Just a Tuesday - 1. Tuesday, March 25, 2025 – The Family Curse

~The Cursebreaker~

One could almost think Quincefield had never been anything more than another sleepy little town somewhere in Montana. The first serial killer in the town's history in February? Completely crazy aging magic just days later? A child pornography ring uncovered in March?

Out of the media, out of mind. A relieved nod because it was over, and on we go.

People from all over the state and perhaps beyond were sitting everyday in the MID waiting area, and enough of them wanted to talk to me. Everything was quiet and respectful, well, sleepy, and even magical emergencies left no real echo.

Did that bother me?

I couldn't say. The past case had shaken me up, physically and emotionally drained me, and I found myself sometimes just sitting there staring into the void. As if part of me was waiting for something to happen.

But what?

I blinked. Rubbed my face. Once again, I had just stared at the screen. I stepped over to the window, opened it, and took a deep breath of the fresh, damp air, which tasted more like new snow than approaching spring, before sitting back down and finally pressing the little button telling the department receptionist I was ready for a new patient.

A new file popped up on the screen. Nigel Buckley, 42m. I had never heard the name of his hometown before and wasn't even sure how to pronounce it right away. The subject line was blank, but before I could read the other information, the office phone rang.

“Betty here, sir,” one of the receptionists answered, as always over correctly, “I’ll send Mr. Buckley in right away. The man is not cursed."

“Uh, then what is he doing here?” I asked, puzzled. Since I couldn't read and listen at the same time, I decided to listen.

“Mr. Buckley has already been to other doctors, I've gone through the file he brought with him. Sir, in my humble opinion, he has an allergy,” Betty said seriously.

“An allergy that makes him think he's cursed?” I raised a brow. “Oh, please, not another one with an ejaculate allergy! I hate these conversations.” Fortunately, no one saw my grimace.

“I know, sir,” Betty said sympathetically, “it's not pleasant for anyone. But all the signs point to it in this gentleman's case.”

I let out a very unwilling sound and Betty allowed herself a little giggle. “According to statistics, 12% of all people are affected by this, Betty, so why is it that only men show up here and believe their dicks are cursed?”

"Because most women are accustomed to going to the gynecologist when they have problems from a young age on, sir. Men aren't sick, they're cursed. A cold is a death sentence, but a sword in the stomach is no problem.“

“Meh,” I made pitiful, but I had already had this conversation several times with Betty and her colleagues Sandy and Moira. Regularly, two or three times a year, in fact.

Betty cleared her throat accordingly. “May I send Mr. Buckley in, sir?”

“Yes, send him in, Miss Betty,” I sighed a little theatrically and pulled another long, unwilling grimace before putting on my polite smile.

Shortly thereafter, there was a knock, I asked to come in, Nigel Buckley entered and closed the door behind him energetically and therefore loudly.

“Good morning, Cursebreaker. Thank you for seeing me right away." Mr. Buckley's skin was so dark it would make Jonah look pale in comparison.

With a friendly nod, I pointed to the visitor's chair. “Please, have a seat—”

“Look, Cursebreaker, I have a problem,” Mr. Buckley interrupted me immediately, and his pants fell to the floor.

In my eyes, the first problem was that I neither wanted nor needed to see his private parts. The second problem—though purely subjective and aesthetic in nature—was the enormous bush of hair staring at me from the other side of the desk.

“My best piece is cursed. Look, it works perfectly,” Mr. Buckley took himself in his hand and began to rub.

“Sir! Sir, please, this is absolutely not necessary!” I protested immediately and was met with a stunned stare.

“But Cursebreaker, my penis has a very specific problem,” Mr. Buckley protested back.

Sometimes I hate my job.

~

After a very unpleasant and incredibly long conversation, I made myself a coffee. Standing at the window, I tried to breathe away the headache which had started to develop. Through the bare winter trees, I saw the faint sun sparkling on the Quince, the small river flowing through the city, and for a moment I wished I was there, surrounded by nature, with no people around me.

I sipped my coffee. Outside in the hallway, voices grew louder. Something tightened inside me, as if part of me was expecting a knock on the door and a crisis meeting, followed by a slight panic at not being ready for it.

For a moment, I wondered if now might be a good time to start smoking—certainly better than drinking—but I pushed the depressive thoughts aside, finished my coffee, and then went to the reception desk; a wave of respectfully murmured greetings followed me. Whatever had caused the commotion had apparently been resolved.

“Betty...” My greeting was more of a sigh.

“Cursebreaker.” Betty, somewhere between sixty and seventy and discreetly made up as always, her best customer service smile on her lips, looked up at me. “Was it that bad?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

I sighed again. “I know I'm basically medical staff, but I don't like the ratio of ‘men who expose themselves in my office’ to ‘men who end up exposed in my bed.’”

Betty giggled. “You young people all use these apps. Isn't there anything out there for you?”

Leaning against the reception desk, I rubbed my temple. “If my only goal was to get men into my bed, that would certainly be an option. But I prefer quality over quantity.” Of course, Kellen's grinning face immediately popped into my mind's eye, but I pushed the image aside as Betty said:

“Then your ratio will definitely not change.”

I grimaced. Of course she was right, but: “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

She winked at me, then changed the subject: “Do you need a break? Should someone clean your office? Maybe with holy water? Or shall we continue?”

“You could get me something sweet,” I suggested, and got another mischievous smile. “Or at least remind the patients they don’t have to undress for a magical examination. Thank you very much.” Not wanting to give Betty any more ammunition, I turned around and stomped back into the office.

No sooner had I sat down and pressed the button for the green light than there was a knock at the door—someone was in a hurry. “Come in.”

Vivian—a nursing student, novice witch in the Watermill Coven, and head over heels in love with me—helped an old lady with a walking stick inside. She gave me one of her shy smiles, brushed her hair behind her ear in a not-so-subtle manner, and then almost knocked the old lady over because she was still holding her arm to support her while she was already trying to sit down.

“Thanks, Vivian.” My tone was probably a little too cool, but that didn't stop her from turning around again as she walked away—and almost slamming into the doorframe. I struggled to suppress an eye roll.

“Good day, Cursebreaker,” greeted the old lady, folding her hands demurely over the handle of her walking stick.

I quickly glanced at the screen, where the file had now popped up. “Good morning, Mrs. Upfield,” I replied, smiling at her. “What brings you here?”

“A family curse,” she replied with a warm smile that threw me off balance more than her actual answer.

“Oh.” I nodded. “Family curses are not a pleasant thing, and I'm afraid I have to tell you straight away—”

“I know,” she interrupted me gently. “Your grandfather already explained everything to me.”

I blinked at her in bewilderment.

"You see, your grandfather once saved my life. At the time, I was pregnant with our second child, and when it turned out to be a boy, we named him after him," she said, her smile still warm and sincere.

“Oh. Did he know about that? My grandfather, I mean?” I asked cautiously. I had no idea what to make of this woman.

“Oh yes, I told him when I visited him about the curse.” She nodded. “But unfortunately, he and my husband never really got along.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

“So yes, I know that family curses are rarely broken and that a magebreaker would do more harm than good in this regard.” Her smile shrank and then disappeared altogether, and she lifted her chin almost defiantly.

Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, I cleared my throat and had to pull myself together to keep my hands loosely folded on the table and not fiddle with anything. “And why are you here, Mrs. Upfield, if I may ask?”

“I want to know if the curse will die with me.” When I didn't respond immediately, she continued, “I won't live to see my eightieth birthday, but it would help me greatly to know if this unpleasant streak will finally disappear from our family history.”

I nodded, somewhat taken aback. Family curses are a very ugly business, and once the first babies are born burdened with them, it is practically impossible to get rid of the curse unless the conditions set are met. Letting a magebreaker get involved is a perfect recipe for death and madness.

“I'll take a look,” I said belatedly, blinking into the magical vision. Family curses sit in the gap between the collarbones, and this one was no different. The dirty green spot, streaked with black threads, pulsed to the rhythm of the heartbeat, but it had clearly faded. I cautiously tried to coax the curse's secrets out of it, but when Mrs. Upfield let out a soft sound of discomfort, I stopped.

“It's gotten worse over the years,” she said quietly before I could offer an apology.

“I'm sorry,” I replied just as quietly, but she shook her head and then looked at me questioningly. I cleared my throat. “Yes, well, the curse is bound to women, and as weak as it is, I would assume that there is no one else in whom it can live on. And that would mean: yes, the curse will die with you.”

She nodded slowly and deliberately, a tiny smile flitting across her features. “My sister deliberately remained childless and passed away last year. I have two sons and three grandsons, and my only great-grandchild is also a boy. I’ve spoken to the lads, you know.”

“Well, as long as there isn't some unknown girl climbing around in the family tree somewhere...” I deliberately left the sentence open-ended and this time got a genuine smile that stayed.

“Thank you, Cursebreaker.” She nodded and stood up.

I hurriedly rose and offered her my arm, which she gratefully took. “Of course, Mrs. Upfield, that's what I'm here for.” I led her out into the hallway, where after a few meters another nurse student came running up.

“Yo, ma'am, I'll take care of the rest,” said the guy whose name I kept forgetting—or at least I hoped it was “yo ma'am” and not “yo man.”

I watched them for a moment and was reassured because he seemed not only polite but genuinely caring. When I turned around and my gaze fell on my office door, I remembered that I had actually wanted to contact Nathan Upfield to see how he and Quen were getting along. Well, there would still be time for that later.

~

The day passed quietly, and in the afternoon I wrote reports because no one else needed my help. I had just finished one when a file popped up. At the same moment, the office phone rang.

“Sir, can I send the young man in? It shouldn't take long,” said Betty.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, and then read, somewhat puzzled, Nathan Upfield, with the subject line Family Curse. “But Betty, earlier it was Mrs.—”

“Mrs. Matilda Upfield, yes, he said there were still some questions left unanswered.”

“Then why a new file?”

"Hmm? Oh, that wasn't intentional. I'll correct it. But I'll send him in, right, sir?"

“Yes, of course.” Confused, I looked back at the file, which flashed red and then disappeared. What questions could have been left unanswered? And anyway, Upfield Junior had my phone number and email address.

When there was a knock at the door and I invited him in, I was curious—and ultimately surprised. If someone had introduced the man—tall, a little chubby, with cold brown hair and glacier-blue eyes—as Josy's little brother, I would have believed it. Uncle Carl's comment about vibes and cute came to mind, and I suppressed a smile, because he wasn't actually that wrong about the cute part.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Upfield. Please have a seat and we can clarify the questions that apparently remained unanswered,” I greeted him and made an inviting gesture. Now that he was here, I could ask him about Quen right away.

“Um, yes.” Mr. Upfield blushed deeply and literally fell into the visitor's chair. His hands, encased in anti-magic gloves, kneaded his thick coat, which he wore slung over his arm. “About that, I wasn't entirely honest at the reception desk.”

~The Lawyer~

I don't like hospitals. I've spent quite a bit of time in them and really didn't want to add any more time than necessary, but Grandma didn't give me a choice. I had heard her and Grandpa talking about a family curse, but she had brushed aside my questions about it as if it were nothing. This morning, she had been to see the cursebreaker at the MID consultations and had again pretended everything was fine. But family curses are a really nasty business, and even if it was only a trivial matter, I would have liked to know about it. As a blood relative and descendant that should be normal, no?

Therefore, I overcame my reluctance and visited Quincefield Hospital, following the signs to the gleaming white new building and, once inside, to the MID. It did not smell as strongly of disinfectants, elderly people, and illness as other wards, but instead there was a scent of herbs and smoke in the air.

The lady at the reception desk, who looked as if she could retire at any moment, beamed at me. “Good afternoon and welcome to the Magical Incidents Department. How can I help you?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but first had to clear my throat. “My name is Upfield, Nathan Upfield. My grandmother Matilda was here this morning.” And here was another problem: I had no idea whether the cursebreaker was bound by confidentiality. If I had known for sure that he wasn't, I would probably have just sent an email, but as it was, it seemed more sensible to appear in person. After all, navigating situations with words was my job.

The receptionist nodded, her smile now serious. “I remember.”

“Yes, well, my grandmother discussed the matter with us, and we realized that a few questions apparently haven't been clearly answered,” I began my explanation, which was not entirely true. “You surely remember that my grandmother has difficulty walking, so to spare her the trip...”

The receptionist nodded eagerly and pointed to the waiting area. “Please take a seat for a moment, Mr. Upfield, I'll let the cursebreaker know.”

“Thank you very much, ma'am.” I took a few steps to the waiting area, which was empty except for an elderly gentleman with pink and purple shimmering liquid dripping from his nose into a bowl. It was warm and stuffy in here, and although I didn't intend to stay long, I took off my winter coat to avoid sweating unnecessarily.

The man waiting snorted strangely and as he raised his head to get a better look at me, colorful snot ran over his lips. “Magic sucks,” he mumbled and jerked his head in my direction, presumably referring to my gloves.

I made a noncommittal sound, and then the receptionist called my name.

“Around the corner on the left,” she said when I looked at her, pointing behind me, “the door with the green light above it.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” I nodded to her, followed her instructions, and knocked. When I received a response, I took a deep breath and entered.

Cursebreaker Dustin Percival didn't look much like his brother Quentin, apart from his light blond hair and bright eyes. While Quentin's build was somewhere between a bulldog and a grizzly bear, Dustin was slender. This was certainly due in part to his constant use of magic, but his finely chiseled features and long, slender fingers, which pointed invitingly to the visitor's chair, were simply the result of a different parental DNA mix.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Upfield. Please have a seat and we can clarify the questions that apparently remained unanswered,” he greeted me with a narrow smile, and I felt myself blushing. I had seen a photo of him in the newspaper before, but the real man was much more attractive, and he was certainly not a twink, as Quentin had suggested.

“Um, yes.” I was uncomfortably reminded of Quentin's question about whether I had fucked his brother and that was why I had gotten the job. The answer had, of course, been appropriate professional indignation and denial, but right now I wouldn't have minded being asked out on a date by Dustin.

Not very elegantly, I plopped down on the chair. My magic stirred and distracted me from romantic date fantasies, but I still clung to my coat, I needed something to hold onto. I shouldn't have come here. “About that, I wasn't entirely honest at the reception desk.” I admitted, and the cursebreaker raised his brows. I hurriedly continued, “I don't know if you're bound by confidentiality, but my grandmother hasn't told me anything, and I'd really like to know what my family is burdened with.”

To my surprise, he smiled amusedly. “No, I am not bound by medical confidentiality, but I usually adhere to it anyway. But I can reassure you. Unless you were actually born a woman or have a daughter somewhere, you don't need to fear the curse.”

It took me a moment to fully understand his words. “Are you saying the curse only affects women?”

He nodded. “And your grandmother is, as it seems, the last one to carry it."

This relieved me immensely, and judging by his smile, he could tell. Hastily, I sat back up straight. “Thank you very much, Cursebreaker. This has really been gnawing at me.”

“I can understand. Family curses are usually extremely ugly.” He nodded sympathetically, and then there was a pause.

I had a vague feeling that I should take the opportunity to ask him about his brother, but this was his office, his area of expertise, and even if an email would be more impersonal and maybe difficult to phrase, it would still be more professional.

The cursebreaker also seemed hesitant, quite possibly harboring the same thoughts. About his brother, I mean, not the thoughts in which I cuddled up to him and he stroked my hair and whispered that we had ten minutes before the oven spat out the lasagna...

Under his scrutinizing gaze, I felt incredibly hot. I laboriously swallowed a lump in my throat and licked my lips. I would never be able to touch him, and the way he looked at my hands, he seemed to be aware of that.

God, why do I always have to fancy the wrong ones?