by Alex Temples
I nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Can I ask why it’s for sale?”
He shrugged. “Yes, well, it wasn’t up to me. I planned to die in this here house, it being the only place I love as much as me home back in Scotland, but I also planned for my Joyce to be here with me when I did.” His voice grew sad and he glanced over at the painting, which I could now see was a portrait of a lovely brown-haired woman in a green dress. She sat on a swing, cradling a small boy in her lap. In the portrait, she must have been twenty or so, the little boy had tousled blonde locks and couldn’t have been more than three.
“Is that your Joyce?” I asked gently, gesturing to the painting.
“Aye.” The old man nodded sadly. “My love, and our little Phillip. He’s not so little as that now of course.” He chuckled and his gaze grew unfocused, as if he were lost in a memory.
“They’re both lovely.” I said softly, my hand brushing his shoulder.
The old man nodded, his voice was rough when he replied. “Yes. Phillip is grown now. He has a boy of his own, and he’s grown too.”
The man laughed. “I’m selling the place so I can move down to Florida and live with my son now that my wife is gone. There’s nothing here for me now.” He said wistfully, glancing around the room.
It was quiet for a moment. Then the old man cleared his throat, gripping the sides of the chair and pulling himself to his feet.
“But, that’s enough about an old man. Do you want to see the place?” He asked, turning to me, and then glancing back at Orielle.
I glanced back at Orielle too, but her expression had softened. She nodded politely.
I nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, sir. We’d love to see it. I’m Brinmar by the way.” I held my hand out and the old man shook it with a vigor I didn’t think possible from someone his age.
“Ah, Brinmar, that’s a good Irish name if I’ve ever heard one.” He said.
I laughed. “Yes, it is. I go by Brin usually.”
“Very well, I’m please to meet you, Brin. And who is your lovely friend?” He asked, turning to Orielle.
She introduced herself, shaking his hand with a smile.
“You can call me Roger,” he said. Nodding at us both.
“Are you sure you don’t mind showing us the house?” Orielle asked.
“Not at all, lassie, thought strictly speaking, it’s not just a house.” He called over his shoulder, heading back through the narrow doorway from which we’d entered.
I tilted my head curiously, following him back into the large open room of bookcases.
“This here used to be the bookshop. I’ve sense sold the contents off.” He waved a gnarled hand around the room, knobby knuckles standing out against his paper-thin skin.
I nodded and smiled, admired the beautiful built-ins. “So, this is a commercial space?” I asked
He nodded affirmatively. “Yes. The downstairs is zoned for commercial use. The living quarters are upstairs. You’ll see the rest through here.” He said, shuffling forward.
We stepped into an overly large room with the same nice hardwood and high ceilings, but instead of bookcases, there were white marble counters all around the room. Shelving lined the walls behind them. On each shelf, sat an assortment of glass jars, short and fat, tall and thin, and everything in between. Most had peeling black labels clinging to them.
“My wife was a bookseller, and I was once an apothecary, as my father was before me. For the last twenty years or so, we’ve only maintained the apothecary shop as a sort of novelty for tourists to enjoy. Now everyone wants to get their medicines from the pharmacy.” He said, shaking his head.
I nodded and considered the room.
“I’ve had the darndest time trying to sell this place.” He said.
“I can’t imagine why. It’s so beautiful.” I exclaimed, admiring the woodwork.
“Just haven’t found the right person I suppose. Everyone wants to come in and gut it, at least as much as the historical property law allows, and I refuse to sell to someone like that.” He said, looking me over carefully, making sure I took his meaning.
I nodded my understanding and asked a question about the contents of the jars. That got him going. Orielle and I sat back and took in the fascinating room as we listened to him describe the history of the building and the apothecary shop.
The second floor contained living quarters. There was a small kitchen and a living room, as well as one bathroom and two small bedrooms. It wasn’t spacious, but everything was well-maintained, and it was adequate for my needs.
“Now, the third floor.” Roger said. He gripped the wobbly wooden railing as we ascended to the third floor. Orielle and I hurried up the stairs behind him.
Orielle let out a surprised sound as she came to the top of the stairs. I hurried up the last few steps, gasping when I saw the space. The entire floor was open. The ceilings were once again at least ten feet. Hardwood stretched from one end to the other and windows lined the walls.
“It’s a ballroom.” Orielle exclaimed, confusion in her voice.
“Yes.” Roger exclaimed with pride.
“Wow. It’s beautiful.” I said, taking in the open space.
“My great-grandmother loved to dance.” He said proudly. “My grandfather built this space for her. They hosted many parties here. Of course, it hasn’t been used in a long time.” He added sadly.
We all stood staring across the room for a moment. You could almost see the ghosts of the long dead gliding across the shining floor.
“Well, that’s about all there is to see, except the attic.”
“There’s an attic?” I asked curiously.
“Certainly dear.” The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling, and with that we had to tour the attic.
Forty-five minutes later, we were covered in dust and grime and back on the bottom floor in Roger’s sitting room. The attic was filled with boxes and crates, old bookcases and furniture. It was large enough to walk around in upright, nothing like the tiny crawl space’s people called attics these days.
There was even a round window on one side, where you could stare down at the street below. Roger hadn’t been joking about the roof leaking. Buckets and pans lined the floor at different intervals, presumably to catch water when it rained.
It was from the window, we’d caught sight of the walled garden behind the building. It was overgrown and in bad need of work now, but I was absolutely in love at that point, as I entertained thoughts of finishing the attic and turning it into another bedroom.
Roger had regaled us with tales of growing herbs and medicinal plants in the back garden, just as his grandfather had. At that point, I’d stared pointedly at Orielle and she’d rolled her eyes. She knew where this was headed.
“Roger, I want to thank you for your time.” I said, leaning on an old oak desk.
The old man reclaimed his green velvet chair, clearly out of breath from the long tour.
“Aye, don’t mention it lassie.” He waved my thanks away.
“I want to buy it from you.” I said, ready for an argument from Orielle, but she just stood quietly behind the desk, looking on.
The old man’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“Yes.” I said.
He looked down at his hands and rubbed them together, then glanced hesitantly over at the painting of his wife.
“You can come back and see it anytime you like.” I added. “I don’t plan on changing anything.”
The old man looked up at me then, considering me carefully. “Aye?”
I nodded. “Well, I might have to take some equipment to the garden, but I think the house is perfect just the way it is. I’d never consider gutting a place with so much character.”
Roger’s eyes twinkled again and after considering me carefully for another minute, he stood up and held out his hand.
“I believe we have a deal then, lassie.”
We shook on it.
Shit. I’d just bought myself a house. What the hell
was I going to tell Oren?
Chapter Seven
“Lift it higher!” I shouted down the stairs at Oren, who was carrying the other side of my upholstered bed frame as we struggled to get it up the narrow staircase to the second floor of my new house.
My new house. The words still sounded foreign.
“Ooomph. A voice grunted below and Oren lifted his side higher as we guided it around the corner of the staircase and into the living quarters.
“You really couldn’t wait until the movers got back from lunch?” A muffled voice called from around the piece of furniture.
“No.” I shouted back, smiling to myself. “Are you ready?” I asked, sucking in a deep breath. Moving was hard work.
Oren grunted something that sounded like yes and I hefted my side of the bed so we could move it back enough to allow Oren into the room. I slowly lowered my side to the floor, waiting until it touched down on the hardwood before sinking backwards onto the floor myself.
Oren let his side clunk down on the floor and made his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed two beers from the refrigerator.
“Where’s the bottle opener?” He asked, eyebrow raised in a familiar fashion.
I let out a sigh and shifted so I could pull my keys out of the pocket of my ripped jeans.
“Catch.” I said, throwing them across the room at him.
“Thanks.” Oren replied, catching them in one hand. He popped the bottle caps off, depositing them on the counter along with my keys before crossing the room to hand me a beer.
“Thank you.” I echoed, sighing with pleasure as I took a deep draw of the cold liquid. Mmm. Beer.
We’d spent the past few hours moving my stuff in. Oren had taken the news of my move very well. In fact, I think he was more excited than I was to be leaving New York. It turns out he hated his roommate and felt the same way I did about escaping the place that reminded him so much of our late father.
After I’d told him I bought a house, and before I could even launch into my rehearsed explanation for the move, he’d announced his intention to join me in D.C., asking if he could stay with me until he found a place. Of course, I’d said yes. There was just one hurdle I hadn’t tackled yet. Oren didn’t know anything about the magical world.
“So, tell me about this new job, Brin.” He said, smiling at me over his IPA.
I smiled back, affectionally. He’d let his light blonde hair grow long and it hung around his face, reminding me of a younger Oren who’d refused to cut his bangs his entire 7th grade school year, thinking it gave him a cool, surfer vibe.
He hadn’t changed much since then. Oren took very little in life seriously, preferring to live in the moment. Risk taking was his thing. I suppose I shouldn’t have felt so surprised by his decision to pick up and move.
“My new job, hmmm.” I murmured. “Well, I’m running a pharmacology lab just like I did in New York.”
Oren eyed me with a look of amusement. “Uh huh.” There was a question in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything, considering me carefully with that half smile of his.
“What? I am.” I defended myself.
He took another gulp from the bottle, settling back against the big box of kitchen supplies I’d plopped down in the middle of the small dining area.
“Are you still working with that guy? The one you went to Colombia with?” He clarified, his blue eyes curious as he watched me closely.
I glanced down, studying my beer bottle. “No” I said, swallowing. “He’s not here anymore.”
“Not here, as in not in the country anymore?” Oren prodded.
I looked up at him and shrugged. “Yeah, you could say that.”
He tilted his head, considering my answer. I worried he was going to ask a question I wasn’t yet prepared to answer, but, seemingly satisfied for the moment, he decided not to probe.
“Alright, well, that’s good. I was worried about you getting so close to someone, especially after what happened to dad. I didn’t want you mistaking your emotions for something they weren’t.” He clarified, and I gave him a surprised look, thinking he sounded more grown up than I’d ever heard him.
When did that happen?
A part of me considered telling him about the deeper implications of the last few months, about the magic, but I waited a second too long and lost my nerve.
“Don’t worry about me, little brother. I’m completely focused on work right now.”
I reached out and tousled his hair, like I used to do when he was little.
He groaned, raising his arms to defend himself and sloshing beer on the floor. Oh well, I had to christen the place eventually.
Our conversation grew less serious then, and we spent some time discussing the Alexandria and what Oren’s plans were. He was excited to be in an area so rich with historic sites and didn’t seem worried about finding work.
Oren had followed in dad’s footsteps and studied history, an ongoing argument between us. In New York he’d worked as a tour guide at several historic sites. He claimed to love regaling tourists with tales of the past, and enjoyed not having to take his work home with him.
I tossed back the rest of my beer and stood. It was time to get back to work. Though it was almost too hot to keep going.
“How much more do we have?” Oren asked, standing reluctantly and looking around the room.
“Only a few more boxes and the game table. I asked a friend from work to come over and help with that.”
I shrugged out of the light jacket I’d been wearing and watched as Oren’s face widened in shock. I realized too late my shoulder wound was visible.
“What the hell did you do to your shoulder?” He asked, moving closer to get a better look.
“She keeps picking fights with people bigger than her.” A deep voice answered from behind him, and I bit my lip as Tristan appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Who are you?” Oren asked, momentarily distracted.
Grateful for the interruption, I introduced the two men. “Tristan works with me at the lab.” I said, giving Tristan a look of warning out of the corner of my eye.
He frowned, unsure what to make of me.
The two men shook hands. Oren was watching me carefully, looking from me to Tristan and back again.
“What do you do at the lab, Tristan?” He asked.
Tristan opened his mouth to reply, but I cut him off, worried his response might include some reference to fae, magic or bad guys. I hadn’t told him Oren didn’t know about the magical world yet.
“Tristan does administrative work at the lab.” I blurted out, cringing at the badly told lie. They’d both know I was full of it.
Tristan and Oren both turned to look at me. Oren with a skeptical glance and Tristan with a momentary look of confusion. Then, realization slid over his features. He frowned ever so slightly, but when Oren turned from me to look at him, he’d exchanged the frown for a smile, nodding at my statement.
“That’s right. I’m the lab administrator, lots of paper shuffling and all that.” His smile was confident, his voice without hesitation. I could see Oren wanted to believe him. Tristan ran a hand through his hair and added. “You wouldn’t believe the paperwork I had to do after Brin cut her shoulder in the storage room. She was too impatient to wait for her administrative assistant to come in and she was rooting around for supplies when she caught her shoulder on a broken metal frame.”
Tristan shook his head with mock irritation.
I frowned. He was an excellent liar. I almost believed him. I had been in the storage room this morning trying to find something. Of course, that wasn’t how I’d acquired the gash in my shoulder, but his story was believeable. At least it would have been if it were anyone else. Oren was highly skeptical.
Oren looked from Tristan to me, brow knitted. Then, he gave his head a shake and laughed. Oh, Brin. Still impatient as ever, huh?”
My mouth dropped open. Oren had swallowed the lie. Alright. That was good, I guess. I snapp
ed my mouth shut and feigned annoyance. “I’m not impatient. I’m efficient.”
Tristan and Oren looked at each other and burst out laughing.
My cheeks flushed.
“Well, whatever you call it, perhaps you should try to avoid making any efficient choices that create paperwork for your new colleagues.” Oren said in a teasing voice.
“Alright, alright. That’s enough with teasing me.” I said. “Speaking of new colleagues, you better get to job hunting soon, little brother.”
Oren smiled. “Yes, you’re right. I do need to find some administrative work until I decide what I’m doing long term.”
Tristan perked up. “What field do you work in?” He asked.
“Well, my Master’s degree is in Archeology, with a focus on Celtic and Irish studies, but I’d be happy to get any kind of history job that will prevent me from having to admit to Brin that I’ve doomed myself to life as a barista.” Oren joked, glancing at me to see my reaction.
Tristan laughed. I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile as I stepped into the kitchen and began unpacking kitchen materials.
“I have a friend who works at the Smithsonian. I’d be happy to introduce you.” Tristan offered.
“Yeah, that’d be great, man.” Oren nodded.
The two of them launched into a conversation about Washington’s historic sites. They probably would have kept talking for hours, but as soon as the conversation shifted from work to baseball, I shooed them down the stairs to bring up the game table.
Chapter Eight
The glass doors hissed as they slid closed behind me. I walked down the stairs into the room I’d dubbed “the pit.” The walls, ceiling and floor were a mossy green. The room was blanketed with leaves. It was a pit full of nature, the source of my green magic.
