The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

“So what’s your take on this, Mulligan?” he asked.

  “I think that this is a huge asset to be left unused. I think we’re on the right track with a bed and breakfast, but I’m not sure that the right answer is being open to the public, sir.”

  Shackleford’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Say more.”

  “Well, sir, the Badgers indicated that all the highest end rooms have a draw. We can refit the house as an English manor, assuming the pixies won’t mind—or can be bribed to accept the remodeling.”

  “Leave the remodeling to me, Mulligan,” Shackleford said.

  “Yes, sir. We have the furnishings already,” Roger said. “Am I right that there’s a warehouse full of antiques that came from various periods in the house’s history, sir?”

  “You’re correct, Mulligan.”

  “So that’s enough for the décor and accent pieces, in terms of furnishing. We may need to invest in new mattresses and linens, but we have more than enough bed frames in the house already.” He paused. “We need a draw. Depending on what that is, we may have to adjust our plans in terms of what we remodel the house to.”

  Fidelia took her tea and settled back into her chair, crossing her legs at the knee. “What kind of draw?”

  “I don’t know but the atrium is one of a kind, ma’am. I’m not talented but even I can feel it when I go in there. I’d spend all day there if I could.” He shrugged. “It just seems to me we should be looking at that as our centerpiece, not the house.”

  Barbara frowned at him. “Can I see what you’re thinking?”

  Roger nodded. “It’s all jumbled, but sure.”

  She nodded and raised her hand, letting it flutter in the air for a moment before her eyes widened. “I think I see.”

  “Can you tell me, Miss Barbara? Because I’m not getting anything to stick.”

  “You’re thinking something along the lines of a spiritual retreat? Something like that?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Something like that. A place where people could come and meditate or do yoga or whatever.”

  “Centered on the atrium,” Fidelia said.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re looking for a draw. A draw is something not available elsewhere.” He shrugged. “You’d know better than I would, ma’am, but I’m guessing there’s not another honest-to-God fairy forest inside any other building in the city.”

  She snorted a short laugh. “Probably not in North America.”

  “So? Can we make that the draw? How do we package it? Who do we package it for?” he asked. “Who do we try to sell it to?”

  “What’s your goal?” Shackleford asked over the top of his tea cup. His eyes twinkled.

  “The best use of the building,” Barbara said. She glanced at Roger before looking back at the old man. “I had no idea this place was so expensive to live in.”

  Shackleford shrugged. “I have simple needs. I make do.”

  Barbara almost did a spit take with her tea, managing to contain the damage at the last second. “Simple needs? You live in a mansion. You have a butler and ride in a Mercedes limo?”

  “To be fair,” Fidelia said. “He lives in two rooms and barely left the second floor for months until this week. The car is a bit expensive, but he has a reputation, an image to uphold. Roger’s only here because of Naomi.”

  “Thank you, Delia,” Shackleford said. “The only real extravagance is this library.” He looked around at the shelves. “Might be one of the largest collections of magic-related works in the Western Hemisphere. I know of one in the Czech Republic that could rival it, but I haven’t kept in touch with him.”

  “Ianos Kovalik?” Fidelia asked.

  Shackleford nodded.

  “He’s coming to the Fête this year, assuming he can get a visa through the State Department in time.” She smiled. “You should attend, Joseph. When was the last time you came?”

  “I don’t dare,” he said, looking into his teacup. “I don’t know if I’d be myself.”

  Fidelia sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Are you going to hide here in this library until you die?”

  He looked at her, a sad smile in his eyes. “Quite likely.”

  “You’ve got a court date you’ll need to keep,” she said.

  He nodded. “That could be my undoing.” He looked around at each of them. “This could all be for naught.”

  * * *

  “So, what’s our plan, Barbara?” Shackleford asked after Roger finished clearing the dinner dishes. “Tomorrow’s your last day.”

  Fidelia leaned forward, elbows on the table, her coffee cup cradled under her nose. She smiled at Barbara with light dancing in her eyes.

  Barbara, for her part, looked less than excited. “We’ve hammered and tonged this all week,” she said. “Without some kind of goal, it’s got all the structure of mashed potatoes.”

  Shackleford nodded. “I understand that. So, what’s the goal?”

  Barbara frowned at him. “You won’t tell me.”

  “I asked you for a plan for Shackleford House, didn’t I?” He shrugged, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  She growled at him—only half in jest. “A plan to do what? The possibilities are endless.”

  “If this was your house, what would you want to do with it?” Shackleford asked.

  “Reduce the overhead,” she said, almost immediately.

  “Why?” He came back at her just as fast.

  “You’re paying a thousand a day, just in taxes. I have no idea what the utility bills must be. Are the fairies making the water to keep the atrium going? Because that’s a lot of water.”

  “You’re not suggesting we do away with it, are you?” Shackleford asked.

  “No. Of course not. It’s ...” Words apparently failed her at that point because she just shook her head.

  “Look through the lens the other way, my dear,” Fidelia said.

  “The other way?” Barbara asked.

  “Yes. You’re looking at how much it costs to keep the house running. What are the benefits?”

  Barbara blinked several times. “I thought that was what we were trying to plan for. Some benefit for the place.”

  Fidelia’s shoulders flexed in an expressively exaggerated shrug. “You’ve already mentioned the atrium. It’s home to a tribe of fairies. The house is home to nations’ worth of pixies. The atmosphere in this place is—quite literally—magical. Surely, you’ve felt it.”

  Barbara looked at her coffee cup and nodded. “Yes.” She cast an apologetic glance at Roger. “I can’t explain it, but yes, I’ve felt it.”

  “Then what’s the real issue?” Fidelia asked. “Roger and I have gone where you’ve led us all week. I thought we had a half-decent plan with the bed and breakfast.”

  “It’s the expense,” Barbara said. “You heard the contractor. Just putting in the kitchen would be over a hundred thousand. The upstairs remodeling, at least that much again.”

  “Amortized over ten years, that’s less than you might think,” Shackleford said.

  “Then there’s staff and insurance.” Her eyes went wide. “My God, how much is the homeowner’s insurance on this place?”

  “Stop,” Shackleford said. His voice was low but the command snapped through the room.

  “Sorry,” Barbara said, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

  Shackleford’s lips tightened and Roger watched the old man’s jaw muscles clenching. He closed his eyes. The sound of his breathing all but echoed in the silence. His left hand clenched into a fist where it rested on the table.

  “Joseph? Are you all right?” Fidelia asked.

  The old man’s head made a tight twitch to the side and back.

  “Can we help?” Fidelia asked.

  He made the head shake again.

  The feeling of helplessness left Roger with the sour taste of bile in his throat. He wanted to check the old man’s vitals but as long as he was still breathing, Roger didn’t dare touch him.

  After wha
t seemed like hours, the tension drained from Shackleford’s body. First the tight frown smoothed to normal, his jaw relaxed and his shoulders sagged. Then his fist opened and his hand pressed palm-down on the tablecloth. The steam engine hissing of his breath through his nose lost some of the pressure and slowed. Last, his eyes opened and a tiny smile tugged his lips. “Well,” he said. He looked around the table and up at Roger. “Delightful meal, Perkins. My compliments to Mrs. Riggs.”

  “I’ll tell her, sir.”

  Shackleford looked at Fidelia. “Is there something wrong, Delia? You look pale.”

  Fidelia sighed and reached across to pat Shackleford’s forearm. “You’re having one of your episodes, Joseph.”

  He nodded. “Yes. It will pass.”

  “Wait, you know?” Barbara asked.

  Shackleford looked at Barbara, a heavy frown working his forehead into a veritable storm of furrows, his gaze raking her face. “Who are you?”

  “I’m your cousin Barbara,” she said.

  The frown lessened just a bit but his head moved in a slow shake—back and forth, back and forth. “I don’t know you.” He looked to Fidelia. “Should I?”

  “Yes, Joseph. She’s your cousin.”

  “Fascinating,” he said, looking back at Barbara. “Time travel isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Will I meet you in the future?”

  Barbara lifted her hand and the rolling movement in her wrist flexed all the fingers in turn as she stared at him. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she said, her voice faint and whispery. “We’ll meet in the future.”

  A beatific smile lit up the old man’s face. “I feel you trying to rummage,” he said. “I’m looking forward to your memories.”

  Barbara’s hand clenched into a fist and her eyes shot open wide. “No.” She threw herself back in her chair. “No,” she said again.

  “You can take it, you know. He’s old and weak. He won’t stop you.” The words rolled from Shackleford’s lips, like oil filming across a pool of water. The old man’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. “He’d welcome the release and think of the power you’d have.”

  Barbara looked around at Fidelia and Roger. “Help.”

  Fidelia launched herself from her chair and knocked Shackleford sideways to the floor, chair and all toppling to the parquet in a clatter.

  Shackleford oofed as he hit the floor and lay there long enough for Mulligan to reach his side, crouching beside him as Fidelia pulled the chair upright again.

  The old man looked up, blinking and shaking his head. “Perkins? What happened?”

  “You fell, sir. Are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride, Perkins. Help me up, would you?” He rolled onto his back and held an arm up for Roger to pull him upright enough to get his feet under him. Roger helped lift him to his feet and into the chair. Shackleford looked around the table. “Clumsy of me. Did I have too much wine with dinner?”

  “No, Joseph,” Fidelia said. “You just turned too quickly and the chair got away from you.”

  Roger looked to where Barbara sat stone-still in her seat, eyes clamped shut as tightly as the white-knuckled fist she still held in the air. “Miss Barbara?”

  She nodded. “Need a moment.”

  “Is she all right, Mulligan?” Shackleford asked.

  “Just needs a moment, sir,” Roger said.

  Fidelia reached over and took Shackleford’s hand. “Are you all right, Joseph? Nothing banged or bruised?”

  “I’m fine, Delia.” He looked at his right shoulder, brushing at it as if to clear away any floor dirt. “Embarrassed more than anything.”

  “You didn’t bump your head?” she asked.

  He rubbed his hands along the sides of his head and over the top. “Nothing is sore. It would be if I banged it, wouldn’t it?”

  Fidelia relaxed, her shoulders falling back and a smile replacing the frown. “Yes. Most likely.” She glanced at Roger, the relief plain in her face.

  “You would, sir. I saw you hit the floor, you mostly caught yourself. Please tell me if anything starts hurting?”

  “I shall, Perkins. I shall.” He squared himself to the table and watched Barbara for several moments.

  As if feeling their collective gaze on her, she said, “I’m all right.” As she sucked a deep breath in through her nose, her eyes popped open. She blew the breath out her mouth in a whoosh. “There. Sorry. Had a cramp in my brain.”

  “Are you all right?” Fidelia asked.

  Barbara nodded. “Yes, I think so. It was just ... unexpected.” She looked at Shackleford. “You took a nasty tumble.”

  The old man nodded. “I may retire early this evening. Leave you young people to entertain yourselves.”

  Fidelia snorted. “I’m not that much younger than you.”

  He smiled at her and reached over to pat her hand. “Keep reminding me, Delia. Keep reminding me. With luck, one day you’ll catch up with me.”

  “But you wouldn’t be here to see it,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Be careful what you wish for.” He looked at Roger. “I’m going to bed, I think. Today took a lot out of me.”

  “Let me walk you up the stairs, sir.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” Shackleford said, standing up from his chair. “I’m sure I can climb a set of stairs.”

  “I’m sure, too, sir, but just as a safety precaution? For the ladies’ sakes? It would make them feel better.”

  “It would, Joseph,” Fidelia said. “You just had one tumble. I’d hate to think of you having another.”

  Shackleford sighed and motioned to Roger. “Come on, then. Sooner started, sooner done, eh?”

  Roger walked a half step behind the old man all the way up to his room. “Can I help you with your jacket, sir?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Perkins. Yes. Just hang it up there.” He waved in the general direction of his wardrobe and held the bedpost while he toed off his shoes. “My pajamas? Where are they, Perkins?”

  Roger went to the dresser and pulled a set of pajamas from the third drawer. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to lay them out for you yet, sir.”

  Shackleford shook his head. “My fault for disrupting the schedule.” He stripped off his tie and took off his shirt and undershirt.

  Roger handed him the pajama top, picking up the tie to smooth and hang in the rack for pressing while dropping the clothing in the hamper for the next laundry.

  Shackleford navigated the change from trousers to pajama bottoms by himself while Roger turned down the bed and placed the old man’s robe and slippers in their customary positions. Shackleford slipped into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and faded off to sleep before Roger could say anything else.

  Roger stood there for a few moments, wondering if there was something else he should be doing for the old man. Unable to think of what it might be, he left the room, flipping off the light and closing the door behind him.

  He found Fidelia and Barbara in the library, both with wide, concerned eyes.

  “How is he?” Fidelia asked.

  “He seems fine, physically,” Roger said. “He’s still calling me Perkins, but he’s sleeping.”

  “Should he sleep?” Barbara asked. “If he has a concussion ...”

  Roger shrugged. “If he had bumped his head, even a little, I might be worried about it. I didn’t see anything that looked like a bump on his head and I was looking right at him when he fell. He hit the floor on his shoulder and arm.”

  “I feel terrible,” Fidelia said. “It was the only thing I could think of to do.”

  “You did good,” Barbara said. “I shouldn’t have tried to read him. I knew better, but I thought maybe I could get through. Maybe find something to help him.” She closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “Yeah. Not a good move on my part.”

  “We discovered something,” Fidelia said. “At least sometimes he has a warning that it’s coming.”

  Roger nodded. “It’s probably too soon to say he always has a warning
.”

  “Agreed,” Fidelia said. “It’s still more than we knew this morning and gives us a chance in court.”

  “How so?” Roger said, envisioning Shackleford being overtaken in front of the judge.

  “Well, we can interrupt the proceedings if it seems as if he’s in physical distress.” Fidelia shrugged. “He looked like he was having a heart attack or something there for a few moments.”

  “Or something,” Roger said, nodding. “We’d know what was coming, even if the court didn’t.”

  “Would it be enough?” Barbara asked.

  Fidelia shook her head. “I don’t know, my dear. We’ll have to play it by ear.”

  * * *

  “Will you be glad to get home?” Fidelia asked.

  Barbara looked around the foyer, up at the ceiling far above and down at the parquet floor. “I don’t know.”

  Fidelia’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  Barbara shrugged. “It seems odd, but this already feels more like home than my apartment ever did. That was always just a place to be on my way somewhere else.”

  “How long have you lived there?”

  Barbara’s gaze focused in the middle distance. “Can it be ten years already?”

  “And it’s not home?” Fidelia asked.

  “It’s funny. I used to think so, but I guess I’m a bit spoiled by this place.” She smiled at Roger. “Thank you, Mr. Mulligan. It’s nice to feel a little spoiled.”

  “Just Mulligan is fine, Miss Barbara, and you’re very welcome.”

  Shackleford stepped forward and held out an envelope. “Here’s the final payment,” he said. “You’ve more than met my expectations for your stay.” His lips held a smile but his eyes held a sadness. “You’re welcome here any time. Having you here has been an absolute delight.”

  “We didn’t come up with a plan,” she said, holding her hands behind her back. “I didn’t earn that.”

  Shackleford shook his head. “The plan wasn’t in the contract now, was it? That was just something I tacked on once you were here.”

  “But the contract only said I should come and stay a week and get to know the house.”

  The old man’s smile widened and he pushed the envelope closer to her.