by R. Cooper
Not that it mattered. Bartleby came up behind him, still holding his two perfect pumpkins. “Oh, I see what’s happening. This is exactly like that Samhain with the hay bales.” He stopped long enough to give Piotr a reproachful look, then slipped into the house in front of him the moment the door was unlocked.
“What?” Piotr stared after him, arms laden with pumpkins, his thoughts slow, but Bartleby continued down the hall toward the kitchen and showed no indication that he was ready to storm out.
Piotr came in as well, dropping off pumpkins in the dining room and looking around. When he realized Bartleby was in the bathroom, he went back out for the rest, and then closed the front door behind him.
Bartleby was in the dining room when he returned, untwining himself from his scarf and removing his coat, as if he planned to stay. Piotr stopped.
Bartleby glanced at him. “Do we carve them now?” Evidently he had nothing else to say about the last subject.
Piotr did, but after a second of standing with his mouth open, he reconsidered. “Not today. I want them to look their best the night of.”
“So then, what? I know you have a list.” Bartleby gestured at the table, and the waiting notebook. “If you took the day off, you had plans.”
“I was going to decorate.” Piotr meant decorate everything, both the porch for the little kids on Halloween, and the house itself for Samhain. “But I haven’t eaten, so I thought I’d make something, an early dinner, or a very late lunch.”
He’d thought the offer to string cobwebs would appeal to Bartleby, but Bartleby looked toward the kitchen, and then glanced up at him. “I could make something?” he offered uncertainly, so different from the person he’d been with the cashier.
“You want to cook?” Piotr asked, and then tensed guiltily when Bartleby lowered his head.
“I’m no Ina Garten, and I’m not an all-powerful witch like you, but I can do things, Piotr.” The curve of his shoulders hurt to witness. “I can prepare food.”
Piotr shook his head, and then belatedly came forward to unburden himself of the rest of the pumpkins. “I didn’t say you couldn’t.” That was true, but not completely. He sighed. “But I did… I did sort of imply it with my surprise. I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. Bartleby had lived his entire life with people doubting him. Piotr didn’t, and wanted him to know it. “I was only surprised that you’d want to cook for me. You really do?”
“Not anymore,” Bartleby huffed. He stared at the wall for another moment, then swung his gaze to Piotr. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t pleased either. He wanted something. Whatever it was, Piotr was probably incapable of giving it. Reassurance, like hugs, didn’t come easy to him. He was a Russell. The Russells were witches of power, who lived alone by necessity. They couldn’t allow themselves to need others or they would go mad.
But Bartleby stared at him with large eyes, and Piotr realized he would do anything, even beg, to make that wounded expression go away.
He scowled at the wall beyond Bartleby, then cleared his throat.
“Who’s a fool?” Pallas asked, quoting one of his grandmother’s favorite lines from one of her beloved old movies.
Bartleby’s mouth slid up at one corner.
Piotr exhaled heavily. “Please?” The husky note in his voice made his cheeks warm. “I’d like dinner. Nobody ever cooks for me.”
“Nobody needs to, right?” Bartleby was unforgiving for one more moment, and then his smile took over his face. “We all know already you’re amazing, Piotr. You can relax once in a while.”
“It’s not about that,” Piotr asserted stiffly, then regretted speaking when Bartleby focused on him with sharp interest.
“What do you mean?” Bartleby lifted one finger, like someone in the middle of a thought. “I don’t think you’re showing off. I think the showing off is what happens when you are Piotr Russell, competent, organized, and self-reliant.”
“I don’t do all this to show everyone I’m ‘amazing.’” Piotr tossed his head. “My garden prospers because I have the strength to encourage it to. Why wouldn’t I share that with others? Winter is a dark time, even in this day and age, but even in the spring, people can need help. I’m allowed to help,” he ended, stubbornly.
“Allowed?” Bartleby opened his eyes wide. “You want to help us that much, then why don’t you ever stay with us?” He suddenly stood up straight, which was so remarkable Piotr had to stare. “I’m allowed to help too,” Bartleby added, and then rolled his wrist impatiently as he headed into the kitchen. “Come on, baby. Let me fatten you up for the winter for once.”
It took Piotr a while to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. “Baby? What?” He was fairly certain they had been arguing, or as close to arguing as Bartleby ever got. But he walked into the kitchen and watched Bartleby poke around, nosy and curious. Bartleby paused for the tap-tap-tap of Pallas at the back door window, and then let the raven outside before Piotr could. A moment later he had to open the door again. Pallas was worse than a cat.
Bartleby moved out of her way as she swooped to her usual spot, and then he stuck his face in the fridge. When he was done there, he examined the pantry so critically Piotr was left to wonder somewhat nervously if he’d forgotten something. Then Bartleby moved on.
“Still a vegetarian?” Bartleby stared up at the hanging pots and pans. Piotr had to keep them that high; any lower and he’d hit his head. Bartleby didn’t complain, but he gave Piotr a pleading look. Piotr reached up to grab the pot Bartleby wanted.
Bartleby bestowed a small smile upon him for the deed, then washed his hands and went to work. He didn’t speak, leading Piotr to wonder if he was supposed to stand there and not offer to help him. On the heels of that thought, he wondered if Bartleby was demonstrating this deliberately. Bartleby was, as Bartleby himself had pointed out, a familiar without a witch.
But the idea of this as an audition when he already knew Bartleby’s worth made Piotr’s chest tighten all over again.
“Did you learn this because of the grocery?” he asked, to keep the mood light and because Bartleby knew how to properly use a knife to chop and slice, and must have had training.
Bartleby shot him a surprised look. Piotr abruptly remembered that most of the things he knew about Bartleby were things others had told him. He hadn’t talked with Bartleby, asked him about himself, in a very long time.
“I help where I’m needed,” Bartleby answered at last. “Bookkeeping, registers, stocking, cooking. So I know a lot of things. I’ve been debating going back to school but I was never the essay writing type. Anyway—” he wiped flour from his nose and spread it to his cheek “—lately I’ve been traveling around the area, visiting other covens in thinly disguised matchmaking attempts.” His mouth twisted, as if Piotr’s visible shock amused him in some bitter way. “Matchmaking for this, Piotr, obviously. For what I am. And, well, for the other stuff too, I guess, if that is possible. I’m tired of being a stray cat. Being a familiar for a witch and being his lover don’t have to go hand in hand, but it would be nice.”
He stared down at the quick bread he was making and didn’t seem to notice the brief, hoarse exclamation from Piotr.
“Nice, but I don’t expect it anymore.” Bartleby pulled in a long breath, then set the bread aside in order to go back to making what looked like vegetable stock. “Didn’t you want to go decorate? I was kidding before. You don’t have to stay in here with me. I know you have other things to do. You always have other things to do.”
The raven on the refrigerator stared at Piotr with black, gleaming eyes. The wind blew through the six apple trees, making noise and bringing more of the winter chill. But the kitchen was warm and already steamy. Bartleby had flour almost to his elbows.
Piotr crept forward a step. “Did you need anything?” he asked carefully, and then raised his hands before Bartleby could slouch. “I meant, I could wash your dishes. Something like that. I’m not used to this. I feel useless standing here watching.
”
Honeyed eyes met his.
“You stand off to the side every time there is dancing,” Bartleby remarked. “You ignore both the bouquet and the garter at weddings, and the only date you’ve ever brought with you to one was your grandmother. All you do is stand and watch.”
Piotr didn’t need the reminder that it was his lot in life to be alone. “I like to see my friends happy, but we both know they wouldn’t want me among them, and why.”
“You think I’m not different?” Bartleby was considerate and gentle where others would have been furious. “That I don’t know what it is to be lonely because of what I am?”
“No, I….” Piotr trailed off because he hadn’t thought about it. “I never assumed you would be alone for long.”
A slight frown came and went on Bartleby’s face. Maybe because it was obvious how much Piotr didn’t like the idea of Bartleby choosing someone else. Or maybe because Bartleby saw something significant in the sight of Piotr out of place and uncertain of what to do.
He finally rolled one shoulder.
“Part of cooking is the cleanup,” Bartleby informed him softly. “But at the moment, I don’t need clean dishes. You could set the table for us.” His voice went even quieter when he went on. “That tea you had last night smelled good.”
Piotr took his first easy breath in fifteen minutes. “I’ll make you some,” he agreed, and came in to set up the kettle, meek in his own kitchen.
~~
Piotr got home for work just after dark. He put some leftover soup on the stove for his dinner and slathered some butter on the last of the soda bread Bartleby had made. He’d already had leftovers for lunch, but he had a lot to do and no time to cook. It was dangerously pleasant to not have to bother with all of the cooking and cleaning because someone else had. It was the kind of thing he hadn’t let himself imagine, because he’d want it again. Worse, he couldn’t resist thinking about Bartleby’s reaction if he told him. Bartleby would like to see Piotr wolf down his cooking. He would have been delighted to see Piotr enjoying his food during his lunch break as well.
Kelly had swung up to sit with him on the back of his delivery truck, still grinning about the bottle of cider he’d given her. She’d inhaled greedily over his soup but tucked into her own sandwich without comment. Of all the ordinary humans Piotr worked with, she was the only one that, if pressed, he would have said suspected what he was. He couldn’t say how she knew, or why she had chosen not to comment, but she deserved the bottle, and more, as thanks for her discretion.
But then he remembered he hadn’t yet given Bartleby any cider, and resolved all over again to mark an entire crate just for Bartleby. He might drink too much at the revels, but this time Piotr wouldn’t be there to witness it, and perhaps Bartleby would find what he was looking for.
Piotr immediately decided not to give Bartleby an entire crate of hard cider, and finished his dinner to the sound of a raven laughing at him. He was supposed to see to the garden, harvest the last of the usable fruit and vegetables, and then finish securing everything for what promised to be a stormy winter. He made it to the kitchen to put his dishes in the sink, and the lights flickered, then went out.
He looked out the window as his eyes adjusted. The silver light of the slim moon reflecting off the clouds illuminated the dark yard of his nearest neighbor. The power outage wasn’t limited to his house, then. He wouldn’t have suspected it, but sometimes Aunt Elysia did strange things. He had once replaced a fuse three times before he’d realized it was her way to make him late for a date.
He waited, but when the power didn’t return immediately he resigned himself to an evening of getting nothing done.
He turned around, then stood still as he lit the dining room candles, one by one. It was stupidly showy, but no one was around to see, and he didn’t feel like searching for matches. His grandmother had loved the effect of candles, and purchased them seemingly by the gross from the candlemaker in the coven. On nights like this one, Piotr understood.
The house’s age and faded majesty were most evident on a dark night with clouds across the moon, and candles burning to light the halls. But it would get cold, so he went to the living room to get a knitted blanket and then into the parlor, where at least Aunt Elysia was some sort of company.
His eyes focused in the dim light, and yet his mind couldn’t. He stared at the fireplace, feeling itchy and somewhat irritable, and then exhaled in relief, and a touch of surprise, when a fire sparked on the wood in the grate. He’d barely thought of a fire and he’d created one. He blinked as he realized how easily he could have made the fire hotter, brighter. With the energy currently making him restless, he could have burnt the house down with little more effort than reading a book.
He dropped the blanket onto the uncomfortable antique settee but didn’t sit. He hadn’t consciously used magic in too long. It was in everything he did, but he rarely thought about it, aside from the occasional blessing. That had to be why he felt stronger. That, and he was rested from not having to cook his own dinner and scrub down the kitchen afterward.
He took a shallow breath to control himself and then raised a hand to light all the candles in the windows. The room glowed orange and beckoning, warmer already.
Piotr frowned, although there was no shadow in the corner where no shadow should have been, no shiver at the curtains. It could have been any small, quaintly furnished room made up to welcome a gentleman caller. The wallpaper was antique, faded green. The framed pictures on the walls spanned generations of Russells. The mantle was overflowing with leaves in vivid hues. Pinecones and acorns rested on top of the stack of firewood. Everything was perfect.
The sound of a car door closing outside in the street made him slowly turn. The bells in the wind chimes on the porch rang out, and he raised his hand a moment before the knock on the door that announced Bartleby’s arrival.
Piotr put his hand back at his side. “I get it. You like him,” he told Elysia in a quiet hiss. “But did you ever think—?” He stopped himself there. It was no use reasoning with a spirit, even a benevolent one. Anyway, Elysia was hiding from him.
He went to the door, twitching in his own skin to catch sight of his reflection, his hazel eyes wide, the old brown knit sweater he’d thrown on that felt tight at the shoulders, as if it had shrunk in the dryer. He remained as boring as ever, but the parlor was glowing with obvious intention.
He opened the door, a thousand times a fool, and Bartleby swept his incandescent gaze over him. “You know the entire street is dark, yet your front parlor is lit up like Christmas.” His voice was thick, nearly husky. “Hello.”
The greeting seemed backwards, and yet Piotr only nodded. “Hello.” His voice was equally low. Today, Bartleby had attempted to comb his hair back and had removed his nail polish. His red coat remained, but he was in a t-shirt and plaid flannel.
“So I take it your work for the evening is on hold?” Bartleby remarked, staring up at Piotr in a daze. His attention kept drifting down and then up. He pulled his naked lower lip between his teeth.
“Unless the power comes back on,” Piotr answered. This was as good as cancelling their plans. Not that they had made plans. Piotr hadn’t thought Bartleby would show up three days in a row. But it felt as though they had now that Bartleby was here. Piotr ought to ask him to leave, or stay, not keep him on the threshold like this.
He settled for standing aside. Bartleby immediately stepped into the house. He made a hungry noise when he saw the parlor.
Piotr spent an extra few seconds closing the door. If he was lucky, Bartleby would assume Elysia had set up the room like that. If he was really lucky, Bartleby wouldn’t guess why.
“All this darkness so close to Halloween,” Bartleby rasped without taking his eyes from the intimate, happy glow of the parlor. “Spoooky.” The hoarse note to his usually light voice didn’t disguise his teasing. “What if there is a ghost? Who’ll protect me?”
“Oh, shut up.” Piotr exhal
ed in relief at the joke, and risked a compliment. “I had the last of your soup for dinner. It was very filling.”
Even in profile, he could see Bartleby’s confused frown, yet his gaze was still stuck on the parlor.
“Piotr….” Bartleby slowly pulled his gloves away and shoved them in his coat pockets. He swallowed audibly, then licked the corner of his mouth. “There’s only one thing to do on a night like this,” he began, then wavered for a moment before going on. “Get drunk and tell each other’s fortunes.”
Piotr’s heart beat so loudly he couldn’t hear anything else. Even as a joke, the suggestion was going to kill him.
“You just want cider,” he protested, at a volume they probably heard down the street. But Bartleby twisted away from his study of the parlor to consider him.
His lips curved up, then down, before he sighed. “Oh, I do.” He moved forward with no warning, and shrugged off his coat. Then he kicked off his shoes before curling up on the settee. He tugged on the blanket as though it was for him. Piotr inched into the room with him, although Bartleby’s attention seemed to be on the fire despite his questions. “What did you try this year? Every time it’s like something new.”
“The secret will go with me to my grave,” Piotr told him, coming further into the room when it appeared Bartleby would be there for some time. Bartleby turned to him and blinked as if shocked, so Piotr held up his palms in surrender. “Or someday Andrei will have children, and I will tell them. Andrei himself has no interest, but it seems… it seems a family thing, like what we are, and I’m not likely to have kids.”
“You want them?” Bartleby put his back to the fire and rested his arms on his knees. He peered at Piotr with all the wonder and surprise in the world in his face. “I didn’t know that. Ah! The trick-or-treaters you love. I think I get it now.”
“I….” Piotr scratched his beard. “My mother left, as you know, and family always seemed… something to want. And there’s our name and this house. I have a lot I’d like to pass on, even if I never have them. Which is probably for the best. Sooner or later the coven is going to require more of my attention, and I wouldn’t have time to devote to children the way you should.”
