The Candle Would Not Light

By the time the visitor found Doña Candela, she had composed eleven messages to the duck who had stopped writing back. She had sent none of them. This seemed, to her, a sign that she was exercising restraint.

The twelfth message was a paragraph about tides.

At the canal bend, a lantern glowed behind a window full of rosemary. A small brass sign said CANDLES, REMEDIES, AND OTHER REASONABLE REQUESTS. Below it, in smaller letters: NO REFUNDS ON SOMEONE ELSE’S FREE WILL.

The visitor knocked.

Doña Candela opened the door wearing an indigo hat tall enough to shelter a family of moths. Her burgundy cloak smelled faintly of smoke and rain. She looked at the visitor, then at the phone clutched in her wing.

“Is it love,” Candela asked, “or have you come to show me a very long text?”

“Both,” said the visitor.

“I knew I should have charged admission.”

Inside, candles stood in mismatched jars. There was no crystal ball, no throne, and no deck of cards. The Quacktician had the cards; Candela had a kettle that whistled when it was ready and occasionally when it was disappointed.

The visitor explained. There had been three wonderful evenings. There had been a promise to meet on Friday. Friday had passed, followed by another Friday, both of them aggressively ordinary. The other duck still watched her photographs. Once he had liked a picture of a sandwich.

“I want a spell,” she said, “to make him come back.”

Candela put a white candle between them. She set a pinch of rosemary beside it and struck a match. The match flared. She lowered it to the wick.

Nothing.

She tried again. The flame touched the wick and died with the air of a clerk declining a late application.

“Is that bad?” the visitor whispered.

“It is inconvenient for a candle shop.”

Candela inspected the wick. It was dry. The matchbox was full. A lantern on the shelf burned steadily. She offered the visitor a fresh match.

“Say what you want.”

“I want him to choose me.”

She struck it. The flame went out before it reached the candle.

“That,” Candela said, “is a request addressed to the wrong duck.”

The visitor folded her wings. “So your magic doesn’t work?”

“My kettle works. My locks work. Magic has its moods. But even on its best day, I do not sell the steering wheel to another creature’s heart.”

“Then what do you do?”

Candela slid the unsent messages across the table and read only the first line of the top one. “You can send a plain invitation. You can ask for clarity. You can decide how long you are willing to wait. You can stop checking whether a duck has liked your lunch.”

“It was an excellent sandwich.”

“Then let it be loved for itself.”

Outside, a gondola passed under the bridge. Its lantern moved across the ceiling like a small wandering moon. The visitor looked at the candle, then at her phone.

“I want to ask once,” she said. “Clearly. And if he doesn’t answer, I want to take myself somewhere lovely instead of waiting by the window.”

“There you are.”

Candela struck another match. This time the wick caught. A modest flame stood between them. Neither duck called it proof of anything grander than a lit candle.

The visitor typed: I enjoyed our time together. Would you like to see me again? If not, no hard feelings.

She sent it before she could add a paragraph about tides.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“You go to the night market,” Candela said. “Buy something you actually want. Do not make the candle monitor your notifications. It has no service plan.”

The visitor bought the candle anyway. At the door, she turned back.

“What if I change my mind and ask you to curse him?”

Candela lifted her lantern. “I don’t curse exes. I return them to the wild.”

“How?”

“Usually,” said Candela, “by not sending the thirteenth message.”

The canal kept its own counsel. The visitor went to the market.