There was a flat stone at the edge of the pond, and that was Magpie's favorite place.  She'd crouch there for hours, catching whatever she could in one of her mother's glass jars - minnows, frogs, the occasional small turtle - only keeping the curiosities contained long enough to satisfy her inquiring spirit.  She'd given up on shoes long ago, and would dip her toes in the cool water on sunny days when the stone became too warm.

* * *

Magpie held her mother’s hand as she stood on tiptoe to see onto the counter.  Laid out on the smooth, polished surface were flat, rectangular boxes, some woven from stiff cloth or paper, some carved of wood, some sculpted from clay, some beautifully ornamented and some rough or plain.  Each box nestled in its lid and each was filled with salt - white, black, pink, fine, coarse - and in each casket of salt a trough had been traced, as though with a finger, and in each trough rested a knife.

The knives were as unique as their boxes.  Some held a resemblance to their containers that clearly marked them as a set; these were always more expensive, and made Magpie’s mother sigh and roll her eyes.  Other knives seemed to have been matched with whatever was available, though no matter their different sources, the shopkeeper always somehow managed to pair them in a way that resonated true.  

There was nothing inherently magical about these tools.  The salt, Magpie would learn, made certain of that, cleansing any energies the knives picked up from customers who would handle them over the course of the day.  These were just knives, implements of the witches that held them, just as magic itself was a tool, neither good nor bad, weak nor powerful, only a reflection of its worker.  No inner light shone here.  A young witch choosing their knife was akin to a writer choosing their pen.

This was why they had come here.  Ideally, one day Magpie would make her own, but until that day came she would find one that suited her.  Even now she knew she wouldn’t pick anything metal.  Nothing mined and melted and hardened and pounded, forged with transformative violence.  If she could have used a broken piece of glass she would have done so, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.  And, her mother had reasoned, intent was the most important thing when working spells - shouldn’t she have something created for this purpose, created with the intent of being used?

“Would it not have purpose by simply being the thing I chose?” asked Magpie one day a month or so ago, holding a shard from the pitcher Aspen had knocked over.

“It’s not the same.”

“Then, I could break it myself?”

Her mother had glared at her, then at the collection of fragile items that lined the kitchen shelves.  That was the day she’d decided they were going shopping.

Magpie scoured the boxes, looking for the blade that would become her magic's focus.  Nothing seemed quite right, they were all too stiff, too hard, too perfect

"Sir," she asked the shopkeep, "do you have anything wooden?  Or of shell maybe?"

"Wood's too soft to keep sharp,” the man said, "and shell is too delicate to last.  Though both may be beautiful, they won't serve you well."

Magpie looked down at her shoes, disappointed to be so easily defeated.  Her mother had wandered off to look at bundles of dried plants that didn't grow in their garden, leaving her to make the decision on her down.  Normally this would have given Magpie a thrill, but today she felt suddenly uncertain.

The shopkeep scratched his mustache in thought.

"I think you're looking for something more natural, yes?"

Magpie's head shot up, pleased with his understanding, and she nodded vigorously.

"These are all well made," she said, feeling the need to apologize, "but they're not..." 

"They don't suit you," he said knowingly, a smile creeping onto his face.  "Most witches prefer knives of this sort, created to be strong and functional, tools of both the physical and magical, that could carve a wand from a branch and etch the sigils to ignite it.  But you, I think," he said, "you don't seem the type to be breaking branches."

"No, sir," Magpie said.

"Here," the shopkeep said, guiding her to a shelf.  He pulled a dozen or so boxes down, unceremoniously pushing the other wares off to the side of the counter.  One by one he laid the boxes in front of her. 

"This is obsidian, knapped from cooled lava.  Extremely fragile, but good for shadow work, earth and fire spells.  This one is bamboo, good for air and mirror workings.  This one here is deer antler, best for nature and protection..."

He went on like this as Magpie's eyes grew larger with each new option.  She never knew knives could be like this.  Her mother's was a cold, unforgiving sort of metal, one she'd never cared enough about to ask.  Magpie's hand hovered over the antler knife, but her attention was drawn away as the shopkeep gestured to the smallest box on the counter.

"And this one," he was saying, "is river stone.  Worn smooth by countless years of water rushing over it.  Good for growth and transformation."  It was a grey, dull thing, with no shine to it, not even on its keen edge.  The handle was a pale wood, maybe birch, with a dark knot right where she knew her thumb would settle.

"Can I?" Magpie asked, tentatively pointing to the river stone knife.

"Of course."