Shopping For Magic Supplies In Surrey Alley

Sleep & Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series. Tonight, visit a hidden commercial corridor of London – one lined with magic shops and mystical delights. Bathe in the aromas of an apothecary and potion shop, get fitted for new robes, pick out an animal familiar, and visit a renowned wandmaker to complete your magical supplies.
Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw and Hard Charger by Christian Andersen; Sounds by ZapSplat

Transcript

Welcome to Sleep and Sorcery,

A folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

Step across the threshold into a world of myth and magic,

Where you can safely drift off into a deep and comfortable sleep.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

On each episode of Sleep and Sorcery,

I'll carry you away to a far-off time and place where you'll encounter magic and mystery,

Folklore and fairy tales.

Travel to worlds both familiar and entirely new,

From high fantasy realms to secret havens in our own world.

Concentrate on my voice only as long as it serves you to do so.

When you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and voyage into sleep.

If you are still awake,

As the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing meditation and body scan.

In tonight's story,

You'll visit a hidden corridor of London,

One lined with magic shops and mystical delights.

Bathe in the aromas of an apothecary and potion shop,

Get fitted for new robes,

Pick out an animal familiar,

And visit a renowned wand maker to complete your magical supplies.

Exhausted from the day,

Return to your rooms at a magical bed and breakfast,

Where you'll curl up for a good night's sleep.

Before we begin the story,

Take a few moments to settle in.

Wiggle your fingers or toes,

Move the head side to side on your pillow.

Take these movements now and let your body discover the natural position it wants to be in to find rest.

Try to recognize any places where you might be holding onto excess tension and consciously release those areas,

Maybe in the hips,

Shoulders,

Or even the face.

Now find some stillness here in the position you've chosen,

But feel free to move or change position at any time during the story.

Become aware of the points of contact between your body and your sleep surface.

How firm is the surface?

Feel the surface pressing back against you,

Cradling you,

Supporting you.

Close your eyes if you haven't already.

With the eyes closed,

Picture the walls of the room you're in,

The ceiling,

The furniture,

The decorations.

See yourself lying on the sleep surface.

Breathe.

Then look through the walls,

The ceiling,

The floor,

What's outside your room,

Outside the building,

Beyond the horizon.

Breathe.

Let the breath fill up the lungs and the core of the body,

And on your exhale,

Allow your line of inner sight to roll outward,

Spreading like water or fog over your own surroundings and the secret worlds yet to be discovered.

You've been anticipating this day for weeks now,

Ever since you received a letter informing you that you were chosen out of many people with magical potential to enter an apprenticeship with a great sorcerer.

Though at first,

You thought it to be someone's idea of a joke,

Soon after the letter arrived,

Delivered by a raven no less,

Strange things began to happen all around you,

Flowers began to open into full bloom as you walked by,

Your morning coffee would inexplicably turn to juice,

Animals from street pigeons to neighborhood dogs would give you knowing glances,

And even in one instance,

A rather obvious wink.

Along with sparse details about the apprenticeship,

The letter included a long list of supplies essential to your education.

Just as you were beginning to fret over where to find such arcane materials,

You read to the bottom,

Where the writer provided directions to a hidden commercial corridor,

Right in the heart of London.

You pulled out a map of the city to compare to the directions,

Which seemed to point toward an alley in Covent Garden.

At this,

You scoffed,

Prepared once more to dismiss the entire thing as a joke,

But then,

Before your eyes,

The map began to shift.

Where before,

Floral Street met the winding Rose Street,

Now,

A tiny alley seemed to draw itself onto the map,

Squeezing the businesses and side streets out of the way to make room.

Squinting,

Hardly believing your eyes,

You watched the map reveal a scribble of writing on this new addition.

Surrey Alley.

You pored over the letter again and again on the train journey to London this morning,

As though concerned its contents might change or evaporate if you looked away for a moment.

Even now,

You check the breast pocket of your coat to ensure it's still there,

And you breathe a sigh of relief to feel the thick parchment and wax seal.

In the days since the letter,

And the strange redrawing of the map,

You've held on to these secrets like a little flame,

A calling to transcend your ordinary existence and enter a world of adventure,

A world you always suspected was there,

Waiting for you.

Now as you exit the Covent Garden tube station,

Rolling your heavy suitcases behind you,

That little flame burns with anticipation.

It's hardly a hundred metres from the tube to the newly revealed point on the map,

Surrey Alley.

Around you,

Families go about their shopping,

Tourists gawk at the street performers,

Young people home from university laugh and clink glasses from their outdoor tables at a trendy pub.

You turn up Rose Street and take the first left,

Immediately noticing the laughter and cheers for the street performers become muffled and quiet,

As if a curtain has fallen between you and the rest of London.

Your heart flutters as you glance around for the landmark that will determine whether your adventure is indeed to begin.

Just as you are about to lose hope,

Your eyes land on a faded hanging sign outside a Georgian building.

The letters on the wooden sign are,

At first,

Too worn to read,

But as you fix your gaze upon them,

They start to darken and fill themselves in,

Until you can clearly make out the Witch's Brew in gothic lettering.

You let out an alleviated sigh.

Glancing left and right,

And realizing that no one else is around,

You head for the entrance to the Witch's Brew.

There are a handful of steps up to the door,

And you huff and puff as you lift your heavy bags.

A moment later,

However,

You feel their weight ease.

To your surprise,

Both bags hover a few inches off the ground.

They release themselves from your grip and float upward toward the door.

You now notice that the door has swung open,

And an outstretched hand holds an elegantly carved stick of wood,

Which seems to be guiding the suitcases.

"'Allow me,

' says a friendly voice as the possessor of the hand steps into view.

He's a rather eccentrically dressed bellboy with a characteristic hat and floor-length purple robes.

You have to tell yourself to stop gaping.

' He gestures to invite you in,

And motions toward a check-in desk,

Assuring you that your belongings will be taken care of.

From the outside,

The building looked long abandoned,

But upon entry,

You take in the sight of a charming,

If peculiar,

And well-cared-for bed and breakfast.

Suddenly it shows signs of age,

But there's a loved and lived-in quality of the place that immediately makes you feel at home.

A fire roars in the grand fireplace,

And seated beside it in pinstriped armchairs are a man and woman,

Evidently locked in an intellectual debate.

You pick up a tone of friendly rivalry between them,

But you cannot identify some of the strange words that pepper the disagreement.

They may even,

If you are not mistaken,

Be in Latin.

In a corner of the lounge,

A decrepit old man sits before a chess set,

Pondering the next move he'll make against himself or an invisible partner.

The chandelier in the foyer catches your eye,

For it's not only an exquisite piece,

But it's lit with candles that float and bob in the air.

A kind-looking elderly woman sits behind the check-in desk that the bellboy indicated,

Engrossed in her reading.

Behind her,

A vintage key rack holds keys of every shape,

Size,

And color.

There must be hundreds of rooms,

You think,

Trying to count the keys in your head,

But surely there couldn't be.

The witch's brew looked on the outside barely the size of a three-bedroom townhouse.

The floor creaks beneath your feet as you approach the reception desk,

And the elderly woman looks up from her reading.

You notice a newspaper in her hands,

And could one of the pictures be moving?

She smiles at you and asks for the name on the reservation.

Looking aback,

You explain that you haven't made a reservation,

But that you received a letter two weeks ago and were looking for Surrey Alley.

The woman nods knowingly and asks again for your name.

You say your name,

But as you try to explain once more that you have no reservation,

She heaves a massive book from beneath the desk,

Dropping it with a thud,

And opens it to a bookmarked page.

Muttering to herself,

She runs a thin finger down the handwritten columns,

Then stops and says,

Ah,

Pointing out your name in the reservation logs.

One night,

All booked and paid for,

You are speechless,

But the woman continues to rummage through the shelves behind her desk.

Something was left here for you too,

She says,

And sets a small leather purse on the counter before you.

Curious,

You open the purse and look inside.

To your surprise,

It's filled with thick gold and silver coins.

For your supplies,

The woman says,

Anticipating the flood of questions on the tip of your tongue.

That money in your wallet's no good here.

The wizard what made your reservation left it for you.

Studying the coins more closely,

You see that they appear to be hand-carved,

With arcane symbols and runes,

Worn down with age.

The old woman shuffles to the key cabinets behind her and scans the racks,

Humming softly to herself.

With an ah,

She locates your key,

And pulling a thin piece of dark wood,

A wand,

You now recognize,

From a holster at her hip,

And giving it a wave,

Levitates the key down from its hook and into your hand.

The thick,

Brass key has a pleasant weight to it.

Turning it over in your hands,

You see that the head is engraved with a design that resembles feathers.

The old woman nods toward the hall and tells you that Ogden,

The bellboy,

Will take your bags up to the room and show you around.

You follow Ogden,

Who still expertly levitates your suitcases,

Down a narrow hallway and up a creaky,

Carpeted staircase.

When you reach the second floor,

He waves his wand nonchalantly,

And your bags fall to the floor.

He indicates the door to your room.

You turn the key in the door,

Stealing a glance down the hallway,

Which seems to stretch on for miles in each direction.

Ogden follows you into the room with your bags,

Then tips his hat and wishes you a pleasant stay.

Rummaging through the leather purse,

You pull out one of the silver coins and hold it out to him.

You're unsure of the value of the coins and hope the amount is not insulting,

But Ogden takes it with immense gratitude.

Once he leaves,

You take in the first impression of the room.

It's of a modest size,

But more than enough space for your short stay.

Like the lounge,

Your chamber has the appearance of once lavish accommodations that,

Though a little worse for wear,

Are still entirely endearing.

At the heart of the room is a four-poster bed with crimson damask curtains,

Tied back with gold tassels.

The fabric has faded with time,

But it's still possible to see the curly Art Nouveau flowers and birds embroidered into the cloth.

There's a writing desk,

Bedecked with an ornate bronze lamp in the shape of a peacock.

The wide window allows soft morning light to fall delicately into the room.

On the wall opposite the bed is a framed painting of a landscape,

A rolling Arcadian scene modeled on the pastoral English countryside.

Gazing at it with fondness,

You realize with delight that a gentle breeze has blown through the painting,

Causing the grass along the hills to dance.

In the background of the painting,

A shepherd and his grazing sheep move slowly across the scene.

You could spend hours spellbound by the minuscule and hypnotic movement within the painting,

But the chime of an antique grandfather clock from the hall reminds you that there is much to do today.

You step into the washroom to freshen up after your journey.

There's a cloth foot tub with gold trim,

And a grand mirror hangs over the basin of the sink.

You splash some cool water on your face,

Then pat dry with a thick,

Soft towel,

Which smells faintly of lavender.

Taking the letter and shopping list with you,

You descend the staircase back into the lobby and lounge.

Ogden is in the foyer assisting another guest,

But another bellboy stands by.

You ask for directions to the shopping corridor of Surrey Alley,

And he leads you past the reception desk to an atypical alcove.

Past the wall is a monumental antique mirror framed with luxurious gold trim.

It must be twice your height and more than two meters wide.

At the very top,

You can make out an engraving in the frame,

Modo Somnium Est Vita.

You wish you had paid more attention in Latin classes at school.

The bellboy gestures toward the mirror,

And you respond with a quizzical glance.

He explains to you that the way to Surrey Alley is straight ahead.

Through the mirror,

You take a deep breath,

Your mind racing with excitement and images of Alice passing through the looking glass,

Or Orpheus in the Cocteau film.

Could this really be?

Are you about to enter another world?

Do you feel as though your life has been leading to this?

Even before you received the Ravenborn letter,

You always felt as though there was another world somewhere,

One filled with magic and mystery.

There have been many times in your life when you felt close to the entrance to this world,

That if you just took the right steps,

Found the right entrance,

Turned the right key,

You might be able to pass through.

And now,

Standing before the mirror,

Gazing at your own reflection,

You stand upon the threshold of your own wonderland.

Will you take the leap of faith?

Hesitating no longer,

You close your eyes and step forward,

Bounding into and through the surface of the mirror.

For an instant,

You feel the uncanny sensation of stepping through cool water and rushing wind as the little hairs on your skin stand on end.

Your whole body tingles and your skin tightens,

But a moment later,

You feel the warmth of bright sun upon you.

You open your eyes and squint in the sunlight as your ears let in the sounds of buzzing laughter,

Conversation,

Footsteps,

Shop bells,

And a descant of twinkling music hanging somewhere above it all.

Blinking as you adjust,

You take in the sight of a bustling commercial artery.

You twirl around just in time to see the mirror you passed through suspended momentarily inches above the cobbled street dissolve into silvery smoke and vanish.

On the other side of the mirror,

The alley is alive with people and businesses,

And there's no sign of the witch's brew.

You hold a hand into the air where the mirror once stood and are amazed to feel the same watery,

Windy sensation as your hand vanishes.

The mirror is still there.

An amusing thought crosses your mind as you picture the bellboys and proprietor of the witch's brew seeing a disembodied hand appear in their alcoves.

You make a mental note of a few nearby landmarks.

A greenish lamppost with a lion's head carved into the top and thick paws at the bottom.

A charming bookseller with a sign reading,

Bob and Wheel Books.

This is how you'll return to your rooms for the night.

A bit overwhelmed at the sights,

Sounds,

And tantalizing smells,

A winding current of cinnamon wafts from a nearby cart selling tubular pastries filled with ice cream.

You pull the shopping list from your pocket and focus on the first few items.

The list starts with a handful of herbs,

Some of which,

Like sage and poppy,

You recognize while others,

Vervain,

Mugwort,

And belladonna,

For example,

Are less familiar and certainly not something easy to find at your neighborhood supermarket.

You scan the shops on either side of the street for a promising first stop,

And your eyes light upon Florinda Baines potions and apothecary.

You fold up the supply list,

Stick it back into your pocket,

And maneuver around the throngs of shoppers toward the entrance.

A bell tinkles as you push open the door to Florinda Baines,

And at once you are greeted by the warm,

Complementary aromas of lavender,

Sweet orange,

And juniper.

The cozy shop is a feast for the senses.

You take in the sound of bubbling potions,

Curious what each boiling cauldron holds.

Along one of the walls,

Live flowers of vibrant color burst forth from hanging buckets.

Along another,

Tiny drawers with handwritten labels indicate strange and rare ingredients like eye of newt or powdered unicorn horn.

Bunches of dried herbs hang from the ceiling.

A customer settles up with the cashier at the back of the store and breezes past you with a friendly nod on her way out,

Clutching a paper package that leaves the scent of sandalwood in her wake.

You approach the cashier,

A middle-aged woman with ebony curls draped in silk scarves and crystal jewelry.

She smiles warmly,

Introduces herself as Florinda Baines,

The owner and potion maker,

And asks what brings you into the shop today.

A love potion,

Perhaps?

A sleeping draught for deep rest?

You hand over your supply list and ask if she carries the ingredients listed.

Recognizing the penmanship,

She congratulates you on achieving a coveted apprenticeship with such a renowned sorcerer.

With a wave of her wand,

She summons a bevy of dried herbs which float down from the ceiling,

A few live flowers from the wall,

And a vial of sparkling powder from one of the drawers.

She packages the ingredients securely,

Then adds that she'd like to give you an additional gift.

A sample,

If you like.

Florinda glides across the shop to one of the bubbling cauldrons.

She conjures a glass bottle from thin air and ladles a scoop of shiny,

Purplish potion into it,

Then pops in a stopper.

Adding this to your bag of supplies,

She explains that it's a very popular sleeping draught,

The original sweet dreams potion of her own recipe.

It's scented with lavender from the fields of Provence,

And it is designed to send you into a deep sleep with comforting,

Pleasant dreams tailored to the individual.

Before you head off on such a prestigious apprenticeship,

She insists you should treat yourself to a night of restorative sleep.

You pay for the items and thank Florinda for the assistance,

Then ask if she might recommend shops that carry the other materials on your list.

She happily agrees to offer suggestions,

And with a feather quill makes notes in the margins of your shopping list,

Tossing out glowing reviews of the other businesses in Surrey Alley.

Taking your smartly-wrapped package with you,

You bid Florinda farewell and exit the shop.

Next on your list is a set of robes.

This rather excites you,

For in your street clothes,

You feel as though you must stick out like a sore thumb amongst the other denizens of Surrey Alley,

Who all look as though they've stepped out of a production of Macbeth.

You make your way up the alley toward Florinda's recommended robe shop,

Enchante.

However,

You encounter a bottleneck of people crowding the cobbled road.

As you inch around the throng,

You realize a wide circle has formed around something in the middle of the road,

Which all the gatherers are watching with delight.

You find an opening in the crowd and slip through to see what all the commotion is about.

Feeling as though you've walked into a mirror version of the Covent Garden you came through,

You realize the crowd has gathered around a street performance.

But unlike the living statues,

Fire-eaters,

And buskers of the London you know,

This is something entirely different.

At the center of this circle of gawkers are two people,

A man and a woman,

Dressed and made up in similar fashion to Renaissance clowns or comedia characters.

At least they are when you first see them.

A moment later,

You watch as the man transforms into a full-grown lion,

And the woman conjures a hoop from thin air.

Exclamations of awe and delight surround you as the lion leaps through gracefully.

Next,

The lion shrinks and morphs into a yellow canary,

Which flits around the crowd,

Singing a sweet song.

It lands on the woman's outstretched hand,

And she gives the bird a charming kiss.

The canary then shifts into a capuchin monkey and climbs onto the woman's shoulder,

Kissing her on the cheek to shrieks of amusement from the audience.

Finally,

The monkey climbs down to the ground and transforms back into the clownish man.

The performers raise their hands into the air and receive thunderous applause.

The crowd disperses as the performers take exaggerated bows,

Dropping a hat onto the cobblestones before them.

Several watchers toss coins or paper bills into the hat.

You pull a small silver coin from your bag and drop it into the collection,

And the performers give you a silent gesture of thanks.

Only a short walk further,

You arrive at the garment shop,

Enchanté.

Stepping inside,

You find a shop much grander and more spacious than the cozy apothecary.

There are several customers undergoing robe fittings before three-sided mirrors.

A tape measure,

Clearly bewitched,

Ravels and unravels itself,

Taking measurements of its subjects.

A salesperson approaches you and comments on your street clothes,

Remarking that it's time to get you into a set of custom robes.

They walk you around the edge of the shop,

Where bolts of fabric cascade over the shelves,

Impeccably placed and organized in an ombre of every color imaginable,

And even a few shades you've never seen before.

"'Anything catch your eye?

' asks the salesperson.

You drift toward your favorite color and indicate a neutral variation in a thick but breathable fabric.

"'An excellent choice,

' the salesperson says.

They guide you toward one of the mirrors and ask you to step onto the platform,

Draping the soft fabric over your shoulders.

One of the enchanted measuring tapes snaps into place,

Taking a measurement of your shoulders,

Your arm length,

Your waist,

And so on.

It even wraps around the circumference of your head,

Measuring you for a matching hat.

This sends light tingles through the back of your head and neck.

The salesperson,

Realizing you've never worn wizard's robes before,

Describes the various popular cuts and designs,

Draping and re-draping the fabric across your body to show you the impression.

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the choices,

You ask for the most common version.

"'Of course,

' says the salesperson.

The druid cut it is.

Piling the fabric into a mountainous heap,

The salesperson gives you an estimated time to return for your finished robes.

This will give you plenty of time to complete your shopping and pick them up on the way back to the witch's brew.

You pay the deposit,

Thank the salesperson,

And leave Enchanté.

The next item on your list is extraordinarily vague.

It reads,

An animal familiar of your choice.

Beside the item,

Florinda has scribbled the name of another business,

The Wild Hunt.

You find this shop on a tiny side street just off the main Surrey alley.

Inside the front window,

You see a few cages,

One containing a flying squirrel,

Another a beautiful barn owl,

And another a still and silent iguana.

And you know you've come to the right place.

Entering the Wild Hunt,

You realize you are the only customer inside.

The shopkeeper,

A tiny man with thick,

Round glasses and sharp features that give him a bird-like appearance,

Greets you enthusiastically.

A small owl perches upon his shoulder,

Rotating its head forward and backward in a circular motion.

The resemblance between the shopkeeper and the owl is remarkable.

He introduces himself as Arn Hagen and explains that the creatures in his shop are carefully chosen for their magical sensitivity and affinity for humans.

Many are collected from his travels around the world,

Or simply followed him home from the park.

You ask how one should go about choosing an animal familiar and he clarifies that it is not about choosing,

But about feeling.

An animal familiar,

As he explains,

Is a kindred spirit,

A recognition of one's magical potential in another creature's soul.

You will not choose your animal familiar,

He explains.

You will know your animal familiar.

A familiar is not a pet and more than just a companion.

They will be guide and guardian to you in your magical practice.

They will enhance your magical abilities by contributing their own and,

Unlike a pet,

They will continue to live free,

Coming and going if they wish,

But will always be there when you need them.

Arn invites you to walk around the shop,

Following your instincts,

And see if there's an animal who calls to you.

So you begin to stroll around the edges of the room.

Some animals are caged like the birds and small rodents,

But you notice a large tabby cat grooming itself on the counter,

And a bearded dragon crawling slowly over a shelf of merchandise.

A tall hare catches your eye,

Its nose twitching gently as it freezes upon your approach.

You are briefly intrigued by a green tree frog that climbs the glass of the window.

Meanwhile,

Arn collects a few species that might have potential and arranges them before you.

He's chosen three magnificent animals.

First,

He presents you with a dark grey cat with a round head and expressive golden eyes.

The cat purrs deeply as it winds around your legs,

Rubbing her sides against you.

You reach down to scratch behind her ears,

And she lets out a friendly chirp to indicate that she approves.

Next,

Arn shows you a fire salamander.

Its smooth scales are a shiny black with bright yellow spots along its body.

Arn places the salamander in your hands.

It looks up at you,

And what looks like a smile crosses its lips.

You feel your heart soften at such an expression.

Lastly,

Arn presents a caged falcon,

A merlin,

He explains.

The feathers on his back are a slate bluish grey,

And his breast is streaked with white and brown feathers.

He's about the size of a common pigeon and lacks the fierce expression of his falcon cousins.

But despite his size and relative cuteness,

You sense that he's a fiery hunter and ferociously loyal companion.

You puzzle over the decision,

Your gaze falling from the cat to the salamander to the merlin,

And then to the other animals in and out of cages all around the shop.

But then you think of Arn's words,

That it's not a choice,

But a recognition of a kindred spirit.

You take a deep breath in,

Then close your eyes and exhale,

Trying to tap into your deepest instinct.

From there,

Like a tiny spark,

You feel an inexplicable pull toward one of the creatures.

When you open your eyes,

You find that you're gazing directly at the animal you were thinking of,

And you share a moment of intense and powerful eye contact with it.

The creature's gaze becomes soft,

As does yours.

As you recognize mirrors of yourselves in each other,

Arn lets out a little gasp of recognition,

Then clasps his hands.

The owl on his shoulder releases a contented coo.

You've found your familiar,

A kindred spirit,

On your journey into the world of magic.

Arn conjures a safe enclosure for the creature,

And fills a bag with necessary care and feeding supplies.

Behind him,

An enchanted feather quill scribbles notes onto a piece of paper,

Taking notes on the care instructions he lists off while helping you shop.

You ask Arn if your familiar has a name.

He raises his eyebrows and says dreamily,

Don't ask me,

Then gestures to the animal.

You look at your familiar,

Who locks eyes with you once again.

A moment later,

As if a clear voice has spoken,

The creature's name sounds in your mind.

It's a very fitting name.

Leaving the wild hunt,

You can hardly believe your shopping isn't complete.

You are laden with bags,

Packages,

And now an animal enclosure.

But there's only one item left.

Every witch,

Wizard,

Warlock,

Or sorcerer you've encountered today has had one thing in common.

They all carried wands.

Checking the margins of your list,

For Florinda's recommendation,

You see she's written a few words.

Only one choice.

Silver Spell Wand Shop.

As you continue down the cobbled streets of Surrey Alley,

The afternoon begins to wane to early evening.

Some establishments,

Taverns,

Inns,

And restaurants begin to light their lanterns,

Which give off a hazy orange glow.

There are fewer people on the street than before,

And the energy of the alley has become peaceful and pleasant,

Shaking off the bustle of the afternoon rush.

You hope the wand shop will still be open when you arrive.

You find Silver Spell Wand Shop,

A stately corner business,

Just as a clock somewhere in the alley,

Or indeed somewhere in the London beyond the Vale,

Strikes five o'clock.

You can tell from the faint glow behind frosted windows in the shop that you're not too late.

The shop bell jingles as you enter,

And you hear an elderly woman's voice call out from somewhere in the back that she'll be with you in a moment.

You set down your packages and bags beside the front door,

And take in the marvel of the wand shop.

Compared with the other establishments you've visited,

It's immense,

And yet there's very little room to walk or maneuver.

Winding narrow pathways are purposefully carved between stack after stack of boxes,

Shelves,

And racks.

There's a dark wood counter in the center of the store,

Behind which lie even more boxes and shelves.

The boxes are long,

Thin,

And hand-numbered.

Presumably they house individual wands.

Lanterns float lazily through the shop,

Illuminating corners and crannies with even more inventory.

You reach for a box stacked beside you,

And lift the cover to reveal a simply carved wand made of a light-colored wood,

Perhaps birch?

You run a hand across its smooth surface.

"'Already found one you like?

' calls the woman's voice.

You look up to see her peeking out from behind a stack of boxes near the counter.

"'Aye,

' you say.

"'I'm sorry.

' She waves off the apology and waddles toward you slowly.

She's exceedingly small,

As though the weight of years has pulled her down toward the earth.

Behind her spectacles are deep,

Kind eyes.

"'So,

' she says,

Looking for a replacement wand,

Are you?

What happened to your old one?

' You inform her that no,

This will in fact be your first wand,

And that you know very little about magic.

You're to be apprenticed to a great sorcerer.

When you mention his name,

The woman's eyes light up,

And she congratulates you on the honor.

It will be her pleasure to guide you to your wand.

' She introduces herself as Agatha Silver and waddles off through one of the narrow pathways.

You follow her and watch as she traces a bony finger over a shelf of wand boxes,

Stopping on one labeled number 314.

She slides it carefully out from its stack,

Opens the box,

And presents you with the wand inside.

"'Older wood,

' she says,

One of my own designs,

At its core a mermaid scale.

The wand is long,

But light in your hand.

At its base is carved a delicate pattern that resembles waves of the ocean.

' She instructs you to try a gentle wave,

Which you do.

Nothing happens,

But Agatha assures you not to worry.

Some wands are particular and will only conjure magic for their true master.

She weaves across the store to find another option.

"'Blackthorn,

' the core is powdered horn of a minotaur.

This wand is denser,

Darker in color,

And shorter in length.

It's carved with concentric circles that travel from the base to the end.

You wave the wand through the air,

And for an instant the lantern lights dim and the shop gently quakes.

Agatha quickly takes the wand from you,

Warning that too much uncontrolled power is not to be desired.

You try a few more,

One containing leprechaun's hair,

One carved to resemble the twisted horn of a unicorn.

Then Agatha pulls a green box from the counter,

A twinkle in her eyes.

This one,

She tells you,

Is very special.

All of her wands are,

Of course,

But this,

One of her own creations,

Is carved from a branch of the holy thorn,

The twice-flowering hawthorn tree at Glastonbury.

As she slides the cover from the box,

Agatha tells you of how the original tree was planted at Glastonbury by Joseph of Arimathea,

When,

Returning home with the holy grail,

He thrust his hawthorn staff into the earth.

The tree was propagated many times,

And now the hawthorn that grows in Glastonbury is a descendant of that original.

Just as each year a sprig of that tree is sent as a gift to the British monarch,

Another is sent to Agatha Silver to be fashioned into a wand of extraordinary power.

While no magical substance is enclosed in the wand's core,

The tree itself is nourished with the everlasting waters and regenerative energies of the holy grail.

When she places the hawthorn wand into your hand,

You can feel right away that there is something different about it.

The base is carved with graceful vines and leaves,

A kind of warmth builds in your hand as you hold it,

And with a swish,

You float the bags and packages you set down near the door.

Even your familiar makes a sound of approval.

Agatha's eyes sparkle,

And she congratulates you on finding your wand,

And such a unique and powerful one at that.

She wraps the box in brown paper and ties it with a cord before handing it to you and asking for your word that you'll take good care of it.

By the time you leave Silverspell,

Thanking Agatha for her guidance,

A bluish dusk has settled upon the alley.

Only a few shoppers still tread the cobbles with their bags,

But you hear laughter and music spilling out of the taverns and pubs,

And smell the comforting scents of pies and curries on the evening air.

You stop at Enchanté,

Who are just getting ready to close for the day,

But have set aside your new robes and hat.

You add the boxes to your already towering heap of items,

And retrace your steps back to the Witch's Brew.

Just as you feel you can go no further,

Feet aching,

Bags dragging against the cobblestones,

You spot the sign for Bob and Weal Books,

And sigh with relief.

You set down one of your bags to free up a hand,

Which you reach outward to feel around for the enchanted mirror.

Waving your hand fruitlessly through the air,

An idea occurs to you.

Unwrapping the box from Silver Spell and removing your new wand from its packaging,

You concentrate on your objective,

To reveal the mirror.

Taking a deep breath,

You give the wand a wave,

And before you,

The stately mirror materializes in the streetlamp's glow.

You stash your wand in a pocket,

Pick up the bag at your side,

Give a little wink to your familiar,

And step confidently through.

Stepping back into the cozy Witch's Brew gives you a feeling of comfort and accomplishment.

You can hear a number of voices from the lounge.

Ogden,

Who is just coming down the main staircase,

Spots you and hurries to help you with your bags.

He takes out his wand,

And floats all your belongings up the stairs toward your room,

And assures you everything will be taken care of,

He'll even be sure to feed your familiar,

For there's dinner ready in the lounge,

And you should help yourself while there's anything left.

You do help yourself to a plate from the buffet,

Which is rich with variety,

From fresh fruit and homemade pies,

To cured meats and heaping potatoes.

You eat slowly by the fireplace,

Tuning out the sounds of conversation.

You hadn't realized how hungry you were,

And after scarfing down everything on your plate,

You feel contented and drowsy in the warmth and low light of the room.

So you make your way up to your chamber,

Opening the door,

You see your familiar already asleep by the wide window.

You notice that the bed linens have been turned down,

And the bed looks oh so inviting.

Pulling the wand from your pocket,

You magically open your suitcase,

And call your pajamas over to you.

You change into the comfy PJs,

And just before heading to bed,

You remember the potion Florinda gave you as a gift.

You're entirely certain you don't need it after such a tiring day of errands,

But you will take Florinda's advice,

And seek restorative sleep before your apprenticeship begins.

You summon the little bottle with your wand,

And uncork the sweet dreams.

The scent of Provencal lavender instantly fills the room,

And you carefully drink down the potion,

Which warms the back of your throat and chest.

You climb into bed,

Turning off the bedside lamp,

And pulling the covers up to your chin.

Your body almost hums with the energy of the day as it adjusts to stillness.

The only light is the soft,

Blue spill from the window.

You consider waving your wand again to close the curtain,

But you are so comfortable,

So exhausted,

You don't even want to move your hand to the side table.

And besides,

With the little bit of light from the window,

You can just make out the painting across from the bed of the Arcadian landscape.

It appears to be nighttime in the painting too,

A gentle night breeze rustling the trees and grass.

You can almost hear the swishing sound of the leaves beyond the veil of the Witch's Brew and Surrey Alley.

The ordinary world carries on without you.

You've taken the first steps into a new world,

The one you've always sought to find.

Tomorrow you will begin your training in the ways of magic,

And yet you feel the spark of it already in your heart.

The leaves and grasses in the painting sway with a hypnotic motion as you allow your eyes to close.

A powerful wand rests at your bedside table.

A kindred spirit sleeps in your window.

Tomorrow is a beginning,

Get some rest tonight.

A frame hangs in the air just before you.

It's ornate and trimmed with gold,

A mirror,

Or a painting.

Use the space within the frame as a canvas for your mind.

Respond to my prompts without thinking,

Visualize whatever comes to mind.

Try not to edit or control your thoughts,

But receive the images as instinct or inspiration.

You can trust yourself.

First,

See your animal familiar in the frame.

What kind of animal is it?

Does it have feathers,

Or fur,

Or scales?

What about its feet?

Are they hooves or talons?

Or is your animal a fish,

Or snake without limbs?

Does it rest on a surface,

Or float through a medium?

Does it have wings that flap,

Or fins?

What color is your animal?

What sounds does it make?

Have you ever seen one in real life?

Look at your animal's eyes,

Are they soft or fierce?

Reach out to touch your animal,

Don't worry.

It knows you,

It trusts you.

Reach through the surface of the canvas before you.

How does it feel to stroke its feathers,

Or fur,

Or scales?

How does the animal respond?

Does it purr,

Or coo,

If you like,

And the animal agrees?

Allow it to pass through the surface of the canvas.

Step out from the frame,

And curl up next to you,

To sleep.

Now let this visualization go.

Allow a landscape to fill the frame.

What kind of space is it?

Is it a beach,

A rolling hillside,

Rocky cliffs,

A desert plain?

A forest?

Are there trees?

What do they look like?

Is there water?

Is it day,

Or night?

What is the quality of the light,

Sunlight,

Or moonlight?

What are the weather conditions?

What elements of movement?

Do you see trees swaying in the breeze,

Waves lapping,

Birds flitting above you,

Tumbleweeds drifting across the horizon,

Clouds scutting by?

Watch the landscape for a little while.

Pick up on subtle changes in the light,

Small movements within the frame.

Imagine what might be just outside the frame.

Now allow the light in the landscape to dim,

If it's not already dark.

Let the weather grow mild and pleasant.

Once it looks comfortable,

Step through the frame,

Into the landscape you've projected there.

How does it feel?

What is the texture of the ground beneath your feet?

Is the earth firm or soft?

Do you sink or shift ever so slightly into the soil or sand?

Take a moment to feel truly grounded in your alternate space.

Breathe.

What does it smell like in your secret world?

Salt,

Fresh-cut grass,

Spring rain,

Scan your landscape for a place to rest.

It could be a soft patch of grass,

Or a bed of flowers and moss,

A hollow oak,

Or even a sleeping bag beside the embers of a campfire,

Somewhere safe and quiet.

Make your way over to this resting place,

And make yourself comfortable.

Feel your body's contact with the earth,

And let the earth support every inch of you.

From the feet,

The legs,

The hips,

The back,

The belly,

The chest,

The arms,

The hands,

The shoulders,

The neck,

The head,

All of you,

Held and cradled by the supportive surface in your own secret world.

You are safe.

You can trust yourself.

You can trust your instincts.

They are the key.

Pleasant dreams.

Reviews

I LOVE this one. It’s truly extra special with all the details and the blend between Here and There. The details are important because it helps me find my place the next night. And That is important because it takes me about an entire week to get through. I was almosttt to the very last few lines last night and even woke up a bit for some of the afterwards meditation. So one more night with this one to finish. But definitely bookmarking.

This is a wonderful story with a great reading giving me a good night's sleep.

I have no idea how the story went 😂 but I LOVEEEEEE it!! 😂 I will be back again tonight or today rather for nap time 😊 🙏🏽🤍🤍🤍♥️💕💕🌸

I loved it as always but can there be another sequel

Absolutely loved the storytelling but didn’t want it to end I’m awake wondering what is in store for tomorrow

I really enjoy this one. As I visit Covent Garden occasionally, I’ll have to have a look out for the alley. :) Beautifully told, really effective.

Such an effective track —- I never hear more than about 10 minutes of it! Thank you so much. 🙏

I never fail but to feel both soothed and excited by this. Feeling part of something so magical yet read in a way that I will nearly always drift off to sleep. Simply marvellous.

Beautifully read and presented. A pleasure to listen to, maybe one day I will hear the whole storyline. So far it has put me to sleep every time. Thank you for this.

Such an engaging story! My insomnia is pretty bad tonight, so I didn’t sleep much, but rested in enchantment along the way.

Very soft voice, perfect tone for a calm but magical story.

Someday I will get to hear this story in it's entirety, but in the meantime, I'll just enjoy the glorious sleeps. Thank you.

Hi Laurel, this is definitely a favorite of mine. Thanks so much, again. Regards Léna. 🌷☺😘💕🐱🐱🐨

I always love these stories and fall asleep way before they finish!

Beautiful, interesting, magical story. Not sure if she made it back through the mirror. Fell asleep. Thank you, really enjoyed your narration. 😊🙏🏼

I caught myself falling asleep and thght, oh no no! I want to hear the story! I enjoyed this so much! I will listen again and let myself sleep! Your voice is lovely and I could picture every detail. Absolutely loved this!

Sleep & Sorcery always soothes me and puts me right to sleep. I’ve listened to this story so many times, but I never make it much past entering the (first?) shop - I fall right to sleep!! Thanks so much for all you’ve done for my sleep!!

Absolutely magical and magnificent story telling. Very relaxing.

Her sleep stories never fail to lull me to sleep. They are my favorite ❤️

Thank you for your amazing tale of magic and happiness. It lead me straight to sleep!