Chapter 2 2- Names matter. Yours especially.

LOTTIE

At first, I think she’s joking, but her tone is dead serious. There’s no hint of amusement in it, no teasing lilt. Just calm certainty.

“Uh, what?” I ask, completely thrown off. My brain feels like it has skipped a step.

“Maybe he is a different child. He could be a changeling. No one knows that boy better than you do. If you think he isn’t himself, it’s entirely possible that it’s true.” She clarifies. The word sits heavily between us. Changeling.

“But that’s just…” I trail off because I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. Ridiculous? Impossible? Storybook nonsense? My grandmother huffs softly on the other end of the line.

“Think on it, Lottie. It’s a simple charm to reveal a changeling. I’ll send it to you. You don’t have to use it, but if you really think that Zander isn’t himself, there’s no harm in checking. Check your emails in a few minutes. I’ll type it out.” She says firmly. She doesn’t wait for my reply. The line clicks dead in my ear. 

I lower the phone slowly. Could Zander really be a changeling? The idea feels absurd the moment it forms. That barely ever happens. It’s the sort of thing Gran mentions in passing when she’s telling stories about old covens and careless fae, not something that happens in small suburban houses to overworked girls with second-hand furniture. And even if changelings are real, why would a faerie want to steal my baby brother? He’s just Zander. Sticky fingers. Soft curls. 

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Sometime during my phone call, Zander stopped screaming. A cold unease creeps up my spine. The sudden silence feels worse than the noise did. I head back toward our room, my steps quick and tense. Maybe I was just being dramatic. Maybe he’s worn himself out and is sitting there quietly, blinking up at the world as if nothing happened. Maybe he’s back to being himself. Or maybe he’s managed to open my drawer and is currently throwing all my clothes around the room.

“Damnit,” I mutter under my breath as I push the door open. “Zander, no!” I yell as I grab the item out of his hands, my patience already fraying, and he actually lunges forward and tries to bite me. For a split second, I just stare at him. Seriously? He’s NEVER done that before. Not once. He used to cry if he thought he’d hurt me by accident. Now his little teeth snap toward my hand as he means it. This is a losing battle.

Exhaustion crashes over me in a heavy wave. I can’t fight him and research magical folklore at the same time. I step back, leaving him to continue trashing the room while I pull up my emails on my phone. It’s a decent, if somewhat old, Android that I saved up for. I don’t have a computer, so this is my lifeline. It lets me check emails, answer calls from work, and keep track of shifts. I take care of it carefully; I can’t afford to replace it after all. 

The notification is already there. Gran works fast. I open the email, my thumb hovering for just a second before I scroll. She’s probably wrong. She’s almost certainly wrong. But I’m just desperate enough to test it.

Get an iron pot or pan. Any metal container that you can heat over a flame will do. 

Fill it with 2 cups of water.

Add 1 cup of salt.

Dissolve the salt over a flame.

Fetch dirt (yes, actual dirt) from the yard. Sift through it and remove any rocks or large chunks. 

Mix it in with the salt water until it forms a paste.

Let it cool.

When the child is asleep, write his name on his skin using your finger and the mud paste. 

Let it dry, wipe it away, then wait. It should only take a few minutes.

If it is Alexander, the place you wrote the name should turn pink; if it is not truly him, the skin will go grey. This will only work for a witch, but you should be capable of managing it even without training.

I read the instructions twice. Alexander. Not Zander. The use of his full name makes this feel more serious somehow. More real. My gaze flicks toward the bedroom again. He’s still making noise, drawers opening and slamming, fabric rustling, but it’s different now. Not crying. Not screaming. Just… Restless. This is insane, I tell myself. And yet, I don’t delete the email. 

Not really sure what else to do, I go about making the charm. The alternative is sitting there spiralling, and I’ve already done enough of that tonight. At least this feels like action, even if it’s ridiculous. I have this super old cast-iron pot that I swear was already in this house when we moved in. It’s heavy, blackened with age, and slightly uneven on the bottom, so it wobbles if you set it down too hard. I don’t remember anyone ever buying it. It’s just always been there, shoved into the back of the cupboard like it belongs to the house more than it belongs to us.

I drag it out and drop it onto the stove with a dull metallic thud. The sound echoes through the quiet kitchen, louder than I expect. I pause, listening for movement from the bedroom. Nothing. Luckily, we have an old gas stove. Fire is easy enough to manage. I twist the knob and the burner clicks before blooming into a steady blue flame. The familiar scent of gas briefly fills the air before it settles. I measure out the water carefully, not trusting myself to eyeball it. Two cups. Then the salt. One full cup. It looks like far too much, a mound of white crystals dissolving slowly as I stir. I follow the rest of the directions carefully, almost obsessively. If I’m going to do something this insane, I may as well do it properly.

Fetching the dirt feels absurd. I step outside barefoot, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The yard is patchy and uneven, mostly dry soil with stubborn tufts of grass. I crouch and scoop up handfuls, feeling faintly ridiculous as I sift through it with my fingers, picking out small rocks and roots as the instructions said. Dirt collects under my nails. My hands feel gritty and raw.

Back inside, I begin mixing it into the salted water. It takes a surprising amount of dirt to make the water go thick. I keep adding handful after handful, stirring, watching it refuse to change consistency the way I expect it to. I’m not sure why, but it seems like far more than it should be. The mixture resists thickening at first, then suddenly shifts, turning from murky water into something heavier, heavier still, until my spoon drags through it with resistance.

The smell is earthy and sharp with salt. Not pleasant. Not unpleasant. Just… Like mud. I scoop the mixture into a bowl and let it cool on the counter. It doesn’t take long. The paste loses its faint steam quickly, settling into a dull, brownish-grey sludge that looks far too mundane to determine whether my brother is truly my brother. 

I wrap my fingers around the bowl and creep into our room. Thankfully, Zander has finally gone to sleep. The relief that floods me at the sight of his still body is almost painful. He isn’t in his own bed; he’s in mine. Curled in the middle of it like he owns it, one arm flung above his head, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks impossibly small now. Harmless. Innocent. The earlier chaos feels distant when he’s like this. Maybe I am being dramatic. But the room… That is a complete mess. My drawers hang open. Clothes are half-pulled out and trailing onto the floor. Toys are scattered everywhere. The remains of my damaged book sit abandoned near the shelf. It looks like a tiny hurricane tore through it.

I kneel by the bed, the bowl balanced carefully in one hand. And stop. My breath catches in my throat.  What am I doing? He’s just a child. My child, in every way that matters. I hesitate, staring at his sleeping face, searching for something unfamiliar. Something wrong. Well… It’s not like this could hurt him anyway. I pull out my phone with my free hand and text my grandmother.

Lottie: Do I write his whole name or just his first name?

The seconds stretch painfully while I wait for her reply. I glance at Zander again and again, half-expecting his eyes to snap open. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain it could wake him. The house feels too quiet, the silence pressing against my ears. My phone buzzes.

Gran: His whole name, dear.

Of course. I send a quick thanks, my fingers slightly unsteady as I put the phone aside. Then I dip my finger into the paste. And get to work.