When the Wizard Drinks
by Hazel Pearson
When the Wizard drinks, the town goes quiet. Shutters close, and the crescent moon shape of our little village seems to reverse; it swarms with people who used to be engaging in the festivities of the night market but now scatter because they don’t want to risk being turned into frogs.
He’ll undo the damage the next morning. Mostly.
Still, as my boots click through the cobbled streets, I keep my eyes turned downwards.
The town reviles me, as is their right, because I’m now supplying the Wizard with the very thing he doesn’t need: red wine.
I open the door, and a small bell cheerily denotes my ominous arrival. I think the local winery would’ve placed a ban on my coming into the store a long time ago, but they fear the Wizard’s wrath. I duck my head and make my way to the back aisle, which holds the priciest of wines, the most lavish of liquors, the most valuable vodka money could buy.
A small woman in a cabernet-red cloak is perusing the supply. I’ve never seen her before. But I’ve never seen anyone else before in this aisle. I have heard people refer to it derisively as the “Wizard’s corner,” the name sounding sour on their tongues.
“’Scuse me,” I say gently. I’m already the scary Wizard’s apprentice. I don’t need to be the scary Wizard’s apprentice with an attitude.
The woman turns to face me, her radiant beauty and rosy cheeks complementing the wrinkles that ring her face. “Sorry, dear,” she says, passing by. “Just looking for my next potion.” She looks me up and down. “I take it you know what I mean.”
“I don’t drink,” I say stiffly.
The woman chuckles. “You misunderstand, darling. You have magic stuck in your hair.” She looks around, shaking her head with amusement, and then seems to notice that nobody ventures near either of us. Her face turns downwards. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“It’s alright,” I say, not sure what I’m acknowledging.
The woman tsks. “It’s not your fault,” she says, looking at the wine I’ve grabbed from the shelf. “But you could do something.”
I nod, my feet already starting to shuffle backwards. “Uh-huh. Well, you have a good night now.”
She grabs the hand that holds the wine, her grip far stronger than I would’ve expected. I don’t fight it. After I stare blankly at her for a moment, she drops my hand.
“You, too,” the woman says, her voice falling. It takes me a moment to realize she’s responding to my forced good wishes.
I take three more bottles from the shelf, holding two with each of my hands, and try not to look at the old woman. She still holds her bottle like a child holds a stuffed animal.
I take my wine to the counter and hand the woman working there a dark ruby.
“One hundred.”
The owner’s eyes glow scarlet with anger as she hands me the change. She’s stopped testing the gems I provide her, knowing they’re worth what I say they are. But money can’t buy reputation. I shove the four wine bottles into my bag.
The kingdom’s burgundy flag flies from the top of the Wizard’s tower but, when the Wizard drinks, the town thinks of him as a traitor. He does enough in keeping out the evil spirits for them not to object to his presence here but not enough to stop the grumblings in the street. They become less restrained when they notice I’m around; people have learned that I don’t do anything to stop the murmurs.
I use magic to levitate up to the one window of the tower, then climb inside. The torches on the walls give the room a vermillion glow.
“Do you have’t?” the Wizard asks. So, he has finished the bottle left over from last week. I nod, setting the bottles on the table.
I sit down across from him, fidgeting as the Wizard uncorks one bottle. He offered me some, once. But I knew better than to accept and waste some of his wine. The Wizard isn’t above corporal punishment even when he’s not drinking.
“I heard the Red Witch is in town,” he says, his finger tracing the bottle’s circular label. I’ve heard it referred to as an “abstract grape image.”
The Wizard looks up sharply at me. “You know something about her, don’t you.” It isn’t a question. “Take me to her,” he says. “Let me drink one bottle, and then take me to her. I’ll pack one for the road.” I stare silently at him. I recognize that tone.
“You forgot how to speak, girl?” he asks me.
“What are you going to do to her?”
“If she’s as good as she says she is, nuthin’,” he says, his chuckle swallowed by sangria-colored bubbles. I rest my head on the table as the Wizard takes another slurp.
It’s almost without my conscious knowledge. It feels like I’m under one of the Wizard’s behavior spells. But I know he’d never make my hand dart out, sweeping the wine bottles to the floor.
They shatter, sending a sea of blood-colored liquid over the tips of my boots.
My hands fly in the window’s direction and a hazy red slime begins to leak out from around it. The stuff will trap the Wizard in here until he’s sober. I know it’s unbreakable. He taught me how to make it himself.
I know the town won’t think of me differently after the incident, they’ll just think that the Wizard decided to not drink today after all. But somehow, I feel I owe it to the old woman. She was the first person to see me for who I am since... since the Wizard chose me for this apprenticeship, really. So I use the last of my magic in keeping the Wizard indoors.
The next morning, all that’s left of the Wizard’s plan are my merlot-colored bruises.
Copyright © 2026 by Hazel Pearson
