“Then, on the third day, there was a knock on my door. I was sure it was the landlord, wanting to know where his rent was. But when I opened the door, instead of the landlord, I saw your father standing there, holding a huge bouquet of flowers! He’d tracked me down by talking to the producer who had taken me to the after-party. He told me he didn’t care if I was rich or poor—as long as I was me. But once he returned home, my insecurity got the better of me again. I began to worry that his parents might pressure him into marrying someone with more social standing.
“So I made one last call to Mistress Syra. I didn’t have much in the way of money, but I figured since I had grossly overpaid her with the tennis bracelet, I might have a little leeway. I told her I wanted a love potion; one that would make me the unquestioned queen of Timothy’s heart. The love potion she crafted was odorless and colorless, perfect for being slipped into food or drink, and I put it in his champagne while he wasn’t looking.
“I am not proud of what I did—in fact, I regretted doing it within moments of pouring it in his glass. But there was no going back, and I was genuinely terrified of losing him. Not so much to another woman, mind you, but to his sense of responsibility to his family. If your father is anything, he’s a dutiful Eresby. That very night he proposed to me. It should have been the happiest moment of my life, but it seemed so terribly hollow. It was like I had won a long distance marathon by cheating at the last mile.
“But what really worried me was the fact the love potion, like all magic, would eventually wear off. Of course I could always buy another vial and dose him again, but I had learned my lesson from the No-Knickers spell. I knew I’d end up paying a fortune every other week for potions of ever-decreasing strength.
“I decided the best plan would be for me to steer clear of any more magic and simply make myself indispensable to your father. I thought that if I became the perfect high-society wife, he might stay married to me once the potion wore off, or even fall in love with me for real. So I threw myself into doing all the things expected of me: organizing charity balls, lunching with the right ladies, and keeping myself a size two—and I haven’t stopped since.”
“And did it? Wear off, that is?” I asked, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “In the thirty-five years we’ve been married, your father’s feelings for me have not changed in the least. That just means every morning I wake up wondering if this is the day I’ll find him looking at me as if I was a stranger.”
She paused for a moment and when she looked at me her face softened and lost its usual reserve, which I had come to view as its default expression. Up until a half hour ago, I thought my mother was just another socialite with a drinking problem who spent her life doing nothing but shopping, gossiping, and dieting, but now I was seeing a whole different person I had never dreamed existed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been the mother I should have been to you, Timmy. I was so busy imitating the high-society women around me in order to fit in, I copied all their failings, too. Part of me has always been . . . distant toward you, through no fault of your own. Perhaps it’s because I was never close to my own mother, or because I’m unsure whether you were conceived in love—or something else. Whatever the reason, it’s no excuse for me handing you over to others to raise.” She suddenly leaned forward and grasped my forearm, clutching it tightly, like a drowning woman grabbing the hand of a rescuer. It was the closest she had come to hugging me in years. “I know I don’t show it the way I should, but never, ever doubt for a moment that I love you, Timmy. I have everything I ever dreamed of when I was candling eggs and milking goats on my parents’ farm: a rich husband, a wonderful home, fast cars and fashionable clothes, and a beautiful and talented daughter. But I got it through trickery, and now I’m paying the price through my child.”
“Mom—I don’t know what to say,” I said, shaking my head in amazement. “I had no idea. . . .”
“Of course you didn’t. What mother wants to admit that she cheated her way into marriage? Or that she let her own insecurity get in the way of raising her child? Much less that her dabbling in magic has turned her only daughter into a . . . a . . .”
“‘Weirdo’?” I suggested helpfully. “Mom, you’ve got to stop beating yourself up over this. My magic powers have nothing to do with whatever potions you swallowed or spritzed on yourself, decades ago. I know for a fact that I’m not the only human in Golgotham who has been affected. I’m not a hundred percent sure why I’m able to do magic now, but I do know that none of this is your fault.”
My mother smiled and gave a half laugh and half sob as she daubed at the tears returning to her eyes.
“And, Mom? I like this story of how you and Dad met a lot better than the old one.”
“Thank you for saying that, sweetheart. Your father and I will always love you, no matter what, but, I beg you, never bring the silverware to life again. We have to eat with those things.”
* * *
As I headed back to my room, I kept thinking about everything my mother had said. It was the first time in our shared lives that she had spoken to me as a fellow adult, instead of a child. The mythology of my childhood had been blown apart, but, to my surprise, I was cool with it. So my textile tycoon grandfather didn’t really exist—big deal. I never met him in the first place. But now I know where my artistic streak came from—my ex-showgirl mother! It almost made up for the news that the only reason my father asked her to marry him was because she slipped him a love potion.
As I prepared to go to bed, there was a knock on the door, and a second later my father stuck his head into the room. “Are you decent?”
“About as much as I’ll ever be,” I replied with a laugh.
He stepped into the room and sat down on the corner of the bed beside Beanie, who was sound asleep and snoring like a buzz saw. “Does he always sound like that?” He frowned.
“If you think that’s bad, just wait until he starts breaking wind,” I chuckled. “Is something wrong, Dad?”
“Can’t a father check in on his daughter and see how she’s doing?” he protested.
“I’m okay, I guess. I’m just feeling a bit dazed and glazed right now,” I admitted. “It’s been a long, stressful twenty-four hours.”
“I’m pleased that you and your mother were able to talk—and without any shouting, I might add.”
I studied him for a long moment, uncertain whether to say anything. Growing up, I had wondered why he always allowed my mother to have her way, no matter what it might be. Now it all seemed to make sense.
“Dad—how would you feel if everything you thought was real turned out to be an illusion—?”
“So I take it your mother finally got around to telling you about how we met,” he said with a laugh. “Did she also tell you about how she slipped a love potion into my champagne?”
“You know about that?”
“Of course!” he replied. “I’m one of the richest men in the world! And back then I was one of the most eligible bachelors in this, or any, country! I was always getting dosed with love potions and having Come Hithers cast over me by gold diggers. That’s why I always wore counter-charms and carried antidotes on my person at all times.”
“You mean Mom didn’t bewitch you?”
“Oh, I’m under her spell—but it has nothing to do with magic!” he laughed. “I was enchanted by your mother the first time I laid eyes on her. She’s an amazing woman, you know that? She’s a real firecracker, and isn’t afraid to speak her mind and stand up for what she believes in. You and she are a lot alike. I suspect that’s why you two are always butting heads. Unfortunately, I fear she’s reliving some unresolved issues she had with her parents through you, especially in regard to your decision to become an artist. I know she hated quitting the stage to marry me—but my parents insisted on it. That’s why she’s such a passionate fund-raiser for the ballet, you know.”
“If you’re no
t spellbound, why haven’t you told her yet? She’s spent years waiting for you to come to your senses and replace her with some bimbo who looks like a pool toy.”
“And lose what little leverage I have in the relationship?” he exclaimed. “Are you nuts?”
* * *
After my father bid good night and kissed me on the forehead, I changed into my nightclothes and climbed into bed. It was far bigger and much more comfortable than Nessie’s living room couch, but it was also just as cold and lonely. My only consolation, as I drifted off into a troubled sleep, was knowing I, like my child, had been conceived in love. Granted, a weird, fucked-up kind of love—but love nonetheless.
Chapter 23
“How did you sleep, dear?” my mother asked, as she spread marmalade on her English muffin.
“Okay, I guess,” I replied, as I eyed the plate of bacon and eggs Clarence set before me. “I’m afraid I’m not used to the sound of traffic in the streets anymore. It’s going to take some readjusting.”
“Have you seen an obstetrician? Or were you simply relying on witch doctors for your prenatal care?”
Despite my mother’s recent decision to treat me as an adult, I didn’t see any point in testing her resolution by revealing that I’d left Golgotham because Hexe had stolen money I needed for a prenatal exam. “Well, I have a friend who practices traditional Chinese medicine. . . .”
“I suspected as much,” she said, setting down her knife. “So I took the liberty of booking you an appointment with my gyno, Dr. Blumlein—he’s also an obstetrician. You’ll love him—he warms his hands before he does his exam.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, the image of my mother with her feet in gyno stirrups now seared into my mind’s eye. So much for breakfast . . .
* * *
Dr. Blumlein’s practice was in a state-of-the-art office building on East Seventy-second Street, within easy reach of Prada, Frédéric Malle, and Swifty’s. When my mother and I arrived, we entered a tastefully appointed reception room with nicer furniture than most people have in their homes and were greeted by a pleasantly smiling woman who only glanced at my tattoos and eyebrow piercing once as she entered my information into a computer. After that was taken care of, I was handed over to a second, equally pleasant woman dressed in nurse’s whites, who escorted me to an examination room, leaving my mother to her own devices.
I changed out of my street clothes into a smocklike garment, and the nurse took my medical history and drew a blood sample. She then handed me a little plastic cup with a screw-on lid and pointed me to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Once that was taken care of, I was returned to the examination room, where I sat on the paper-wrapped exam table, staring at a laminated poster depicting cutaway views of a gestating womb during the various stages of pregnancy.
There was a polite rap on the door as the nurse reappeared, this time in the company of a dapper middle-aged man dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope looped about his neck. He had a nice smile and kind eyes, and seemed exactly the sort of man my mother and her high-society friends would trust to look at their hoo-has on a regular basis.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Eresby,” he said, flashing me a welcoming smile. “My name is Dr. Blumlein. I’ll be looking after you and your baby from here on.” As the nurse busied herself with preparing the room for my pelvic exam, he glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. “It says here that you are in your eighteenth week.”
“That’s correct.”
He gave me a dubious look. “Are you certain?”
“I might be off a week in either direction,” I admitted. “But I’m in the general ballpark.”
“I see,” he grunted, jotting something down on the clipboard. “I understand that this is your first prenatal exam? I realize you’re young, but there are risk factors in all pregnancies. You don’t want to gamble with your baby’s health, do you?” he chided. “I see that you’re twenty-six. And the father? He’s—?”
“Kymeran.”
The gynecologist’s smile abruptly blinked off. “I was asking his age.”
“Sorry, my mistake. He’s thirty,” I replied.
The pelvic exam and pap smear proved to be as awkward, uncomfortable, and tedious as all such exams tend to be, landing somewhere between a getting-my-teeth-cleaned and changing-the-oil-in-my-car on the Necessary Evil scale.
“I’m going to leave you with Nurse Riggins here,” Dr. Blumlein announced as he shed his gloves. “She’ll conduct the ultrasound, so we can check on the development of your baby and triangulate your due date. Once that’s finished, I’ll be conferring with you in my office.”
“Just stay on your back and uncover your tummy, Ms. Eresby,” Nurse Riggins said as she rolled over the portable ultrasound machine. Once my abdomen was exposed, she slathered it with a clear gel and then turned on the machine.
“What, exactly, are you looking for when you do this?” I asked as she placed the transducer against my swollen belly.
“Right now I’m monitoring the baby’s heartbeat and seeing if your placenta is in the right place,” the nurse replied, keeping one eye on the monitor as she slowly moved the transducer across the expanse of my bared belly. “I’m also looking for fetal abnormalities. So far everything is checking out just fine.” She turned the computer screen about so that it was facing me. “Do you want to say hello?”
I stared at the black-and-white image on the screen—although it looked like a cross between a smudged Xerox and an X-ray, there was no mistaking what I held within me was a very well-developed fetus, with its legs folded up like landing gear and its tiny hands held before its face like a boxer. The first thing I did was laugh in delight at the sight of my child—so close, and yet so far from me. And then I began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said as the nurse paused in her duties long enough to hand me a tissue. “I didn’t mean to lose control like that.”
“It happens all the time.” She smiled. “I’m used to it.”
“I just wish my boyfriend was here to see it,” I said as I blew my nose. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Oh, yes,” Nurse Riggins replied, nodding her head. “He’s definitely a boy.”
I nodded my head. So Lafo’s dessert was right, after all.
“And is he—is he—?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence for fear of saying what I dreaded would somehow make it so.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Ms. Eresby,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Your little boy is perfectly normal. . . .”
A big, stupid smile split my face as I heaved a sigh of relief upon hearing the news.
“He’s got all ten fingers and toes.”
* * *
Dr. Blumlein’s private office was every bit as tastefully appointed as his waiting room, with diplomas from a prestigious university and medical school hanging on the walls, alongside framed photographs of famous women whose vaginas he had looked at over the years—including my own mother.
“Nice to see you, again, Millicent,” the doctor said, motioning for my mother and me to take a seat. “I must say it’s a good thing you brought your daughter in when you did.”
“Is there a problem?” I frowned, protectively crossing my arms over my stomach.
“Although your general health is excellent, Ms. Eresby, and the baby’s fetal heartbeat is very strong, it appears there has been a gross miscalculation somewhere along the line. According to the ultrasound and my own physical examination, I’d say you are closer to thirty weeks.”
“That’s impossible!” I exclaimed in disbelief. “There is no way I’m almost eight months pregnant!”
“I don’t know how else to explain it, Ms. Eresby, save that it might have something to do with the baby’s mixed parentage. I admit I know practically nothing about Kymeran biology, save that their gestation period is far shorter than ours. To be frank, I don’t feel comfortable taking you on as a patient, as this falls way outside my
area of expertise. However, I can give you a referral to a colleague who specializes in high-risk pregnancies. . . .” He scribbled down a name and address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to me. “He’s in a much better position to handle a case as . . . unique as yours.”
“I see,” my mother said stiffly, gathering up her purse. “Why don’t you just come out and say that your malpractice insurance doesn’t cover hybrid pregnancies, Daniel?”
“Now, Millicent, you’re not being fair—!” he objected.
“Perhaps I’m not,” she conceded. “But that can be said for a lot of things in life. Come along, dear.” As we left the doctor’s office, she paused to give him a final, withering look. “Oh, and by the way, I’ll be stopping by your receptionist on the way out in order to cancel my next appointment.”
* * *
“I can’t believe he would try to fob you off on another doctor like that!” my mother fumed as we exited the penthouse elevator.
“He did have a point, Mom.”
“So does a pencil,” she sniffed. “That doesn’t mean I should sit there and let someone jab it in my eye.”
Clarence opened the door before my mother had a chance to retrieve her keys from her purse. “Welcome back, Madam,” he said, then turned to address me. “Miss Timmy—you have a lady caller in the Grand Salon.”
My mother frowned and glanced at me. “Who could that possibly be?”
“Perhaps it’s Nessie,” I suggested.
Upon entering the Grand Salon, I instantly recognized the regal figure with the peacock blue hair standing before the fireplace, staring at the museum-quality Dürer hung over the mantel.
“Lady Syra!” I exclaimed, unable to refrain from smiling in welcome.
“What are you doing here?” My mother asked frostily. She was standing on the staircase behind me, glaring down at the Witch Queen with unconcealed hostility.
“Hello to you, too, Millicent,” Syra replied graciously.
“Why on Earth did you allow this woman into my house?” my mother snapped, turning her withering glare on Clarence.
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