by Mindy Klasky
“Jane,” David said, and I heard the warning note in his voice.
“All right,” I agreed, because it really was taking every last ounce of my determination to stay on my feet. Neko stepped forward, tucking his body close to my side. David’s arms settled around me, a comfortable, known weight. I closed my eyes, and I surrendered to being nothing.
~~~
Three days later, I stood in the Blanton House basement, beneath the section of the mansion that had served as Henry Blanton’s personal home. As an architect, the man had maintained countless valuable documents, including blueprints for moguls’ homes and the first skyscrapers ever erected in DC. He’d owned dozens of valuable paintings, a collection of Lalique jewels to adorn his mistress, and the first Faberge eggs imported into the United States. Blanton had been legendary for hoarding cash, enough to buy off the city’s chief inspector, along with all the Congressmen he needed to guarantee unfettered operation in DC.
And all those riches had been stored in a vault three stories beneath Blanton’s silk-hung bedroom.
The chamber wasn’t like the modern one David had overseen at the farmhouse. Rather, Blanton’s was constructed like a classic bank vault, with impenetrable metal plates set into the ceiling, floor, and walls. A trio of massive doors guarded the space, each equipped with its own massive wheel, with unbreachable tumblers forged out of solid Pennsylvania steel.
Blanton’s vault had room for the entire Osgood collection, with space to spare. Rick Hanson had come through for us, working his private brand of firefighter magic, getting us access to the farmhouse vault. By dark of night, he’d helped us spirit away the arcane goods that would have been impossible to explain to a mundane insurance adjuster.
Here at Blanton, the books were still a librarian’s nightmare. I’d completed some preliminary sorting, grouping volumes by topic, but there was no order within those tall stacks. Runes, though, went on one shelf, wands on another. A cache of silver flasks glinted beneath the old-fashioned overhead lights.
I was just shifting a massive beeswax candle when I heard the heavy tolling of the doorbell. The three bass notes told me I knew the person on the doorstep; David had set an impressive array of wards with specific allowances for our various allies.
I closed all three doors before I left the vault, spinning each heavy wheel. Having spared the Osgood collection from certain destruction at the farm, I wasn’t about to get lazy in the city.
Melissa White was waiting on the doorstep. My best friend was bundled against a late November gale, her throat swaddled in a bulky scarf that trailed down her heavy winter coat. A gust of wind threatened to steal away the pasteboard box she gripped in one mittened hand.
“Welcome wagon!” she exclaimed as I urged her over the threshold.
“Come in!” I waved her back toward the kitchen. “I know I’m supposed to say ‘you shouldn’t have,’ but I’m totally thrilled you did.”
“‘Sweets to the sweet’, you know.”
“Ugh,” I said. “Hamlet. And I don’t have to tell you the melancholy Dane was talking about funeral bouquets, not baked goods.”
She laughed as I slipped my finger under the golden sticker that closed the box. I couldn’t wait to see what she’d brought. “They’re Turkey Day Temptations. I figured you’re a close enough friend that I could assault you with day-olds.”
“Assault me all you want,” I said, reaching for a plate. I knew from past indulgence that the confections were addictive—spiced salty pumpkin seeds set in honey-based brittle. Each neat square had a decadent corner dipped into dark chocolate.
Melissa shook her head when I offered her some of her own fare. “I ate enough yesterday to last about five years. I still wish you guys had joined us for Thanksgiving.”
I finished chewing my first Temptation before I opened the fridge. This was our inaugural night of Mojito Therapy in my new home. As I excavated limes, mint, and soda water from the cavernous refrigerator, I said to Melissa, “I really appreciated the invitation. More than you can know.”
And I did. Each day of the past insane week had bled into the next, a constant series of meetings—insurance agents and fire inspectors and a stream of utility workers coming to Blanton House to turn on water, gas, and electricity. We’d outfitted rooms for all the witches, for their familiars and warders. We’d stocked three of the kitchens, leaving snacks and coffee in the other two. We’d turned two parlors into classrooms and cleared the largest basement space for group workings—for when we got back to those.
In short, we’d converted a luxury mansion into a school, in five short days.
I’d appreciated the invitation, but I’d pleaded exhaustion for Thanksgiving—both to Melissa and to Gran, who had invited us to join her and Uncle George, along with Clara and half the board of directors for Concert Opera Guild. David and I had treated ourselves to turkey sandwiches from a shop around the corner, splurging on kettle-cooked potato chips and a bottle of white burgundy that seemed to appear from some secret warder’s stash. Neko had spent the day with Tony, meeting his boyfriend’s family. He hadn’t come back in the middle of the night, so I had to believe things had gone well.
However unconventional, my Thanksgiving had turned out perfect, the only one I could have handled under the circumstances.
Now, I put Melissa to work muddling mint leaves, while I started to juice half a dozen limes. I’d only sliced each fruit in half when the doorbell rang again—those same three sonorous notes. Someone else known to me was waiting on the steps. Someone deemed safe by David.
Wiping my hands on a towel, I headed back to the front door. Gran and Clara huddled on the front step, leaning against each other. Gran held the world’s largest casserole dish in her gloved hands, and Clara balanced two canvas grocery store bags.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, ushering them in to keep from losing all the heat in the house.
“Half the fun of Thanksgiving is leftovers,” Gran declared.
“So we brought the party to you,” Clara added.
I wasn’t getting choked up. No, my eyes were only watering because of the cold outside. Or maybe I’d rubbed a little mint in them by accident. “Melissa’s here,” I said. “Come back to the kitchen.”
But Gran was glued to the hardwood floor in the foyer, gaping up at the heavy crown molding above the stairs. “This place is stunning, dear.”
Clara’s bags rustled as she set them on the floor, only to throw her head back like a silent screen diva, pasting the back of her hand to her forehead. “This is it, Jeanette! The perfect setting for the NWTA.”
I’d say one thing for my mother—she was tenacious. Her plans for a crazy commune weren’t going to fade away easily. “I’m not so sure, Clara. There isn’t really a nucleus here. And only two tentacles—one long hallway in the attic, and another in the basement.”
She clicked her tongue. “Oh no! You have it all backwards. The nucleus is the common space, the connected rooms at the top and the bottom. The tentacles are each individual bedroom, those private spaces where a witch can keep her secrets.”
A shiver ratcheted down my spine.
Gran fussed at me. “Are you all right, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Not a ghost. A harpy. A harpy and an orthros and a satyr.
The past week had been full of hard work, physical labor to prepare Blanton House. But I hadn’t needed to worry about my anonymous rogue student. Come Monday, my respite would be over. I’d be back in the thick of things, waiting for Pitt’s inquest to pluck David from my side, parsing every last word uttered by my students as I tried to identify the traitor, all the while racing to beat whatever impossible new goals the Court mandated in their efforts to disband the Academy.
I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have a choice.
I forced myself to take a calming breath. “I’m fine,” I said, but I knew my protest wasn’t believable. “It was just the thought of tentacles wrapping around me—”
Gran shook her head. “And we didn’t know you were here, dear.” She kissed Melissa on the cheek. “We just wanted to see Jane’s new home. We figured we’d bring by some Thanksgiving leftovers—”
“Here,” Melissa said. “Let me take that.” She collected the casserole dish from my grandmother, and I felt like an ungrateful fool for leaving her to hold it for so long. “Come back to the kitchen,” Melissa said. “I just made a fresh pitcher of mojitos.”
Well, that was why my best friend was in the hospitality business and I worked the witchcraft shift. She knew how to be nice to people. Even people with whacked out ideas about a nucleus and tentacles…
I followed everyone into the kitchen and set about stowing away an entire Thanksgiving feast into the refrigerator. I could only imagine how much Gran had cooked if this was what she’d set aside for me. I jockeyed things around, making room for the massive container of turkey, for the sweet potatoes and the mashed potatoes, for the corn pudding and green beans almandine, the oyster dressing and the sage dressing, whole berry cranberry sauce and an entire can’s worth of the ridged jelly stuff, half a pumpkin pie, half an apple pie, and four ramekins that looked like they held homemade butterscotch pudding. Only then did I realize there was still a tote bag left on the counter.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Gran’s eyes gleamed with pride. “I told you I wanted to knit a little something for the wedding.”
My first reaction was to wince. Hoping she hadn’t noticed, I purposely amped up the excitement in my tone. “I can’t wait!” Melissa gave me a strange look, so I brought it down about three notches. “I can’t believe you had time to do this.”
Gran reached into the bag, her chest swelling with pride. She pulled out three clumps of knitting, each more tangled than the last. I couldn’t make out a top or a bottom for any of the pieces. I couldn’t even figure out which was the front and which was the back. Each masterpiece, though, was made out of heavy acrylic yarn, a shade that might charitably be called Slaughterhouse Scarlet.
As I administered an emergency gulp of mojito, my grandmother spread her handiwork out on the marble countertop. “Wow,” I finally managed. “These are…amazing.”
Gran beamed.
“Um, why don’t you tell me about them?” There it was—my librarian training, swooping to the rescue. In my last office job, my boss had required me to lead book groups for toddlers. I’d read the kids a story and ask them to draw illustrations. When I couldn’t figure out if I was looking at the Mayflower or a garden flower, I’d use the exact same line on them.
And the kids always obliged, prattling on about their creations. Fortunately, Gran was just as forthcoming.
“Well, this one is a cummerbund, of course. I showed you the pattern that morning at brunch.”
“Of course,” I said. If I turned my head to the side and squinted hard, I could see how the tangle of yarn might stretch around the waist of tuxedo pants. I could even begin to imagine David wearing it. He’d never do anything to hurt Gran’s feelings. But I was pretty sure Neko would have to be dead and stuffed before he’d loop the crimson disaster around his hips.
Gran sallied on, undeterred. “Once I saw how well the cummerbund turned out, I realized I had to do matching bow ties.”
That explained the butterfly shaped monstrosity clumped on the counter. It might even work as neckwear, for some sort of massive cave troll. A man of ordinary human dimensions would have to double the thing up. At least. I said, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And this one is my own design,” Gran said proudly, gesturing toward the last, and largest, mountain of yarn. “I’ve always preferred wrist corsages—there’s no chance of tearing delicate fabric with a pin. The roses were a bit of a challenge, but making them twice the size really helped. This way, you won’t have to worry about a bouquet for your matron of honor.”
I caught a real look of terror in Melissa’s eyes. She nearly reached for the bottle of rum, but she recovered enough to stick with her mojito. I braved a response. “That’s incredible, Gran. And it’s so…unusual.”
My grandmother beamed. Melissa recovered first, pushing the plate of Turkey Day Temptations toward her. “Don’t mind if I do,” Gran said, picking out the largest one.
Clara nodded encouragingly. “This wedding of yours is certainly going to be unique,” she said. “Now who did you say will be the celebrant?”
I was on firmer footing here. At least I could answer truthfully. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Clara’s frown was offset by her understanding nod. “But you’ve chosen a venue.”
“Not yet.” I tried not to feel defensive.
“You’ve at least considered invitations, haven’t you? Save the date cards? Have you even drawn up a guest list, Jeanette?”
Melissa earned her matron of honor title by interrupting before I could explode. “Jane has had a lot on her plate, Clara. With the move and everything, I’m sure she’s been set back a few days.”
A few days. Weeks. Months.
And part of my frustration—part of the reason I was digging my fingernails into my palms—was that I wanted to do all those things Clara had fired off. I was an organized person by nature; I liked to draw up checklists and spreadsheets. And more than anything, I wanted to be take care of my own wedding. I wanted to consider each and every task, evaluate all my options, make the most important day in my life mine. Well, mine and David’s. Ours.
But it wasn’t worth explaining all of that to Clara, turning her questions into a fight. She and Gran only wanted what was best for me. So I gave Melissa a grateful smile, and I answered my mother: “All those things are on my to-do list.” In a flash of inspiration, I gathered up my grandmother’s mutant yarn creations and added, “We should put these away so they don’t get dirty!”
And then I picked up the pitcher and topped off everyone’s glass. Because it was Friday night, and the Jane Madison Academy was on Thanksgiving break. And I was desperate for a little fun before serious business picked up again on Monday morning.
I raised my glass. “To ourselves!” I said.
It was an old toast, one we’d first shared more than three years ago, when these women had gathered to rescue me from a series of disasters, all stemming from my discovering I was a witch. From the smiles on their faces, they remembered that earlier toast, those earlier mistakes. “To ourselves!” they said, clinking glasses and laughing.
I made the next round of mojitos. They went perfectly with the leftover Thanksgiving feast we constructed when we raided the refrigerator.
~~~
It turned out, the serious business picked up well before Monday morning.
I was lying in bed on Saturday, listening to rain fall outside as I burrowed deeper under the comforting weight of a quilt. David had stirred hours earlier, taking Spot out for his morning walk. They’d gotten back more than an hour ago; at least, that’s when the smell of coffee wound its way up the stairs.
I must have dozed off in the warm, lazy perfection of it all, because the next thing I knew, David was feathering a kiss on the side of my neck. “Mmm,” I said, not opening my eyes. “This hotel has the best wake-up call.”
I rolled over, ready to invite him to climb under the covers with me. Instead, I found him dressed in a severe grey suit, somber as a pallbearer. I sat up so fast, the quilt slipped to the floor. “Where are you going?”
“Hecate’s Court. The inquest summoned me.”
“It’s the weekend!”
“Not for warders.”
I threw my legs over the side of the bed. “Let me get dressed. I’m coming with you.”
“You might as well wait here. It’s a lot more comfortable. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“But…” I trailed off. We’d had this argument already
. There wasn’t anything I could do, any way I could help him. Instead, he needed me to be strong. Steady. Confident. When he took the stand and admitted to his past mistakes, arguing for Pitt to be held accountable for his own misdeeds, David shouldn’t have to worry about my falling apart at home.
“Be careful,” I said, cupping his jaw in my hand.
“Always.” He turned his face and kissed my palm.
I backed away first. I did that for him because I was his witch, and he was my warder, and that was what he needed. I stayed perfectly still while he left the room. I knew I wouldn’t hear the front door open. He’d use warder’s magic to reach the Court.
I scooped up the quilt and tossed it back on the bed. After pulling on jeans and a bulky cabled sweater, I went back to the quilt, taking an inordinate time to square up the corners, to make it perfect. I returned to my closet and went through the hangers, making sure they all faced the same way.
Everything in the house was too new, too orderly. With only a week under our belts, there wasn’t enough to clean or straighten. Still restless, I headed down to the kitchen, and I wasn’t surprised to find Neko sitting at the kitchen table. “Want a turkey sandwich?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I considered making a plate for myself, but the thought of food curdled my stomach. Better to distract myself with conversation. “How was Thanksgiving with Tony?”
“Fine.”
“Was his family nice?”
“Yes.”
“Did he come back with you?”
“No.”
“Neko—”
He cut me off before I could scream my frustration. “Everything was wonderful—the people, the food, their home. Arizona is gorgeous this time of year. Tony will watch the football game with his father tomorrow, and then he’ll be back to take care of Raven. I had a fantastic time, and I wish I was still there, and I can’t believe the Court called David in for the inquest! I hate that they’re doing this to him, and to you, and I want it all to be over.”
