by Sara Hanover
I nodded. He carefully handed back the pamphlet to Steptoe. “Keep an eye on her.”
“Always.”
The two nodded in silent agreement at one another, which frankly gave me the creeps. What had Carter picked up in those papers that Steptoe also knew, and all of a sudden, made the two coconspirators?
Plus, I wanted that pamphlet myself. The stone contaminated me. Might control me. I had a right to know as much as they did. I peered at what I could see of the booklet in Steptoe’s hands. “I could use that.”
“For wot?”
“Knowledge, Simon. Shouldn’t I be in on all this?”
Steptoe looked, really looked, at me, his dark eyes narrowing a bit as if he had to bring me into focus. Then he shook his head vigorously. “I don’t want that mark on th’ soul I’ve got left. You want educated, you talk t’ Brian.” He stood up and tucked the mystical tome inside his suit coat pocket, away from sight, as he left.
His words didn’t change things much, but my brief look at the pages not hidden by his handhold did. I hadn’t recognized a symbol. Maybe one needed special eyesight to get past the gibberish or illusion? Or translation into a modern language? That was ridiculous. I needed to know. I’d have to hope the professor thought so, too. I didn’t like being kept in the dark, but it looked like I didn’t have much choice at the moment. When Brian felt stronger, Brandard might be easier to convince. Or not.
I decided I’d had enough of magical thinking and went down the hall to my room to practice wearing insanely tall high heels. They slipped onto my bare feet as if they’d been made for me. Cobbled for me? Whatever. They fit. And they did hurt when I stood up on them, all my weight sinking down to my toes and pinching them tightly. That and the loss of mobility was why I didn’t like wearing heels. Others did because they liked being taller. Me, not so much.
I didn’t set my phone up to video until I could glide confidently across the floor. Tough to do with pounding and muted shouting downstairs as the crew worked. It seemed that Hiram and the boys made the decision not just to repair but improve the whole basement floor of the house, ceiling, floor, and Wi-Fi included. Not that it wouldn’t be nice having an entertainment room all to ourselves, but a resident ghost would frankly creep most people out. Mom had told me to be thankful we didn’t have to pay for it, but she hadn’t seen the remodel up close. Yet. When they finished and cleared out, then I’d take Mom down and see if I could help Dad manifest for her. I didn’t know if that was a wise thing to do or not, given the circumstances, but it seemed like I had to try. If it was truly Dad, she needed to see him again and he needed to know that there might be a way back. If he got back.
I only hoped he’d kicked the gambling habit for good wherever he’d been stuck all those years. If he hadn’t, I’d be tempted to lose him again. I think I have this terrible character flaw of being unforgiving.
I crossed the floor twice, looked at the phone, decided I didn’t look like an idiot and texted it to Evelyn.
I swear her phone was grafted to her. Worst case of phone dependency I had ever known. She shot back, Well done, grasshopper.
I sent back a grin with the tongue out emoji before heading downstairs to start a dinner of sorts, because Mom would be home.
The kitchen table stood piled with ten, I kid you not, ten extra-large pizza boxes. Nine of them were demolished and empty. The tenth stood, steaming and inviolate, waiting for Mom and me. Steptoe too, I guess, but he’d disappeared again. I opened the lid to smell the delicious combo flavors.
Mom came in, purse in one hand and computer bag in the other. She took a whiff. “Pizza? Again? Though it does smell delicious.”
“Roll with it, Mom.”
“Guess I’m going to have to. They’re all still here?”
Hiram shouted up from the bottom of the kitchen ramp. “Packing up now, Mrs. Andrews. Left you some dinner.”
“Bless your heart,” she shouted back, “Yes, I saw, thank you.” She perched on a kitchen chair. “And how was your day?”
“Fine. Assignments all caught up, and I really don’t think anyone missed me. I wore my wrist brace in case anybody asks how I’m feeling.” I flashed her the stone. “Seemed best to hide this, all things considered.”
She peeled a slice up and began to eat it. “What does that do, exactly?”
It’s not easy to lie with a great pizza in front of you. I picked a black olive off it and nibbled it. “Think of it like a protective shield.”
“Oh, so when you’re biking down the street, I don’t have to worry about your getting hit. Or hijacked on the bus.”
“Nooo. More like a barrier against errant magic.”
“Ah. So next time Brian yells ‘Avaunt!’ and breaks something, I don’t have to worry about you being in the way or getting caught by a ricochet.”
“Yeah. Like that.” Maybe. I pried off a mushroom and chewed. I decided I had better get to eating and finished a slice to be safe.
The front door opened and someone called, “Yoo-hoo” gently. Mom jumped to her feet. “Aunt April! We’re in the kitchen.”
We traded looks frantically. She hadn’t been told about the mudroom floor yet, but there’d be no missing it as she came in. Not to mention the dust and noise of the wrecking crew in the cellar. Mom washed her hands at the sink and had a glass of sweet tea ready for my aunt as she came in, puzzlement all over her.
“What on earth happened?”
“The mudroom gave way. Did you know you had a basement down there?”
“Oh my.” Aunt April took a sip as she sat down carefully. “I had truly forgotten. First things first—was anyone hurt? Do I have to make an insurance claim?”
“Nobody hurt, and the man who fell through brought his family in to make the repairs. He’s in construction. It won’t cost you a nickel.”
Up to his neck in construction, at the moment, I thought. I wrangled a paper plate. “Pizza, Aunt April?”
“Don’t mind if I do. No pepperoni though, gives me dyspepsia.”
“Right.” I served her a Canadian bacon and pineapple slice. She beamed when I handed it to her. Pizza fed crowds. I wondered when she’d last had any on her own. She’d dressed in prim navy slacks and a navy and white pinstriped blouse today and looked not a bit wilted from the warm weather, her hair swept back and pinned neatly in place.
“The basement?” I prompted. For good measure, I added, “Did Dad stay here after he left?”
“Oh, no. Not that I know about. He had keys so he might have. I don’t come here often anymore. I was lucky to keep this place when the Great Recession hit, but I managed.”
“Why did you hold onto it?”
“Because I thought someone might need it, dear.” Aunt April neatly bit off a bite. “I was born in hard times and remember them well. I wasn’t necessarily thinking of y’all but I knew someone might need it, some day. A lot of my friends are widows now. I wasn’t sure if they would have a place when their husbands passed. I’d been lucky to own several properties, and it didn’t hurt me to keep holding on.”
“But you had to sell the great house,” Mom said.
“True, but that place was grandiose, wasn’t it? A manor and a half. I rattled around in there like a dust bunny. The summer place is fine for me, and I do love it. Gardens and my sun porch.”
Mom and Aunt April laughed while I tried not to choke on a meatball at the mental picture of her as disheveled as a dust ball.
When I could swallow and breathe decently, I pressed. “But Dad . . .”
“Well now.” She went very still for a moment, thinking. “As I said, he did have keys, but he never mentioned it to me. I always thought he’d have come home in a few days, but then it became weeks, and then . . .”
We all went silent. Aunt April cleaned her hands on her napkin. “Mind if I have a look? They’re certainly making a racket.
”
I jumped up to pull the pantry door open. She looked amazed for the tiniest moment.
“My. I had forgotten all about that door. It must have been painted over four, five times. Always was the coolest place in the house. My brothers used to sleep down there when it got hot as blue blazes.” She leaned in the doorway and looked down. One of the gingers and the bald dwarf waved to her. “They’re working to beat the band down there. Renovating everything?”
Mom shrugged. “They insisted. Hiram, the young fellow in the blue and green plaid shirt and jeans, felt awful when he fell through. It should look really nice when they’re done. They’re saving the goods that were stored down there.”
“My, my. I should imagine we’ll have some fun opening them up.” Aunt April backed out of the stairwell. “That should be something.” She gave me a glance as she sat down to finish her pizza. “Now, my brothers would be your father’s uncles, so they’d be your great-uncles.”
“But gone now.”
“Yes.” Her mouth turned down. “World War for one of them, and road racing for another.”
“Road racing?”
“Died running moonshine, trying to outrace a treasury agent.” She winked at me. “We have a bit of a history, young lady.”
“I’ll say. Wow.” Not much of one when they ran out of luck, it seemed, or maybe she’d just inherited all of it. Moonshiners. Huh. I still had no idea why my dad had been trapped here, but it seemed neither did she.
I was cleaning up my plate when the doorbell rang twice. The meals for delivery now sat on the porch. I wiped my hands off. “Save me another. Got to go.”
“Okay. Watch yourself on the streets, please.” Mom arched an eyebrow at me, meaning more than she said.
“Always.” I kissed her on the cheek. She looked perky today, always a nice thing to see. I hugged Aunt April, who looked pleased that I did, and I bolted off.
The food envelopes smelled meaty. They hadn’t taken the professor off my route yet, so I decided to double up one of my regulars in case they had a friend. Someone had oiled the bike and chariot for me, probably someone on the wrecking crew, and the set waited for me in the driveway next to Mom’s car. Her vehicle makes creaking noises as it cools down, and I figured it was due for some kind of maintenance work and would probably get it before nightfall, as Hiram’s guys seemed to be the Obsessive Fix-It types. I pulled my brace on and set off.
My legs had caught a bit of a tan, too, the last few weeks in shorts under the sun, freckling a bit as I tended to, but I looked okay. That dress for the auction wouldn’t entirely go to waste on me. Nice to know. I biked along relatively happy until I got to Mrs. Sherman’s. She always waited for me, peeking from her snow-white curtains, her Texas-red bouffant hair easy to spot through her drapes, her lipstick to match her hair gracing a generous smile. The spot at the window looked empty.
I put the kickstand down in her driveway and pulled an envelope free, as it leaked a warm but unidentifiable smell into the air. What dinner was tonight, I had no earthly idea. Approaching Mrs. Sherman’s door, I noticed the absolute quiet. It reminded me of the blazing moment when I’d stood in the desert with Carter, surrounded by wilderness and silence. Especially that second when I’d thought something awful stood behind us. Right now, it felt like something waited in front of me.
Where was she? Had she fallen? Was she really sick? Each step I took dragged a bit, because I didn’t want to know. The league had told me I’d lose a few route members if I did this long enough and tried to prepare me for it. Most moved in with relatives for support and a few went to residential homes, and a very few, well, died. What had happened to the professor went beyond a technicality of life.
I balanced the food envelope on my left arm and knocked hesitantly on the front door, totally unused to not having Mrs. Sherman there, smiling and waving me on in before I’d even taken the last step onto the porch. Uncannily, the door swung open before me with no one apparently waiting on the other side. It missed the chance to creak ominously.
“Mrs. Sherman? Dinner’s here.” My voice went a little hoarse and thinned too much to be louder. I swallowed tightly and took two steps inside. My presence echoed in the too-quiet house. My heart thumped a quick “Oh, no” and my feet wanted to turn around and head back through the doorway. Surely nothing could have happened to her, but my tingling nerves told me something had happened here. Or maybe my nerves were just shot from the past few days, which I could hardly be blamed for, considering everything that had happened.
“Mrs. Sherman?” I tried again, thinking I really couldn’t bear just one more thing. I slid rather than walked toward the kitchen, my sneaker soles squeaking just a little, as if someone dragged me. The hairs on my arms stood up even as I thought I’d feel really stupid if she walked in from the garden now, arms full of early summer corn and green tomatoes, and a big ol’ smile on her face. Whatever aroma wafted up from the insulated envelope began to smell less and less inviting, and my stomach knotted.
No one sat in the sunny kitchen. The morning dishes hadn’t been done, either, a first for the vivacious redhead. I sat the meal down and knew then I’d have to go through the house, room by room, and then the yard, until I had an idea what had become of Mrs. Sherman. I thought of calling for backup. Mom would come. I might need more help than that. I should tell her to bring the wrecking crew with her. You know. Just in case.
I sashayed quietly out of the kitchen, past the little laundry room and side door, which might have qualified as a mudroom once upon a time, but it was really too small. The whole house was much smaller than ours, Aunt April’s, that is, and only one story. I should be able to go through it quickly, if I could just get my body to move.
I rubbed my left palm under my brace but the stone stayed quiet and neither warm nor chill. “Big help you are,” I muttered and retraced my steps through the entry, wishing I had those sky-high silver heels. Not on my feet, but in my hands where I could wield them in my defense like sharp, shiny little daggers, drop ’em and run.
My physical ed classes had been filled with field hockey the last few years, with off-season fitness like cross country. Now the idea came to me that I should take a martial arts class and learn some serious moves instead. Maybe they taught stiletto heels right alongside nunchucks and morning stars. I should take the time to learn some awesome martial arts defense. Right?
Mrs. Sherman’s house had a small, tidy front bedroom, which she’d turned into a crafter’s room. I could see homemade quilts she’d hung on the wall, two sewing machines, tubs of fabric against another wall, and a table for measuring and cutting. A chair in the corner came with a diminutive and ruffled footstool, and a pair of those antique knitting needles she’d bragged about once, or maybe those were crochet hooks, wrapped in yarn and waiting on the seat. It all looked and felt as though she’d just stepped out for a moment. I grabbed one of objects, sliding it out of the yarn, IDing it definitely as a knitting needle, and it did look fairly sturdy and sharp, despite its ancient and yellowing ivory color. I ran my hand down it. Seriously, bone? Could it be? Feeling lethal, I wrapped my fingers about it tightly.
Nerves tighter than strings on a family fiddle, I backed out of the crafting room and headed toward the living room, the center of this small but neat house. That’s when the sight of her hit my vision.
If she’d gone, she’d gone sitting up, straight as a board on the far end of the divan, near the fireplace and hearth. Her bouffant red hair sat in her lap with her natural head nearly as bald as an egg under thin and wispy strands of gray, a sight I knew the public had never been meant to see. Her Texas-red wig must have been her glory. “Mrs. Sherman?” She didn’t move a muscle as I came through the arch.
“She’s occupied, dear.” Remy glided up at my flank, smiling and smelling like a perfumery of Paris. She managed to make those three words sound sinister.
“You didn’
t kill her, did you?”
“Oh, no. No. She’s enjoying a memory, if you will, fond thoughts of the past.”
“Then why did her hair fall off?”
“I had a bit of a tussle getting her to sit down and relax. It’s just a wig.”
Since Mrs. Sherman wore it every single waking moment, I knew it was more than a wig; it was an age-defying act and a matter of dignity. But I had a feeling this elegant woman talking to me wouldn’t appreciate any of that one bit. Wait until she was old and lost her hair, if magicians ever got that old before someone bumped them off. No wonder the professor didn’t consort with the Society. Along the way, members must—at least this one had—lose their moral compass. I knew she’d probably sold it off. I closed my eyes a moment, thinking I really didn’t want to see that happen to Carter.
“She’ll be all right?”
“I give you my word, depending on you, of course.”
“I’d rather have a string-free commitment.”
Remy laughed. “Of course, you would, clever girl. But that’s not the way it works.”
“What are you doing here? Besides meddling with Mrs. Sherman?”
“Waiting for you, of course. You have something I need.”
“I thought Brian held all the goodies you wanted.”
She smiled sadly. “Not this time. It fell upon me to single you out.”
I leaned a little against the end of the couch, the knitting needle tucked alongside my forearm and, hopefully, out of sight. My hip thoughtfully pushed my cell phone against the furniture and, I also hoped, butt dialed. After having been embarrassed once or twice, I’d programmed the thing not to dial so easily, except for one number. Home. “I’m a little confused,” I told her. “Are you or are you not a member of the Society? Or with the other guy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not the answer I wanted. So, another question: what is it I have that you want?” I had that one figured out, but confirmation would be nice.
“The maelstrom stone. There are some of us who felt it, quite keenly, activate, so there is no sense in your lying about it or saying that it hasn’t attuned to you. I’m not asking if you have it. What I know, I know well.”
