The roots of his teeth were magic. He could feel the storms in them, knew the names of the winds before they blew through his woods.
Her fingernails were magic. They glimmered when a child lied in her presence.
Their loom was magic. They wove stories into the blankets they made, stories whispered nightly in a sleeper’s ear to soothe or disturb.
The tuft of hair that always fled her ponytail was magic. It pointed the way she ought to go when her cursed sense of direction led her astray.
His snores were magic, putting yappy dogs and fussy babies to sleep without objection.
The spiderwebs across their front door were magic. They kept Death from entering for nearly 70 years.
Her wedding ring was magic. She could find anything lost in the house, but only when she wore it.