by Zoe Chant
“Who is this Waterson?”
“A failed novelist masquerading as a Professor of American Literature, God help his students. His expertise is in backstabbing. Oh, and brownnosing anyone in power in the hope of climbing over them on his way to the top.”
“That sounds like two expertises.” Mikhail held up two fingers. “Though I would not consider either a quality to be admired.”
“Exactly my point. This reception will make the hosting departments look good. It will make the school look good, especially if you accept the Visiting Chair Professorship the provost plans to offer you. And it will make me look good, because Waterson keeps offending all the people he’s been trying to lure. Are you sorry you asked, my monkish friend?”
Mikhail was, a little. He had much more important things on his mind than some unpleasant acquaintance of Joey’s. “I said I’d be there, but I do have my mission to investigate. Back to the interesting timing. Did you feel the quake a couple hours ago?”
“Yes. A mild tremor, by California’s standards. You know they make a game of guessing the intensity. No more than a 3.5.”
“It might have felt like a natural earthquake, but I caught a flash of intent on the mythic plane. Something—someone—with earth powers caused it.”
Joey’s human form snapped into focus, his gaze narrowed. “Who? Why?”
“I don’t know. I was with Bird, my mate, so I could not shift and hunt. Her safety must come first.”
“Of course it must,” Joey said with conviction. “I was right to tell the queen it must be you to investigate when she consulted me. And now you’ve found your mate!” He laughed. “I am delighted.”
Mikhail regarded his old friend curiously. “Was your recommendation for a purpose besides undercutting Guardian Cang?”
Joey’s face looked unrepentant, but nine fox tails swished rapidly in and out of the mythic plane. “I make no secret of the fact that I don’t care for that red dragon, guardian over this area or not. But I know you like him, so we won’t argue about it. Instead, let me assure you that I would never make a recommendation out of spite. I just . . . sensed . . . that you were the one who ought to be here.”
Mikhail knew that part of Joey’s nature was to be sensitive to the mate bond, or perhaps the possibilities of it, though he was certain that Joey—a born flirt—had no mate. But Mikhail had never had any interest in pursuing the matter, having assumed that he would spend his life alone. “Did you know who she was?”
“Not at all. It’s always hypothetical, if that’s the word I want. The empress said she had seen something in her crystal ball or however she sees things, and I immediately thought of you. And now I know why! You must introduce us!”
“It will be my pleasure,” Mikhail said, as his dragon hummed inside him. “But now I need to get back to that cave now that she is safe.”
“Let’s get you squared away, then.”
Mikhail had to drive the borrowed car to his motel. But once that was done he shifted. Since he’d already been given Bird’s address, he felt justified in locating where she lived. In his invisible dragon form, he arrowed toward her, then circled above her home.
She was not far from the shore. Her home was the smallest of four cottages within a garden that rivaled even the finest manor garden back in China. Paths wandered through it, converged, and eventually led to an enormous house built on a palisade, with a magnificent view of the sea.
He circled around this house, observing the care with which it had been built, though it was shabby now from years of wind and weather. Resisting the urge to get closer to Bird—that must wait until she expected him—he arrowed north, to return to the cave.
SEVEN
BIRD
Bird stared at her checkbook, as if willing there to be extra money would make it appear. But it wouldn’t. She had intended to get the minimum needed at the grocery store to coast her through to her next social security check, but she was determined to offer Mikhail a good dinner. It wouldn’t be expensive, but everything must be fresh.
As for a dress, what she couldn’t buy, she might be able to borrow. She considered her friends. Jen was too tall, Godiva too small. Doris was more or less Bird’s size. And as it was Sunday, she had no school or temple activities, so she might even be at home.
Bird called her. “Doris, I’ve been invited to a dressy affair tonight. Would you mind if I borrowed something from you? I promise I’ll get it dry-cleaned—”
“Never mind that! Get your booty on over here!”
Oh, yes. She’d definitely been obvious at the book group, Bird thought. “I have Mr. Kleiner, then I have to do some shopping, but after that, I’ll come straight there. Thank you!”
Bird left her place and walked across the beautiful garden toward the big house. She always loved the garden, which bloomed through every season, but as she walked she began to wonder how it would look through Mikhail’s eyes. She could imagine him in such a setting, with beauty in every direction you looked.
But she had to concentrate on her day’s tasks—the reward for which would be seeing him that night! She only wished the day would end sooner.
At Mr. Kleiner’s house, she found the elderly gentleman sitting in what had been a conservatory in the 1920s, when his mother—a famous film star during the silent pictures era—had first built the house. She had filled the place with exotic plants from all over the world. Many had not survived. But Mr. Noko had rescued the remaining ones when he’d appeared in Mr. Kleiner’s life.
“Bird, dear.” Mr. Kleiner looked wearily at her. He looked much older than his years, with his thin shoulders slumped.
Her urge to hurry through the day vanished. “What’s wrong?”
“The roof is leaking again,” he said, his thin voice quavering. “I tried to get on the ladder. I fell. I think I might have passed out.”
“What?” she exclaimed, horrified. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have come!”
“I know, but you can’t pick me up, dear Bird,” he said, a brief smile lighting his somber face. “Kuma Noko, of course, has no phone, and the young ladies were out.”
The “young ladies” were Ash and Morgana, his other tenants. They were a married couple who ran an animal rescue shelter on another part of the property.
Bird wrestled within herself. If Mr. Kleiner needed her, she would have to call Mikhail and cancel their plans. The thought hurt with breathtaking sharpness. But she had to do the right thing. “Let’s call the doctor,”
To her surprise, Mr. Kleiner shook his head. “No.”
Bird said tentatively, “I thought you liked Dr. Tranh.”
“I do, but I don’t want it looking like I’m not safe in my own home. Or that the house is falling apart. That I need to move somewhere safer, where I can be cared for. . .”
Bird understood his worry. His nephew and his wife had their eye on Mr. Kleiner’s beautiful house. If they could find an excuse to put him in a nursing home, they could move into his house. And kick the other tenants off the property, no doubt.
Mr. Kleiner turned unhappy eyes toward Bird. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”
Bird shoved aside her plans for her dinner and did her best to distract him by asking about the progress of his latest painting. She fixed him a lunch while chatting to him about watercolors versus oil paints. After he ate, he admitted his bones were still rattled from his fall and went to take a nap. She washed up the dishes and tidied the kitchen. Ash or Morgana would come to check on him at dinner time, and Mr. Noko would be by bright and early, to help him with his shower and get him his breakfast.
Joy suffused Bird once again. With more energy than she’d felt for years, she raced back to her house, biked to the grocery store, raced back, and left the dinner baking in the oven while she pedaled madly to Doris’s place.
Doris drew her into her bright, cozy kitchen (“cozy” being the lovely peach and teal tile complementing the cream walls, as this kitchen was easily twi
ce the size of Bird’s), sat her down, poured out a cup of tea, then thunked her elbows on the table and said, “Talk.”
Bird’s eyes narrowed. “Godiva isn’t hiding in the next room, is she?”
“No, but she will be calling, probably in an hour, for a full report.”
“How does she even . . .”
“Bird! We all saw you looking at that art professor like a kid in a candy store. What’s more, he was looking at you the same way. Did he ask you out, or didn’t he?”
“He did. That is, he hired me for a drawing project, which we started this morning, then, well, he asked me if I’d like to go as his plus one tonight. It’s a formal thing at the university.”
Doris had been opening her cookie jar, but she paused, looking over her shoulder, brow furrowed. “How do you feel about going back there again?”
“It’s fine,” Bird said, with more confidence than she felt. “I realize I’ve avoided the place all these years, which is silly, really. It’s just a place.”
“It’s a place full of bad memories,” Doris said gently.
“Yeah, but at fifty-plus, maybe it’s time to get over them? The important thing is, it’s impossible that Bartholomew would be at the reception. I doubt he’s changed in twenty-seven years. If it’s not about him, or he doesn’t see a way to ‘use’ it, he would never attend a reception for a writer whose book lies about as far out of his interest as it’s possible to get.”
“Excellent,” Doris said. “Grab your tea and come into my bedroom. I have the closet open, and I’ve laid out a bunch of possible dresses.”
“Anything will do, as long as it more or less fits,” Bird said doubtfully.
Though she and Doris wore close to the same size, the weight was distributed differently. Doris was an inch taller. She had a nice figure, whereas Bird was pear-shaped. Specifically, Doris still had what in the old days was termed a splendid bosom (or as Godiva put it, a nice rack) whereas Bird’s breasts, at their best, had looked as appetizing (Bartholomew had said once, when she’d gathered up her courage to ask for sex after being given the cold shoulder for months) as a pair of over-poached eggs.
“None of those,” Bird said, pointing to a little black dress and a slinky green thing, both of them low cut. “No one will want to accidentally look down the neck of my dress to see my stomach sticking out.”
“You’ve got a cute figure,” Doris said.
Bird laughed. “I like my body, but sexy it is not, nor has it ever been.”
Doris sniffed, but put the slinky dresses away. “Well, you’re right that low cut is probably not you. How about this?” She held up a pretty butter yellow dress with ruffles slanting down from one shoulder to the cocktail length hem.
Bird sighed. “It’s gorgeous. But I can’t wear it. Yellow makes me look sallow. And that length requires heels.”
Doris frowned at the dress, then thrust it back into the closet. “Not your best color,” she admitted. “Ah! I know you look good in sky blue.” She pulled out a silky, chiffony dress that was absolutely simple in line, hanging from two pretty golden clasps at the shoulder. “Your arms are good from all that biking and gardening you do. Try it on.”
“You have a lot of gorgeous gowns,” Bird said admiringly.
“Three of those are from one niece’s weddings. She trades in husbands faster than some guys trade in cars. One is my high school graduation standby, the black one is for fancy funerals. This pink one,” she said with an uncharacteristic wistful look, “I bought the last time I dated. We were supposed to go to Cancun together—remember that?”
“I thought it was Jen and Robert who went to Cancun.”
“Jen and Robert were the ones who ended up going. But I was given the tickets after my senior high school drama class won an award. I was going to take Phil, a guy I’d been dating, until I happened to stop up at The Hideaway B&B to pick up a donation for the temple, and I saw his car in the lot.” Doris scowled at the memory. “So I sat there and waited, and pretty soon out he comes from one of those little rooms with a very good-looking redhead hanging on his arm.”
“No,” Bird exclaimed, horrified. “I never knew any of this.”
“I never told anyone—except Jen and Robert. You know she’s as silent as the tomb, and Robert . . . turned out he had six months left on his ticket, unknown to us all. I’ve always been glad they got to go on that trip, which I could have done alone, but I would have been miserable,” Doris muttered trenchantly. “Anyway, to finish up my sob story, I called that fancy hotel in Cancun, and changed the reservation to their names. Blocked Phil’s number on my phone. I was too embarrassed to take the pink dress back, after I’d been boring on about Cancun to the shop people, and so I added it to the rotation for events at the temple. Here, try this blue one on.”
Bird took the dress and went into the bathroom to change, hurting for her friend. You thought you knew someone well—and then you find out that they have layers you never expected. Bird had always thought Doris was satisfied being single, as she’d never talked about dating.
Neither had I, she thought as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. But that was because she’d believed that part of her life over for good, once forty had come and gone, then fifty.
She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the lines time had carved, the softening of her skin under her jaw and cheeks, and (despite Doris’s comment) under her arms. Not sexy, no . . . the bathroom mirror image was overlaid with Mikhail’s image. His smile. That smile he’d given just to her.
Bird came out, the hem dragging softly over her feet.
“That looks lovely!” Doris exclaimed. “But it really needs heels.”
“I really can’t wear them,” Bird protested. “My arthritic knee won’t let me get away with heels—I gave away my last pair years ago. All I’ve got are my gold sandals.”
“Then let’s hem it up,” Doris said briskly. “And you can have it.”
Bird began to protest. Doris waved her off. “You can see I have a closet full of nice dresses that just hang there. Take it. Think of me when you’re dancing with your mysterious professor.” She added as led the way to her sewing room, “I want details, mind. I want to enjoy it vicariously, and you know who will be expecting a military sitrep! See that you call first thing tomorrow.”
Bird promised, and shortly after that rode home, the dress carefully folded and laid in her bike basket. And for the rest of the day, she enjoyed tidying, whipping up a dessert, and readying things, always imagining Mikhail in her space, his smile as he turned to her. His silvery eyes . . .
Yep, I’m sixteen again, she thought as she took a last look around. Might as well embrace it!
EIGHT
MIKHAIL
Mikhail flew into the cave, all his senses alert. Nothing living was lurking in there. He didn’t expect to find anything. What he sought was what lurked on the mythic plane.
Bird’s backpack lay discarded on the floor. He shifted entirely to his human form and bent to touch it, relishing this small part of Bird. Remembering her bravery when she offered to go immediately back inside, though he could see her frantic heartbeat pulsing in her delicate throat.
She was safe. And now he had a job to do, and he needed to focus on that. But he could not resist running his hands over the backpack, loving the thought of touching where her warm fingers touched, before straightening up.
He scanned quickly. The quake had caused a rock fall, not catastrophic, but entirely blocking the opposite side of the cavern from the murals. Mikhail labored for several hours moving great boulders and clearing rubble, first to make it easier for Bird to return, and then to begin his search. But the crystalline note still seemed to come from everywhere. After all his work, the sense on the mythic plane grew no stronger.
Something was blocking it.
When the hour had advanced, he gave up. He needed more time—but that must come later. The frustration of his unfinished hunt gave way to anticipation. It was time
to ready himself for meeting Bird at her home. Important as this quest was, nothing would be permitted to get in the way of his going to Bird’s home!
He picked up her knapsack of art supplies, held them close to his heart, and partially shifted until he reached the shoreline. Then he shifted to his dragon and flew back to the motel to get ready.
They had agreed on half past five, as the reception was to begin at seven. He showered and changed to his suit. Then, wishing he could shift and fly, he got into the borrowed car and drove to the estate Bird lived on. The windows of her little cottage glowed golden and welcoming.
He was halfway to the door when he recollected reading in that advice about courtship that guests were expected to bring a food item or beverage. He hesitated, thinking to turn back and bring one. But Bird must have been watching, for she opened the door. Her bright smile banished the small frustration clouding his heart. He wanted so badly to do everything right, but he’d failed before he’d even stepped through her door.
“Here you are,” she welcomed him, the sincerity in her voice more beautiful than any other sound, and he knew she accepted him, clumsy as his courtship had been. “Right on time!”
He walked the rest of the way up the steps to her cottage. “My apologies, but I just remembered it is customary to bring wine? I’m afraid this bag just carries your sketch supplies, as I went back to check on the cave.”
“I’m much happier to have my sketchpad back,” she said, taking the sack from his hands and setting it aside. “Unless you can drink an entire bottle at a sitting, it would just sit until it turned to vinegar, which would be a sad waste. One glass is usually plenty for me.”
“I normally do not drink much either,” he admitted, and laughed inside, recollecting Joey Hu’s crack about monkish living. But it was clear again that Bird accepted him just as he was.
