by Debi Gliori
Luciano gritted his teeth, wishing he were surrounded by a landscape that mirrored his feelings—a bleak, godforsaken desert devoid of life and hope, not this exquisite vista that in happier times they had regarded as their very own Christmas card. Thoughts of Christmas caused Luciano to nearly pass out with loss—the unutterable horror of all those empty, childless days and years stretching out ahead made him wish he were dead alongside Titus, Pandora, Damp, and Little No-Name. He turned then, turned to face his wife, wondering if to fall prey to despair was really such a terrible thing, wondering if they might find a way to escape the awful heartache together. They could simply walk out onto the frozen loch, step by step, hand in hand, hoping that way to be reunited with their beloved children.
Titus, Pandora, Damp, and Little No-Name.
Baci’s hand in his tightened as the first tentative flakes of snow began to fall from the sky.
Titus, Pandora, Damp, and Little No-Name—
Luciano’s feet stepped in time to the litany of their names. Now he and Baci were out on the jetty, their boots making hollow echoes across the ice imprisoning the loch shore in its frozen grasp.
Titus, Pandora, Damp, and Little No-Name—
And now they stood poised at the end of the jetty with nowhere to go but back to the unbearable pain of the days ahead or…
A flock of birds flew toward the shore, the beat of their laboring wings audible across the silent loch.
Seven white swans, Luciano thought, still alert to all the beauty of the world he was considering leaving.
Seven swans. Like the story, Baci thought, her eyes stinging with tears as she recalled winter evenings spent reading to all three children just as she knew in her heart she would never read the same stories ever again.
Seven swans fluttering down to land on the unfrozen water in the middle of the loch, their feet paddling frantically beneath them, voices raised in wonder at the miracle of their flight.
“Anyone got any ideas what swans eat? I’m ravenous.”
“Oh, Latch, my dearest, if only you could have seen the look on your face…”
“That was soooo seriously cool. I’ve always wanted wings. However, my legs are totally freezing—d’you think I’d look stupid wearing tights?”
“These ridiculous birds could undoubtedly use more legs…. How you lot ever manage with only two is quite beyond my understanding—”
“You know, Flora, I could get used to this flying business. And feathers? Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine I’d enjoy having a wee feathery undercarriage….”
“Wheeeeeeee, lookit me. Mumma, look. LOOK!”
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah…”
Titus, Pandora, Damp, and Little No-Name.
Luciano was running now, his voice echoing across the ice as he called his children home, reeling them ashore on the thread of their names.
As snow falls like feathers from the sky, the giant birds are surrounding him in a cloud of swirling white, their wide wings beating, beating, beating like a glad heart.
Name That Baby
Luciano stood in front of his mirror, knotting a sky-blue silk tie and trying to ignore the fact that, behind him, Baci was teetering on the brink of a full-blown wardrobe crisis.
“I’m still so fat,” she howled, heaving at the zipper on her velvet skirt and turning pink with the effort. “Hate my bum. HUGE. Back end of a tractor trailer. God. Why aren’t I back to normal? Ugh. LOOK, Luciano, who’s that wibbly blob in the mirror? Please, tell me that’s not meeeeee—”
And just before she dissolved into tears for the fourth time in as many minutes, Luciano wrapped her in his arms.
“Cara mia,” he breathed into her hair, “hush. It was only one week ago that you carried our Little No-Name under your own skin—you’re still a brand-new mama, not a supermodel, for heaven’s—”
There was a warning shriek from the bedroom, and both Luciano and Baci froze.
Looking somewhat haunted, Luciano whispered, “You just fed him. Surely he’s not due another feed for hours?”
“Are you sure that’s our baby?” Baci hissed, frantically fastening buttons and dragging a brush through her hair. The warning shriek became an extended peal of outrage, and Luciano’s shoulders slumped.
“No. It’s the other baby,” he groaned, aware that if the star of the day, Little No-Name-about-to-be-named, was still sleeping, then it meant that someone, probably him, would have to deal with the changeling instead.
“Darling”—Baci paused in mid-brush—“we really have to name them both today. We can’t go on calling them Little No-Name and the Other Baby.”
Luciano rolled his eyes at his reflection, then headed for the bedroom. Baby Borgia lay sleeping soundly in the ancestral cradle; wailing his head off in his basket was the changeling. Gritting his teeth, Luciano bent down and plucked the sobbing goblin out from its tangled shawl. Immediately, the wailing stopped, replaced by an ominous silence. From bitter experience, Luciano calculated that he had approximately two minutes to feed the changeling with an acceptable Baci substitute before it sank its needle teeth into the portion of Luciano’s anatomy nearest to its gaping mouth. Holding it at arm’s length, Luciano set off for the kitchen as fast as he dared.
Skidding round the balustrade at the bottom of the stairs leading into the great hall, Luciano nearly crashed into Pandora, who had risen up out of the shadows like a wraith.
“Waaargh. Dad. Jeez, you nearly flattened me.”
Despite the changeling hissing in his arms like a burning fuse, Luciano paused and stared. What on earth was she wearing? he wondered, gazing at his eldest daughter in dismay. Moths appeared to be hatching out of Pandora’s—dress? coat? bathrobe? What was that thing?—as he watched. And black? Deepest funereal black, on today of all days. And eyeliner, dammit. He’d told her about makeup ages ago. Not just told her: forbidden her to wear it.
“Pandora. For Pete’s—” Before he could complete this sentence, thus ensuring that she spent the rest of this special day in a mood every bit as black as her clothing, he was interrupted by the changeling, who demonstrated what happened when its fuse ran out. Clamping its teeth round his index finger, it leered up at him.
“AAAOWWWW—you little monster.” He’d been about to say something far, far worse, but his daughter’s presence made Luciano curb his tongue even as the changeling’s teeth ground against his knuckle.
“Stop it, you disgusting little creep,” Pandora gasped, reaching out and squeezing the changeling’s nostrils shut. Unable to breathe, it let go of Luciano’s finger and screamed with thwarted rage.
Luciano placed it on the floor in front of him and took several steps backward, as if afraid that the infant might explode. Pandora remained within range, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Tell me that thing isn’t being named along with our baby?”
Luciano sighed. “Your mother—she has a soft heart. You know she’d feel really bad if we left it…that…the creature out.”
“Dad. That’s insane. It’s not like it’s a member of the family. It’s a goblin, for heaven’s sake. It’s like something out of a book. What’re you going to call it, anyway? Rumpelstiltskin?”
At this, there was a demonic shriek from the changeling as it literally turned purple with rage. It began to batter its heels and fists on the floor with such hell-bent ferocity that the very walls of StregaSchloss seemed to tremble around it. To Luciano’s dismay, a huge crack appeared, zigzagging its way across the stone floor of the great hall. It gaped wider and wider until the changeling tipped over the edge, scrabbled frantically in an attempt to pull itself back out, and then, with a ghastly howl…was gone.
Luciano blinked. Had he really just seen that? Even as he watched, the crack began to shrink, emitting a faraway clashing, grinding sound—the noise made by tectonic plates moving far below the surface of the Earth. Just before the floor became whole again, two items of infant apparel were vomited back out of the crack, both somewhat ch
arred: one diaper, hardly used, followed by one crumpled pair of sleepers, both utterly reeking of sulfur.
“Huh?” Luciano took a deep breath. So I married a student witch, he reminded himself. I should have expected no less. He peered at his daughter, dimly aware that he’d been about to say something deeply tedious and wrinkly-orientated about her eye shadow or her moth-eaten—what was that thing she was wearing?—costume. Then he pulled himself together. A scant week ago, he’d been on the verge of throwing himself into the loch because he’d lost his children. Now here they were, safe, sound, hale, hearty—and what was he doing? Nagging them about something as trivial as eye makeup?
Too right.
“Pandora. Wash that muck off your face before the guests arrive—”
Ludo’s Land Rover rattled across the rose quartz drive and then blithely plowed straight on to smack into an ornamental stone urn, much to the detriment of the Land Rover’s front bumper.
“Bloody hell,” Ludo moaned, climbing out to inspect the damage. For the fortieth time that morning, he patted the inside pocket of his jacket to check that the tiny green velvet box was indeed still there. It was. However, that was only half the story. He still had to remove it from his pocket and offer it to her. Would she laugh in his face? Would she gently turn him down? Would she take offense? Tell him exactly where to stick the exquisite sapphire-and-diamond ring that had been in his family since…since…
“Mr. Grabbit, your poor car.”
Oh Lord. It would have to be her, wouldn’t it? Before he could separate the bloody urn from the even bloodier bump—
“Can I help?” And there she was beside him, her impossibly lavender-blue eyes shining, as he, for the first time in his entire life, found himself absolutely at a loss for words.
“Champagne, sir?”
“Please, Latch. I’d love some. We’ve all got plenty to celebrate today, hmm?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Ludo waited until Latch had filled his glass before saying, “Any idea where we might find our host? Can’t see him anywhere.”
“I’d try the game room, sir. I believe I saw him heading in that direction a while ago.”
“Splendid. And Latch?”
“Sir?”
“I’d say this family should count itself darned fortunate to have you looking after all its members. Last week. Kept your head when all around were losing theirs. Good stuff.”
“Thank you, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
“Hopefully, yes. For the time being, at least.”
“Very good, sir.”
Luciano’s voice came from beyond the open door to the game room. As Ludo approached, he could hear it, rising and falling, at times subdued, at times almost breaking with suppressed emotion.
“You know, I never meant—We never—I only wish…But you, you tried to kill my wife—But even so, I didn’t mean to—Oh, what have I done? How can I ever forgive myself?”
“Forgive my interrupting, Luciano. Can I come in?” And without waiting for a reply, Ludo stepped into the game room.
Luciano looked up, his hands slowly falling away from his face, revealing features made haggard by the cold winter light pouring through the window behind him. When he spoke, his voice was uncertain.
“Ludo. Yes. Of course. I was…I was just—”
“Talking to yourself. I heard. Listen to me, Luciano. No, don’t turn away. Listen. My dear chap, you must stop blaming yourself for your brother’s death.” Ludo strode across the room to where Luciano sat hunched in the window seat, looking utterly forlorn and knotting and unknotting his silk tie while staring desperately at anything other than Ludo.
“Blame myself?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Well, of course I do. After all, no one else killed him. I was there. It was just him and me in the room at the time. I…I can’t…D’you know, Ludo, I can’t for the life of me remember how I actually did it? Killed him. You know? One minute we’re thumping about, knocking lumps out of each other; next minute he’s exsanguinating all over the table and I’m looking at my hands in horror….” He shuddered at the memory, unconsciously winding his tie round and round his hands as if to bind them and thus render them unable to do more harm. “Who else can I blame, if not myself?”
Ludo laid a hand over Luciano’s trembling ones. “I buried your brother, Luciano. Well, not exactly buried. Latch and I gave him a traditional Mafia send-off with the help of your dragon. Apparently it’s not the first time that butler of yours has disposed of criminal lowlifes in your loch, but that’s another story. Suffice it to say, we fitted your brother with a very fine pair of concrete overshoes and sank him in the middle of Lochnagargoyle—”
“Yes. Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but—”
“I haven’t finished yet. When Latch and I lifted your brother’s body off the billiard table, the cause of his death became immediately apparent.”
Luciano’s breath caught in his throat as Ludo carried on.
“I’m assuming you were unaware that you were playing host to a battalion of animated model soldiers?” Taking Luciano’s stunned silence for a yes, Ludo continued, “Just as I’m also assuming that you hadn’t realized that the same model soldiers had vowed to defend you and your family to the death, no matter what that entailed?”
Luciano’s face resembled that of a condemned man who, by some unforeseen miracle, had just been accorded a stay of execution.
“Nor, on the fatal day in question, as the two of you lurched blindly toward the billiard table, were you to know that the entire battalion were in position with their spears held upright, ready to skewer your brother like a particularly unpleasant bug on a pin….” Ludo stopped and waited for Luciano to catch up.
“You’re telling me I didn’t do it?” Luciano whispered.
Ludo nodded. “You didn’t kill your brother. However, I have to say, thank heavens someone did. Or several someones. One last thing, before we go downstairs and join your family: Latch and I gave the soldiers from the battalion a decent burial, with full military honors….” Ludo paused, then smiled. “So next summer, if the blooms in your wife’s rose garden are particularly fine, it will undoubtedly be thanks to the Fifth Battalion of the Dragon’s-Tooth Engineers.”
“Ishn’t Nieve a girl’sh name?”
“God, Titus. Say it, don’t spray it. Stop stuffing food down your neck for just one millisecond while you speak, would you?”
“You heard me.”
“Does it really matter what name they give him? He’ll always be the Squirt as far as I’m concerned.”
“God, Pan, that’s gross. Not while I’m eating, if you please. Talking of which, d’you think anyone’ll mind me sampling the buffet before the guests arrive? Saves me having to queue later on, huh? Wow. This stuff is sensational. Yum. What d’you think it is? This dip thing? I could eat that entire bowl myself. Come to think of it, I nearly have. Mmmmhmmm.”
“Dad’s bagna cauda?” Pandora waited until Titus had his mouth crammed full before saying, “Uh…anchovies, mainly. Why d’you ask?”
“Pass me the towel, dear, would you?”
Damp obediently dragged a fluffy white towel off the radiator and delivered it to Mrs. McLachlan. She was waiting patiently to see how scratchy cardigans would go down with the new baby, waiting to see if Nieve’s lungs were half as good as she suspected. Mrs. McLachlan scooped Nieve out of the bath and was about to swaddle him in the towel when Damp saw something surprising.
“What’s the matter, pet?” Mrs. McLachlan peered at Damp, then turned back to the baby. “Och, he’s just a wee boy, pet. They all have those. Not like wee girls at all.”
Damp’s eyes grew wide, but she decided not to correct Mrs. McLachlan’s assumption that she’d never seen Nieve undiapered. That wasn’t even remotely interesting. Heaving a deep sigh, she wondered if she was the only one to notice that the baby hadn’t entirely lost his magical covering of swansdown after the Sevens Wan enchantment wore off. As if snowf
lakes had settled like a mantle round his shoulders, baby Nieve was lightly dusted with downy feathers, giving him the appearance of a small angel recently fallen to Earth.
His navy blue eyes met hers, and Damp placed a finger across her lips as if to let her baby brother know that, for the time being at least, his secret was safe with her.
“Oh, come on. You don’t believe in all that stuff, do you?” Receiving no answer to this, Titus rolled his eyes and slumped facedown on the rug. “Come off it, Pan. Act like a rational being for once. They’re dice. Lumps of inert plastic. Much as I hate to be the one to break it to you, dice are immune to a woman’s charms. You can lavish kisses upon their many dear little plastic faces until Hell freezes over and angels land in Argyll, but all to no avail. Read my lips. Kissing the dice isn’t going to make any difference to how they fall.”
Pandora ignored this completely, rolling the dice back and forth between her hands while concentrating very hard on exactly how much she desperately needed to win. If she’d remembered correctly, there were twenty-eight thousand, nine hundred and forty-six good reasons for why she had to throw a double six right now.
One last kiss for luck, then.
“Did you hear that?” Tock paused, halfway through a mouthful of water lily sandwich.
“What? The shrieking of a thwarted man-child?” Tarantella’s mouthparts curved upward with delight. “About time, too. Let’s hope his sister does the decent thing and eats him up immediately.”
The roar of outrage came from one of the windows on the first floor, although whether it was made by Titus or Pandora was impossible to tell; under duress, Titus’s voice was still indistinguishable from that of his sister. A listener standing on the rose quartz drive outside StregaSchloss might also have made out the murmur of many voices whose owners had raised crystal flutes of prosecco to welcome Baby Nieve, the newest Strega-Borgia, into their company.
