Hidden Charm

by Kristine Grayson

  “Let’s do it,” Henry said.

  Polly pulled an actual wand out of her bag, and tapped the barrier around Zel. “You’ll have to remove that,” Polly said.

  Henry glanced around. More people were arriving, and heading toward McQueen. Jodi was talking with Selda. The paramedics were helping some of the neighbors with smoke inhalation, judging by the liberal use of oxygen masks.

  Henry snapped his fingers and the barrier vanished.

  Then Polly waved her arms, and a bubble formed around all three of them.

  The bubble shone silver in the sun, just like a bubble blown from soap. The bubble was that fragile too. If Henry made the wrong kind of move or poked it with his finger, the bubble would pop.

  He hoped Zel didn’t wake up as they traveled.

  They lifted in the air, Polly clutching the wand to her chest and standing still as a statue, Henry still crouched beside Zel, and Zel splayed as if she were still lying on the ground.

  They flew under the cloud of smoke, heading down some side roads. Henry realized at that moment that he hadn’t told Polly where he lived. He started to open his mouth, but she shook her head ever so slightly.

  No one seemed to notice the bubble floating overhead. He had been worried that as they passed over the elementary school, kids on the playground might see them. Kids could sometimes see magic like this.

  But no kids were outside. That was when he realized that no one was outside. Apparently, the mortal first responders had sent some kind of message to the authorities that people had to shelter in place.

  It made sense, given the size of that magical cloud still growing over Zel’s neighborhood.

  His house was in an equally old neighborhood and, like Zel’s, the house dated from the 1920s. Only his hadn’t had a remodel since the plumbing broke down in the 1970s and needed a full replacement. He’d taken the opportunity to rewire everything at that point too, putting in the kinds of protections that kept the electrical equipment protected from the short-circuits magic often caused.

  But he hadn’t done any improvements since, and it showed.

  For the first time, he was ashamed of his house. He hadn’t given it any real thought in years. He hadn’t brought anyone here on purpose ever—except for people who had to do repair work on the house. Most of the repairs he could do himself.

  He hated seeing the house from the outside. The bushes were so overgrown that they blocked the windows. The red color had leached from half of the roof, thanks to the power of the sun. The adobe exterior had cracks running along one side, and where there weren’t any cracks, there was so much dirt that the house looked brown, not white.

  The concrete stairs to the front door—remnants of some 1950s improvement—were broken, not that the door would open anyway. He either went in through the garage or the back patio slider—which was made of thin glass and flimsy metal.

  That’s where Polly brought him and Zel, so that he could pull the slider open.

  He never locked the house. He had nothing to steal and the only people who could really do serious harm to him were the magical. He could handle your run-of-the-mill mortal burglar.

  The yard was as desolate as the front of the house. In the 1960s, he’d gotten tired of maintaining the grass, so he paved everything, except the pool. The pool wasn’t an American swimming pool with chlorine and fake blue walls. It was a gigantic pond, with hoses and great circulation systems, and oxygenated water. He spent a fortune cycling water in and out, both the cost of the water, and the cost of the permits he paid to the city, so that he could have his massive pond.

  The gurgling of the water usually soothed him, but today, he could barely hear it due to the faint sirens, the growl of helicopters overhead, and the pounding of his own heart.

  He landed on the concrete in front of the slider. Inside, he saw the pile of papers, newspapers, and dirty dishes. A pair of his underwear sat on top of a stack of books, forgotten because he meant to throw it out and never had.

  Reflected in the dusty glass, he saw his own red and chapped face, and behind it, Polly floating on her broom, her arms around the unconscious Zel.

  It didn’t matter what his house looked like. Henry needed to get them both inside of it, now.

  He yanked the slider open. It squealed on its ancient metal track, just like it always did, and then it rattled. The stench of dirty dishes covered everything else.

  He stepped inside, next to an overflowing garbage can, and swept his hand toward the living room. He couldn’t give Zel his bed, because it was unmade and the sheets hadn’t been changed in months, but he knew the couch was clean, because he had just replaced it. He had to get rid of the other one when a third spring started poking him in the back, and he couldn’t magically fix that anymore.

  Polly’s face had turned Wicked Witch of the West green, and not because it was her normal look. It was the stench. He knew it.

  “There are counseling services through the Archetype Place,” she said to him curtly, as if he didn’t work there, as if he hadn’t set up the meeting space for the counselors himself.

  Then she snapped a finger, and two other brooms showed up—from where, he had no idea. She continued to hover, arms around Zel, while the brooms landed in front of him. They grew arms with little gloves on the hands. Instead of a handle at the top of their broomsticks, they had round eyeballs and black mustaches beneath prominent noses. The nostrils flared and pinched, as if the smell offended the brooms.

  Then they got to work in the best Sorcerer’s Apprentice fashion, sweeping out the kitchen, whisking away the trash, doing the dishes, and leaving the room sparkling in less than thirty seconds. They moved into the living room.

  He almost—almost—protested, wondering what they were doing with his stuff. He would never be able to find anything again.

  Not he ever looked at his stuff. Not that his stuff mattered, even to him.

  It was the violation—without his permission—of his personal space.

  Or maybe it was the not-so-hidden judgement of the way he lived.

  Piles and piles and piles of trash left the house, floating away on its own, to where, he had no idea. He didn’t even know what the brooms considered to be trash.

  Dust clouds billowed out, but the stench had left, replaced with a slightly astringent lemon scent.

  The brooms disappeared down the hallway toward the bedrooms and the two bathrooms. The very thought of them made him wince as well.

  “Now,” Polly said.

  Her broom landed as some sheets, towels, and pillows floated by—again, from where Henry didn’t know. They all went into the living room just ahead of him.

  Polly used magic to keep Zel afloat, guiding her as if she were a floating block of wood, keeping her straight and maneuvering her away from anything that might stop her progress toward the living room.

  Polly stayed at her side, monitoring the floating spell.

  Henry stepped inside just after the both of them, and pulled the slider closed. The smell of lemon was stronger in here. His kitchen counters, which he hadn’t seen since the Clinton Administration, actually looked white. The sink sparkled.

  It didn’t even feel like his place, although it felt a lot like the place he had bought all those decades ago.

  He entered the living room just behind Polly. There was nothing in this room now either, except his couch, the two chairs that matched the old couch, some bookshelves—now full—and a TV that hadn’t worked since the Ford Administration.

  “Adjust those pillows, would you?” Polly said to him, nodding at the couch.

  The pillows were piled one on top of the other, making it impossible for anyone to rest their head on them.

  He pulled off three, leaving two, and adjusting them so that they would cradle Zel’s head and support her neck, and back. He also tucked in the blankets.

  Then he stepped aside. Using one hand as a guide, Polly lowered Zel, and slipped one more pillow onto the couch as an extra brace
for Zel’s legs.

  Zel’s eyes didn’t open. Her face was slack, her body rigid only because Polly had kept it that way. When Polly finally moved her fingers on her right hand, Zel’s body relaxed.

  But she still didn’t open her eyes.

  Henry felt an odd moment of panic. This wasn’t a castle, and that wasn’t a high platform bed, and there weren’t half a dozen midwives bustling around, but this still echoed that moment when he realized that Tiana would never wake up.

  He wanted to fall to his knees, take Zel’s hand, and beg her to open her eyes. But he knew that impulse had come from the desperation of his memory, not because he needed Zel. He didn’t know Zel, not really.

  He couldn’t really explain the attraction at all. Or the tie. Or the feeling that his life wouldn’t be complete without her.

  The brooms finally emerged from the back bedroom, and bowed in front of Polly. She gave them a cursory smile, and thanked them for their help.

  They left, followed by bag after bag after bag of garbage.

  “All right,” Polly said, “now we can summon a healer.”

  He was about to ask what she meant by “we” when a healer popped into his living room in a bubble of black and silver glitter.

  The healer stepped out of the bubble, and Henry suppressed a sigh. Panacea stood before him. Her dark hair was tied into little ponytails that sprouted off the top of her head. She wore a white shirt and green cargo pants with each pocket stuffed full.

  She had new (at least to him) tattoos all over her bare arms, depicting one long snake that went up her right arm, disappeared under her shirt, and then reappeared going down her left arm, with the snake’s head decorating the top of her left hand.

  Her sharp black eyes took in the room before landing on him.

  “Really? Froggy? You actually want help this time?” she said.

  He wasn’t sure how to answer. She had irritated him from the moment he met her. She was so incredibly judgmental. Her favorite phrase was “if only”:

  If only you had taken the potion I had devised for you…

  If only you had called me sooner…

  If only you understood the necessity of preventative care…

  “It’s not me,” he said, nodding toward the couch.

  Panacea bent her long form over the back of the couch, peering down at Zel. Then Panacea looked up—not at him, but at Polly.

  “This is…?” Panacea asked.

  “Rapunzel,” Polly said.

  “Hmph,” Panacea said. “I thought she didn’t associate with the likes of us.”

  That tone. Dammit, Henry hated that tone. “What do you mean by that?”

  Polly held up a hand, as if to forestall a fight. “No need—”

  “She doesn’t like the magical,” Panacea said. “It’s quite well known that she prefers the company of mortals. It’s a psychological thing. If only she and Sonny had consulted me—”

  “Can you help her?” Henry asked, and was startled to hear the desperation in his voice.

  So, apparently, were both of the women. They looked at him in shock.

  “Because if you can’t,” Henry said, no longer caring about what they thought, “then we need to find someone else.”

  “Really, Froggy,” Panacea said, coming around the couch and crouching beside it. “You do me a grave disservice.”

  He wasn’t doing her any kind of disservice. She practiced preventative medicine, not actual healing—not as far as he knew, anyway. Whenever Selda made him contact Panacea, it was to help someone develop a wellness program, not to heal them from some kind of trauma.

  Panacea wasn’t looking at him any longer. She had taken Zel’s limp hand in her left hand. With her right, Panacea gently opened one of Zel’s eyes.

  Henry couldn’t see anything from here, but Polly frowned. He couldn’t tell if she was reacting to Panacea’s actions or if she was reacting to what she saw on Zel’s face.

  “I need some actual boiled water,” Panacea said.

  Polly reached out with her left hand, and Panacea, without turning her head, said, “No. Actual boiled water. Not magical water.”

  Polly frowned. “It would be quicker—”

  “No,” Panacea said. “We need to keep magic away from this woman. In fact, we need to draw some magic out of her.”

  Henry shuddered. It almost sounded like Panacea wanted to bleed Zel, just the way that old mortal doctors used to take blood from their patients to (theoretically) heal them.

  But Panacea might be right, given the way that their own personal magic was used against the faeries.

  “I’ll get the water,” Henry said, and walked into his kitchen.

  He stared at the brand new microwave, which he had bought just the week before after his previous one exploded. (Microwaves rarely lasted longer than a month around the magical.) He wondered if microwaved water would work, then decided to follow Panacea’s order to the letter.

  The brooms had left a tea kettle that he barely remembered owning on top of the stove. The stove was electric, and he hoped to hell it would work. He hadn’t turned it on in years.

  He filled the kettle from the sparkly clean sink and set the kettle on the back burner. Then he flipped the ancient dial. The burner started to heat immediately, which surprised him.

  He took a step back, and looked away. He had no idea if the whole watched-pot-never-boils thing was true or not, but he didn’t want to risk it.

  He also resisted the urge to go back into the living room, to see what Panacea and Polly were doing to Zel. His nerves were all jangly, and not just because of what he went through at Zel’s house.

  This was a hair too close to his past. He had deliberately not gotten involved with anyone, so that he could avoid experiences like this.

  The last thing he needed was a woman to die on his couch.

  He closed his eyes, and let out a breath. Polly’s snide voice—There are counseling services through the Archetype Place—went through his head.

  He had avoided counseling because, he would say to Selda, what was the point? He never planned to have a relationship again. He was just marking his time, doing what little he could. Until what? Selda would ask him, and he would shrug.

  He really didn’t care.

  He didn’t want to care, either.

  And getting counseling was a sign that he cared.

  The kettle whistled, startling him. He opened his eyes. Steam came out of the little spout, humidifying the air in the room and soothing his aching skin.

  Panacea hadn’t described how she wanted the water, but he had seen her work before. She whipped up potions, and that usually meant cups.

  He grabbed a large (clean!!!) mug out of the cupboard, and poured the boiling water into it. He found a tray on a lower shelf, added a large bowl (in case Panacea needed something bigger), a large spoon, and a straw that he hadn’t even realized he owned.

  Then he carried the whole thing into the living room.

  Panacea was in the same position, but Polly now stood beside her, a towel folded over her arm.

  Zel didn’t seem to have moved.

  Henry set the tray on the coffee table. “Boiling water.”

  “It’s about time,” Panacea said.

  He bit back an almost automatic response: If only you had let us use magic…

  But this wasn’t the time or the place. And she had a point.

  Panacea straightened her left leg, and pulled two packets out of the pocket closest to her knee. She frowned at one of the packets and replaced it. Then she pulled a different packet out of the back pocket on the same side.

  She set both packets on the tray.

  “Oh!” she said. “You brought a bowl! Excellent!”

  And then, as if she had heard herself praising someone, she added, “Of course, you could have put water in it.”

  “I’ll get the rest,” he said.

  “No need,” Panacea said. “This will be enough.”

  She dump
ed the contents of the packets into the bowl, then slowly poured the water from the mug on top of them.

  A steam smelling of camphor and mint rose, making his eyes water. Panacea took the spoon, stirred, and said something in Greek so ancient that Henry wasn’t certain anyone had spoken those words that way in centuries.

  The smell of mint grew stronger, but the camphor faded. The steam rising out of the bowl was a slightly faded orange.

  “Napkin?” Panacea asked. For a moment, Henry had no idea who she was talking to, and then he realized she was talking to him.

  “Will a paper towel do?” he asked.

  “I guess it will have to,” she said.

  He went back into the kitchen, feeling a little lost because nothing was in its usual place. The paper towels were actually on a holder near the sink. He pulled off a handful, then hurried back into the living room.

  Panacea (or Polly) had slipped a brace underneath Zel’s neck. On the side of the coffee table, Panacea had placed a small pile of lotion tubes. They seemed to be organized by color—as far as he could tell, which wasn’t all that far.

  He handed her the paper towels.

  “Just one would have done fine,” she said, shoving half the handful back at him. Then she turned her torso slightly, grabbed the mug, and dipped it in the bowl. The mug rose out of the bowl, dripping something that looked like green slime, and Panacea wiped off all the sides.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Zel, frowned, and then shook her head slightly, as if settling a dispute with herself. Then Panacea looked at Henry speculatively.

  “I’ll help in any way I can,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said curtly. “Show me your hands.”

  He did. They were red and chapped and looked as dry and painful as they felt.

  “You too, Polly,” Panacea said.

  Polly’s eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead but she extended her hands anyway. They were long and clichéd, with bent fingers and fingernails like talons. They looked perfect for spellcasting.

  Panacea’s mouth thinned. “All right, Polly,” she said. “That’s all we need from you. I’m certain that they can use you back at the house.”