Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories

by Various

  Where Magic Lives

  S.A. Bolich

  “WHAT THE—”

  It was the fourth time in five minutes Rayburn had dropped the pen while attempting to add up accounts, never his best activity, even when the pen cooperated. It rolled off the desk and struck the hardwood floor with a clatter. He spent several minutes scrabbling under the desk without success, scratching his hand in the process. Finally he gave up and straightened, sucking his hand. And there was his pen, lying quietly atop the day’s schedule. He stared.

  “I know it hit the floor,” he muttered, somewhat spooked. He frowned and reached for it. It rolled away from his touch, skipping maddeningly out of reach. He snapped a word that would have shocked his clients, and slammed his palm down on it. Eyeing it suspiciously, he reached for the morning mail, at which point the pen slithered through his fingers like a greased eel and landed triumphantly atop the schedule again. Rayburn shook his hand, which felt queerly as if the thing had moved against his fingers, and glared, baffled. The rotten thing even seemed to have found the same resting spot, snuggling possessively over the last name on the list.

  “All right! You win!” he snapped to the air, a habit he discovered himself indulging in more and more. But then Rayburn Senior’s spirit never seemed far, an oppressive nudge peering down at his son struggling dutifully to maintain the funeral home that had been the old man’s pride and joy. Ray looked at the last column of the list, which stated the cost of the service, and saw CC in each block in Liz’s neat hand. And that meant the fixed fee Clark County allowed for paupers.

  He sighed, “Go polish your halo, Dad. Even you hated burying vagrants.”

  Ah, well. Business was business, even if it meant the best parlour would go unused today, its charm hidden away for more prosperous clients. That parlour was the only nice thing in the whole place, trimmed just so, not gaudy, no, but not gloomy either, a place of light from clever arrangement of windows, the slanting rays all congregating on the dear departed, lending thoughts of heaven to those left behind. A masterpiece, if he said so himself, though of course he never did. The last thing people wanted in a funeral director was enthusiasm.

  Or red hair, and a terminally boyish face. Liz was the only one who appreciated those. Rayburn the Younger sighed and wondered idly if he could persuade this nagging ghost to just step in and run the place for him while he and Liz skipped out to Tahiti.

  He shook his head. “Listen to yourself, Ray,” he muttered. “Dad wouldn’t get caught dead believing in ghosts.”

  Which struck him funny, and he started to chuckle, because certainly, his soberly proper parent had been too staid to accept supernatural phenomena. Or magic. Or fun, come to that. The pen was just a pen, and Ray’s fingers were cold with January chill, and of course that explained why the pen refused to leave the last name on the list when he tried still again to pick it up. This time, it flat wouldn’t budge, as if the ink had turned to glue and oozed out all over the barrel.

  He stared, the hair lifting on the back of his neck. “All right. I’m looking now, okay?” he said, bending to the absurd.

  Cautiously, he reached for the pen. Now he knew for sure it wasn’t his father leaning over his shoulder, because whatever was controlling the pen was listening to him. It came sweetly away in his hand. He eyed it, and then cautiously picked up the list and read the name the pen had seemed so eager to point out.

  No devils there, just an ordinary name that sounded vaguely familiar. He frowned, trying to place it. This town wasn’t so big that he didn’t know all the people worth knowing. But it eluded him, and his frown deepened. “Eleanor Dancy,” he muttered, over and over. “Who the heck was Eleanor Dancy?”

  “The Tale of the Oak,” Liz said behind him, and he jumped a foot.

  “What?” He was so rattled he dropped the list. Liz bent to pick it up off the floor, brushing long dark hair out of her face as she handed it to him, smiling wisely. “The Tale of the Oak,” she repeated. “You said once it was one of your favourite books.”

  “When I was about ten,” he answered reflexively, and then his eye dropped again to the list she handed him. “Eleanor Dancy! I didn’t know she lives here!”

  “Used to live,” Liz reminded him gently. “Not many other people remembered her either, it looks like.” He remembered her then, the coroner’s report that had arrived with the body, of how and where she had been found, huddled alone in a freezing apartment.

  “Oh damn,” Ray muttered, genuinely regretful. He had been enchanted for years by Eleanor Dancy’s gentle books, full of wonderful, glowing characters who rode unblinkingly into danger for the sake of friendship and honour, and sometimes didn’t come out unscathed. They had taught him a great deal about living one’s life in a fashion worth living, and he had kept a tattered copy of The Tale of the Oak well into college, when he had let his roommate tease him into getting rid of it. He had regretted it for years, and finally forgotten it—until now.

  A deep and abiding sense of shame took him. How could he have forgotten people who had helped shape his life: dashing Alan, laconic Guy, shy William, who had proved the bravest of them all? Or pretty, spoiled Isobel, or brave Anne, or fiery Meg? Or Peter? Lord, he had cried himself to sleep once over Peter, the lonely free lance who had discovered friendship too late. It had been years before he found the courage to pick up The Winter Knight again. How on earth could he have forgotten Eleanor Dancy’s name, the incredibly gifted lady who had given them all life?

  “Ray?” Liz was looking at him oddly, concern in her brown eyes. He shook himself and stood up, glancing at the clock. Elation filled him. There was still time to ready the best parlour before the first scheduled service. Thank God he prided himself on giving even paupers a proper send-off. Eleanor was decently dressed and her hair had been done yesterday by Nora Waters, whose only talent in life lay in her magical affinity for hair. His mouth quirked. Magic . . . lives where it is welcome. Hadn’t Miles said that?

  “Are you all right?” Liz asked softly. “You look like—I don’t know. Kind of weirded out. Maybe you should let Jack take Ms. Dancy’s funeral.”

  “No!” he snapped, and put out a hand to erase the instant hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry, hon. I want to do hers. Her books were such magic, and no one remembers them anymore. She deserves to have one fan—one mourner at least, to honour her and say good-bye. I want to.”

  She looked at him straightly. “Some days I do remember why I love you,” she said, and lifted on her toes to kiss him before marching out to deal with the phone ringing down the hall. “I’ll tell Jack to set up Number One,” she called over her shoulder.

  He shook his head, grinning helplessly. She had read his mind, as usual. He glanced at the clock again and hurried out of the office and down the hall to the best parlour, let himself in and stood for a moment, savouring the wonderful atmosphere in this place. It was very much like a medieval cathedral in some ways, hushed and full of light and reverence, exactly the sort of place to pay last respects to a woman who had brought the Middle Ages to vivid life for thousands of rapt young readers. He moved down the aisle, noting reflexively that everything was dusted and tidy, though the flower stands were empty. That was no good. He strained to recall what was in today’s flower order that he could filch—

  “Excuse me.”

  The voice sounded tentative, echoing oddly in the hush. He whirled, prepared to be annoyed, and stopped at the sight of a young, red-haired woman peering uncertainly in at the door, just her face visible around the jamb. He halted, professional manners coming to the fore.

  “Yes?” he asked politely. “Were you looking for Mr. Edson’s service? Two doors down on the—”

  “Oh, no! No!” she interrupted rather breathlessly. She had an odd accent, not quite British, not quite French. He couldn’t place it. “I wanted El—Miss Dancy’s.”

  “Oh!” It was his turn to be flustered. He had assumed from the fact that it was Ms. Dancy’s landlord who found her, seve
ral days after the rent was due, that there would be no one to attend her service. “Of course,” he managed. “You’re in the right place. But you’re a bit early, I’m afraid. It’s not until eleven. You’re welcome to wait, of course.”

  She came farther into the room, a slim figure in tight pants and tall boots, and some sort of long shirt, the colours and details all but lost in the dazzle pouring in the side windows. All he really saw was the glorious red hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. Not carroty, like his, but that deep rich auburn shade he had admired since he first discovered his own was never going to be that colour.

  She slid into a pew. “Thank you,” she said faintly. “I will wait. What is the hour now?”

  “Um—” He peered at his watch, wondering again about her native tongue. “Five to ten.”

  She frowned a little uncertainly. “Thank you. Where—where is she?”

  She sounded definitely ill at ease. Not an uncommon reaction. He was long accustomed to eyes peering about his establishment as if expecting to see embalmed bodies lying everywhere. He put on his most soothing manner.

  “I’ll bring her in shortly. Would you like an open casket?”

  He distinctly heard her swallow. “N-no, I don’t think so,” she said faintly, and her accent was suddenly thicker.

  “As you wish,” he said courteously, and moved toward the side door. He hated wheeling in caskets with mourners already in attendance, but this time it couldn’t be helped. Idly he wondered where this girl came from and what her connection to Eleanor Dancy might be.

  He busied himself for half an hour, sneaking a few flowers from parlour three, provided by the house to brighten the sad and empty parlours of those people who truly would have no one to see them off. He gave them to Liz to install in Number One, and took himself into the back. He hesitated, eyeing the plain casket he had given Ms. Dancy from the county funds allotted to see her decently interred. Before he could change his mind he transferred her to an elegant mahogany thing no one in this town could afford anyway. It was his favourite, lovingly polished and dusted for the last three years, admired by all, purchased by none. She looked tiny in it, a gentle-looking old lady who had given so much to so many. He smoothed down her faded gray hair, looking down at her face. She had lived right here in his town, and he had not known. He had never even known what she looked like, and now he would be the last to ever see her.

  The thought saddened him. Hastily he shut the casket lid before depression overwhelmed him. He wheeled it down the corridor and in at the side door of Number One.

  And halted in confusion, staring at the packed pews in front of him. Where had all these people come from? The place was full from front to back, incredible for an unannounced funeral. And then anger overcame the shock, and he caught himself from glaring at them all. Where had they been, these friends of Eleanor’s, when she died alone? Why hadn’t they cared enough to call her, and discover her before a week had gone by?

  Grimly, he wheeled the casket into place. It gleamed in the fall of sunshine, pierced by three long shafts of sun that brought the rich colour up out of the wood and set the brass glowing. Like gold and jewels he thought fondly, remembering the various ephemeral objects the heroes of her books had been wont to quest for. Things that had seemed so important until actually discovered, when invariably they had turned out less worthwhile than the friendships cemented along the way.

  “Be ye starting soon?” a voice called behind him.

  He blinked. A Scot? Here? Good Lord, how extraordinary. Instantly, his mind slipped sideways to The Hidden Glen and tall Jamie MacDougall, who had worn knives in his socks and used them once to save his worst enemy, because it would not have been honourable to let him drown in the magical flood conjured by evil Angus o’ the Glen. They had set aside their hatred to survive, and ended up friends . . .

  “Sir? Might we see m’lady?”

  He frankly stared that time. For the first time in his life he cursed the strong sunlight in this place. Peering through it from behind as he was, he could hardly make out the shapes of the people in front of him, let alone faces, but surely that man over there in the corner was wearing a coat of arms? The colours blazed, red and gold, and however gaudy today’s youth had grown, Ray could not think of one who was given to wearing dragons on his chest. Dragons . . .

  His mind reeled. Miles had worn dragons. Sir Miles whose ancestors had been Kings of England back when the Saxons still ruled. God, it had to be a joke. And a rotten, cruel one, to come to a funeral dressed in costume. He took a step forward, a vague notion forming itself in his mind of throwing out the miscreant.

  “Sir?”

  He placed the voice that time, made out through the sparkle a pretty, earnest face peering up at him anxiously. A face he knew. He had seen it a thousand times, caught in living colour in the illustrations for The Tale of the Oak. Meg.

  She stood up hesitantly, and he saw that she was wearing the same dress. Same flowing sleeves, same tight waist and demure bodice, same girdle emphasizing the slimness of her waist, a shimmer of blue and green beneath a gleaming fall of hair like spun sunlight. Lord, how had she come through downtown dressed like that? His mind groped for sanity and succeeded in building only more insanity. How could she be here at all? She had never existed.

  “What?” he stammered feebly, because they were all looking at him now. Their eyes were intent and earnest and somehow more vivid than the eyes of modern people, as if the time they inhabited was so full of sudden death that they had learned in the cradle to pay attention, lest they miss any small aspect of the lives that could be snatched from them so suddenly.

  “Might we see her, please sir?” God, it was Meg, bold Meg, speaking up for them all.

  “Of—of course,” Ray stammered, and somehow found his professional mask again. He turned and lifted the coffin lid, exposing the gentle face, which even yet showed nothing of the long days between death and discovery. Thank heaven it had been so cold in that apartment.

  There was a stir behind him. Startled, he turned, and saw that the whole crowd of them were on their feet, the foremost craning their necks unconsciously to see past the dazzle into the casket itself. Meg drew in a slow, audible breath and slowly stepped up beside Rayburn, her eyes fixed on Eleanor’s peaceful face.

  “Oh,” she said softly, and her voice was the musical lilt he had always imagined, gentle and kind as the one who made her. Her hand went up to cover her mouth, and her vivid blue eyes sparkled with tears in the brilliant light. Rayburn’s training cracked; he half-moved to comfort her, and stopped as someone stepped into the space at his other elbow. He looked up, and saw Sir Miles of Etherby looking gravely down at him. Tall for his generation he had been, Miles, a quiet giant who still stood a full two inches taller than Ray himself, whose six-foot-plus went unremarked in the modern era,

  “Might we have a bit of time with her?” the knight asked, his voice a mellow baritone.

  “Certainly,” Rayburn said, and stepped aside.

  He watched, bemused, fascinated as one by one in orderly procession the mourners came forward. So many, he thought, so many children come to pay their respects. Old, young, children, greybeards—all of the rich and varied populace of a world dead six hundred years—but living yet in the depths of old bookstores, waiting patiently on library shelves for a small hand to turn a page and stumble into magic. Rayburn found his eyes blurring, and lifted a surreptitious hand that came away wet. He was forced to turn away when Peter—it could only be Peter, his grace marred by the limp left over from his last tournament—made his way to the front of the line and dropped lightly to one knee. “I’ve come, ma mère,” he said softly, “to thank you.”

  Gently he touched Eleanor’s still cheek. Miles, standing like a guard of honour at her head, reached out and dropped a big hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Peter looked up and smiled, and Rayburn looked hastily away.

  Presently he looked back, in time to see Peter lift himself to his feet again
and stoop to set a light kiss on Eleanor’s brow before turning away. Ray did not see who else came after that—did not see anything but a watery dazzle of light filled with shapes impossibly dressed.

  After what seemed a very long time, silence descended again. The rustling of clothing and soft shuffling of feet ceased, and Miles’ voice filled the parlour. “Good sir, were there words ye wished to speak?”

  Ray jumped. His eyes slid reflexively toward the door, which somehow had gotten closed, and then to the minister’s pew to one side. It did not greatly surprise him to find someone occupying it, a stooped scarecrow of a man in the plain brown robes of a monk.

  “I—” he began, and gestured gracefully toward the monk. How well Rayburn knew him! So stubborn had Father Anselm been in his faith that the Devil himself had gone sulking away from his abbey, and so stubbornly righteous that Sir John and Isobel—there they were, in the second row, still nestling like turtledoves—had spent half of The Rowan Tree proving to him they were serious in their defiant quest for marriage.

  “There are,” he finished, “but I would like to say them after Father Anselm has spoken.”

  Row upon row of silent eyes assessed him for a moment, and then Miles nodded. “So be it.” He turned to the monk, who stood. “Father Anselm. Our lady was no long-winded, so please be ye not, either.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the parlour. Rayburn grinned along with them, a thrill of pleasure shooting through him at sharing that private joke. Anselm, as madly intense as ever, gave Miles a withering glare and took his place at the podium, peering at it curiously for a moment before losing himself in the matter at hand. His hand moved restlessly across the polished surface, ignoring the King James Bible that lay there. With another small thrill, Rayburn realized that for Anselm, the words were far older, and written in another tongue altogether.