by J M Thomas
Hugo flashed a delighted smile. “Ahh, you see his heart and soul, do you?” He shook a finger at me, a knowing sparkle in his eyes. “Do you see this with your eyes? Pick up on some nuance of body language, interpret what your seven senses tell you by firing off neurochemicals and electricity like fireworks in July?”
“Sure. That’s how we see everything.” I shrugged, picking off a string of pith to avoid his gaze. I was here to learn from him, not to have him pick up that my emotions concerning Aeron were still roiling.
Thankfully, he didn’t seem to even care to notice. He was still in magic-land, having some grand adventure I was only halfway privy to. “That’s not what I mean.” His shoulders sagged in a deliberate motion. “Let me try again, maybe something a little more grounded for you...”
Hugo hopped up on a stepping stool and snatched a leather-bound book from the ceiling-height shelf which ran the entire length of the building. “Read this.” He revealed a few lines of a handwritten poem, covering the rest of the page with his hand as if he was hiding the answer to a riddle I wasn’t supposed to see unless I’d guessed it.
This poem was becoming all-too-familiar. “Does the bluebird sing a love song, perched on razor wire coils? A true blind she, who cannot see that puddled blood around her boils.” I read the stanza again, silently, getting a feel for the rhythm and the images. They were horrifying.
“Well? What do you see?” Hugo prodded, shifting his weight on his feet.
“I see a bluebird singing. She’s in some kind of war zone, singing a love song to the carnage like it’s not even there.” My finger traced the lines once, then I returned the book.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. “No, you see letters: ‘d, o, e, s.’ The rest is magic. The rest is an image and a song springing to life in your mind because you’ve learned to work word magic, to take squiggles and make them runes that conjure the bird, the coils, the sky.”
He motioned in a grand arc. “Your mind went on an adventure. You saw it, didn’t you? Your eyes changed when it gripped you in the optic nerves!”
I shook my head again, my brow furrowing. “Sure, but that’s interpretation, isn’t it?”
Hugo had given up on being still and was pacing as he talked, wagging his finger as if he were scolding me. “Interpretation is you being able to read the words. Where the words hit your soul is the magic. Thankfully for you, we don’t need a blood filament to work the most powerful spells, like love, art, and music. Those are soul magics and above any Earth-plane or Other World reach. What gifts!”
“I want to believe you; I really do.” I caressed the orange’s bumpy peel beneath my fingers before depositing it in the nearly-overflowing trash can underneath the desk, wondering what he was seeing. Was this ordinary fruit really so extraordinary? Or did his mind overlay something that wasn’t there at all?
“I don’t expect you to believe, dear. It’s far too soon for that. But it really is a shame that you’ve come this far thinking perception and reality are chained together, when they’re not. It really is liberating to delight in something, knowing you only perceive a miniscule fragment of its true nature. We experience only the merest shadows of the truth!” Hugo wiped a tear from his eye.
I contemplated his words for a moment. “I can see why you’re such a powerful artificer, Hugo. You don’t hold a book in your hand; you hold a gateway. When you reach for an orange, you’ve chosen a life source to open and taste. The world is in technicolor for you.”
A small sob choked in his throat. “My dear, that is the truest beauty! But to share that knowledge with someone whose world is black and white… You think I want to paint your world. What I want to do is scrub off the ash and grime concealing the beautiful color. The world is already painted, you see?” He took the orange peel from the trash can and dangled it in the air. “I want to peel the orange for you!”
Staring at the magnificent bowl of fruit before me, I still wasn’t sure… of so many things. “You said I was asking the wrong questions all this time. What should I have been asking?”
He gestured wildly. “What delights you? What is magic to you? What stuff is your soul made of? What do you love? What terrifies you? For what purpose do you walk this plane?”
“How is that useful to me for building a dating service, though?” I squinted, popping a thick slice of orange into my mouth. It was tangy and sweet, each little ampule of moisture exploding as I popped them with my tongue. “It does nothing to determine common interest or compatibility, the nuts and bolts of making things work.”
“How is it not useful?” Hugo looked at me as if I had a piece of my face missing, his stillness appearing more like a preparation to spring at me than remaining at rest. “My dear, you are the little bird who is singing of love to a ravaging lion! You should at least understand the song you’re singing before you open your mouth!”
Taken aback, I pursed my lips at him. “And here I was trying to figure out what the lion was like.”
He wagged a finger as the doorbells chimed behind him. “That is why you ask the wrong questions.”
The doorbells chimed as a middle-aged woman with a willowy figure and long hair greying at the temples opened the door with her back. She wore her thin hair up in a neat French braid, tied just beyond her shoulders. She had long limbs and a slight hunch to her spine.
Her round glasses perched on the end of her nose made her look studious compared to the rest of her, which was arrayed in gardening clothes covered in stains. Even her arms and hands, where the light wash denim shirt was rolled up to the elbows, were covered in grass stains and dark splotches. She smelled like roses and potting soil when she whisked past me, arms laden with boxes.
“Help me out with these, Hugo, will you?” she asked without looking up. Her voice was melodic, but slightly reedy. She sounded used to clipping her sentences.
He hopped up without preamble and intercepted her trajectory to accept the boxes, pushing aside a few things on the desk to make room. “I forgot you were bringing these today!”
“It is refill day, after all.” She raised an eyebrow at him, then her gaze lit on me. “Do you have a customer?”
“Yes and no.” Hugo smiled. “But I’ve been hoping the two of you could meet! Celeste, this is Alice, a somewhat average maker of orange scones and a master flower gardener. Alice, meet Celeste. She’s been interviewing necromancers for a dating service.” His voice lowered a notch. “She’s the one I told you about.”
“Apparently my reputation precedes me.” I stood, grinning as I shook the woman’s hand. For how thin her arm was, her grip was strong and her smile confident.
“Nonsense! Hugo can’t help but share the gossip. When I’m ankle deep in compost blends, I can’t help but listen.” She tilted her head toward him as he unpacked what she’d brought—herbs in terra cotta pots to replace the ones he’d sold.
Hugo opened the second box, then gave a giddy clap. “Oh, goodie! I was hoping you would!”
The scent of orange and cinnamon wafted its way to me, causing my stomach to growl.
“Hugo, where exactly are your manners?” She prodded, still smiling in my direction as she accepted the empty box.
He gasped, narrowing his eyes in mock offense. “But if I share the scones, that will mean fewer for me!”
At this, Alice threw her head back and laughed. “On a plate of two dozen? You agreed you were watching your figure for our anniversary pictures.”
It clicked then at why the two of them had such an easy rapport. As dramatic and flamboyant as Hugo was, I’d not pictured him partnering with a woman. I was glad to be disabused of an incorrect assumption before I opened my big mouth this time, seeing how badly I’d ruined things for Sian.
“How long have you been together?” I asked with a smile.
“This year will be our twentieth anniversary. We were high school sweethearts who never got over it!” Hugo grinned, one hand squeezing her shoulder as the other swiped a scone. “And I’ve never
forgotten one important date, because she won’t let me.”
“Your human calendar must do her duty, or else what is she good for?” Alice winked, then propped the door open behind her with her ankle.
Hugo slid behind her to hold it open so she could return the crate to the trunk of her narrow hatchback. “That’s right. Because without you being a calendar, what possibly could you do to brighten my existence?” He sent her a slow wink. “I’m certain it’d be utterly hopeless.”
She took this as a glowing compliment, the list of ways she did brighten his existence hanging unspoken like glittering stars between them. Together, they brought in a couple crates, one overflowing with plants for sale, her cleaning off the spaces for them and returning things to where they should’ve been.
Already, the mustiness of the little shop was brightened by the scent of potted and cut flowers.
“Would you like to know a state secret?” The twinkle in Hugo’s crinkling eyes as he turned to me let me know I did, in fact, want to know this particular secret. I was beginning to get a feel for which secrets I might be thrilled to learn from him and which ones to leave for Don’s no-nonsense style of answering.
I’d underestimated this one.
Around the cramped, almost-invisible path to the back of the building we went. I had to turn sideways to keep the overhanging wall of ivy from brushing my shoulder as I passed. As soon as I turned the corner, I stopped in my tracks.
Hugo continued on, his footsteps crunching in the pea gravel whenever his loafers strayed from the foot-square red pavers. A stunning tea garden waited, shaded by a cedar arbor with some kind of ancient grape vine slithering up to drip fruit from below its rich, verdant leaves.
Lavender spiked high over pots of lemon balm and mint. Rose of Sharon hibiscus splayed dramatic pink and white blossoms with deep red centers. Pansies softened the corners, the arrangement slowly melting into miniature versions of the flowers, then to tiny violets.
I had to hitch a breath at the beauty and elegant drama.
Alice’s gentle, earth-scented hand on my shoulder prodded me to stop blocking the path. “Do have a seat while I wash up,” she urged, beaming with pride.
“People’s reactions are always best when I don’t warn them about what’s coming!” Hugo chuckled as he walked up with a crate in his hands. With a flourish, he drew the plate of scones from its crate and set it on a glass-top bistro table.
“Yes, but if the surprise is a soul trap, you might want to give at least a hint they’re about to be glued to the floor,” I grumbled around a smile I couldn’t quite tuck away, taking a seat on a cushioned ironwork chair. This place was so peaceful and refreshing, a cool oasis in the middle of a hot city. I felt like a child finding a secret garden.
“Humbug!” Hugo’s laugh sounded a little unrepentant and a little apologetic all at once. “If I told you, you’d have backed away, and where would we be now? You’d have gone outside to meet the officers apprehending your date, perhaps written a nice journal entry… If I’m to have made one horrible mistake in all my life, I’m at least thrilled it didn’t turn out half bad.”
Living life as a series of surprises, pleasant or terrifying—I had to admit, the idea had its appeal. “Still, I think I’d rather see what’s coming.” I picked up one of the scones and nibbled on the edge. The sweet glaze and bright orange flavor mixed on my tongue as I contemplated his words and my choices.
“Hmm.” Hugo fell silent for a beat, his index finger tapping his chin in a syncopated rhythm. “So most people say. I’m not so certain. What we don’t know can be a boon of its own.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I cut in, seizing the moment. “I’ve been hearing a good bit about boons lately. That’s not a word you encounter often, except around you guys.”
“Ah, yes!” Hugo’s smile stretched upward again. “It’s an extension of the barter system. We necros have only recently stopped being cast out of our families, profiled by the authorities, and isolated in general… for the most part.” His sad, what-can-you-do shrug about broke my heart.
“We don’t create gangs or communes. Banding together is somewhat off-brand for us. What we do instead is ask boons. When there’s a meeting of two necros, one can make a request of the other. If I ask Don Schmitt to take a letter to the mailbox for me as a boon, I’ve opened up an account of sorts between us.”
Hugo whisked a scone off the top of the pile and bit into it. “He can ask me to do something menial in return at a later date. If you ask a difficult boon, you’ve opened a very high-trust account and can expect to be called upon to repay the favor someday.”
That was simpler than I’d expected. “So it’s just favors, like you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours? But… like you actually keep score?”
“Precisely!” Hugo saluted me with his teacup.
It sounded like a fun way to build relationships. But if that was the case… “Aeron doesn’t do boons,” I mused aloud. “I wonder why.”
Hugo grinned around the bite in his mouth, patting my arm as Alice returned with a beautiful full tea service on a fascinating woodburned tray. “You should ask him sometime.”
I didn’t mention that we’d parted ways, partly because I didn’t want to admit to myself that it was already over. “He said something once about doing things out of kindness and not keeping score.” I gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
Alice slid a steaming cup of tea toward me.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, almost too caught up in thought to note my gratitude.
“And there you have it!” Hugo lifted his own cup to his lips in a smooth, delicate motion. “I do believe, though, if he did transact with boons, every necromancer in Wachenta would owe Lyons a great many debts…” He trailed off, his gaze following mine to the wooden tray as Alice lifted the teapot off of the burned plank. “You like the tray?”
“Did a fire mage burn it?” My fingers traced the scorched places, circular mottling, almost like polka dots. I’d seen lightning-streaked coffee tables and custom-burned headboards from fire mage woodworking shops before, but this pattern was different.
Hugo’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Not… exactly.”
“Oh, go on and tell her before you burst.” Alice made a shooing motion in her husband’s direction.
“Alright! I shall!” Hugo clapped his hands together with glee, straightening in his chair with a wiggle. “First, backstory. When I was a child, I wanted a puppy so badly. But, as I wasn’t the most responsible little boy, I assumed my mother’s refusal was because she didn’t believe that I’d be dedicated to the task of caring for one.”
The mischief in his eyes sparkled again. “So, I summoned one.”
I gasped. “You summoned a pet? Like, a ghost of a pet?”
Hugo shook his head with a broad grin. “Oh no. This was before I learned any necromancing talent at all. I used my watchling magic and summoned the most adorable little hellhound puppy that ever did burn the carpet. He had orange-flecked red eyes and basalt-looking crinkles all over.” Hugo looked like he’d hug himself any moment at the overwhelming cuteness of the memory.
The image in my mind was far from cute. “How big was he?” I asked with eyes wide. Alice sipped her tea behind a patient smile.
“Hellhound pups come out of the abyss about a foot long, smoking, and frothing at the mouth with sulphur foam. I’d stolen one of Mom’s cooking bowls and inverted it to catch the smoke so the alarms wouldn’t go off. I’d thought of everything!”
He walked his fingertips across the dark splotches. “See there? That’s his paw prints. They don’t have even-toed paws like Earth dogs, more like a candle melted and there are footpads where the wax dripped.”
Despite the clear adoration in Hugo’s voice, I was getting the opinion that I didn’t want to ever meet even a puppy version of one of these creatures.
But he wasn’t finished yet. “What I didn’t account for is that this one slobbered literally everywhere! I could bar
ely keep him from setting the rental house on fire, and his acid drool left holes in the carpet when I sneaked outside with him to play.” Hugo slapped his thigh with a chuckle. “It wasn’t long before Mom figured out why there were grass patches missing by the patio, and little Spot got sent back to his likely-worried hellhound mother in Abaddon.”
“You named him… Spot?” I grinned at the thought of the drooling hellbeast. “That must’ve been terribly upsetting to lose your adorable puppy.”
“If I’m honest, it was a bit of a relief. I’d already had to go through our kitchen fire extinguisher, and the next time the damned thing left a pee puddle, I had no way to put it out. I couldn’t pet Spot, or I’d be burned, and I didn’t have any control over him at all!” Hugo laughed. “Turns out, my mother had denied my request for a pet because there was a pet clause in the lease.”
“That hellhound cured Hugo of having pets the rest of his life,” Alice added with a grin. “I had to convince him my arthritic old labrador mutt wouldn’t bother anything if I let him lay around the yard for his retirement.”
“Yes, but can you blame me?” Hugo reached for Alice’s hand.
She squeezed his in return. “I suppose not.”
Before I could inquire further, a car with its bass thumping rolled up to the shop. The noise was a rather funny reminder that I hadn’t actually been transported to some countryside nook to enjoy roses and climbing ivy for an afternoon. Hugo hopped up to greet his customer, leaving me alone with Alice to enjoy our tea in relative quiet.
Alice smiled as the trap music shut off, restoring our serenity. “Don’t tell him, but when I take the dog indoors on cold winter nights, there are scorch marks in the grass the next day. It’s our little secret game—he pretends he has no idea how the ‘fungal spots’ arise, and I pretend I didn’t notice them.” She put a conspiratorial finger to her lips, a twinkle in her eyes as she changed the subject. “I love this place.”
