by Emma Bull
Meg tapped her foot.
“I don’t. . . I don’t knock things off the counter anymore. Carla came over to dinner last week, and I drained the pasta without spilling it all down the sink. She tried the sauce and asked if I’d sent out for it. I used to burn myself in this kitchen maybe twice a week, and it hasn’t happened for the longest time.” Eddi took a deep breath. “Is that on account of you?”
By the end of that speech, Meg was staring at her, and the lumps of dough sat still. “A’ course it’s tae my account, ye great ninny,” Meg said at last. “I’m a brownie.”
“That’s . . . what brownies do?”
“Nay, lass, we hang arse-up in gorse bushes, whistlin’ pop’lar songs. Whisht, now, take tha speiring tae yon silly phouka, he’s a fancy for it. I’ve work tae do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eddi said meekly, and backed out of the kitchen. As she did, the little mounds of currant-studded dough rolled onto a baking sheet, like children rolling down a hill.
The phouka was sitting on the couch, slid low down with his feet on the trunk. He smiled at Eddi and patted the cushion beside him. It seemed like an intimate gesture, to sit next to him. She sat on the couch and tried to pretend that she hadn’t thought about it first.
“Did you know it was Meg?” she asked him.
“Your brownie?”
Eddi shrugged off a little irritation. “She’s not mine.”
“And why not?”
“Because she doesn’t belong to me, for heaven’s sake!”
“Oh, but she does, in the sense that she would use the word. Or perhaps ‘belong with’ would express it better.” The phouka smiled, as if at a thought that pleased him. “It’s the custom of brownies, in the common way of things, to attach themselves to a household or a person. Of course, your situation cannot be called quite in the common way. But the effect remains the same.”
Eddi frowned at the floor. “Do you mean she thinks she owes me this? I saved her life, maybe, but I didn’t buy her.”
He didn’t answer, and she looked up at him. He was wearing another of his inscrutable faces. “All of this is more amusing than you can know, sweet,” he said at last. “No, you’ve not bought her, though the Folk understand fair exchange, and we’ve an obsession with paying our debts to the penny, meeting the obligations of favors and barter. What we’re bad at is gratitude. It is a cultural phenomenon of many parts, some of them contradictory. In a world where each word is powerful, still the words ‘thank you’ are not thought sufficient to cancel a debt. We have no concept of giving without thought or need of return.”
The phouka fell silent. He seemed absorbed, as if his explanation continued in his head and he was listening to it.
“What does this have to do with Meg?” Eddi asked him, but gently.
“Ah. We’ve lived close to humankind for long and long. Things of which we cannot conceive sometimes become part of us anyway. Sometimes we find ourselves with an obligation that has no clear value, with a dreadful itchy feeling of indebtedness that cannot be bartered away. We feel grateful. And having no reliance on those two precious human words, we each deal with that feeling in whatever way suits best.” He smiled then. “I believe Meg is dealing with hers.”
She found herself looking into his black eyes, unnervingly close. A stillness fell over her, and over him as well, it seemed; the smile slid from his lips, and she saw the quick motion of his chest as he drew a breath.
Eddi remembered another such moment, under a bridge at Min-nehaha Falls. She found herself wanting to ask, And how do you deal with your gratitude? The answer that occurred to her was good and logical, at least by the crackbrained logic the phouka swore by. Why should such a clever insight be so depressing?
She stood up abruptly, and was careful not to look at the phouka as she did it. “I have to call Carla,” she said. It was too early in the day to call her, but she didn’t think the phouka knew it.
So she told Carla’s answering machine that Carla should call her back. Then she hung up the phone, and stood for a moment with her hand on the receiver. The mood in the room had changed. I ought to say something. We should iron it out now. She went to the bedroom to get dressed instead.
She put on jeans and a sweatshirt, and brushed her hair. Her face looked pale and unfinished in the bathroom mirror. “Tough,” she told it. “Nobody you have to impress.”
She sat on the bed and stared out the window. Then she took the Hoffman from its stand and cradled it in her lap, put it in tune, and played a few careful, random chords. So these are the hands that make people dance. Hah. An arpeggio spilled from her fingers, as if of its own volition. She followed the notes around for a while, until she realized that she was staying in a minor key.
Why should it bother you if he’s playing at being in love? God knows he does it better than Willy did. Hell, he does a better job than Stuart, and for a while at least, Stuart really was in love. She chopped out a flurry of barre chords down the neck. Is it that you wish he weren’t playing?
She put the guitar down and left the bedroom.
The phouka was leaning by the window. Something in his pose said that it was only a rest from pacing.
All that was left of Meg were the currant buns in the kitchen wrapped for warmth in a cotton towel; a pot of coffee; and a drainer full of clean dishes. Or at least, that was all of Meg that Eddi could see. Did she leave the apartment? If so, she didn’t seem to do it by the front door.
Eddi gathered up plates, the buns, and the butter dish, and took them out to the table. The phouka stayed at the window. After another trip to the kitchen for the coffee, she sat down and began to butter a bun. “Breakfast,” she said.
He sat down across from her, but ignored the food. Instead he studied the ceiling, both hands braced lightly against the table edge. “It may be,” he said, “that you should have a new guard dog.”
Eddi found herself staring at the butter knife in her hand. She set it down on the edge of her plate; it made a little ringing sound on the china. “Why?” she said.
“I’ve done what I meant to do,” he replied, quite calm. “I’ve brought you as far as this, and given you all the advantages I can. Perhaps it’s time you had a more . . . comfortable bodyguard.”
“Comfortable. You have someone in mind?”
He looked at her warily, possibly warned by her tone. “Nooo. But there are denizens of Faerie who are less provoking than I am, if only a little.”
They stared at each other across the table. “I suppose, if there’s someplace you’d rather be . . .” Eddi said carefully.
“One place is much like another,” he said, but she saw him bite his lip before he spoke.
After a long, uncomfortable moment, Eddi asked him, “Do you want to leave?”
He closed his eyes. “No.”
A little knot of tension untied itself in her shoulders. “Then shut up and eat,” she said, and handed him a currant bun.
He took it from her as if it was part of some private, solemn joke.
Eddi turned off Twenty-fifth onto Garfield and pulled up to the curb.
“Pleasant,” the phouka said, looking around at the boulevard trees, the bits of lawn, and the shabby-genteel old houses. “More so, I regret to say, than your neighborhood.” He must have noticed the set of her lips, because he added quickly, “But I’m very fond of your neighborhood, certainly.”
“Well, good, because I can’t afford this one.”
The phouka smoothed back his wind-tossed hair with both hands. “Does Carla have more money than you do?”
“She drives cabs part-time.”
The phouka frowned and cocked his head. “Cabs?”
“Cabs are . . . cars you pay somebody else to drive you around in.”
“Oh. When I think of cabs, I think of horse-drawn conveyances for hire.”
“You do?” Eddi said.
“I do.”
“How old are you?”
The question startled
him. “Earth and Air. There are times when you are no more comfortable a companion than I am. The answer to that serves no conceivable purpose, and I refuse to give it to you.”
“When I was a kid, I read Black Beauty. There were horse-drawn cabs in that. Are you that old?”
He sighed deeply. “Older.”
“How much older?”
“Older, older, older. I shall not tell you, so you may as well leave off, my primrose.”
She snorted. “I think that means I should give up. You’ve started sweet-talking.”
“I am torn,” the phouka said, grinning, “between responding, ‘Oh, absolutely,’ and ‘What do you mean, started?’ ” He grabbed her hand, dropped a kiss on the knuckles, and loped across the street. Eddi felt the touch of his mouth on her hand for an inexplicably long time.
Carla lived in what had probably been intended as a duplex. But in South Minneapolis, attics frequently became studio apartments. Carla’s had a big arched window at the front of the house, dormers along one side, and a back door to the outside stairway. In summer, she had to open all of them, and was fond of explaining that it turned the place from a conventional oven to a convection one.
Eddi followed the phouka up the front stairway, which was carpeted in faded red and had a comfortably dusty, Victorian smell. On Carla’s door, at the top of the stairs, was a door knocker in the shape of a lacquered wooden face with a sappy expression. When the cord that dangled out of its grin was pulled, it opened its mouth and stuck out its tongue with a loud clack. The phouka found this delightful. Eddi had to whack his hand to keep him from pulling the cord several more times.
“Come in!” Carla yelled.
It was a pleasant apartment, all Carla’s jokes aside. It was shaped by the angles of the eaves and the stubby fingers of the dormers. The walls were white, the floor a checkerboard of black and white linoleum tiles interrupted by the big rag rug in the front half of the room.
On one wall hung a papier-mache mask of a unicorn’s head with mane, forelock, and chin whiskers of curly white hair, and a gilded horn tied with multicolored ribbon; another wall sported an old hooked rug depicting a moose, a lake, and what were either pine trees or pointy green mountains. A collection of little cast-metal toy cars competed for space with books, magazines, and comic books.
Carla greeted them with, “I’ve got money for last night, and two more gigs, also on account of last night.”
“I feel like I’m living in a movie musical,” Eddi said. “Is this what I’ve been paying my dues for?”
“Don’t jinx us, girl, we’re not famous yet. Anyway, have a seat. Coffee?”
They nodded in unison.
Eddi watched Carla take a couple of running steps and slide sock-footed across the kitchen linoleum. “Ah . . . is it just band business that’s made you giddy?”
“Me? I’m not giddy.”
“Uh-huh,” Eddi said. Yes, you are. Dan must be a nice guy. If he’s not, I’ll kick him down the stairs.
The door knocker clacked, and Dan’s voice called out from the other side. “Yo! It’s me!” Carla opened it to reveal Dan in the hall, a grocery bag in each arm and his glasses sliding down his nose. Carla pushed the glasses back up and took one of the bags.
“I couldn’t find the weird noodles,” he told her. Then he saw Eddi and the phouka, and grinned. “Oh, hiya.”
Eddi watched them empty the bags on the counter. They seemed at once comfortable and shy with each other—though perhaps the shyness was only because she was there to watch them. Eddi hadn’t realized how intimate the business of putting away the groceries could be.
Dan got a beer from the refrigerator and dropped down in a canvas chair across from Eddi. “So, any idea when the other guys’re gonna get here?”
Eddi shrugged and looked at the phouka. “You’re the one who delivered the message. How did you deliver the message, anyway?”
“Paper airplane,” the phouka replied.
Then they heard a quick, light tread on the stairs, and knuckles on the door panel. “Bingo,” Carla muttered, and called out, “Come in!”
And Willy stood in the doorway, tall, slender, the perfect Romantic hero. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the neck open, a skinny black tie knotted loose, tight black denims, and black high-top sneakers. His hair was in his eyes again, black and white like the rest of him. His gaze fell on Eddi first, though she was hardly in the spot most visible from the door. It was a grave look, but there was no accusation in it, no anger. Eddi felt the phouka’s stillness next to her. She smiled at Willy. She couldn’t remember ever having to judge a smile so carefully as that one. After a moment, Willy answered with one of his own. Eddi heard the phouka exhale.
“Hullo, all,” Willy said. He sat down on a bench under the front windows. The light behind him made it hard to see his face; it lit the streak of white in his hair and made the shoulders of his white shirt glow. “Before we get to business,” Willy said, his voice oddly constrained, “I’ve been directed to invite you all to a party.”
They stared.
“A month from last night, exactly, in Tower Hill Park. Fun starts at full dark. And there’ll be music; I suggest you bring things to make it with.”
“A month from—,” Carla began, but the phouka interrupted.
“Midsummer’s Eve,” he said softly. “It’s decided, isn’t it?”
Willy nodded. “Three days after Midsummer’s Day.”
“Where?” the phouka demanded.
“Como Park.”
Eddi was watching the phouka’s face, looking for clues, wanting to know what was good news and what was bad. This was the date and place of the next battle. But she didn’t understand the puzzlement on the phouka’s face.
“Como Park is under our dominion,” the phouka said at last.
Willy raised an eyebrow and nodded.
“And only three days after Midsummer—Oak and Ash, why has she given us every advantage?”
“What’re you talking about?” Dan said.
The phouka explained quickly. “But why?” he asked Willy once again. “If the Dark Lady wanted to cede this battle to us, there are easier ways. What does she want?”
Willy shrugged, but his voice was at odds with the gesture. “To throw us off our stride, maybe. To make us nervous. I don’t know.”
Eddi stood up, paced across the room to a dormer window and back. “What I want to know,” she said at last “is who came up with the party invitation?”
Willy raised his head. “Beg your pardon?”
“Who is it who wants the noncombatants involved?” Eddi gestured at Dan and Carla. “Was this the Wicked Witch’s idea?”
“Midsummer’s Eve is one of the truces,” Willy said, but not as if he thought it answered her.
“Big damn deal. Whether there’s shooting going on or not, there’s no reason for them to have anything to do with Faerie.”
“Already do,” someone said hoarsely behind her. She turned to find Hedge in the door, glowering at her through his hair. He used his chin to point at Carla and Dan.
“The kid’s right,” Carla said. “Look at us. Here’s bloody Tarn Lin on my left”—she nodded toward Willy—“and the Kennel Club’s answer to Mr. Ed in front of me. I dunno what Hedge does, but I’m sure it’s something good. And they’re all drinking coffee and chatting it up in my living room.” Carla came out from behind Dan’s chair, walked over, took hold of Eddi’s shoulders, and gave her a little shake. “And then there’s my best friend. Friendship comes from shared experience, right? So what am I supposed to say when my mother wants to know why I don’t hang around with you anymore? ‘Oh, you know. She got a little fey, and we just drifted apart.’ ”
Eddi shook her head. “I don’t want to have to say that I got a little fey, and you got a little dead.”
Carla looked down, and shrugged. “Well, neither do I. But this is a party. If there’s a truce on, it’s safer than a lot of parties I’ve been to
.”
“I can’t stop you, can I?”
“No.”
“You’re a jerk,” Eddi said gently. “Watch your step, then. These people are weird.”
“I know that. I work with three of ‘em.” But Carla nodded once, unsmiling, and Eddi felt better.
chapter 16 – Party Up
It was the reviews that startled her. The quality of Eddi and the Fey was easy to get used to. The almost telepathic musical unity that enabled them to pick up an idea and run with it, their growing sense of showmanship, the development of a group style and a characteristic sound—Eddi felt comfortable with those. It was the reviews that were strange.
They were good reviews; they came as close to gushing as reviewers ever did. What bothered Eddi was the praise for things that weren’t there. The additional voices that the reviewer thought were from the digital sampler. The electric fiddle part on a song that didn’t have one. The lighting effects.
“What lighting effects?” Eddi wailed from the depths of the couch in the practice space. “I can understand the rest of it—Dan does enough neat stuff with the keyboards that you could mistake it for almost anything. Especially if you were busy dancing, which God knows they all were.” She propped herself up on one elbow and lectured Dan, Carla, Willy, and the phouka. “You notice that not one reviewer has admitted to spending the whole night dancing.”
“Whatsisname came close, in City Pages” Dan said generously.
“Hah. They’re all afraid it’ll ruin their reputation for critical reserve. But where did they get the lighting effects?”
Carla was tuning her drumheads. “Maybe,” (thump) “whoever was running,” (thump) “sound was playing,” (thump, thump) “with the lights, too.”
“The Uptown’s got a fixed light setup—once you focus ‘em, they’re either on or off. They could have done more than that at the benefit, but nobody did.”
Willy, who was sitting on his amp, looked at the phouka. The phouka looked at the floor.
“Uh-huh,” Eddi said, glaring at them both. “Enough with the conspiracy of silence. What have you been doing?”
