by R. Cooper
He thought, with Bartleby in the house again, Elysia might make herself known. But the parlor was quiet and still. They were nearly alone.
Bartleby hefted the basket. “I didn’t know what to bring.” He paused to flick a hesitant glance to Piotr’s face. “So I brought bread for dinner. Not mine, it’s from the store, but it’s still good. And some blackberry preserves from my mother, because you made her something with lemon and ginger over the summer and she loved it. And a bottle of wine. I told my father you had your cider, but he insisted wine was a proper gift for a host, as well as a good thing to bring on a d—a good gift.”
“You didn’t need to bring anything,” Piotr told him, then nearly choked on his own stupidity. “But thank you,” he added quickly before Bartleby’s eyes would widen and haunt him. “And lattes?” Piotr was a grown man as well as a puissant witch, as any number of medieval documents might have said, and yet he was in his hallway stuttering about coffee drinks.
He tugged the basket from Bartleby’s hands and led him to the dining room. Any other time, he would have enjoyed the dawning horror on Bartleby’s face as Piotr brought him an apron.
“It’s going to be messy.” It was a fair warning.
“I’m not afraid of a mess.” Bartleby breathed his reply as he walked widdershins around the table to take in all the pumpkins and carving tools. Then he picked up a knife. “These pumpkins must die so we might live!” he intoned, like a pagan priest in a B-movie about to sacrifice some hapless virgin. Then he paused. “Won’t they go bad?”
“For two days they’ll be fine outside in the cold.” Piotr shrugged. “And if an animal nibbles them, so what?”
“And we just… hack them to pieces?” The line between Bartleby’s delicate eyebrows was distracting. Piotr had a sip of his pumpkin latte, then shook his head. When Piotr took another drink, Bartleby gave a hum. “And how do you get yours to look so nice every year?”
“Practice. And the kits, when I feel like buying them. But they really aren’t necessary.” Piotr took a moment to watch Bartleby spin the pumpkin around on the table, probably trying to imagine carving a face into it. He felt, vaguely, as though Bartleby was playing him, and already knew how to carve pumpkins. But that didn’t make him any less eager to explain it all. “There are different schools on the best way to open it to clean it up, but the most common way is to cut a hole in the top, then scrape out the seeds.”
“I do like the seeds,” Bartleby said doubtfully, but poked at the top a few times before giving it a good stab. He shot Piotr a woeful look when his knife got stuck, but when Piotr reached around him to pull it out for him, it turned to a shy smile. He tilted his head up and blinked innocently. Piotr became aware of how they were standing. Bartleby’s back was nearly pressed to his chest.
He cleared his throat but Bartleby spoke first. “Maybe I have to help you by letting you help me,” he remarked, and gave Piotr the same pleading look when his knife stuck again.
“You know very well you don’t need my help,” Piotr answered, distracted by how his breath stirred Bartleby’s hair. Bartleby seemed pleased with this response, and yanked the knife out all by himself this time.
Piotr felt himself relax a little at how easy it was after that. All he had to do was show Bartleby what he meant on the pumpkin he was carving, and Bartleby did it with the others. He complained about the gooey mess on the inside, but the sadness stayed away from his eyes. Time might be running out, as Bartleby had told him, but at least Piotr wouldn’t ruin this. Bartleby didn’t even seem bored.
He did stop carving after the second pumpkin. He sat down to study his handiwork for a while, glancing critically back and forth between his pumpkins and the several Piotr had done. But either he accepted that Piotr had more experience and so could carve faster, or was satisfied with his two goofily grinning jack-o-lanterns.
When he decided they were good enough, he moved them to the side and began cleaning up. He gathered up the seeds, rinsed them, and laid them out to dry. He washed his dishes too, and when Piotr thanked him, he shivered from the top of his spine to his toes. His “You’re welcome, Piotr,” was so warm Piotr nearly lost his grip on his knife.
Pallas was no help. She wasn’t human. She’d probably croak in approval if he thanked Bartleby with a kiss. She’d think it was funny that Bartleby would be happy to please him, anything to have found a witch at last.
In the end, Piotr flushed hotly, but thanked Bartleby again as he took two of the pumpkins he’d sliced open and cleaned out, and put them in the oven to caramelize.
“Your love for pumpkin is adorable and horrifying.” Bartleby looked good with a straw broom in his hand, surrounded by jack-o-lanterns and candles. Piotr had thought him best among sunshine and flowers, but he’d never seen him around the warm shades of brown and orange, industriously sweeping and sneaking sips of Piotr’s latte.
Piotr tore his attention away from him and went back to setting up his food processor. “Be grateful I am too busy at work to do this much for Yule.” This was somewhat false. He still did plenty for Yule. Although Samhain was the bigger day of celebration, the midwinter holiday had its appeal.
“Hmm,” Bartleby agreed, too nice to call him out on his lie. “I have a stupid love for the scent of pine. Guess I can take over the work then. You have only to ask.” He threw the bits of pumpkin in the dustpan outside for the foraging animals of the neighborhood, then came close to Piotr in order to put the broom and dustpan away.
Unsure of how to answer, Piotr said nothing. If Bartleby was free at midwinter, he would be tempted to ask for him to visit. But he still couldn’t have Bartleby as a familiar.
He imagined his winter without the smallest glimpse of Bartleby, imagined Bartleby the light of some other witches’ life, then he gathered up the short candles. “Let’s put the pumpkins out,” he said, after clearing his throat. “So you can see how they’ll look.”
He put a candle inside each jack-o-lantern, then took three of them to the porch. Bartleby followed with his two. He was silent until the candles in his pumpkins sparked orange. “Show off,” he murmured, but he was grinning when they passed the mirror by the door.
Piotr put his on the steps, and waited while Bartleby fussed over placement. Only once they were all on the ground did he light the candles in the ones he’d done. Bartleby immediately pulled his phone from his back pocket and snapped some pictures.
The only animal who dared occupy the porch tonight was an owl, one apparently not bothered by Pallas being near. Piotr thought Bartleby might have something to say about the white barn owl studying him, but Bartleby took a picture of it too, before giving Piotr a wobbly smile. “He seems quite dignified,” he claimed, in a whisper that didn’t disguise his unhappiness. “Not as smart as a crow or raven, but still suitable.”
“I’m going to make chocolate pumpkin bread and pumpkin brownie muffins for the revels.” Piotr had decided to make those months ago. It had nothing to do with how Bartleby liked chocolate and pumpkin together, or a need to make Bartleby stop talking about the familiar Piotr wasn’t going to choose.
“Who?” The owl hooted in time with a remark from Pallas, somewhere deep in the house asking a familiar question.
Bartleby studied Piotr while shivering at the cold. “Save the candles for Halloween,” he instructed Piotr softly, as if there wasn’t darkness to banish in this moment too. But Piotr did as commanded, and they stood together for a moment. Then Bartleby held out his hand behind him as he headed back into the house.
Piotr knew better than to take it. Yet he did, and was led into his own home, past quietly swaying curtains. The front door closed, and the warmth of the dining room and kitchen drew him, or both of them, back. Bartleby asked, “Should I make something for dinner while you take care of your pumpkins?” and Piotr heard himself saying, “Yes,” and somehow that was what they did.
It wasn’t magic. He was certain of that, despite the wind outside and the growing moon. Magic humme
d through the house and probably the garden, the time of year and the presence of a human familiar filling it to the brim with power, but Piotr couldn’t have focused enough to work anything if he’d wanted to.
Bartleby hadn’t memorized the location of everything in his kitchen, but it didn’t matter. If he didn’t know where something was, he paused and raised an eyebrow, and Piotr got it for him. He stood over the stove, utilizing the baked pumpkin Piotr hadn’t used, stirring soup with Piotr’s grandmother’s giant wooden spoon and adding salt, one pinch at a time, until the steam played havoc with his hair.
They didn’t exchange a single word until Piotr took the toasted pumpkin seeds from the oven, and Piotr realized in shock that they hadn’t once bumped into each other despite his size.
“Not too much salt.” His gruff admonition broke the silence.
Bartleby didn’t even glance at him. “Just enough.” Without arguing, he settled the matter. Then he took a slice of the bread he’d toasted with slices of cheese on top, and left the soup to simmer. He snacked on his warm cheesy toast while Piotr struggled to recall just when Bartleby had put the slices of bread in the oven. “Cheese,” Bartleby sighed in sweet, sad ecstasy. “But it’s okay. It’s time to indulge because we’re preparing for the lean times, aren’t we? Storing up what we can, while we can.” He paused, then raised his voice. “Eat some. We’re fattening up for the winter, remember?”
“You aren’t.” Piotr hadn’t meant to comment on Bartleby’s body at all, the fragility of his bones, the span of his waist or the line of his shoulders.
“I’m not the growly bear in the room.” Bartleby glanced at him. “Being big and broad and handsome isn’t what attracts people to me, so I have to watch my figure. But still, cheese.” He crunched his toasty bread while Piotr stared in mute surprise. Bartleby either didn’t notice his astonishment or pretended not to. He disappeared from the room, and a few minutes later returned without the bread. “Pallas was perched on the skull in the living room. It’s not a bust of Pallas above a chamber door, like in Poe, but is that where she got her name? One more reason your grandmother and I understood each other. She was great.”
Bartleby could wander around his house all he liked, and apparently Piotr had nothing to say about it. He thought of his grandmother, and how she’d always liked the coven children to run free, especially Bartleby. For her, that was as good as saying she’d adored the tiny familiar climbing her furniture. “Yeah.” Grief made Piotr’s voice thick. “Yeah, she was. She wasn’t open with her emotions, but she… she took care of us, and taught us what was important.”
“She raised you well, with all the softness she had. Raising two little boys at her age, with her so settled in her ways… but she did her best. She loved you, a lot.” Bartleby slipped his hand into Piotr’s, for the second time tonight. In contrast to Piotr’s grandmother, he was all giving tenderness that Piotr had no idea how to return, except to offer him food.
“Dinner’s ready,” he announced, and felt slow and stupid for it. He couldn’t return a simple gesture. He didn’t even know how. And while he stumbled over a response, Bartleby released him in order to set the table. He used the everyday dishes, even the chipped ones. His settings weren’t fancy, befitting their simple dinner. A plate of toasted bread, a bowl of salted seeds for garnish, and two bowls of rich pumpkin seed soup.
The soup was… perfect. Piotr closed his eyes at the first taste and heard the quiet moan that meant Bartleby agreed. Pumpkin seed soup was something made with what was on hand. It had never been his favorite. But he finished his bowl and got up for another, and Bartleby did the same. He helped himself to more bread too. Opening the wine didn’t occur to him.
“Not tired of pumpkin yet?” Bartleby teased, as though he wasn’t licking his spoon.
Piotr was conscious of how loud his breathing was. But he shook his head. “Never.”
A grin was his reward.
He wondered if he should say something, or if Bartleby didn’t mind how quiet the house could get. Piotr could hear the creaks of old wood settling, the whistle of the wind through the garden, comforting and known to him, as they had been known to generations before him. Good sounds, he thought, for a house occupied by a single man, although he could think of better ones.
He didn’t know which made him flush hotter, Bartleby’s imagined laughter bouncing against the walls, or more of the unabashed noises Bartleby made when aroused. But the ancient, dry wood of the house would soak them up, and Bartleby would only provide more. It was his nature to give.
The coven had known what they were doing to send him here.
“I’m sorry it’s so quiet,” Piotr said, hoping Bartleby would comment on the silence, say it was boring or overwhelming, and not blink at him in absolute confusion, as if he hadn’t even noticed it. “Tomorrow will likely be more of the same,” Piotr made himself go on. “But I’ll actually be baking this time.”
“Then I will definitely be here.” Bartleby gave no sign that he knew Piotr had been trying to politely excuse him from more nights together. “Not only will I get to sample, I could deliver them, if you wanted. If you really plan to ignore our Samhain another year.”
Piotr exhaled shakily. He told himself he was relieved. Bartleby wasn’t going to be here for Samhain. Tomorrow would be their last night together before Bartleby committed himself to finding a witch to aid. It was relief that made him rise to his feet and gather their used dishes, relief that brought him back to sit across from Bartleby again.
He reminded himself they were not meant to be. “I like to celebrate the coming of the darkness in my own way.”
Bartleby’s lips twisted. “You always were cranky at the revels. I mean, once you grew up. You used to be more playful. Then you stopped, but I can see some of the reasons now, better than I could before. This way works for you though. You seem peaceful,” he added, blind as to the reason. “I suppose I understand. You care for us, but the distance is… safer for you. You have no one to ground you, and you’d spend too much time looking outward to everyone else. They should stop pressuring you to attend if you don’t want to go.”
“What does that mean?” Piotr frowned, stung at the idea he was letting down his coven, although Bartleby hadn’t said that. “I like the other holidays. But I prefer my Halloweens here, in my domain, with the human world outside, and my world in, and the door open between them.”
“Huh.” Bartleby expressed doubt with a puff of air. “We hardly see you in the spring either.” His anger was indicated in the barest tilt of his chin. “You know what I think? I think you enjoy the death of the year more than the rebirth, and don’t want us to know. I used to imagine it was because you grew up in a house with a ghost, that the spirit world comforted you as it wouldn’t comfort others. But now, I don’t know. I don’t think so, Piotr. You are devoted to life, you care for it, and you preserve it, and you provide it for others. But you do it without being a part of it. You’re very strong. One of the most potent among us in generations, perhaps in centuries. But you’re so alone. And even that I would accept if I thought you truly wanted it. No one who likes being alone would be so eager to make those children smile. And you wouldn’t throw open the door for me before I can even knock, and then when you see me, look so….”
He didn’t finish the thought, but what he’d already said had left Piotr speechless.
Bartleby stared at him. “I remember once, when all of us young ones were in the Pruitt’s barn during the equinox, and everyone was too afraid to play anything like Spin the Bottle, so the girls were peeling apples to find out the name of their future lovers. Then they were bored, or they liked you, so they made you peel one too.” He shook his head. “But you threw it away before it was done. Like you weren’t even curious.”
Piotr vaguely remembered that. But casting innocent, simple spells and telling fortunes were what bored witch children did, so he might have done that many times. “I… knew I liked boys,” he explained, trying
to remember any specific moments in the Pruitt’s barn where Bartleby had been there. Bartleby would have had to have been there, or Piotr wouldn’t have bothered hiding the details of his future. “And while among those like us that isn’t frowned upon, our coven is still a fairly small group. I didn’t see any point in looking for romantic relationships that couldn’t exist.”
“You… you didn’t… see any point? Couldn’t exist?” Bartleby stuttered, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Piotr realized he was speaking through clenched teeth, and that his chest was again constricted with guilt. He said the words anyway. “We can’t all be you, honeysuckle and wide eyes. By thirteen, I’d realized Andrei wasn’t going to stay here, and the adults in the coven were starting to tell me what my future responsibilities would be. They relied on my family’s strength. So I couldn’t leave to find anyone even if I thought someone would stay. And regular humans, well, I’ve only met one I’d take into my confidence about this. This might not be the time of the Trials, but humans still think witches are weird hippies, or evil. So, no. I didn’t see the point of pretending I would have a lover. I still don’t. It’s not meant for me.”
“You deny yourself spring?” Bartleby’s fingers were nearly white around his spoon.
That was the grimmest version of Piotr’s future, and hearing from it Bartleby made Piotr look away. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Bartleby insisted in a small, strained voice. “Piotr, be honest. Do you want to be alone in the sunshine?”
“I always have been.” The moment the words were out, Piotr raised his head in horror. He hadn’t meant to say them. He’d never even thought them. He wouldn’t have dared. Bartleby’s gaze was hurt, so he quickly tried to downplay it. “That’s not what I meant. The coven has been there for me and my family.”
