The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “What amulet?” he asked the empty yard.

  * * *

  “Thank you, Mulligan,” Shackleford said, when Roger returned to the library for the tray and glasses. “If you’d decant that and bring it back? I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “What did you think of Ms. Necket?” he asked, settling himself back in his usual chair with the book open in front of him.

  “A lovely woman, sir. Quite adventurous.”

  “You have no idea, Mulligan. No idea. She’s a real mountain climber, you know. When she was younger she was one of the first women to climb Aconcagua. Terrible climb, her last big one, I believe. She still likes to travel to the base camps as she’s able.”

  “She seems quite able, sir.”

  He nodded and stared off into the distance. “Oh, she’s more than able, Mulligan. More than able. Brilliant mind. Stronger than she looks.” He sighed and shook his head. “Quite a looker in her youth.” He shrugged and gave him a sad smile. “Alas, not for the likes of men like me.”

  “She seems a staunch friend, sir.”

  “She worries about me. I’m getting up there in age.”

  “We all aspire to that height, sir.”

  He chuckled. “Well said. Well said.” He turned back to his book. “It’s good to see her back.”

  Roger took the tray and exited, taking the tray and glassware back to the kitchen. He didn’t know quite what to make of Fidelia Necket. She seemed overly concerned with his employment status, to say nothing of this amulet. What kind of amulet could steal anything, let alone memories? Stuff of fantasy. He frowned as he placed the tray on the work table.

  Like pixies.

  “Twice is coincidence,” he said. He pulled an empty decanter out of the cupboard and snagged a funnel from the utility drawer. He glanced at the cupboard that held the cups and saucers but shook himself. Silliness. Pixies, indeed.

  Placing the funnel in the decanter, he pulled out his cell phone—the jacket had two inside pockets, one on each side, and he used them both, regardless of what Pettigrew said—and turned on the flashlight, laying it flat on the table to shine up through the neck of the bottle. The how-to article he’d read on his phone mentioned a strong light and it was the strongest portable he had. Sadly, the bible gave explicit instructions on some things but assumed he knew basic skills when it gave instructions on running the house.

  Perhaps next year he’d go to butler school. Compared to combat and life as an EMT, it seemed a relatively safe occupation. Even with the long hours and limited privacy, seeing the house in order soothed him.

  The sediment started to show in the neck of the bottle so he backed off, letting it settle a bit more. He glanced at the cupboard again. What would it hurt to put a little whiskey in a saucer? He’d heard of sillier superstitions, and it might give the old guy a little peace.

  * * *

  When evening came, he made his usual check of the household, making sure the doors and windows were locked and the house in order. His gaze fell on the coffee maker on the counter as a faint whiff of vinegar tickled his nose.

  “Pranks,” he said. It wasn’t possible.

  Was it?

  Feeling a bit foolish, he pulled a saucer out of the cupboard and placed it on the counter between the coffee maker and the sink. He fetched the whiskey decanter from the front parlor, dribbled some of the amber liquid onto the saucer, and poured a finger for himself in the bottom of a glass. It might be the cheap stuff to Shackleford, but it was still a cut above his usual.

  * * *

  Roger went through his morning routine—calisthenics, run, and shower—before checking out the saucer in the kitchen. He fully expected to find it, at most, tacky from evaporation overnight. What he found was a perfectly clean dish. He touched it with his fingertip. Perhaps the film was too fine to see. Nothing. He held it up to the light, letting the overheads reflect on it. It looked like it had just come out of the dishwasher, except for his fingerprint.

  Was the old man messing with his head?

  He opened the dishwasher and deposited the saucer. He’d emptied it the night before, so the saucer was the only dish there.

  “He could have rinsed it and just put it back,” he said. The clock reminded him he wanted to make steel cut oats for breakfast. They were on the approved menu and he’d always wanted to try them himself, anyway. No time like the present. He put on his apron, gathered the ingredients, and followed the recipe in the bible; it called for adding apple juice and dried cranberries along with cinnamon and ginger. The bible warned him that they took some time to cook and needed to be stirred occasionally. He brought his coffee to the stove and sipped while he worked.

  The recipe went together smoothly and he had a quiet half hour, eyeing the clock and scanning the headlines on Shackleford’s paper. He really didn’t follow the financial news so most of it meant nothing to him. What the various markets did and who got caught with his hand in some cookie jar didn’t really interest him. Every so often a mention of Naomi Patching’s father, Othello Bruna, showed up. Weird name, but the one picture he’d seen showed a man staring at the photographer with the same supercilious sneer that Naomi used.

  The oatmeal came out very nicely. He’d never been an oatmeal guy before. Give him a couple eggs over easy, some fried potatoes, and a few rashers of bacon and he was happy. Judging by the way his mouth watered at the aromas wafting up from the oatmeal, he might have been short-changing himself. He split the pot between two bowls, being careful with Shackleford’s presentation. He consulted the bible while he ate his breakfast over the sink, thoroughly amazed at the textures and flavors. For Shackleford the Bible suggested a toasted English muffin with some marmalade and coffee, but no juice. The garden yielded a pretty yellow flower with a brown center for the morning tray. There always seemed to be at least one for him to pluck on his way back from his run.

  The fairies seemed to be doing a good job with the grounds because, while nothing looked overgrown or out of place, it also didn’t look like a garden. It looked more like the house—huge as it was—merely sprouted from the lot in primordial times and the lawns and landscaping grew around it.

  He chuckled at the thought and made sure Shackleford’s tray had everything it was supposed to before changing out of his apron and slipping into his jacket.

  He took the tray up to the library and knocked before entering. As was his habit, Shackleford sat in his normal chair, book before him. “Good morning, sir.” Roger placed the tray on the table.

  “Good morning, Mulligan. What have you for me this morning?”

  “Steel cut oats, sir.”

  “Oh, perfect. I generally prefer them during the winter months, but I was just thinking about them this morning.”

  “I’m glad, sir. If there’s something in particular you’d like, I’d be happy to try to prepare it for you.”

  Shackleford looked up at him. “Thank you, Mulligan.” He paused for a moment as if trying to remember something, his eyes rolling around in their sockets. “It is Mulligan, yes?”

  “Yes, sir. Mulligan is correct.”

  He sighed. “I keep calling you Perkins, don’t I.”

  “Yes, sir, you do. Parsons, at least once.”

  The old guy’s white eyebrows rose at that. “Parsons? Oh, my. That’s distressing.”

  “Why, sir? Parsons, Perkins. They sound alike.”

  “Parsons was my father’s valet. I haven’t thought of him in decades.”

  “Did they live here when you were young, sir?”

  Shackleford nodded. “One of the first houses built when the city housed immigrants from the old country. Stories have it that the original Shackleford took quite the ribbing for moving so far out into the woods, fully five miles from the coast.” He smiled. “Urban sprawl overtook the place within half a century and now people on the west side see us as being way over on the eastern side of the city.” He shook his head. “I think it was
originally built in the late 1600s but it’s been upgraded several times. Once by fire.” He grinned. “Nothing like burning a city to the foundations to get them to improve building codes, eh?”

  Roger laughed. “I can see how that might make an impression, sir.”

  “Tell me, Mulligan. How do you like it? Working here, I mean.”

  “I find it quite soothing, sir.”

  “Not as exciting as riding an ambulance?” Shackleford offered a grin. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Well, sir, since you brought it up ...” Roger paused, unsure of how to broach the subject.

  Shackleford nodded. “Go ahead, man.”

  “I would like to get better as a cook, sir. My skills in the kitchen have been limited to frying eggs and boiling water, for the most part. The bible lists several meals that I might prepare, but I have no idea how to make them. Ms. Necket’s visit made me consider that I lack the skills and knowledge to put on even an informal dinner, let alone prepare dishes for a festive occasion or formal dinner.”

  Shackleford nodded again. “For the record, your service has been exemplary over the short time you’ve been here. You think you’d like to continue in service, then? After your year is up with me?”

  “It has crossed my mind, sir.”

  He sat back in his chair and into the middle distance for a few moments. “Two distinct problems, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Running the household and becoming better in the kitchen. I have a suggestion for remedial cooking, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t know where to start on becoming a better butler.”

  Shackleford’s eyes widened. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, sir, there’s the matter of the internet.”

  “What of it?”

  “With access to the net, I could watch cooking videos and look up how to prepare some of those dishes that I don’t know.”

  “The internet? Here in Shackleford House?” He tilted his head and gazed into the distance for several long moments. “Do you have any idea how to do that without disturbing the pixies?”

  “I don’t, sir, but I could find out what’s involved.”

  “I’m not opposed, Mulligan. At least not on principle. Never saw the need for it myself.” He glanced around the room, his gaze seeming to caress the spines arrayed on the shelves. “Put together a proposal. Let’s see what we can do.”

  Roger nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Mulligan.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Shackleford turned to his breakfast and shook his head. “Thank you, Perkins. That will be all for now. I’d like a copy of the Fête d’Étoile guest list by end of day, if that’s possible. And don’t forget to add a case of caviar to the grocery order for next week’s Circle meeting.”

  Roger paused, unsure how to respond in the moment. “Of course, sir,” he said, and left the library.

  Perhaps the Bible had some guidance on these events. He turned to the morning routine after making a note to check for references on both the Fête and a weekly Circle meeting. The old guy probably got confused by the visit and the reminder of the Fête, whatever it was. Christmas celebration, maybe? Months away, but it sounded like something that took months in the planning. He sighed and stripped the bedding, collecting the sheets and towels in a bundle to take to the laundry, and straightened the room.

  The internet was good news but he pondered how to approach the issue of the pixies. He needed a consultant. No one came immediately to mind for the pixie problem, but for the internet? Luckily, he knew just the woman for the job.

  * * *

  At the stroke of one, the front doorbell rang. Roger opened it to find Samantha Bicker staring wide-eyed at him. “Rog?”

  “Sam, thank you for coming.” He stepped out of the doorway and ushered her into the house.

  “Vinnie said you got a job as a butler, but I thought he was kidding.” She glanced around the foyer before giving Roger the once-over. “Look at you.” She grinned. “Monkey suit and all.”

  Roger shrugged. “A uniform is a uniform. It’s just that this one doesn’t represent Uncle Sam.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll explain what we need to do.”

  She followed him down the short passageway and whistled at the kitchen. “You know how to cook now, too?”

  He laughed. “No, and that’s the problem. I need to learn and I don’t have the time to go to school.”

  “Ah,” she said, drawing out the single syllable. “Hence the internet and the wonders of instructional videos.”

  He nodded. “I don’t expect to become a chef, but I need to be able to do more than fry an egg and boil water.”

  She pulled a tablet out of her shoulder bag and fired it up. “What do you need?”

  “First, we need high-speed access. The house has never had television, even, let alone cable. We’ll need a line run, and I’m thinking wireless from a hub in the basement.”

  She made a few notes. “The basement?”

  “No drilling,” Roger said.

  She bit her lip but nodded. “We can do that. I assume the place has electricity?” She glanced up at the overhead lights.

  “And indoor plumbing,” Roger said with a laugh.

  “How big is this place? Will you want the whole house covered?”

  “It’s massive. The east and west wings are closed off. Mr. Shackleford keeps mostly to his rooms and the library at the top of the stairs. You want coffee?”

  “Love a cup. You want internet access up there?”

  Roger pulled down two cups with saucers and poured coffee. “My quarters, primarily. Need cream and sugar?”

  She shook her head. “Black’s fine. Show me?”

  He slid the saucer over to her and picked up his own. “This way.” He’d become inured to his rooms but the look of wonder on Sam’s face reminded him of the first time he’d seen them.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “You’re kidding me.” Her head swiveled back and forth taking it in. “How much do they charge you for this?”

  “Comes with the job,” he said, waving her to the cozy conversational grouping in the corner.

  Samantha put her cup down on the coffee table and settled into the chair, running her hand along the arm. “This is real leather.”

  Roger sat across from her. “Everything in this house is real. Wood, leather. Crystal. Silver.”

  “Man.” She kept looking around at the room. She nodded at the still mostly empty bookcase. “Not a big reader?”

  He held up his phone. “Ebooks. This is my only connection to the outer world.”

  She nodded and pulled up her tablet again. “Okay. Where do you want your terminal?”

  He turned to look at the rolltop desk. “I was thinking there, but I don’t know. I hate to block the access to the desk.”

  She nodded and looked around the baseboards. “You need an electrical outlet.”

  He frowned and followed the cord from the lamp on the end table back to the wall. “There’s one behind my chair.” Between them, they found four in the two rooms.

  “No drilling,” she said after they’d completed the survey. “Absolute requirement?”

  He nodded. “The pixies wouldn’t like it.”

  She froze in place and stared at him. “The pixies?”

  He laughed. “Long story.”

  She shrugged and eyed the top of the dresser. “What about there?”

  “What about there?” he asked.

  “I’m guessing you won’t want a lot of exposed cables and wires?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t think this through.”

  “That’s why you hired me,” she said, with a grin. “And I’m doubling my usual rate for this gig.”

  He laughed. “I have to get it approved before we do it.”

  She shrugged. “What about a laptop?”

  “What about a laptop?” he asked.

  “Put it
here to charge it up.” She slapped the top of the dresser. “Take it to your desk when you want to use it. Put it back here when done. Something in a black or steel gray case? Closed, it wouldn’t stand out in the room. Plug it in down there.” She pointed to the outlet between the wardrobe and dresser. “I’m guessing you’re not going to have a lot of time to surf the net?”

  He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Probably not.”

  “Laptop, you could take it to the kitchen while you’re working on new recipes,” she said. “Decent machine is good for hours on battery.”

  He blinked. “That would be really useful.”

  She shrugged. “Where’s the basement?”

  He stopped at the key safe and pulled the relevant keys before leading her out to the garage. “Don’t mind the cars,” he said, grinning at her over his shoulder and opening the door.

  “Are you kidding me, Mulligan?” She froze inside the door, staring at the lineup of vehicles. “What’s that? A million dollars on twelve tires?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you drive them?” she asked, her eyes widening as she looked at him.

  He shook his head. “I could. Mr. Shackleford gave me permission, but can you imagine parking one of these anywhere in the city?”

  “What if you got hit?” she asked.

  “Exactly,” Roger said. “I can’t imagine taking one of these out in public.” He unlocked the basement door and opened it. “Come on. Basement’s down here.”

  She eyed the construction leading down. “No drilling? How do you think you’re going to get the cable down here?”

  “I don’t know. Air gap under the door plate? Maybe over the top of the door?”

  She looked around the cellar’s entry, then peered down one of the arches. “What’s down there?”

  “Wine cellar.”

  She looked at him. “Of course. I should have known.”

  He shrugged.