by Josh Lanyon
Why not lead with the news that Ambrose had threatened Seamus? It seemed an odd thing to withhold. He had waited until he suspected I wasn’t impressed enough by Ambrose’s youthful offenses. Well, and to that point, was Ambrose’s juvenile record really relevant? He was twenty-one now, and his most recent job references had checked out. GameStop, Baskin-Robbins, and Barnes and Noble had all been sorry to see him go. It was hard to imagine he posed a danger to society or even my cash register. So why the urgency to remove the kid from my sphere? Was that for my protection or Ambrose’s? I wasn’t sure.
I said, “Thanks for letting me know, Ralph. I’ll talk to Ambrose, and we’ll see where we are after that.”
“Very good,” Ralph said. “And again, sorry for putting you in an awkward position, but better to address it now than wait for things to go wrong. Isn’t that one of the Precepts?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Delays have dangerous ends.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What about Great-great-great-uncle Arnold?” Andi asked in an under voice when I stepped inside again.
I glanced at the hallway where the mirror hung. Thankfully, Arnold was behaving himself this morning and not exposing himself to my helpers. And with Great-great-great-uncle Arnold, exposing himself did mean all options were on the table. “I’d better carry that myself.”
She nodded agreement.
I moved past her and went into the kitchen, where Blanche was wrapping my mismatched vintage china in enough bubble wrap to ship it safely to Mars.
“I would kill for even one of those Wedgwood basalt bowls,” she told me.
“That’s a phrase I wouldn’t use around here these days.”
Blanche made a face and then the avert sign. “True.”
“Hey, I wanted to ask. How’s Ambrose working out?”
Behind purple rhinestone glasses, her blue and green eyes lit. “I like him! Of course, things are pretty slow with no customers right now. But I think he was a good choice. I’ve been teaching him about Wicca. I mean, just while we don’t have any customers.”
“Wicca? Really?”
“He’s very open-minded. Not like Antonia.”
Antonia was Craft and a little bit of a snob about Wicca. Unfortunately, that was all too common with some witches.
“So…no problems?”
“None. He seems like a fast learner. Anything I ask him to do, he’s right on it.”
“Okay. Just checking.”
“Honestly, I’m glad you hired him. I guess we could have found someone with more experience in antiques, but that poor kid is in a tough situation. His grandma is nearly blind and, from the sound of it, totally gaga. And it’s all on him. No one else in the family can be bothered.”
“That’s how it sounded to me too.”
“I think it’s going to work out,” Blanche said. “We just have to make sure you don’t spend the next twenty years on Alcatraz.”
“I don’t think Alcatraz is still operational.”
Blanche sighed despairingly. “I know, hon. That’s the point of the joke. Because you’re an antiques dealer, they’d put you in an antique jail.”
“I get it.”
She waved me away with that Glinda begone-you-have-no-power-here brush-off, which I get from her a lot.
I returned to the living room, where I found Ambrose and Jinx chortling over Stevie Nicks’s Stand Back: 1981-2017 three-disc compilation set, which happens to be a great collection by a great artist, for their information—and yours.
“How goes it?”
Ambrose nodded, his eyes watchful.
“Great,” Jinx said. “We’re going to save your marriage by shoving these off the moving van once it’s traveling at high speed.”
I pointed at her. “I know where you live.”
“Not anymore you don’t.”
Actually, she was right about that. Since she’d moved out of Nola’s house, I didn’t have an address on her.
I turned to Ambrose. “Could you step into my office for a minute?”
He gave Jinx an odd look—apologetic, guilty? “Sure.”
We went onto the balcony, and I closed the door. It was a little warm with the sun beating down, and I noticed the succulents hadn’t been watered in days.
“What did you want?” Ambrose asked, and I don’t think I imagined the defensive note in his voice.
“Did you apply for a job at the Creaky Attic?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
He looked like he didn’t understand the question. “Nothing. I never heard back. I took the job with you.” He added cautiously, “I know Mr. Reitherman died and that the police think you did it.”
“Yes. Does that worry you?”
He only seemed more confused. “No. I mean… Well, no.”
He seemed to be telling the truth. I couldn’t be positive. I can easily spot a bad lie, naturally, but the whole point of a good lie is it’s pretty much undetectable. The main thing that bothered me about Ralph’s story was the picture it painted of Ambrose as a violent thug. It didn’t match what I knew of the kid. True, I’d only known him a couple of days, but Blanche liked him, and Blanche is a very good judge of character.
I said, “I checked your references. Everything looks good. As far as your application itself, was there anything you maybe wanted to add or amend?”
“No.”
I waited.
Nothing.
I sighed. “Okay.”
He understood me perfectly. “I don’t have to declare a juvenile conviction if I’m over eighteen or five years have passed. You can’t not hire me for not—”
“Stop.”
He stopped, his expression sullen.
“What you say is true. Your juvenile record can’t be considered in my decision whether to hire you. But you didn’t come to me only for a job, did you?”
He struggled with it, got out a bitter, “No.”
“You want me to instruct you in the Craft. You’ve asked to be my apprentice.”
His eyes widened. “You said no.”
“Suppose I’d said yes?”
He stared, and then his gaze fell.
“The relationship between witch and apprentice requires mutual trust and respect.” I studied him. “I’ll leave it there.”
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
“Will you take me as your apprentice?”
“I don’t know. Time will tell.”
He opened his mouth. Out of nowhere, a raven crashed into the glass door right above our heads. We ducked, jumping back as the door cracked into a spiderweb of white and silver. The bird flopped to the ground, twitched and trembled, and died.
Ambrose raised his head and regarded me with huge dark eyes. “Jesus Christ. That’s a terrible omen.”
Stunned though I was, I didn’t miss that instinctive Jesus Christ. Was that childhood indoctrination, or was Ambrose not exactly what he seemed to be?
“It’s not good,” I agreed.
To put it mildly.
He gazed at me and then said, “I’ll get a broom and a dustpan.”
I nodded and stared down at the dead bird.
You’re probably thinking that with all this going on, there was no possibility that everything would be packed and ready for the movers when they arrived. But with a bit of nose twitching, finger-snapping, and plenty of elbow grease, we just made it.
After the stacks and stacks of boxes were carried out, the only items left in the apartment were my toothbrush, tuxedo suit, and the upholstered Platine De Royale bed I was giving my cousin Lorraine. I’d bought it Wayfair, but don’t tell anyone.
No, actually, you’re probably wondering how on earth John and I had managed in two short weeks to look for, find, and buy a house, take possession of it, begin renovating, begin moving, plus make all the wedding arrangements, plus-plus John designed that white garden for me and had it planted, plus-plus-PLUS I had the wet bar custom made for John.<
br />
All I can say is that Pat, John’s executive assistant, is the most efficient woman on the planet.
I’m joking. I mean, yes, she is, but that wasn’t the whole story. Or even half the story. It is not true that money makes all things possible, but it does make many, if not most, things possible. John and I had thrown a lot of money at our problems—back before we knew what real problems were. Also, faith moves mountains. But so does sorcery, and yes, despite my protestations, a magic kingdom’s worth of sorcery had been worked both by me and on my behalf.
In fact, I was starting to feel a bit like an alcoholic with bottles of booze stashed in my clothes hamper or concealed in a mouthwash container.
I did truly, sincerely, intend to quit all—well, most—magic once John and I were married. Even before John, I had cut back quite a bit. Enough to be of concern to my family and friends, who seemed to believe I was suffering from some kind of supernatural anorexia wherein I thought I was doing great but was in reality starving my true self to death.
Anyway, money, magic, and motivation had brought John and I to the very brink of starting a new life together. As I watched the white-and-green moving van lumber down the street and slowly, slowly, turn the corner, I wondered if it would be enough.
My old friends Officers Young and Takeo had been assigned as my—or rather, the Greenwich house’s—protection detail. Such as it was.
Andi and I arrived ahead of the moving van. I was cradling the rococo mirror, glass side against me, lest Arnold treat the officers to another display of temper like the one Andi and I had tried to ignore on the drive over.
“I don’t know how or why, but we haven’t seen a single reporter yet,” Young informed me.
I knew why, but since I hadn’t cast the obfuscation spell, I was unsure of the how.
I glanced at Andi, but she gave a no-way shake of her head.
“Well, keep up the good work,” I told them, and we continued to the house.
“Cos, do you want me to stay and help you unpack at least a few things?” Andi asked when we were inside.
“No need. We’re only here for one night. Well, two, counting tomorrow night, but I don’t think we’ll be doing a lot of cooking.”
“It’s up to you. I’m happy to help.”
“You’ve got a shop to run. And a wedding cake to bake.”
“True.” She glanced around. “Where’s Pye? I wanted to say hello to him.”
I called, “Pye? Pyewacket?”
We waited. Pye did not appear. My heart sank.
“That’s odd,” Andi said. “Could he have lost his way?”
“Pyewacket? No chance.”
“Maybe you should summon him to be sure.”
“Yeee-ah. No. I don’t think so.” I sighed. “I think Pyewacket has left me.”
“What?”
“He isn’t happy about, well, almost anything. But especially not about John. So yeah. This has been coming for a while.”
“Oh no. Oh, Cos.”
“I know. But I can’t make him stay. And it’s not fair to ask me to choose.”
“No, he’s supposed to serve you, but… Oh, Cos. You’ve had him since he was a kitten.”
“I know.” I really didn’t want to think about it, or I’d be getting all teary-eyed like Andi.
“I’d be brokenhearted if Minerva left.” Minerva was Andi’s Familiar. A Dwarf Hotot rabbit. It was hard to imagine Minerva taking a strong dislike to anyone or anything, so Andi was probably safe.
“I know. It’s a drag. But…” She was still looking at me with commiseration and understanding I didn’t want, couldn’t deal with, right then. “I’ve got someone John’s mother found for us coming to interview for our housekeeper, so…”
“John’s mother is picking your housekeeper?”
“Of course not. She just suggested this woman she knows.”
Andi said with sudden heat, “Everything doesn’t have to be John’s way. You’re going to live here too!”
“Andi, I know that. I’m not— It’s fine. I don’t care if we have a housekeeper or not.”
“Then why are you interviewing one?”
I said patiently, “Because John does care, and so why wouldn’t we go ahead? It’s called compromise.”
She scowled. “So far it seems to me that you’re the one making all the compromises, Cos.”
“Come on, give me a break,” I pleaded. “I’ve got to get ready for this interview. You can lecture me later.”
“And I will.” But she sighed. “Okay, I’ll see you at seven. They won’t hold the reservation, so for once in your life be on time.”
Bridget O’Leary was a witch.
I didn’t realize it at first. It isn’t always easy to tell, especially with mature witches who’ve had a lot of experience hiding their true nature. But the ability to figure out old secrets is the bread and butter of my profession. Bridget’s navy skirt, prim white blouse, sensible shoes, and tiny gold cross made a good disguise. She really did look like the kind of woman Nola would befriend at one of St. Whoever’s Sunday Socials. As she described the miracles of vinegar on grout and baking soda in ovens, her voice held the faintest suggestion of an Irish lilt. Her age was indeterminate. Anything from forty to sixty. She wore her mousy hair in a bun, and her lipstick was a modest, faded petal pink.
But she was a witch all right. A few minutes into our interview, I gazed into her alert dark eyes, and I knew.
And I had a pretty good idea who had sent her. Who had really sent her, I mean, because as much as Nola wanted a pair of eyes in John’s and my household, her efforts were child’s play compared to Maman’s machinations. Leave it to my mother to arrange it so that her spy came with Nola’s stamp of approval.
“Your references are certainly in order.” I glanced through Bridget’s letters of recommendation. They were impressive—and very likely valid.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Cleaning, cooking, running errands. Is there anything you don’t do?”
“I don’t do windows, and I don’t work on the Sabbath, sir.”
“Of course not.” I couldn’t make my mind up. I did not want a spy, Maman’s or Nola’s—let alone a double agent—in my home, but we did need a housekeeper, and Bridget appeared to be a very good one. If I didn’t hire her, both Nola and Maman would keep sending us candidates, and there was always the chance that a worse choice might slip under my radar.
This way I could control the information fed to Nola and Maman.
“Do you smoke, drink, or swear?”
“Certainly not, sir!”
I grinned. “Too bad. Otherwise, you sounded perfect.”
Her beady black eyes narrowed. But then she smiled. “You have a lively sense of humor, Mr. Saville.”
“It could get tiring, I know.”
“I’ve never been afraid of hard work, sir.”
“When would you be available to start?”
“The sooner, the better.”
“My husband and I will be on our honeymoon until after the solstice.”
No church lady of her generation and Nola’s inner circle was going to be okay keeping house for a gay couple—never mind my mention of the solstice. Bridget never blinked, waiting politely, hands folded. “Perhaps you would like me to come in and help prepare things for your homecoming?”
Yes or no?
After all, this would be one thing off John’s list, and my priority was making sure John was happy in our new home.
“I don’t think that will be necessary. But if you could start on the 24th?”
Her smile was small and polite, but I saw the relief in her eyes. “That would be perfect, sir.”
I rose. “All right, then. I guess it’s settled.”
I saw Bridget out the door, snorted as I watched her climb into a taxi and drive away, and turned to face the mountain of boxes now filling the ground floor of our house.
My gaze fell on the smaller mound of parcels—some still in
boxes and brown mailers, some in silver-and-white wedding paper—and decided one thing I could do to bring order and find space was move all this to the newly positioned dining table.
I grabbed an armload and carried it, boxes slipping beneath my arms, to the table, carried another precariously balanced stack over. As I was putting together the parcels for the third trip, a plain-wrapped square box caught my attention.
Sharp black letters spelled out my name and the address. I didn’t recognize the script, but something about it did seem…familiar. I reached for the box and almost dropped it at the buzz of…what was that?
I reached out again, and even without touching the wrapping, I could feel a crystal-cold blaze stretch to meet me. Like grabbing a blade of ice or putting your hand in white fire. At the same time, it called to me. Not in words. This was a song of blood and marrow.
I grabbed the parcel, tore off the wrapper, and gazed in stunned silence at the black-and-silver cover. There’s something disconcerting about seeing a legend in the flesh. I wasn’t quite sure if I was dreaming. Sparkling script read: Grimorium Primus.
Chapter Seventeen
A handwritten note from Seamus slid out from beneath the cracked leather cover.
Cosmo,
Either way, by the end of this night, the Grimorium Primus will be yours. Or at least in your hands. And as your hands will eventually be the hands of the Abracadantès, there’s no point splitting hairs. If all goes well, I will be rich. If what I fear comes to pass, you have received the bargain of a lifetime.
You can thank me later.
Seamus
How like Seamus not to explain a Goddess-blessed thing.
He had been in a hurry, of course. And a little afraid. But remained wily to the end. He had not tried to use magic, had not tried to be clever, and that was why the book was now safe in my hands and not the hands of his murderer.
Except, if this book was found safe in my hands, I was going to jail for sure—because under no circumstances could I show this note to anyone outside the Craft.
