“What do you mean, I’m the ‘chosen’ one?”
The voice that floated through the air was fragile and unbelieving. Gordon looked slightly ashamed of himself as he showed his grandmother the letter he’d found in that day’s mail.
“Here, grandmama, read it for yourself,” he said. His shoulders hunched, a childhood habit that made it look as if his head wanted to disappear into his chest in fear.
Vivian snapped at him, her frail voice sharper and more menacing than before, “I certainly will read it!” Her voice dropped to a whisper, the words for herself rather than her timid grandson, “Really, ‘chosen one’ my foot. What kind of nonsense….”
The cream colored parchment felt cool in her hands and the deep ebony of the typed words jumped at her from the page, making her eyes water at the stark contrast.
Dear Ms. Vivian E. Fitzgerald,
On Thursday last, the fifteenth day of April, our office was notified of a prophecy made by one Eleanor Delorez of Manchester, in relation to an issue of some import.
As we believe you are aware, the wizard Markus Malachaal has been subverted by the promise of dark magics made by none other than Hester, herself. As such, M.M. has begun moving against the Agency and the Prime government. Members of the Agency are working as well as can be expected to counter his advances, however, we are sadly falling behind.
Ms. Delorez of Manchester, a seer of some renown, was contacted by the Agency to attempt to foretell the outcome of the dark days and battles ahead. In fact, by the time the Agency’s letter arrived to request her assistance, she had already succumbed to a prophetic fit and pronounced a champion, who would single-handedly outwit and outmaneuver the dark wizard.
That person, my lady, is you. Yes, you, Vivian Elizabeth Fitzgerald are the Agency’s chosen one, the one person most able and eligible to defeat our land’s greatest enemy.
Please respond with your willingness to cooperate, no later than 3o April.
Godspeed and good luck.
Andrew Xavier Bancroft,
Agency of Magical Conduct
“Well, lad,” Vivian Fitzgerald, octogenarian and retired wizardry professor, said to her wallflower grandson, “I’ll be needing my cane. The Agency’s lost another promising young mind to Hester. I’m to go stop him, myself.”
The elderly woman went on, to herself, “Ellie, one day, I’ll have to make the trip down to Manchester and pay back that little bit of gold…otherwise, I imagine, you’ll keep making up these ridiculous prophecies. Mad as a hatter, that one.”