her to her room, he looked down on her and said, "Thank you."

"Thank me?" she said. "All I did was sit there."

"Which is pretty awesome, for someone as impossibly pretty as you," he said with a laugh. "But more than that, you were a perfect lady . . . and a perfect date for this sort of thing. Sophisticated, gorgeous, witty, and modest. An awesome combination."

"Thank you," Miranda murmured. For some reason, her eyes seemed to be fascinated by Cole's lips, so close to her own, and in her distraction she wasn't truly listening.

Then he changed the subject so abruptly she found herself blinking in confusion.

"Can you sing?" he asked.

"What?"

"Can you sing?"

"Oh, um, no, not really. I mean, I certainly couldn't before, and I don't know . . . I mean, nothing has made me any better."

"A wish could," Cole offered. "I mean, your imagination is good enough that if I wished for you to be able to sing, you could, right?"

"Um, yes, I think so," she said. "But, using a wish on something so trivial seems, well, you know . . . "

"I told you before," Cole said, a gentle finger to her lips silencing any further protest. "I like to earn the things I have. I don't want extraordinary help, let alone magical help. But it would please me if everyone could see that you are as talented as you are beautiful."

Cole's brows furrowed for a moment, but it was in concentration. After that moment he said, "Okay, here's my wish. I wish for you to be able to sing like you learned in a church choir - pure and sweet, without the over-refined style of opera . . ."

He interrupted himself to look at the worry forming on Miranda's brow, then added, " . . . and sing comfortably, with confidence and power appropriate for the music."

They both felt the magic gathering as he spoke, then settling over Miranda. As the magic became part of her the frown faded and she became relaxed and - as wished - comfortable.

"If you say so, Master," she said quietly, with just a hint of resonance in her voice that reflected the clear tones he had commanded.

He leaned down to kiss her, but only touched his lips lightly to her forehead. Then he turned away.

As he did so, Miranda twitched and said, "Oh, Master, I may have, um, made a mistake."

"About singing?"

"No, not about the wish. It's just that, well, Chloe said we should meet by the pool tomorrow and I didn't know if that was okay with you."

"It sounds great," Cole replied. "I'll look forward to it."

"But Master," Miranda said. "I don't know what sort of suit I should wear. I mean, will we really swim, or is it some sort of, um, sophisticated excuse for conversation and cocktails?"

"Well, not everyone will swim," he said. "But I will. And it would please me if you did, too. Can you swim?"

"Oh, that I can do," she said, though she hadn't really done it in her new body. Still, she was not short on . . . flotation volume.

She looked at him for a moment, then prodded. "So, about my suit?"

"Be daring," he challenged. "If you won't get arrested on a beach in Malibu, then you're okay here."

"Oh," she said. But a little smile formed on her lips.

Cole groaned. "Oh, god, from the look on your face, it's going to be spectacular."

With that, he turned away again. He had his own door open before Miranda had entered her room, perhaps because she still seemed distracted about something.

A quick glance confirmed that Connie was not waiting for her - though the thought of Connie gave Miranda an idea that she would take advantage of in the morning. But in the meantime, it meant that she could get out of her dinner clothes and into a nightgown - face scrubbed and hair brushed out - with no more than the wave of her hand. Since blue seemed to be her theme for the night, the gown was a rich, pure blue that seemed to change from dark to pale with every movement. A matching robe - actually a nearly transparent negligee - completed yet another outfit. Since she had become a woman it seemed like her attire always needed to be integrated into 'an outfit.' Some silly-but-cute feathery mules seemed appropriate for her feet when she decided to step out onto her balcony for a bit of warm, sweet air.

Cole was already out on his balcony - which was connected to hers as though it were expected that guests would want to move between rooms without showing themselves in the hallway. A light breeze lifted the even-lighter gossamer gown, catching his eye.

"Oh," he said, not so much startled as restored to the present from wherever his thoughts had gone.

Miranda blushed and gathered her robe more tightly around her. "Sorry, Master. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Oh, no, you're not intruding," he said. "In fact, I was just thinking about you."

"Yes?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "Tell me, Miranda. What do you want?"

"Me?"

"Yes. If I were the djinni and you were the, um, the mistress, what would you wish for?"

"I told you, Master. I wished to become a djinni."

"Yes, but that was then. What would you wish for now?"

Miranda wanted to say that she wished for nothing. At the time she was transformed into a djinni, that would have been true. But as she looked at Cole, she was no longer sure.

Not that she could say . . . what could not be said.

"Nothing, Master. I am content."

"Oh," he said, and though he tried to hide his disappointment, it still showed. But what had disappointed him? What had he wanted her to say?

"Do you have another wish, Master?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "but not one that I can ask for."

Miranda's eyes met Cole's and she knew - or thought she knew - what he wanted. But, just as he said, it wasn't something that could be wished for. At least, not a wish that the djinni could use magic to grant. She couldn't say - couldn't even hope that she was right anyway.

"Good night, Master," she said softly.

"Good night, my lady," Cole replied. But for a long moment neither turned away. It seemed to Miranda that he almost reached out to her, but there wasn't any real movement. Just a feeling. Or maybe . . . a wish.

Chapter 10: "Daring, But Not Vulgar"

Miranda woke early the next morning after a surprisingly good night's sleep. She took advantage of her talent and was dressed with merely the wave of her arm, complete with tasteful makeup and a pert ponytail. Based on what she had seen, she decided that western styles would be appropriate so her painted-on jeans were tucked into boots with just a bit more figuring than Sara had displayed. A yoked shirt in the classic black-with-embroidered-red-roses design, coupled with a bandana knotted at her neck completed the image well enough to be stylish rather than "cowgirl wannabe."

She made her way to breakfast, a sprawling buffet with whatever anyone might want. She noticed that those she had tagged as staff, including Constance, were eating as casually as any guests.

"Connie," she said, "can I ask you a question?"

"You mean two questions?" Connie countered, smiling.

"At least," Miranda replied, laughing with her newly melodious voice. They picked up some food and moved to one of the outdoor tables.

Without more distraction, Miranda said, "Cole wants me to go swimming later."

"Oh, that will be nice," Connie said.

"But I don't know what sort of suit to wear," Miranda said with a desperate whimper. "Cole said to be, um, 'daring,' but I don't know what that means. I mean, here with his family and all."

"Good point," Connie said. "First off, you could wear anything from a burlap sack to nothing at all and Miss Sara would not scold you or anything. So if there's something you really want to wear . . ."

Miranda shook her head so Connie continued, "Good. Just because Miss Sara would accept it does not mean it's a good idea. What sort of choices do you have?"

"Oh, I have a few . . . well, several suits. I sort of went overboard yesterday. What do you think I should wear?"

Connie looked thoughtful for a few minutes, then said. "Okay, what we want is 'daring, but not vulgar.' That means no, or at least not much underboob, and a full rear - no thongs."

"Good," Miranda said, twitching a bit at the idea of wearing a thong bottom in public. She'd . . . experimented with a lot of styles - very much in private - during the time in her bottle but was far from comfortable in them all.

"Miss Chloe will be here," Connie continued, "and she always wears a white bikini. She's got a good tan and a well-tanned blonde looks best in white."

Miranda nodded, wondering if she had made the right choice keeping her own skin tones so 'peaches and cream.'

"Which means you can wear red, finally," Connie concluded. "Not a pink, but a dark red that shimmers every time you breathe."

She interrupted herself again, this time with a laugh. "Did you hear the joke about that? Since women wear swim suits that cover so little, men show their respect by keeping their attention focused on the spots that are covered instead of all the bare skin."

"What?" Miranda said.

"Prepare to be stared at," Connie explained. "If you wear a tiny bikini - no underboob and full rear coverage, but tiny - the parts that are covered will definitely get stared at."

"Will that be okay?" Miranda asked. "What you said, um, 'daring but not vulgar?'"

"Oh, yeah," Connie said. "Of course you have to cover all the . . . colorful areas on your boobs, and . . . how, um, closely are you shaved? Will there be a problem with the bottom covering everything in front?"

Miranda blushed brightly, but knew that was not going to be an excuse. Her blush was answer enough for Connie, who smiled and concluded. "A string bottom is okay, though if you feel particularly daring you might have a fairly narrow front with more than one string on each side to a ring or something. Sort of like a cutout. That should meet what Miss Sara considers acceptable. She's pretty confident in her own attractiveness and doesn't feel threatened by competition. Of course, Mr. Sam doesn't know any other woman than she even exists."

"Good for them," Miranda said, remembering Sara's quiet comments to her and seeing them in a new light.

"Do you have something like that?" Connie asked.

"Oh, um, yes," Miranda said, then thought, "Or at least, I will by the time I get back to my room."

The day was warming rapidly and she was just as happy to get out of her jeans and long-sleeved shirt anyway. The suit she chose was dark red with 'daring' cutouts, but full - well almost full - rear coverage. In the mirror Miranda thought it looked about right, but she took a short coverup that would allow her to seem more dressed than naked. Her suit certainly didn't. She avoided the cliché of high heels in favor of ballet flats, but as short as the coverup was her legs seemed to stretch almost to her throat anyway.

When she reached the pool, Chloe wasn't there yet . . . but Cole was.

It was the first time Miranda had seen him without his shirt. It was clear - very clear - that he was honest about his desire to earn his success instead of having it handed to him. That included the hard work of building a house in the wilderness which had given him a sculpted body that a Mr. Olympia pro might have envied.

Miranda was torn between regret and pride that her suit was so thin because she immediately started showing her interest. Cole noticed. His eyes, as Connie had warned, focused sharply on the parts of her body that were covered - well, his eyes needed to focus sharply, because the points of interest were so sharply defined. From her side, Miranda felt more than a visual response. It was so bad it hurt, and so good she wanted to hurt like that forever.

Her hands seemed to work on their own accord and her coverup fell to the deck near the pool. If anyone hadn't already started staring at her, that was enough to seize their attention. Slipping out of her shoes, she made a smooth dive into the water that nonetheless made a pretty significant splash - her curves couldn't enter without a splash no matter how perfect her technique.

As though that were a signal, first Cole and then three or four other swimmers - including one young woman - started thrashing about and calling for help. With a few strong strokes Miranda was by his side, then realized her feet could touch the bottom.





"Stand up, doofus," she said, laughing.

Cole laughed and stood up, and once it was clear that she was 'occupied' the other distressed swimmers recovered as well.

Miranda leaned close to him and whispered, "Master, you don't have to pretend distress to get me to come to you. Just . . . smile."

"I thought you were going to say that I should whistle," he replied. "Can you whistle? Just put your lips together and . . . blow."

"I think that works better the other way around," she said. "When a pretty girl with a deep, throaty voice suggests it."

"I'll make a note," Cole replied. Without saying anything more, he started swimming easily toward the steps of the pool. Miranda followed, of course, but before she could go to pick up her coverup and shoes, Cole moved to get them for her. In a pocket of the coverup she 'found' (after a quick blink) a scrunchy to tame all her streaming hair and they moved to a shaded table.

"So, what happens now?" asked Miranda.

"Nothing," Cole said smiling. "I got you out here with that awesome bod in an awesome bikini. My life is complete."

Miranda smiled, then let her eyelids get heavy in a look perfected by Marilyn Monroe. "You haven't seen my gown for tonight, yet."

"Oh, god," Cole moaned. He abruptly stood up and jumped back into the water.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"If you don't know, then I'm not about to tell you," he replied. However, their voices were loud enough that others heard at least that much of their conversation.

"Show off!" Jed Hardesty shouted from his seat at another table.

One of the starlets, a woman named Tiffany Case, called out, "If you don't want him, honey, throw him my way. I'll take some of that!"

Miranda finally realized what Cole's 'problem' was, and her blush was bright enough to banish the shade from their table. She had other responses as well.

Shayna Hardesty stood up and walked over to Miranda's table. She dropped her voice - but not quite enough for real privacy. "Don't point those things my way. They might go off."

Jed, who had followed her over, tried to shush her. She laughed and said, "Oh, be quiet Bubba. I'm just saying what all you guys are thinking anyway."

"Yeah, but at least we're subtle."

"You can't even spell subtle," Shayna replied. "That's why all of you are staring at her with your tongues hanging out."

She sat down next to Miranda and waved at one of the serving staff. "Bring us some . . . let's see . . . lemonade for Miranda and me, with some ice water for Mr. Subtle here."

Shayna reached out to pat Miranda's hand. "It's okay, honey. First off, it just shows that all their equipment - including their eyes - is working. Second, 'if you got, it flaunt it' has worked since Ooga convinced Booga to take her back to his cave. Although I am curious what you said to Cole just before he jumped in the cold water."

"Oh, um, nothing much," Miranda said, blushing again.

"Musta been the way you said it, then," Shayna replied. Then she leaned in to whisper to Miranda. "The unfair thing is, when they jump in cold water, the, um, evidence of their interest gets smaller. For us, um, things just get even more . . . prominent."

Miranda looked down at her own, very prominent, 'things,' "Oh, god, maybe I should go back to my room and find something more . . ."

"You'd be hard put to find anything less," Shayna interrupted. "But no, stay here. This is one place where it's 'okay' for a woman to show that she's a bit of an exhibitionist. We all are - at least, the ones who care enough to keep their figures - so enjoy it."

Jed finally rejoined their conversation, interrupting the whisper with a real, though polite voice. "Don't worry about it, Miranda. Despite the country atmosphere, everyone here is nice. They may tease a little, but . . . well, hell, it's only fair because of the way you're teasing all of us just by breathing."

"Jed . . ," Shayna said, a warning tone in her voice. Miranda realized it was the only time she had heard the woman call her husband by his real name.

"Ah, settle down, darlin'. You know Ah don't mean nothin' by it."

"Yeah, but does she?" Shayna countered.

Miranda smiled and said, "So, the 'aw shucks' accent is how he gets out of trouble?'

"It's how he tries,' Shayna corrected, but after a second she smiled and bumped elbows with Jed. "And mostly it works."

Shayna looked around and saw that some additional people were joining the pool party. "Speaking of trouble . . ."

Miranda saw that Chloe and her husband were among the new arrivals. True to Connie's prediction, Chloe was wearing a white bikini and it did indeed showcase her tan. She apparently didn't feel that heels with a bikini were too cliché, so the wore some that - damnit - made her legs look spectacular.

Shayna leaned in to whisper to Miranda again. "If you want some advice, honey, go swim out to your boyfriend. Chloe might forget she's married."

Miranda looked sharply at her new friend, but nodded. Slipping back into the water (no dive) she swam easily out to where Cole was talking with some of the other guests. When she stood up the water was just deep enough to offer some lift to her new buoyancy, and it took a moment before the men could form coherent sentences. Cole's eyes danced with pleasure and he put a proprietary arm around her.

"Rule #1," he said to her. "No talking the sports that these guys play. They can get in trouble for revealing insider information, and they don't know what they're talking about anyway."

That provoked a deep-toned laugh from the football player and the basketball player, with a more normal-toned harmony from the baseball player.

"With no particular sport in mind," Leroy Hansen, the football player said, showing brilliant teeth in a wide grin, "do you like sports?'

Miranda blushed, but shook her head. "Just as a spectator, I'm afraid. I've never been very good at playing."

"Built for comfort not for speed, hmmm?" the baseball player, Jackie Ryan, said.

"Jackie," Cole said warningly.

"Oops, did I say that out loud?" Jackie asked, bowing toward Miranda. "Sorry."

"Oh, if you're thinking it, you might as well say it," she said with a light laugh. "It's not like I haven't heard things like that before." Then she thought, "Actually, I haven't heard things like that before, at least, not directed at me. I'm still new at this girl thing."

The very-dark-skinned, very tall basketball player, Jerome Kenyon, said - with perfect diction and a wonderfully resonant cadence, "Milady, while we can work on our tans all day, your delicate skin may not do well in this bright sun. Should we adjourn to the shade?"

"I'm okay," Miranda said. "I don't really tan, but I don't really burn, either."

"Well, I'm ready for a drink," Cole announced. With his arm still around Miranda, he started wading through the water to a nearby ladder. The others followed and they were soon seated at a shaded table, with fresh drinks in front of them.

Miranda smiled up at her master, then grinned wickedly. "So, Ma . . . um, Cole, did you get over whatever problem you had? That made you get in the water so quickly."

"Not entirely," Cole said, blushing just a bit himself.

"Good for you," Jerome said. "It shows you are hale and hearty . . . and not blind."

The other two pro athletes laughed, and in a moment Cole joined in. Though part of her felt that she should be more demure, Miranda found herself smiling with pride instead.

Despite Rule #1, the men did talk sports, but instead of predictions on who would win which game, it was a good-natured teasing about which of the sports was toughest. Jerome laughed at the need for the 'little' guys who played football to wear armor, while Jackie grudgingly admitted that Jerome did have to play where the air was thin which made things tougher.

Cole might have felt left out, but he could counter with his own stories of the manual labor - at altitude - of building his dream cabin. Each of the others were invited to try to keep up with him, and all of them said that they would have to try that - though they all knew that none would.

Strangely, Miranda realized she didn't feel left out even though her contribution to the conversation was confined largely to wide-eyed looks of appreciation. She did know enough about the sports to be able to answer when one of the others would ask her opinion on something, and gained a few points when her answers showed insight. Though she - well, Ephraim - had never played sports, "he" had the longing of impossible dreams and had followed all of these stars well enough that they were impressed with her knowledge.

But more than that, despite being more of an outsider physically than Ephraim had ever been, she felt accepted by the circle of men. Perhaps it was because Cole was casually holding her hand the entire time, and perhaps it was because her beauty made her truly welcome, but the sense of not fitting in that had haunted Ephraim throughout his life didn't trouble her.

In a few minutes the staff started setting up yet another buffet, and while none of the men moved immediately to get food, they did use that occasion to switch to beer for their drinks. Miranda stayed with a diet soda even though she knew that she didn't have to worry about gaining weight. Ephraim had drunk diet sodas for so long that she actually preferred the taste. While they were selecting which of a seeming endless variety of beer to order, Miranda noticed that Chloe, with her husband, was sitting with Cole's father. Miranda couldn't quite keep herself from feeling smug that she had cornered all the supremely masculine males in the party.

True to her prediction, a few hours later when Cole called on her to take her to the main event for the weekend, her gown made him forget all about the skimpy bikini she had worn at the pool. She smiled to herself that she had taken Chloe's accusation/suggestion and made the gown stick to her figure. The top followed her curves like diamond-studded paint and only that magical attachment allowed her to bend forward without going so far past 'daring' that even the dust had settled in her wake. With Connie's help, she had formed a series of waving cascades for her hair, but since the choices were either a three-foot-tall structure on her head or allowing some of it to tumble down anyway, after baring her neck and shoulders thick curves swept nearly to her waist. That also allowed the diamond chandeliers at her ears to gleam with every reflected light.

This time, if one looked closely, one could see a quarter-inch of lower cleavage where the backless design reunited with itself. That, too adhered to her curves. In fact, nearly everything she wore had extra help with staying close to her form. The dress was cut low enough that any sort of garter-belt would show so she wore stay-up stockings which really would stay up, and a tiny wisp of panty that flowed across the taut curves of her derriere yet stayed low enough to avoid any revelation of a whale-tail connection between the strings that went around her hips with the one that dove into even more secret realms.

Yet, when standing still, she looked almost . . . serene. The thigh-high split didn't show in her skirt unless she moved, and the closer-than-a-lover caress of the gown over her curves didn't seem impossible until one realized that it never gapped even when she did move.





Miranda offered her hand to Cole, who took it and kept it rather than tucking it within his arm. They strolled with casual elegance - a term that had always seemed like a contradiction to the old Ephraim - into the dining room.

Sara Thornton saw them and despite her suave self-assurance, froze - chin dropped - for a long moment. Then she shook herself and managed one-foot-in-front-of-the-other for long enough to reach her son and his guest.

"That is . . . quite a gown," she said. "I can see why you wanted to use your own rather than buy a new one."

"This old thing?" Miranda replied. "I've had it, well, most of my life, it seems."

"Took you a while to grow into it, I'll bet," Sara said. But her eyes had relit with enthusiasm and she leaned in to whisper, "If Cole doesn't make a pass, then I insist you let me know. I'm getting worried about him."

Miranda just laughed, but she looked at her tall escort with something like wistfulness in her eyes.

Even the starlets hated her on sight, and poor Chloe looked like she wanted to leave the party immediately. She certainly tugged at her husband's arm, though perhaps she was just trying to get him to stop staring at the newly arrived guest. If she succeeded, she was one of the few women who did. Most of the men didn't even try to look away, despite a few sharp elbows in their ribs.

The dinner was not a buffet, but there was no assigned seating. Instead, the food was the backdrop for an auction, with several tables scattered around the room for those who wanted to eat rather than examine the auction "merchandise."

Bidding for a chance to run at high speed on the local NASCAR track with Jed Hardesty started the evening and brought in several times what the track rental and car operation would cost. Basketball star Jerome Kenyon offered to go one-on-one with anyone who was interested, selling a short session with several men before even more spirited bidding on a two-on-one opportunity.

No one would even try to tackle Leroy Hansen, let along get tackled by him, so his offer was to arm-wrestle anyone who felt able. The sole bidder for the opportunity was Tiffany Case, and it appeared the wrestling she had in mind might go beyond entwined arms, but no one begrudged her the chance.

"Thank you all for your generosity," Sam Thornton said as most of the auction was complete. "Our final prize for the evening is a chance to sing a duet with Copper. We have a karaoke machine with the lyrics and accompaniment, so all you need is a voice. Who will start the bidding?"

To everyone's surprise, the first bid was from Cole Thornton. "Ten thousand dollars!"

Sam Thornton laughed and said, "Cole, you croak like a frog. Get real."

Cole laughed good naturedly, but a single glance from him to Miranda and it was clear he wasn't bidding for himself anyway.

As a result, there was a lot less surprise at the second bid - from Chloe Robinson. "Twenty thousand dollars!"

"Fifty thousand!" from Cole.

"One hundred thousand!" answered Chloe.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Cole said clearly and distinctly.

Chloe looked ready to answer, but her husband, showing strength of will that surprised everyone even more than the bidding, grabbed Chloe's arm and stilled her.

No one else wanted to play in that game so Cole's last bid won. Chloe and Jere left quietly while everyone was congratulating Cole and the situation was defused.

With a lot of laughter and even more applause, Copper took the stage. Cole firmly took Miranda's hand and led her to the stage, letting her go only when there was no chance for her to escape.

"What would you like to sing?" asked Copper.

"I've always liked your 'Walking on Clouds' song," Miranda replied.

"Okay. It's not really a duet," Copper said, "but if you want to sing the melody, I'll work something out."

"Oh, no. It's your song," Miranda said. "You just sing it. That way the guests will get a real treat, and I can do harmony, I think. The church choir sings a lot of harmony."

"Church choir?" Copper repeated. "In that gown, church is not the first place I'd expect to find you."

"Not any more," Miranda agreed, but she laughed to defuse any sense of insult.

"Shall we start?" Copper asked, and when Miranda nodded the singer pushed the button to start the karaoke machine.

She launched into the first stanza of her biggest hit song, and for just a few measures Miranda stood there. Then she let her new talent loose and began to sing a light, sweet harmony a third lower than Copper's own tones. The result was incredible. It seemed as though Copper's voice acquired a richness and resonance it had never had before, yet the harmony was so perfect it sounded like one beautiful voice.

The pop star went through the first verse and reached the refrain. At that point Miranda started an echo rather than a simple harmony, using the long-held notes that were Copper's trademark to complete her own phrases. On the second verse Miranda got a bit more inventive and improvised a descant that danced around the melody - never interfering but soaring in a way that made it seem like their voices truly were walking on clouds. As the song concluded with a climbing crescendo of sound and pitch Miranda returned to simple harmony, yet she matched the professional singer in both range and ability to hold the final note for what seemed like forever.

The applause, even from the relatively small crowd drowned out anything that Copper might have wanted to say immediately. When the uproar started to die down a little, Copper waved the audience to silence.

"That was amazing," she said. "You are incredible. You have *got* to come into the studio with me to record that! I absolutely insist."

That set off another round of applause, but Miranda shook her head. "I'm not really a professional singer. I'm just doing this because Cole asked me to."

"Then you ought to be," Copper insisted. "Cole. Tell her to come record that with me."

"We'll see," Cole said neutrally. "But with your consent, I think I'd like to hear Miranda sing the lead on one."

"Absolutely," Copper said. "Pick one, honey. I'll try to do as good a job on harmony as you did."

"Oh," Miranda said, but she caught Cole's eye and couldn’t say no. "I, um, don't know what to pick."

"I've got it," Copper said. She busied herself at the karaoke controls for a few moments, then pulled Miranda to where she could see the screen.

Miranda knew the song, and Cole's wish had given her confidence and comfort in singing, so she just . . . started.

"The first time . . . . ever I saw, your face . . .
I thought the sun rose in your eyes and the moon and the stars were the gift you gave . . ."

She knew it was best when singing to pick someone to sing to. She tried to spend a few moments on each of several guests, but without conscious decision, her eyes kept coming back to Cole.

By the time she reached the second verse her world had become just Cole and herself. Without even realizing she was doing it, she changed the tense of the lyrics.

"The first time . . . ever I kiss your mouth . . .
I'll feel the earth move . . . in my hands . . ."

Somewhere in there, Copper had quit singing and was just humming a soft harmony. She did join in again for the concluding fading 'your face' lines, but her voice was even softer than Miranda's. It was clearly Miranda's song, and her thoughts and her heart pouring out with each liquid caress of tone.

Unlike when Copper and Miranda had done their duet, there was no applause at the end of Miranda's song. There was no sound at all. It wasn't clear anyone was even breathing.

As though awakening from a trance, Miranda twitched and looked around at everyone staring at her. She blushed brightly enough to be seen throughout the room. That seemed to be a signal because then there was applause. Copper reached out and hugged the brunette, whispering in her ear, "We need to talk. I have got to get you to a recording studio."

Miranda was rescued from needing to respond by the arrival of Cole, who took her in his arms and completed at least the second stanza of the song with a kiss that did indeed make the earth move for Miranda. She felt herself melting like warm wax, forming to his shape with no need for bones or strength. Her arms did float up around his neck at some point, but it wasn't important when it happened, just as their support wasn't important. Cole had her, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter 11: "The Wish Within The Wish"

Cole walked Miranda back to her room, just as he had done the night before. And he held her hand while they walked, just as they had done the night before. But it wasn't anything like the night before. Miranda floated along, not entirely sure her dainty shoes were even touching the ground.

The rooms could be locked from the inside, of course, but the guests didn't really need keys. Cole merely pushed the door open then let her turn to face him.

"I know you haven't used magic on me," he began. "Both because I haven't asked you to and I know you well enough to know that you are an honest djinni." He smiled as he said that. "But more than that, I know you haven't because using magic on someone's feelings would be against your nature. So I know my feelings are honest and true when I tell you that . . . I love you."

"Oh, Master," Miranda whispered into his chest. "I'm a djinni."

"Yes, you are," he replied. "So what?"

"Well, when you make your final wish, or wishes - however much it takes to use up my magical energy - then I'll . . . go back into my bottle and it will . . . move on."

"Then I'll never make another wish," he promised.

"But I'm still a djinni. I don't know . . . maybe something else will happen. I just don't know."

"I don't care," he countered. "Maybe I'll get hit by a meteor from space tomorrow. I don't care. All I care about is having you in my life, for as long as we can."

"Oh, Cole," she sighed, this time looking up to his descending lips.

After a moment, Miranda managed to get just the toe of one shoe on the ground, and pushed backward. But her arms were still tightly around his neck and it was clear it was an invitation, not a rejection. As he allowed himself to be 'pulled' into the room, she waved an arm and the door closed behind him. She actually had to open her eyes to blink, but after that her clothes had vanished, though there was enough of Ephraim left in her to recognize that leaving her dark, seamed stockings and heels on was a good thing. Another blink and Cole's clothes were gone - every stitch.

He laughed and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, but as they reached it, she stiffened.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Oh, Master, I've never . . . um . . ."

"Never?" he repeated, drawing back a little.

Miranda held him even more tightly. "No, Master, but please don't reject me. You'll just need to be . . . patient, while I, um, learn."

"Oh, god, woman, you are so perfect." He placed her on the bed, but rather than move immediately to their obvious destination, he lay next to her for a moment. "I mean that," he said. "You are perfect, for me. I love that you are so beautiful, of course, but that's just a starting point. I love that you are so happy to please - to serve - others. Some people think it is demeaning for a woman to accept a man's leadership, and maybe I'm arrogant or something, but I love that in you. You have plenty of strength of character. The way you've stood up to Chloe proves that. It's not a sign of weakness to want to please others."

"Thank you, Master," she said. "I do so want to please you, in whatever way you want."

Then she smiled wickedly and added, "Though if you don't get busy, I may have to find someone else for what *I* want."

"Can't have that," he said.

He was patient. And Miranda was willing to learn. They found only one real problem. She was very vocal when her body carried her away, and he had to offer her a shoulder to scream into. In fact, she left him a few tooth marks that she was quick to blink away as soon as she became rational again. It was something they were going to have to figure out how to address, since it happened again. And again.

Eventually Cole was finished. Miranda was pleased that he was exhausted and fell asleep with his arms around her. A quick wave of her hand and the wet spot became dry and she was comfortable to lie with him. But she was not going to be able to fall asleep. At first, she thought it was just continuing excitement and wonder, but after a while she realized it was more than that. She was brimming over with magical energy, more than she had when she first emerged from her bottle. More than she had ever felt before, in fact.

Using a little of it, she extricated herself from Cole's embrace without waking him. A quick wave and she was dressed once again in casual clothes. A blink placed her in the familiar spot in the woods in Iowa, and she concentrated on summoning her friend again.

This time was a bit different. Instead of seeing Gene's bottle appear on the stump/table, he appeared in human form, draped over the table, hips moving.

Totally nude.

"What the hell?!" he snapped.

"Oops, sorry," Miranda said. She was about to summon Gene some clothes when he stood up (providing her a rather impressive display that nonetheless did not make her feel disappointed with Cole) and summoned his own clothes.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"I need to talk to you," Miranda said.

"I figured that," Gene replied. "Couldn't you just text me or something? Your timing is terrible."

"So I gathered," Miranda said dryly. But then she said nothing, though her eyes took on a dreamy look that accented a soft smile.

After a moment, Gene said, "So, you got laid, huh?"

"Don't say that!" she replied sharply. "What we had was beautiful, and warm, and sweet, and passionate. A true joining of our souls, not some animal coupling!"

"Good for you," Gene said quickly. After a moment, he asked gently, "Your first time?"

She nodded. The older djinn waited patiently. After a moment, he noticed her eyes were starting to glisten.

"And you're a djinni," he said. "But he's a mortal."

Miranda nodded again. "Oh, Gene, I love him. And he loves me! What are we gonna do?"

"How many wishes has he used up?"

"What? Oh, um, two, I guess."

He sighed. "You know when he used up his last one, or two, and your energy is depleted you'll be compelled to get back into your bottle."

"Oh, um . . ," she said, then pulled off one of her gloves. There was a blue nimbus surrounding her fingers, with an inch-long blue spark dancing from the tips of her fingers every second or so. "After we made love, I was just bursting with magical energy. More than I ever had when I left my bottle."

"Hmm," he said more pensively.

Miranda put her glove back on and asked, "What does it mean?"

Gene sighed. "I told you, I'm not Solomon. I don't know."

He paused for a few moments, lost in thought. "What did he wish for?"

"Oh, that's another funny thing. He didn't wish for anything for himself. He wished that I would be his date to this fancy charity ball at his parent's home, but that one hardly counts because I'd have done it anyway. Except, well, to do that I had to get some clothes, and had to be, um, more sophisticated and all, so that took a little magical energy so maybe it was a wish. Part of the charity event was an auction of prizes and one of those required that I be able to sing, so he wished for that."

"But nothing for himself?" Gene asked.

"No," she confirmed. "He's rich already, and healthy, and his work is interesting. He told me that he wants to earn what he gets. No shortcuts. Except, well, I guess I'm a sort of shortcut, to a girlfriend."

"With benefits," Gene observed.

"It didn't start out that way," Miranda countered. "We were just going to be friends, and it was that way for several days, but . . . last night . . . it just . . . happened."

"With you kicking and screaming all the way?" Gene asked, a hint of darkness showing in his eyes.

Miranda couldn't help herself. She giggled, and said, "Well, I was screaming at one point . . . well, more than one, actually, but I don't remember kicking anything."

Gene actually blushed, but he flashed a grin on the way to becoming pensive again.

"On the face of it, this shouldn't happen," he said. "Most djinni are . . . experienced, and so they don't fall in love with their masters. At least, not so quickly. And if they do, they know it will still result in anguish later when their masters age and the djinni don't."

"Oh, god, I never thought of that," Miranda whimpered.

"But," Gene continued, "I've never heard of a djinni gaining magical energy from, ah, from 'making love.'"

He looked around the clearing where they kept meeting and at the stump where their bottles were not present. He waved his arm and both bottles appeared.

"Why do you suppose he found your bottle?" Gene asked.

"I don't know," Miranda said. "I've been wondering that myself. If he doesn't need anything, why did my bottle, um, find him?"

Gene leaned back in his easy chair and said, "One of the things I've been doing is watching some current TV. It helps to understand the culture. Somewhere along the way, on some detective show or another, the detectives came up against an impossible situation. One of them said, 'When what you see can't be true, check your assumptions.'"

"What assumptions?" asked Miranda.

"Exactly," Gene said. "Look, as I've told you over and over again, I'm not Solomon and that may get us - get you - into lots of trouble. So what I'm thinking may be totally wrong, but . . . what if your master . . .?"

"Cole," supplied Miranda. "Cole Thornton."

"What if your master, Cole, didn't find your bottle for his benefit, but for yours?"

"What?"

"What was your first wish?" Gene asked.

"What?" Miranda repeated, surprised by the non sequitur. But after a moment, she remembered. "To find out why I never fit in anywhere."

"Here's something I didn't tell you before, for a couple of reasons. One of my . . . characteristics, call it part of my geas, is that I look for the 'wish within the wish.' If someone wishes for something, I look for the reason for that wish. I don't consciously "do" anything about that, but sometimes the way the wish works out is different than the master intended - sometimes better, sometimes worse. I don't tell people that because they tend to get all wrapped up in knots second-guessing themselves. And it's hard to explain how I don't really control it. The way that their wish is granted seems just . . . natural to me, even if it wasn't what they had in mind. It keeps them from getting angry with me for what amounts to their own confused wish."

"Okayyy," Miranda replied slowly, thoughtfully.

"You went from all alone, with no real place in the world, to, um, 'friends' with a nice guy whom you love and who you believe . . . I mean, who loves you. At least now you fit in. That might have been the wish within the wish. Now, after the fact, it seems likely except most of the time when I've seen something like that, it was obvious pretty much immediately. But if Solomon were still pulling the strings, I'd wonder if what has happened to you might have some sort of connection to your wish."

"But what about all my magical energy? From . . . well, from sex?"

"It actually may be better to say that you made love," Gene said. "Look, I've had sex with mortals just about every time I get out of my bottle. I've never had anything like that magical energy recharge. But my sex has just been 'getting laid.' It may very well be that you two truly made love, and that's where your energy came from."

"But, what does that mean?"

"Ask Solomon," Gene countered. Then he smiled and said, "But *my* advice is not to look a gift horse in the mouth. If you and, um, Cole are truly in love, then it appears you won't be compelled to go back into your bottle any time soon. At least, not if you're careful not to waste your magical energy. In the meantime, enjoy your life."

"But what if, I mean, what happens when Cole grows old and I don't?"

"You're a djinni. Work something out," he said. "Other djinni who fell in love with their masters lost their magical energy. Or at least, let it get too low to grant any big wishes, like keeping someone from aging. That has problems anyway, so don't try it. In your case . . . I just don't know. But if he's reasonably young and reasonably fit, just enjoy what you have."

"Oh, Gene, do you think we can do that?"

"Ask Solomon," Gene said again. "But my money's on you, kid."

He stood up and took his bottle in his hand. "In the meantime, I'm going to see if I have enough magical energy left to fix things up with the lady I left, um, behind. So if you'll excuse me . . . or even if you won't . . ."

With that he vanished. Miranda looked thoughtfully where he had been standing, then picked up her own bottle and vanished as well.

When she got back to her room, Cole was still asleep. She conjured him some clothes - daytime clothes so there would be no 'walk of shame' and left them on the foot of the bed. Then she went out to find Miss Sara. It was early enough that there were few guests at the breakfast buffet, but one of the staff had noticed that Miss Sara was already out on the verandah. Miranda approached her, but stood quietly near Sara's table.

"Sit, dear," Sara invited, smiling.

"I need to apologize," Miranda said quietly.

"Whatever for?"

"You asked me to be, um discreet but last night . . ."

"I don't think - after that song - anyone had any doubts about what you were going to do last night," Sara said.

"I didn't plan to," Miranda protested. "I, um, I had . . . never been with a man until last night. When I told Cole that he almost left me, but I begged him to . . . be with me."

"Oh, dear," Sara said. "How do you feel about it this morning?"

Miranda sighed. "If he were awake, I'd want to be screaming into his shoulder right now."

Sara laughed. "Good for you." She looked at the young brunette and continued. "When I asked you to be discreet, it was based on the idea that you were casual in your relationship. I accepted, of course, that you hadn't, um, done it yet with him, but when you did - and I expected it to happen - I thought it would be nice if at least a modicum of surface morality covered over your enjoyment of each other. But that song . . ."

"I've never sung like that before," Miranda said.

"That doesn't really surprise me, either," Sara replied. "The love you poured into that song made it clear your relationship with Cole is not simply physical. I couldn't be happier for you both."

"But what will your guests think?"

"That my son has finally found someone worthy of him," Sara replied. "And if they don't think that, well, to hell with 'em."

"I'm nobody," Miranda said. "Cole is . . . wonderful and I'm a nobody. He should have someone stronger than me. Someone who can fight his battles with him. I'm too . . .well, I'm not good at fighting. Not even the sort of sniping that is done in polite society."

"Nonsense," Sara said. "You ate Chloe up and spit out the pieces. And you did it with a gentle, polite nature that was a lesson to us all. My only question is whether Cole is worthy of you."

"Oh, Miss Sara, he's so awesome. He's way too wonderful for me."

"Just keep thinking that, even if it's not true," she said. "And he'll be happy. Or else I'll turn him over my knee and spank some sense into him."

Miranda laughed, but she was still blushing. She was saved from any further discussion by the arrival of Cole. He looked bright-eyed and cheerful, moved with a bounce in his step, but somehow still looked . . . dissipated.

His mother looked at him with laughter in her eyes, but her tone was blandness itself. "Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well last night?"

"Yes, mother, I did," he said with an equally even tone, then he snickered and said, "What there was of it was great."

Miranda seemed to be in the blush business. She was certainly doing it a lot. But when Cole put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, nothing else really mattered. They chattered about other things - the charity ball had apparently been a huge success, even aside from Cole's generous bid - while Cole ate a very hearty breakfast.

After that, he asked if Miranda would like to go riding. She was already wearing jeans and boots, as she had most days since she arrived at Sunswept, so she nodded and they walked to the stables. Using some sort of psychic radar, Racer knew of their plans and was waiting for them.

"I wonder if this will work as well as the singing did," Miranda mused to herself. She tried to remember every cowboy movie she had ever seen, plus the few times she'd seen barrel racing on TV. After a bit of concentration, she blinked her eyes and hoped her imagination were up to the challenge.

"Can you ride?" Cole asked.

"Yes and no," she replied. "I, um, I'll use my imagination."

"Oh, well, if you can't ride we'll find something else to do," he offered.

"What did you have in mind?" Miranda asked, feeling her voice go furry and her eyes get soft. Then she twitched and giggled. "No, this will be fine. I'm, um, curious anyway."

She mounted with no problem, and while she wasn't knowledgeable enough to know if the horse - a seemingly placid mare named Belle - were truly gentle or her imagined skills were up to the task, they were soon on their way with no apparent difficulty. The only problem was that they were moving much too slowly for Racer's energy level. He ran ahead and then back. Apparently the horses were used to his company because they didn't seem to mind. They welcomed him back with snickers and a head shake when he charged toward them, but their gait never wavered.





Cole led them first on an obvious bridle trail - soft dirt lined with five-rail fences. But after a comfortably quiet half hour, they reached the end of the trail. Instead of turning back, Cole pulled a gate open (without dismounting - he and his horse seemed to move as one) and they were in open fields. He nudged his gelding up to a trot, and then a canter. Miranda didn't have any trouble with the more active gaits and found it exciting. Racer found it to be an early time in heaven, though he still outpaced the horses by a large margin.

"Oh, Cole, this is so much fun! I've never done this before and I didn't know what I was missing."

"You ride pretty well for a newbie," he said.

"Thank you," she said with a laugh, sharing their private joke. She had an urge to do more and tried to get her mare up to a gallop, but the horse wasn't having any of that even with Racer's barking encouragement.

"I should have picked a better horse for you," Cole said, laughing himself at her frustration. "Belle is our most gentle lady."

"She's fine," Miranda said. "She will probably keep me out of trouble."

"What sort of trouble did you have in mind?" Cole asked, his eyebrows working in an artificial leer.

"I am yours to command, Master," she replied, trying to look demure but only succeeding in looking naughty.

Cole laughed, but he changed from a seemingly random course to a specific direction. In a few minutes they approached a stand of trees covering perhaps twenty acres. He led them along a single-file path to a sunlit meadow through which a small stream babbled happily. Swinging down from his horse, he moved to help Miranda down as well. Once she was on her feet, he untied a blanket from behind his saddle and led her to a smooth, grassy spot.

"Why, Master, whatever do you have in mind?" she asked with wide-eyed innocence. Racer seemed to be familiar with Cole's intentions. He wandered off to take a drink from the brook then found a sunny spot to lie down.

Cole didn't play along with her question. Instead, he said, "No magic." Then his fingers began to undo the buttons on her shirt. "I want to enjoy every moment of undressing you."

"Can't promise that, Master," she whispered, her own hands going to his buttons. "Every time with you is magical."

"We've only been together once," Cole replied.

"So, every time with you is magical," she repeated, laughing lightly even as she lifted her lips to his.

A moment later there was a problem. "Damn," Cole said, "I'm not sure I can get these jeans off of you. How did you get them on?"

"Magic," Miranda replied, musical bells in her laughter refusing to accept any problems existed. But in a moment she almost broke his rule and used magic anyway. Her jeans really were tight. However, they were stretchy, too, so she managed to shimmy out of them. While she was taking care of that obstacle, Cole spread the blanket. It took a long time to get undressed the rest of the way. As the secret delights behind bra and panties appeared, he felt compelled to inspect each treasure now that they were in the light of day. Miranda returned the favor - all of them. Slowly removing and then exploring the treasures Cole had hidden.

"Let's see how good a rider you are," he said, lying down and pulling her on top of his ardent interest.

"Oooh, Master, this is . . . wonderful," she cooed.

It wasn’t long before Cole was trying to think about other things to delay his . . . loss of control. Then he had a thought that took any control away. Through increasingly intense panting, he grunted, "There's no one anywhere close to here. If you scream, only the horses will care."

That idea set Miranda loose from reality. And they discovered something unique about making love with a djinni. She did toss her head back and scream when she began to soar, but in an instant her voice had climbed so high Cole couldn't even hear it. Only Racer seemed to mind, jumping up and and moving back a few steps . . . then howling an accompaniment. Huskies are very vocal.

When she was finished - it took her longer than it took Cole - she collapsed on his chest and barely managed enough focus to keep pushing air in and out of her lungs. After her oxygen debt was serviced, she sat back up and looked at a very smug Cole. Though he couldn't see it, she felt magical energy crackling all around her. It was difficult not to use it to make flowers bloom and birds sing - well the birds were already singing but it was the rusty-gate croak of grackles, not anything pretty.

"Master, I have to tell you something," she said quietly.

"Yes?" he asked lazily.

"When we, um, make love," she said, "I am . . . recharged with magical energy. Master, I don't think there is any limit to how many wishes I could grant you, as long as we, y'know, do it."

"It?" he asked, smiling. "You mean make mad, passionate love that makes the earth move and the animals blush?"

"Yes, you beastly, lovely master," she said, leaning down to kiss him. She was careful because they were still joined and she didn't want to lose that, but she sensed that it was not as much of a concern as it might have been. Apparently rubbing her ample assets on his chest helped re-energize him as well.

"So you can stay with me? For maybe a long time?"

"Yes, Master. I think so," she said, beginning to squirm on his lap.

"Miranda, my love, will you marry me?"

She froze for a long moment, but if he expected his request to make her happy, he was mistaken. Instead, she leaned to the side and then laid down next to him.

After a moment, she whispered, "No, Master. I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a djinni, Master. I can't . . . have children."

"Neither can I," Cole replied flatly.

"What?"

"Neither can I," he repeated. "Part of my research is into genetic markers for disease. I carry the markers for several . . . problems. I won't take the risk that my children might have to face such challenges. In fact, I made sure of that some time ago. So, will you marry me?"

She snuggled into his arm for a while and was so quiet he wondered if she had gone to sleep. But after a few minutes she said, "No, Master. I will stay with you for as long as you will have me. But . . . what if you . . . get tired of me?'

"I won't!" he said sharply.

"Or what if you really feel the need to use my magic, and I have to return to my bottle?"

"I won't!" he repeated.

"Master, I love you," she said. "And I believe you mean that. But what if something happens to change your mind?"

She leaned up on one elbow and looked carefully into his eyes. "Even if you never do - change your mind, I mean - how could I know? How could I be sure you weren't keeping me around just because you felt obligated or something? I couldn’t stand that."

She put her head back on his shoulder again. "I'll stay with you as long as you want me, but I need to know every day when we get up that you *choose* to have me stay with you for one more day. And every night I'll thank whoever is out there that you kept me for one more day."

"Miranda, love, you don't need to . . ."

She shushed him by putting a finger on his lips. "Yes, Master. I do."

Finally Cole shrugged and said. "Okay. No promises. No commitments. But prepare to spend the rest of our lives together."

"Your life, anyway," she whispered, but so softly that even he couldn't hear her.

Chapter 12: "This Is How It Will Go"

The old man struggled to breathe, even in his sleep. Every inhalation was a wheezy gasp. Every exhalation was half cough, half gurgle. White hair, so thin where once it had been so thick, draped over the finest pillow. Bony hands, knuckles swollen, lay still on top of a silken comforter.

Then he roused, trying to sit up as he called out, "Miri!"

"I'm here, Master," a woman said. She might have been about the same age, though she sat easily upright on a stool near his bedside. Silver-white hair, surprisingly long for an older woman, spilled over her shoulders. Deeply etched laugh lines accented the corners of her eyes, and her cheeks had the parchment look of thin skin stretched over sharp bones. Only her figure, still shapely with a trim waist and high, proud bosom seemed out of place with her age. She reached a hand with equally prominent bones, though without the swelling of arthritic knuckles, to take the man's hand.

"Miri," he said. "I had the most interesting dream. Do you remember when we rented that sailboat down in the Caribbean and the dolphins danced around our bow?"

"Yes, Master," she said.

"I dreamed that we transformed into dolphins ourselves, and dashed right along with them laughing and chittering at the game of riding the bow wave."

"That sounds like fun, Master," she said.

He forced his eyes to focus on her. Cataract surgery had taken away the worst of the cloudiness, but they were still not as clear as they had once been. "I never made my third wish."

"No, Master, you didn't," she said. "What we did, we did together because we wanted to, not as a commanded wish."

"We did a lot of good things with your magic," he said. "There are a lot of kids who were not hungry, or cold . . ."

"Or sick, after you and your inventions helped them," she said, smiling. "And you gave me a lot of magic.

He looked at her and smiled back. Then his eyes became vacant for just a moment, though that was long enough that the woman was concerned. However, after that moment he looked back at her and asked, "Miri, would you do me a favor?"

"Of course, Master," she replied.

"Bring me your bottle," he requested.

"My bottle?" she asked, a worried look rearranging the wrinkles on her face and brow.

"Yes, please," he confirmed.

With obvious reluctance, as though she had an insight into what the old man was thinking, the woman moved to a nearby mantle and returned with a bottle that would have looked more at home among a tray of expensive liquors, except for a deep blue color that hid whatever contents it might have had.

"I'm going to make my third wish," the man declared.

"Oh, no, Master! Please don't. It's been so long since we've recharged my magic that I won't have enough. I'll be pulled back into my bottle for sure!"

He smiled at her, but her plea did not deter him.

"Miranda, I wish that you would, one last time, show me your beauty as I first saw it all those years ago . . ," he interrupted himself with a naughty little smile, ". . . except this time, I want you to wear a harem outfit, tinted blue to match your amazing eyes."

Miranda stood back, tears shining in her eyes, but she bowed her head. "Yes, Master," she said in a voice that seemed too tight for real sound. She lifted her hands above her head and brought them down together in a smooth flowing motion. As her hands passed each part of her form a changed occurred. First the crown of her hair turned the rich, shining blackness of a starry night, then the creases in her face smoothed out. A small - but definite - wattle at her neck tightened up as her soft robe turned into a sheer wisp of thin silk that showed a rich blue where the folds provided enough depth for color. It was daringly revealing of her still-taut cleavage, though a small vest appeared to hide the most intimate secrets. The silky material stopped just below her bosom, to reveal a tight, supple abdomen untouched by time. A small panty appeared scandalously low on her hips, itself holding up more expanses of cerulean gossamer that ballooned into classic harem pants.





The old man never knew what sort of shoes formed to go with that outfit. As her hands gracefully flowed lower her feet faded and then transformed into a cohesive cloud of white fog. He pulled the stopper from the bottle and the fog flowed toward the opening - slowly, reluctantly pulling the rest of the beautiful young woman in tow behind the vanished feet.

He smiled and put the stopper back in the bottle, laying it by his side.

In a few minutes, he no longer struggled to breathe.


* * * * * * * *

Gene stood in the small clearing in the 20-acre patch of trees. At least, he thought it was the same clearing. In all the years since he had met - what was his name? - the guy who became Miranda here, the clearing had essentially disappeared. Quite-large trees in a mixture of oaks and elms had grown up where prairie grass had once swayed. Even the old stump they had used as a table was hard to identify.

He was actually surprised to see the stand of trees there at all. He didn't know that the Thornton Foundation had purchased the farm years before. The rich farm land was planted alternately in corn and soybeans depending on the market, but this stand of trees was protected by unambiguous orders that prevented anyone from even walking among them. Gene thought about restoring the clearing to the way it had been, but then he decided things weren't really the same as they had been in too many ways to make an arrangement of natural-growth trees worth worrying about.

Gene looked much the same as he had when he first met Miranda. Never-out-of-style jeans complemented an always-returning-to-style bomber jacket that was just right for the crisp fall weather. Only in-and-out-of-style western boots were a change from the biker boots he had first worn when the kid had tripped over his bottle.

Over the years, especially once Miranda had shown him it could be done, either he or Miranda had summoned the other for a quiet chat. Those chats had become shorter, and spaced further apart, after it was clear she didn't really enjoy time spent away from her Cole. She still came - the summoning would have taken a lot of effort on her part to deny - but it was no longer something she looked forward to, and so in time neither did he.

But Gene had looked in on her occasionally when he was out of his own bottle, and he hadn't found her in the real world the last couple of times he had looked. That was unusual because the alternative was her bottle and she hadn't been in her own bottle for longer than any djinni he had ever known.

A wave of his hand took care of part of that and her bottle appeared on the stump, almost falling off the uneven surface. The protective geas against inappropriate mortals opening the bottle did not apply to djinni so Gene pulled the stopper without effort. He stepped back to avoid the fire-extinguisher blast of cloud . . . which didn't come.

Instead, a thin wisp of vapor drifted out of the opening with lethargic indolence. It might have dissipated as fast as it emerged, but it gathered together into a definite cloud hovering a few feet above the forest floor. After a while, the white fog began to show a tint of color, and then colors as a figure formed from the mist. The figure was a young woman with long, lustrous dark hair. She wore an azure harem outfit but much of it was obscured by her arms which were wrapped around her gathered up legs. Her cheek rested on one knee and her eyes were closed.

Once the figure was fully formed she might have been expected to fall to the damp leaves below her, but she just drifted down as gently as a soap bubble until her toes and bottom touched the ground. For a moment, Gene wondered if she would pop like a soap bubble at the touch, but nothing so energetic happened. She just transitioned from floating to sitting.

"So, Cole finally died," Gene observed.

Miranda opened her eyes at his voice, but didn't even bother to nod. After only a moment, they closed again.

"You knew this would happen," he said, which didn't even get the response of re-opened eyes.

"This is what is going to happen now," he said. "You are going to remember - because I'm telling you - that you can create any situation in your bottle that you can imagine. Which means you can live with Cole again - in your bottle."

At that, Miranda not only opened her eyes, she lifted her cheek off her knee and looked directly at him.

"Then," he continued, "you're going to realize that you can even have new times with Cole, imagining things you never did. You'll realize you can do magical things with him. Fly through the clouds. Swim with the dolphins . . ."

At this comment Miranda twitched so sharply that Gene realized he had touched on something special. He let his voice go soft, though, and gentle.

"And somewhere in there, you'll realize that even as good as your imagination is, you don't quite see his face as clearly any more . . ."

Miranda scowled and started to say something, but he continued.

"At first, it will be because it's even better. If it were a woman, she would be more beautiful. As a man, I expect he'll be more 'manly', with bigger muscles and a more rugged face. But one day you'll realize that the man you're imagining yourself with is not quite Cole."

Gene reached out with great gentleness to touch her shoulder. "And that's when the miracle happens."

"Miracle?" Miranda repeated, the first word she had spoken since she had lost Cole.

"Yes. Miracle," Gene confirmed. "You'll realize that the old expression is right. 'It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' You'll realize that your life is richer specifically *because* you have all those memories with Cole. That as terrible as you hurt when you lost him, those memories are worth it."

"And there's another thing: a question. Did you and Cole use your magic - renewed most pleasantly, and so more magic than I have ever had - for selfish reasons, or did you help others?"

Miranda had stiffened at the implication her lover had been selfish, but even as she twitched she recognized the importance of the second option Gene had provided.

"You know the answer to that," she whispered.

"Yes, I do," Gene said. "We talked about it in the times you and I visited. So here's the point: Someday, you'll remember those good things you did, too. Not just intellectually, but you'll remember the deep feeling of satisfaction from helping others. It's . . . well, it's in your nature."

Tear tracks were flowing down Miranda's sculpted cheeks. But there was an echo of hope there, too.

"How long?" she whispered.

"I don't know," admitted Gene. "It took me forty years to get over the loss of a girl I knew for only four days. But I am glad now for every instant of those four days, and even for the time I spent getting to the point of the miracle."

"So you loved a woman?"

Gene smiled wryly. "Not really. Certainly not in the sense that you and Cole had. In fact, the girl was only ten years old . . ."

Miranda stiffened again, and Gene laughed. "No, it was not that sort of love. I never touched her. I felt like a father to her, or maybe an uncle. But I loved her. She was sweet, and no matter how young she was, she had a nobility that was as precious to me as your Cole was to you."

"What happened?" asked Miranda.

"She made her wishes and I was drawn back into my bottle," Gene said. "But whenever I was out after that, I looked in on her. She grew up to be a beautiful woman, met a nice man. They married and started a little inn. They were making it go, too, when . . ."

His voice tightened up and this time it was Miranda who laid a gentle hand on his arm. After a moment, he continued. "She died. Giving birth to her third child. But she was a wonderful, truly noble woman despite being born a commoner. I am richer for having known her. For having loved her."

He took a deep breath, and shrugged. "So that's why I know how it goes. You're in the place that hurts, and I'm not going to tell you that it doesn't hurt, or you should just 'get over it.' It doesn't work that way. But someday, the miracle will happen and you will be happy again."

"Thank you," Miranda said. "I'm not sure I believe you, but thank you for trying."

"Good enough," Gene said. "Be well. And, when you can, be happy."

* * * * * * * *

Tracy Ann Summers blinked when a flash of light caught her eye. Looking around she found the source - the sparkle from a crystal bottle with intricate facets.

"Oh, Mama, look. It's so pretty!"

Eva Summers looked around until she, too, saw what had caught her daughter's eye. "That's a whiskey bottle, Tracy Ann, and we don't drink."

"But Mama, it's so pretty. Can we at least go look at it?"

Eva sighed, and that's all it took for Tracy Ann to move toward the door of the little curio shop. It was immediately clear that there was something wrong with the young girl's left leg. The knee didn't bend, and with every step there was a definite tap, as though that foot were much harder than the right one. As she reached for the door to the shop she kept her left hand in her coat pocket. She always kept her left hand in her coat pocket when they were out of the house. Tracy Ann had bone cancer, and the National Health Services Assessment Board had determined it was not in the nation's best interest to provide anything like state-of-the-art prosthetics for a ten-year-old girl who would probably not live to see her eleventh birthday, and certainly not a twelfth.

Eva sighed a lot. Her husband had died before he was 25, from a similar cancer. That was just long enough to bring Tracy Ann into the world, and just late enough that he didn't know to avoid the future his genetic trap had in store for her. So Eva indulged Tracy Ann in whatever little ways she could. Unless the bottle were ridiculously expensive, they'd probably go home with it.

Inside the shop, the proprietor - Samuel Godwin from the name on the door - greeted them with careful attention to Eva's eyes. That kept him from staring or even appearing to stare at the place on Tracy Ann's cheek where that bone was going, too.

"How may I help, you, ma'am?"

"Your bottle seems to have caught my daughter's eye," Eva answered. "The blue one."

"Ah, yes . . ," Mr. Godwin replied, his voice trailing off. "That's a strange one. I don't even remember where I picked it up - some sort of estate sale, probably. It's very unusual. Most cut-crystal decanters don't have any color. That way you can see what kind, and how much, liquor is in each one. The bottle is very old, but I'm afraid I have no provenance for it."

"Provenance?" Eva asked.

"Yes, a record of where it came from, when it was made, and so on. It might be a very valuable antique - that color in that sort of design is, as I said, unusual. However, with no provenance it's just a bottle. I can't even open it."

"Why not?"

"The top seems to have frozen in place. It can't be turned or pulled without breaking the bottle. I'm afraid it's just a decoration, now."

"But it's pretty!" Tracy Ann said.

"Yes, it is," Mr. Godwin agreed.

"How much do you want for it?" Eva asked.

Mr. Godwin looked at the bottle and at the young girl. "You know, this has just been cluttering up my shop for a while, and I could use that display space for something more marketable. Why don't you make me an offer?"

"I, um . . ," Eva began, when Tracy Ann interrupted her.

"Here, mister. You can have all my money." The girl held out a couple of crumpled bills and a few coins.

Without even looking at what was offered, Mr. Godwin held out his hand and took the bundle. "Just right, young lady."

"Thank you, mister," Tracy Ann said. She took the bottle eagerly when the proprietor handed it to her.

He managed to get to the door and open it while Tracy Ann turned carefully around. Then the girl stumped quickly to the opening followed by her sad, but amused for at least a short while, mother.

That night Tracy Ann was determined to open the bottle. She knew the stopper couldn't be forced, but it seemed to her that if she just kept twisting it - lightly, sort of like tapping back and forth - it might eventually work its way free of whatever held it. For that, her left hand actually helped. It was a pair of bent hooks, not sharp like a pirate's hook, that would open and close if she moved her arm just right. And once she had something between the hooks - she thought of them as fingers - she could relax her arm and a spring would hold things between them. With that hand holding the bottle, she could use her real hand to twist the top back and forth.

And back and forth. Over and over and . . .

"Tracy Ann. It's late. Turn out your light and go to sleep," her mother called.

Tracy Ann turned out the light but she didn't go to sleep, or even lay back. She just kept twisting and twisting.

She heard her mother's step on the thin carpet in the hallway and knew she was coming to make sure her daughter was really trying to go to sleep, but Tracy Ann kept at it with an almost frantic urgency.

Just as her mother turned the handle on the door to Tracy Ann's room, the young girl felt a slight motion in the stopper, as though they were somehow related. When the door began to swing open, the stopper began to move from the opening in the bottle . . . .

Finis