by Sara Hanover
Evelyn leaned across the table on her forearms. “You have never been demure a day of your life, for which I’m grateful.”
“Thanks. I think.” A bell rang. We swept up our trash in a hurry, readying for the next slate of classes. My coma faded enough so that I could absorb the afternoon of teachings, though I was so ready to get home.
Joanna, limo and all, waited for us as we left the hallways.
The house seemed ultra-empty with none of the guys in it. I had no idea where Steptoe and Hiram and Brian had gone, but I knew Carter had gone to work. The key rack jangled noisily as we passed it, and I threw out a hand to steady it even as I hung up my keys on it. It fairly quivered like a live thing under my touch. What was wrong with this house?
Joanna gave it a wide berth as she went by it in the hallway.
My key ring sprang off its hook. I caught it before it hit the floor, but Joanna and Evelyn never saw a thing. I put it back on the hook. “Now, stay.”
Upstairs, by the time I got to my room, the girls had opened the garment bag cocoons and laid the resulting butterflies out for my approval. I stopped in amazement. These were not dresses. They were stunning rainbows of material and color, style ranging from fun to elegant to simply outrageous. “Wow.”
Joanna gave a shy smile. “You like them?”
“Wow,” I repeated. Evelyn nodded to Joanna.
For the next hour I slipped in and out of silk, satin, and chiffon, and back again, turning about to see in the mirror, laced or open, off the shoulder or slit up the leg, twirling to see which one I liked best. Although there were only three garment bags, five dresses had been pulled out of them and every one of them looked awesome. Not necessarily on me, but in themselves. I felt both silly and royal at the same time watching myself pose in an ocean of pink chiffon or peach-colored satin. I must have tried on each one of them three times. You know, just to thoroughly check them out.
Evelyn perched on a corner of the bed, cheering me on, while Joanna paced back and forth a little, as if eying me on a catwalk, trying to decide what the best perspective would be. She paused by my nightstand. Her gaze fell on the journal, and for some reason I felt very uneasy, as it seemed to catch and hold her attention. I sashayed over in her direction, swishing my extravagant skirt about, and managed to knock the journal onto the floor. One quick kick and it scooted under the bed out of sight. Joanna gave me a sideways look when she noticed it missing and then a little shrug. We hooked arms and sashayed about the bedroom some more, making Evelyn laugh until she cried at our silliness.
I finally picked up the silk one, in a sea glass green with a side leg slit, although a modest one, ruched over the bosom and dipping nicely at the back. Nothing scandalous but daring in its own quiet way. I held it up for about the fourth time, just holding it against me and looking at the mirror that covered the back of my bedroom door. With it, my freckles seemed less, my hair richer in color and lustrous, and I knew the side slit would accent my legs nicely. Field hockey and bicycling had definitely given me killer legs.
“That one,” Joanna stated.
“I think so.”
“I knew it!” Evelyn bounced on her corner of the bed. Joanna looked at her.
“You were right.”
“Don’t get me wrong, the others are great, but this one, well, it’s awesome but . . . I don’t know. You can still see me, while I’m wearing it, you’re not just looking at dress, you know?”
“Absolutely.” Quick and efficient, Joanna began to repack the other dresses, while Evelyn found a suitable hanger for my choice. “I don’t even think it needs alterations if you wear heels.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
Joanna’s gaze swept the side of my room, where a pile of sneakers, sandals and flip-flops partially blocked the closet. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a hunch.”
When we left my room, though, Joanna cast one long and thoughtful look behind her. I decided I’d better move the journal somewhere safer. Evelyn punched her in the arm for being slow and the two dissolved in giggles while I put my gown on the acquired hanger and tried, loftily, to ignore the hilarity before joining them in the hall. The moment seemed blissfully normal. I delivered meals, did assignments, and slept in my own bed.
* * *
• • •
That normalcy flew out the window a day later when I handed Brian the journal. I’d tried to do it once or twice before but got interrupted, and then it would slip my thoughts entirely. Self-defense on the book’s part, so I wouldn’t reveal it? Was it still, somehow, in hiding mode until delivered to Brian? I determined not to wait another moment, in case I forgot again and it became too late. I whispered to him, “I found a book.”
“A book?”
“At the tobacco shop. Not the one where we rescued you, but an older, nicer place up the street. An establishment, a fine tobacconist. There was a cigar box stored there, with your name on it, and under the second layer, I found a small leather journal. No one else saw it.”
His hand trembled in mine. “Could you read it?”
“Haven’t tried. I’ve kept it hidden.”
“Very wise of you. I wonder what it might be. I wrote several journals about this and that.”
“Hopefully it’s a very important that.” I slipped it into his hands.
He staggered back a step, as if I’d hit him with a two-by-four. I grabbed for his shoulder to steady him. “Hey!”
“I thought I’d never see this again.”
“But it’s yours, right?”
“Oh, yes.” He tapped an index finger on the cover, on words I couldn’t begin to read. “Of all the things I thought you might hand to me, I never thought of this. It says ‘How to Burn,’ and only I and a few others could have written it.”
“It’s a recipe book for phoenix wizards? DIY? For the regen process?”
He nodded. His hands shook a little, and he made no attempt to open the journal further. Finally, he looked up at me to break a long silence. “I made notes, you see, on the best and most painless ways to accomplish what is a necessary if nasty transition.” He rubbed his thumb over it several times, the thick gold ring gleaming as he did.
What could I say to that? “Wow” didn’t seem suitable.
“A snake sheds its skin. A cat gives up its nine lives to insatiable curiosity, hopefully gaining enough in wisdom to live long and full the last incarnation. The rest of us go rather blundering through, don’t we? But not I. I have to build a pyre, prepare myself and . . . drop a match.”
“Technically, they didn’t have matches back then.”
Brian’s gaze shot up to meet mine, belligerent, and then he caught the joke. He did give a soft laugh. “Technically. Also, some of the essential herbs and spices have changed a lot throughout the centuries. I’ve had to substitute some and manipulate others, but I can’t complain about the results. I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”
“Or almost.”
“Indeed.” He stuffed the journal in his waistband. “Thank you, most deeply. I’ll be studying it closely to see how much of this quest we have before us.” He returned to his room, and the house lapsed into quiet. Hiram napping. Steptoe gone to check on his minions. Mom in her study, working on her class grading and another new article. Brian didn’t know it, but it seemed only a matter of time until Practical Urban Wizardry crept into her work as she absorbed the influence.
I decided on a nap. The quiet seemed perfect for it.
* * *
• • •
It couldn’t last. An hour or two later, I stood with the guys in the professor’s backyard, trying to determine the best way to enter the charred wreckage of his home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BRIAN SIGHED. His skin, now so pale it looked translucent, accented the veins showing at his wrists and purpling under his eyes. He looked tired beyond the extreme,
and I knew he wanted nothing more than to be at a home, any home, preferably resting and reading. We both wore empty shopping satchels over one shoulder, in case we could actually retrieve something.
Yellow plastic tape wavered a little in the early evening breeze, a welcome bit of coolness against the heat and humidity. Summer to come hung in the air, hot and heavy, with a tang of maybe a sprinkle of rain in the next day or two, but it would be a warm rain. I patted Brian on the shoulder, hoping to interrupt the thoughts that held him in place.
He looked at Hiram. “I don’t think the foundation will hold him.”
Hiram wagged an eyebrow. He leaned over and put his palm down on what was left of the solar porch across the back before nodding to Brian. “You’d be correct. The fire has left little of the bones of this place.”
“Okay, just the three of us, then.”
“I will stand guard.”
My mouth opened to tell him we wouldn’t need one, but then I closed it. Stranger things had happened and probably would happen again. Frankly, I expected Remy to be a half step behind us. Or ahead of us.
Hiram nodded to me. “You’ll be the easiest on the ruins.”
“Weight, right.”
“That, and other considerations.”
Steptoe and Brian traded looks but said nothing. Great. I stepped forward and bent under the tape cautiously, my shoes sending up a puff of loose ash. I moved cautiously over wood eaten away by fire damage, the whole porch leaning drunkenly to one side, the screening gone, while my memories of rushing in to try and find the professor filled me.
Behind me, Brian gave out a small noise and I imagine some of the same memories filled him. Had it been painful to burn as a phoenix? Did he fear going through it all over again? I slowed and put a hand out behind me. He caught it and held on tightly.
I smiled encouragingly at him over my shoulder. That confidence that had been the professor and eager innocence of young Brian no longer rested in his blue-green eyes. Something important ate away at him, or perhaps it was a lack of that something important, and every day he looked lesser.
He looked through the burned-out doorway and into the interior of his ruined former home. “I’m hopeful there will be some things we can salvage here.”
“There might be smoke and water damage, even if there wasn’t any burning.”
“I understand. Forward, then.”
Steptoe stepped onto the porch behind us and even though I didn’t have the senses of a Broadstone, I could feel the home giving way. I quickly hustled inside, hauling Brian in at my heels.
Inside, the smoke smell still hung on the air so thick it became difficult to breathe. I could, but my nose and lungs seemed to fill with the pungent aroma. My shoe soles crunched over char and debris, and the water damage made things here and there very squishy. Once completely inside, Brian released my hand and made his way quickly to the threshold of his library.
Steptoe’s source had spoken true. This room stood almost inviolate of the fire itself. Water had permeated the first three or four feet beyond the door, but the rest of the room looked untouched, except for the smoke itself. These books would all hold the scent of a campfire cookout unless sprayed with something that smelled cleaner, maybe pine or cedar or eucalyptus, to be bearable. Years might filter the cloying scent away eventually without help.
Brian stood running his hand over a shelf, but when he pulled it back with a book in hand, it literally melted in wet clumps, falling to the ground at his feet. He pulled another out, and it too collapsed in a soggy mess. I’d never seen anything like it. He let out a stifled cry.
“That can’t be normal.”
“Normal or not, it doesn’t matter, it’s in ruins.” He stood and spun slowly about in a circle, hands extended. “All ruined.”
“Never say never, guv,” Steptoe remarked as he moved in. “That lot on the far wall seems dry enough.”
“Seems is the operative word.” I steered Brian to the desk, which had char marks on one side as if the fire’s tongue had entered the room just long enough to give it a lick or two before the wards stifled it. Steptoe’s eyes had glittered a little too brightly as he’d spotted the desk and its relatively untouched condition. I didn’t expect any of the truly important relics or artifacts to be in any desk drawers, for how hidden would that be? But I didn’t want our dubious friend to be close enough to go hunting. He’d come just to hold the bags once filled and knotted closed. Brian said he could “lock” the bags with a personal ward, or thought he could. If not, I’d play pack mule.
I tapped the desktop. “Search here and I’ll see how bad the damage is in this bookcase.” Brian nodded numbly.
Unfortunately, I could see most of the tomes in the case were relevant to his years as a professor and doctor on campus. At least ten had been written by him, and he might well want to keep them, but they could wait. I knelt on one knee on the floor to look at the lowermost shelf. It looked ordinary but slightly out of kilter. I blinked at it. The alignment moved even as I stared at it. Just a hair’s width or so, and just a degree offside, but . . . very odd. I rubbed one eye. Was it the smoke hanging in the air that blurred my sight?
Rubbing didn’t make staring at the lower shelf any more focused. Finally, I grinned. “Professor, you’ve got a secret bookcase. Or shelf.” I began running my hands about the side and foot molding of the case, looking for a release or latch.
Brian joined me while Steptoe hummed. The tune seemed to be out of the chimney sweep songbook of street ditties, and it jarred my thoughts a little. I shot a look at him.
“Stop that.”
“Stop wot?”
“Look, you and I both know you’d sneak back here to find what we couldn’t if we don’t, so stop trying to magic the search.” Words tumbled out of me before I’d thought them through but they sounded accurate, so I let it stand.
Steptoe’s apple cheeks got a wee bit redder and he immediately dropped the tune. “Righto,” he said, and made a little hand gesture. “Sorry.”
I turned back as Brian found the right carving and depressed it. A click rewarded him, and the bookshelf swung ajar. He carefully finished swinging it open and behind it, a solitary lineup of very old-looking books met our eyes.
“That is cool.” I put my hand out. “We want these, right?”
“Right. Sadly, they can’t fix my current situation but they are invaluable for study later on. It never hurts to relearn important lessons. And I may have to do it the hard way.”
I filled my shopping bag, and Brian pinched it shut with three muttered words. The top of the canvas bag fastened tightly and did not answer to my attempted tug. “Good job.”
Dryly, “Thanks.”
We both stood, and oddly, Oliver Twist filled my first thoughts. Pickpockets and cutpurses. The top of the bag seemed secure but anyone with a sharp knife, and who moved fast enough, could cut the bottom out. I secured my burden closer to my flank. Brian put the swinging door back into place with a solid click.
“Anything else?”
“A few papers in the desk, probably.” He moved to it and began to open doors and such, his hands riffling through old possessions so quickly and confidently I knew the professor was in charge again. He came up with a few items, including a checkbook, which he stowed away in his bag. He scanned the study. “In light of the water damage, I think we’ve found all we can. Drying fans might or might not help what’s left. I can’t depend on that.”
Steptoe cleared his throat. Brian arched a brow at him.
“Oh, right. He wanted something.”
Brian looked at me briefly. “What?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“What?”
Steptoe quailed a bit under our combined stare. “A small book. A pamphlet, actually, even if the water got to it. Just to read, understand, mate. But I might be able to save i
t.”
“And that book would be . . .”
“Chaos and How to Tame It.”
“Taming chaos? And you reckon that would be a small, insignificant pamphlet?”
“To you, perhaps, but not to such as myself.”
“I know.”
“She offered it, but I know she ’asn’t got the right, so I’m asking you. I ’ave been a help, haven’t I?”
Brian stood silent for a very long moment. Then he nodded. “You have. Without our asking. You offered.” He waved across the room. “If I still have it, it should be over there, I think I remember. Not certain.”
Steptoe started in that direction. Stopped. “May I?”
“Yes.”
Beaming, he went to the indicated bookcase, running his fingers along spines. He came to a book, a massive book, and pulled it forth carefully. Damp, it dripped slowly on the floor, but did not disintegrate into pulp.
“Insignificant?” I repeated.
“Wait an’ see.” Steptoe returned to the desktop and opened the book carefully. Within, three smaller books nested in relative safety. He plucked the middle one out, showed the title to both of us, and then tucked it away in his suit coat. “Clever.”
Brian took the other two without a word or revealing their subjects and titles. Equally as carefully, he placed them in his sack and locked them away. “Cleverer than I obviously recall. I shall insist they dry this room out, if they can, and return to explore more such options.”
“Good idea, guv.”
Brian and I traded looks behind Steptoe’s back. How did he know what the professor hadn’t remembered, about three books hidden inside the greater one? I doubted we’d get any answer, let alone a straight one if we asked.
* * *
• • •
Outside, Hiram reported no skulkers or problems, but he took guard behind us as we walked home. We hadn’t been inside long, and the sun lingered in the sky as it did in late spring. It wouldn’t be dark until nearly eight o’clock. My stomach growled a bit. Not nighttime, but definitely close to supper. Mom’s car sat in the driveway, so she probably could be found fussing in the kitchen. I heard the pots, pans, and key rack rattle lightly as I walked in, and she poked her head out.
