Rose looked at N/Ice as her sister descended excitedly from where she had been hovering near the ceiling. “Of course! Uncle Herkimer wouldn’t mind. I’d think he’d be glad of the company.”
“If I were him, I sure would be,” N/Ice readily agreed.
“I don’t know.” Simwan was less enthusiastic. “Staying with Uncle Herkimer presents problems of its own. You know how he is. I don’t know if they’ll go for it.”
“Sure they will.” With a soft plop of welcoming linens, Amber settled down on her bedding. “He has plenty of room, or at least he used to, and he’ll be gearing up for All Hallow’s. We can help out with the decorating.” She was all but bouncing with excitement. “That gives us a place to stay, with supervision, but with somebody who won’t be looking over our shoulders all the time. Besides,” she added, “I like Uncle Herkimer.”
“Me too,” added Rose. “If we run into trouble, he might even be able to help us track down the Crub without telling Mom and Dad about it. You know Uncle Herkimer: He can inveigle lines of communication even Professor Fotheringgale can’t access.” She indicated her own computer, which was busy working on her homework, compiling a list of states along with their most important products. “Or the Web. You can’t google Uncle Herkimer.”
“Not anymore,” added N/Ice knowingly. “I think it’s a good idea.”
A gleeful Amber jabbed a finger in Simwan’s direction. “You’re outvoted, brother! We’re going to New York, we’re going to stay with Uncle Herkimer, and we’re going to find the Crub and bring back the Truth so people will realize why they should vote against this stupid development!” Her voice dropped to a more respectful tone. “And so that Mom won’t be hurt.”
Any additional concerns Simwan might have wished to express were drowned out by the cheering and yelling of the freshly energized coubet. Besides, it was hard to focus a query on any one of his sisters when all three of them were bouncing from bed to bed while shouting and giving loud voice to their expectations.
Rose started it, delightedly squealing something loud enough to cause her body double to appear in midair. Only, her body double was a perfect replica of the Statue of Liberty—if one discounted the glitzy earrings, tattoos, and noticeably shorter skirt. Amber had chosen to conjure the lights of Broadway, with every one of the plays starring her favorite boyband singers. Detached from theater fronts, the neon, fluorescent, and LED signs spun and bounced around the room in a blinking luminescent ballet of flashing fonts.
N/Ice’s contribution to the chaos of expectation (or the expected chaos) consisted of more soberly conjured renditions of the city’s other major landmarks: museum fronts, Rockefeller Center, the USN (United Sorceral Nations) building, and especially Central Park with its unique assortment of ambient charms. There was certainly a lot to look forward to besides just catching up with the Crub, Simwan had to admit.
Distractions all, though, he reminded himself firmly. They weren’t going on a vacation. They were going after the Truth, something that was difficult enough to find in New York at the best of times, even when it wasn’t in the possession of an evil entity like the Crub.
To an outsider it would have looked as if the dinner table was consumed by chaos, but for the Deavys the frenetic rushing to and fro of bowls, platters, pitchers, glasses, dishes, and silverware was perfectly normal. The Grand Table Spell (which Melinda Mae had learned from her mother and which was passed down from one generation of Deavys to the next) kept everything in a constant state of convenient motion. Conversation was facilitated because no one had to ask anyone else to pass this dish or that; the dishes took care of the passing all by themselves, leaving the family members free to talk about other things.
“How did the meeting go today, dear?” an obviously concerned Martin asked his spouse.
As he spooned up salad, molted malted fairy wings adding a nice crunch to the mix, Simwan could tell from the look on his mother’s face that it had not gone well. She didn’t look so good, either, he thought worriedly. The essence of her was too tied to the Truth, and its absence was starting to affect her health.
“Honestly, Martin, some of these people …” Tight-lipped and visibly worn, she broke off for a moment, shaking her head. “Don’t they understand that if they let this project go ahead, not only will we lose the woods, but it will affect the zoning for the entire county? Once the floodgates are opened, they’re almost impossible to close again.” She made an effort to pit an innocent olive. “That Mrs. Pendergast—sometimes she makes me so mad I just want to turn her into a toad!”
“Don’t be too hard on her, hon.” Martin forked up a small bale of spinach and onion. “After all, her husband’s in real estate and they stand to benefit considerably if the development goes ahead. She’s only doing what she thinks is best for her family. Besides, you can’t expect the Pendergasts or anyone else to understand what’s really going on. Not in the absence of Truth.”
“Hmph.” Melinda Mae dug absently at the remnants of her salad. She had taken an unusually small portion, and seemed little interested in that. “I’m beginning to wonder if that particular theft might have been engineered by cronies of the developers, just to further confuse people. The whole business has the smell of the Black Arts about it.”
Simwan looked at Rose, who glanced significantly at Amber, who nodded just once at N/Ice, who rotated in her chair until she was sitting right-side up like the rest of them. But no one said anything. As weary as their mother appeared to be, the last thing they wanted to do was agitate her further.
As dinner progressed, Simwan kept sneaking looks at his sisters. They, in turn, flashed him one restless glance after another. It was clear that no one wanted to be the first to broach the subject of their proposed trip to their parents, because if the initial asker fouled up the request, that individual would never hear the end of it from the others.
Main courses gave way to dessert, which consisted of spiced cream topped with meringue. The quartet of spiders who had agreed to spin the meringue (in return for having the run of the kitchen and all the wandering cockroaches they could catch) took several minutes to top off the frozen cream, at which point they were so exhausted from the effort that Martin had to tenderly carry them back to their home beneath the sink. Tonight’s meringue was pistachio, Simwan discovered with one dip of his spoon.
They were running out of time. Something sharp struck him beneath the table and he turned to see Rose glaring at him. The expressions her sisters wore were no less intense. Clearly, they expected him to raise the subject.
Well, he was the oldest. Who should he ask first? Given how exhausted his mom was looking, he decided to query both of them simultaneously.
“You know, it’s been kind of boring around here lately.”
“Oh?” His mother’s reaction was noncommittal, while Martin, having returned from the kitchen, remained focused on his dessert and his visibly faltering wife. “How so?”
“Well, we’re all caught up on our homework, and we—the girls and I—were kind of wondering what we were going to do next week since we’re still off from school.”
He plunged onward. “The girls and I, we were thinking of maybe doing something different this year. After all, we’re all a lot older now.”
“Yes, dear.” Melinda Mae slowly dabbed a napkin at her spice-stained lips. Her essence might be faded, but there was nothing slow about her wit. “One year older than last year, to be precise.”
“I take it, Simwan, that you and your sisters have something specific in mind?” His father was staring at him. To the average Ord, Martin Deavy came across as a pretty ordinary guy. To someone in the Knowledge, however, he was considerably more. Ords couldn’t see the fire in Martin’s eyes. Simwan could, all too easily.
He was intimidated, but things had progressed too far for him to back down now. “We, uh, thought we might spend the week in the city.”
“Oh,” Melinda Mae said conversationally, “you want to go over and spend the week with the Clarendon kids in Marksburg? I certainly don’t see any problem with that.”
Another sharp pain in his right leg. Throwing Rose a brief, murderous glare, he forced himself to smile as he turned back to his parents again. “Not exactly, Mom. We kind of think it’s time we learn a little more about the wider world. You know: museums, life on the street, national monuments—that sort of thing.” He took a breath and plunged ahead. “Actually, we were thinking of spending the week in New York.”
Melinda Mae put down her napkin. She might be suffering from the absence of the Truth, but she was not insensible. “New York? For a week? By yourselves?”
“Out of the question,” Martin Deavy murmured quietly and without rancor.
The girls’ desperation burst through as Amber took over from her brother. “Please, Dad, Mom! We’ll be careful. We know what to do.”
“And what not to do,” a restless Rose added earnestly.
“And how to behave,” Amber added.
“And how not to behave,” N/Ice put in gravely.
“I’m sixteen,” Simwan pointed out quickly. “I’ll take care, and watch out for the girls.”
“You’ll watch out for who?” Rose snapped back at him. “More likely it’s us who’ll be looking out for you!”
“You’re twelve, Rose dear.” An unusually pale Melinda Mae was gentle without being condescending.
“I know,” her daughter agreed, “but we’re a coubet. That means we’re really thirty-six!”
“Not exactly, sweetheart,” Martin Deavy corrected her patiently. “We don’t recognize the math of multiplied expectation at this dinner table. On the other hand, it’s true that you’re not an Ord twelve, either.”
His wife looked mildly shocked. “Martin. You’re not actually thinking of letting them do this?”
“Well now, hon, I don’t know.” Scanning their pleading, anxious expressions, he smiled fondly at his offspring. “I think it’s admirable that they want to experience the big time on their own, and that they believe they can deal with it. I’d rather see them spending time in Times Square, and Times Rhombohedron, and the museums, and Central Park, than sitting in their rooms for a week doing nothing but playing video games and watching TV.” More softly he added, “And it would give you some peace and quiet, a chance to rest until this Truth business can be resolved.”
“Yes, but Martin—New York? By themselves?” She eyed her son appraisingly. “I agree that Simwan’s very experienced for his age, and the girls quite mature, but still …”
“What,” Rose ventured quickly, seeing that her mother was weakening slightly, “if we agreed to stay with someone responsible? A grown-up. Someone who you know wouldn’t let us get into trouble, someone you trust completely?”
“Well …” Melinda Mae hesitated. Having to think was exhausting her reserves of strength. “That might make a difference, I suppose. Who were you thinking of staying with?” She contemplated possibilities. “There’s cousin Volkermann’s family, but they live all the way out in the Hamptons, a long way from the city. And his wife and kids are Ords, which could present problems of a different kind.”
“No, not him.” Amber’s expression matched the distaste in her voice. “We were thinking that we could stay with Uncle Herkimer. He lives right in the city, down where the Fulton Fish Market used to be.” She smiled broadly, proud of remembering how fond their uncle was of seafood.
Melinda Mae exchanged a look with her husband, then smiled regretfully at her daughter. “I would certainly trust Uncle Herkimer to look after you, Amber dear, except for one small impediment. Uncle Herkimer is dead.”
V
The girls exchanged a glance. Simwan, having initiated the discussion, sat back and let them run with it. With their soulful eyes and beseeching voices they stood a better chance of convincing their parents than he did, anyway.
“Well of course he’s dead,” Amber replied.
“We know that,” N/Ice added. “That’s why he’s been in the same building for so long.”
“We don’t see why that should complicate things,” Rose finished. “Uncle Herkimer’s been dead for two hundred and fifty-seven years—more or less.”
Melinda Mae sighed. “Mostly more, I’m afraid. It’s a good thing your uncle had the sense to leave behind an endowment to pay his lease in perpetuity, or he’d long ago have been out on his decaying ear.” She eyed her offspring sternly. “That doesn’t excuse the fact that he’s deceased.”
Rose exchanged a look with her sisters. “Aw, Mom, from what I’ve heard, Uncle Herkimer still gets around pretty good.”
“Pretty good for a really old dead guy,” Amber added.
“Good enough to supervise us,” N/Ice insisted.
“Yeah,” Simwan added, feeling that he needed to contribute a few words to the argument. “It’s not like he has a regular haunting gig, or something. I imagine that he’s home most of the time.”
It was clear that in spite of her increasing fatigue, Melinda Mae was less than convinced. There ought to be some truth in what the kids were saying ¾ but the Truth was missing. She was starting to feel it in her bones. “That’s just it: He’s home most of the time. And if I know you kids, you won’t be. Of course,” she added, arguing with herself, “there really wouldn’t be much point in going to New York if all you were going to do was hang around somebody’s apartment.” Once again her gaze fixed on her son, who found himself fidgeting uncomfortably under that unflinching maternal stare. “Museums, hmm? Since when did you develop such a deep interest in higher education Simwan?”
He thought fast and, somewhat to his surprise, found himself with an immediate answer. “It was the Egyptian exhibit at the Met this past summer, Mom. We couldn’t go, but I found the online catalog and went through it backward and forward and upside down. It was really fascinating.”
At the head of the table, Martin was nodding reminiscently. “That explains all the sacred scarabs we found running around your room in September. At least they took care of the cookie crumbs and leftover pizza you forgot to pick up.” Ever so slowly, the instinctively resistant but now weakening Melinda Mae continued to lose ground. “How would you get around the city on your own? You know Uncle Herkimer couldn’t take you. Not during the day, anyway.”
“We’ll be fine.” Doing his best to keep a lid on his eagerness, Simwan looked at his equally excited sisters, then back to his parents. “I’ve read up on it. The subway’s easy to use, so are the buses, there are cabs, and if we get stuck somewhere we can always simul a fragin.”
Martin Deavy looked up over his coffee cup. “Now Simwan, when was the last time you simuled a fragin?”
“I know the spell,” he insisted. “I can teach it to the girls, too.”
“That’s a hoot,” Amber remarked. “You teaching us something.”
“Hoots call for a different spell,” N/Ice put in, missing her sister’s point entirely.
Martin looked over at his wife. “It would be good for their development. The New York schools have already had their break, so the kids would largely have the city to themselves, kidwise, for the week. And you’ll be able to get some rest.” He tried to cheer her. “They can help old Herkimer decorate for All Hallow’s. You know he’d be glad to see them again. Dead relatives don’t get many visits from kids, let alone live ones.”
“I just don’t want ours to end up in a similar condition,” Melinda Mae murmured worriedly.
“Nothing’s going to happen to us, Mom,” Rose insisted forcefully. “It’s not like you’re sending four Ord children to the city.”
Whether Rose’s observation swayed Melinda Mae or she was simply too tired to argue it was impossible to tell. Turning to her husband, she moderated her tone slightly. “You really think they’re ready for som
ething like this, Martin?”
Deavy père surveyed his expectant litter. “Like I said: It would be good for them. It would be good for you. It would be good for Herkimer. Asmotheles knows he has room enough to put them up for a week, though I wouldn’t vouch for the conditions.”
He set down his coffee cup. It tried to sneak away, but he grabbed it and settled it firmly on its disapproving saucer. “I think it’s time for the kids to show some responsibility. I believe they can take care of themselves, and they’ll have Pithfwid to look after them.” Leaning to his right, he located the family cat where it was lying contently by one of the baseboard heaters. “Isn’t that right, Pithfwid?”
The cat looked up, yawned, flashed fur that was at present a mind-bogglingly vivid blend of cerulean and pink with gold highlights, and declared indubitably, “Meow,” before putting his head back on his paws and closing his eyes anew.
“There, you see?” exclaimed Martin, straightening in his chair. “Also, there’s one more thing that I think needs to be taken into consideration in deciding this.” His attention returned to the children. “I believe this may be the first time ever that Simwan and his sisters have ever agreed on anything.”
She finally gave in. “All right, then. I’m missing the Truth and I could use the rest.”
Simwan and his sisters could barely contain their delight. To look at them, one would have thought they really were going on a vacation, instead of planning to wrestle the stolen Truth away from a thief of indefinite dimensions and unknown powers. “But you be sure to pack the right clothes, and gear, and charms. You’ll all be on a strict allowance. This trip is all about improving your education and experience, not shopping.”
Screaming and yelling their delight, the coubet disappeared upstairs as both Amber and N/Ice took off in pursuit of Rose, their feet pounding on the wooden steps.
That left Simwan holding the proverbial bag, faced with the prospect of dealing with any remaining questions from his parents by himself. Which, now that he thought of it, might have been exactly what his entirely too clever sisters had intended in collectively fleeing the table.
The Deavys Page 6