Utterly Charming

by Kristine Grayson

  Amanda patted Emma on the shoulder and stood up. She walked to Nora, took her bag, and said, “Let me help you put your new clothes away.”

  “They’re old clothes,” Nora said. “I’m wearing the new ones.”

  “So you are.” Amanda brushed imaginary lint off her shoulder. “They’ll need to be dry-cleaned.”

  “Mother.”

  Amanda shrugged. “Come along.”

  And Nora let Amanda lead her into her own bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  “Good,” Amanda said. “Now—”

  “It’s not that private here,” Nora whispered.

  Amanda took her arm and led her into the upstairs bathroom, pulling the door closed. Nora had remodeled the room with the rest of the loft, making the bathroom her own private sanctuary. There was a separate area for the toilet, double sinks because the designer had insisted, a fancy shower with its own stall, and The Tub. The Tub was on a raised platform with windows that opened to the city. The shades were down now, and the room was dark. Nora flipped on a light. Amanda blinked as if unaccustomed to such brightness.

  “The problem is worse than you know,” Amanda said, keeping her voice low.

  “I doubt that,” Nora said.

  “Emma believes she is a witch.”

  “I know,” Nora said.

  “A witch without powers.”

  “I know that too,” Nora said, wishing that she had been able to convince Emma to lie.

  “A witch without powers from the Middle Ages.”

  “The Dark Ages, Mother,” Nora said.

  “I thought there was no difference.”

  “There is quite a difference,” Nora said. “The Middle Ages were modern compared to the Dark Ages.”

  “Oh, dear,” Amanda said. Then she slapped Nora’s arm. “You knew this.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I thought it might bother you.”

  “It does bother me. Does her psychiatrist know?”

  Nora didn’t know how to answer that. So she tried the indirect approach. “Everyone knows who needs to know.”

  Amanda’s mouth formed a thin line. “Emma says you’re protecting her.”

  “Yes,” Nora said.

  “She says her mother and her boyfriend are after her.”

  “More or less.”

  “You’re not equipped to handle that. Why isn’t she in one of those shelters?”

  “Believing she’s a witch from the Dark Ages?”

  “So they’ll put her in an institution. And frankly, Nora, I’m beginning to think that, no matter how sweet she is, she belongs in one.”

  “If I do that, Mother, then she’ll eventually be remanded into the custody of her mother. Or her boyfriend if he can convince them he’s her husband. And I’ve met the man. He can convince you that the Moon is made of cheese.”

  “I’m not convinced it’s not,” Amanda said archly. “I think that whole landing thing was a public relations hoax.”

  “Mother.”

  Amanda shrugged. “That Nixon. He’d do anything to win any competition.”

  Nora knew better than to get Amanda started on her own weird brand of politics. “Mother, please. We were talking about Emma.”

  “Yes, and I do see your point. But really, you are no match for a determined woman and a strong man.”

  Nora smiled. “I’m match enough,” she said, hoping she exuded confidence she didn’t feel.

  “Well,” Amanda said, “you’ll obviously need help caring for this girl. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll be your assistant until you can find this girl the help she needs.” Amanda leaned closer. “I think we made progress today. She’s really quite convincing about this Dark Ages thing. She asked more questions! I had no idea I knew so much about so little!” Amanda frowned. “She won’t forget all of this by tomorrow, will she?”

  “No,” Nora said.

  “Have you ever thought there is a real possibility that she is who she says she is?”

  Nora peered at Amanda. Her no-nonsense mother, who wasn’t even willing to believe in manned space flight, let alone magic. “What do you think?”

  Amanda blinked, then leaned back. “If this is mental illness, then the girl should win an Academy Award.”

  “They don’t give awards for illness, Mother. Only acting.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “What’s what you mean?”

  “Crazy people aren’t this consistent.”

  “And consistency makes her sane?”

  “Well, she does believe what she’s saying.”

  “And that makes her sane?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Actually, Mother, I don’t.” Nora put her hand on her mother’s back as she opened the door. “But I’m willing to go with it, whatever you mean, as long as you don’t tell anyone about Emma.”

  “You know me,” Amanda said, placing her index finger over her mouth. “Mum’s the word.”

  “Good,” Nora said. “Staying for dinner?”

  “No, dear. I’m quite exhausted by all this thinking. I don’t know how you do it, day in and day out.”

  Nora suppressed a grin. “I get paid to.”

  “I hope so,” Amanda said. “Emma claims not to know what money is.”

  “That’s not a surprise either,” Nora said.

  “You seem quite calm about this.”

  “Actually,” Nora said, “I’m too overwhelmed to be upset.”

  “That seems sensible, my dear,” Amanda said. “No use wasting energy on things we can’t change.”

  Then Amanda pulled open the door and let herself out of the bathroom. She made her way through the bedroom, calling out some nonsense to Emma. Nora remained there for a moment, holding on to the tile countertop for support. She would make it through this day, she promised herself. She had to. There were only a few hours left. And if she was lucky, she would wake up tomorrow and realize that this was a long, extended, extremely detailed version of her reoccurring nightmare.

  ***

  No such luck, of course. That was her first thought as she struggled out of sleep, hearing the doorbell chime below. She glanced at her digital clock. It read 1:30 a.m. She had been in bed a little under two hours. It had taken her forever to convince Emma to go to sleep. She had the feeling Emma was angling for sharing a room, so that she could hear the comfort of Nora’s breathing. But Nora had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, sharing a room in this loft also meant sharing a bed, and Nora wasn’t about to do that, no matter how responsible she felt toward Emma.

  The doorbell chimed again. Nora threw back the covers, imagining Emma cowering in her own room, worrying about the strange sound. Nora slipped on a robe but couldn’t find any slippers. She hurried down the spiral staircase, the metal cold against her bare feet, and looked through the peephole at her guest.

  She saw no one.

  Great, she thought. A phantom caller. Just what she needed. Life had gotten strange today, and it seemed it was going to continue being strange. Her heart was pounding. Did opening a door make someone invited? Was this a trick that Ealhswith was playing on her? Or, God forbid, Blackstone?

  Then, through the peephole, she saw a tiny hand rise out of the darkness and strain to reach the door chime. Even though she was expecting it, the sound made her jump.

  She pulled the door open a smidge, leaving the chain on, and looked down. Sancho Panza, or whatever his name was, stood before her, his hand just going down to his side.

  “It’s about time,” he said.

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’d be having breakfast in France,” he said.

  “You’re not in France.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  He was wearing a natty ice-cream suit and a bowler that made him look like something out of Renoir. She stared at him. He would also be at home
in a Fred Astaire movie, one of the early shipboard romances—was that Top Hat?—with Ginger Rogers, or on stage with the Broadway musical Ragtime, even though she doubted he would have fit all that well into E.L. Doctorow’s book. He was too short. Not that he was tall enough for the stage, either. And he would have made Fred Astaire look like a giant—

  “Are you going to let me in, or do I get to stand in this wretched hallway until dawn?”

  She blinked. Boy, she was tired if she let herself go on mental tangents like that. “I don’t receive clients in my home. Office hours are nine to five.”

  She started to close the door, but he stuck his foot in it. “You weren’t at your office at nine this morning, were you?”

  “Yesterday morning,” she said. “It’s tomorrow already.”

  “Were you?”

  “If you don’t know, you’re the only one in your social set who doesn’t.”

  He grinned. He had been toying with her, testing her. She hated that. She pushed his polished spat with her bare foot, trying to get it out of her door. “I’m going back to bed,” she said.

  “Not yet.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pile of paper that didn’t look as if it had fit into the space. She recognized one piece. It was a birth certificate, with Emma’s name on it.

  Her new name.

  “I told you,” Nora said. “I don’t deal in illegal documents.”

  “Neither do I,” Sancho said. Then his grin widened. “Do you really want to have this meeting in your office?”

  She sighed and pushed on the door. “If you want me to let you in, you need to move your damn foot.”

  He did. She toyed for a moment with shutting him out entirely but decided she still wouldn’t get any sleep. He would continually ring the door chime or knock or do something to keep her awake.

  She unchained the door and opened it. Sancho’s hand was hovering near the chime. “Thought you forgot me,” he said.

  “Wish I could,” she muttered. “Come on in.”

  He did. She closed and locked the door behind him. Then she surveyed the living room, wondering why the sound hadn’t awakened Emma. Maybe it had. Maybe she really was cringing in her room.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Nora said as she flicked on a light. “I’ll be right back.”

  She went down the hallway to Emma’s room, knocked, and then pushed the door open. Emma was asleep, her hands beneath her perfect oval face, her long hair sprawled around her. She looked like a princess, a fairy-tale princess, like the ones in the cartoons Nora had seen as a child, or the detailed illustrations that had lined her favorite children’s books.

  Darnell was sprawled in Emma’s hair. He looked up at Nora, his yellow eyes catching the light. His expression was not pleasant.

  “I’m the one who feeds you,” Nora whispered.

  It didn’t seem to make a difference to him at all.

  She sighed and went in closer to see if Emma was faking, but her breathing was soft and even. Nora whispered her name, and Emma did not respond. Good. The girl probably was exhausted, even though she had slept for a thousand years. Her brain probably ached from all the things she had seen, heard, and learned that day.

  Nora tiptoed out of the room and pulled the door closed. Then she went back to the living room. The little man had turned on more lights. He was standing beside the unshuttered window in the kitchen, staring at the city.

  “Nice view,” he said.

  She didn’t answer. Instead she went back up the stairs to her bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She had felt at a disadvantage, talking to a man in a suit in her living room, even if that man were Sancho Panza.

  When she went back down, he was on the sofa, the identification papers spread like cards on the coffee table. He was perusing them as if they were a tarot deck.

  “We can’t use them,” she said.

  He looked up at her. “Why not?”

  “Because you couldn’t have gotten them legally.”

  “And you can?” He perched on the edge of the couch like a little boy, his feet not touching the floor. His bowler was on her favorite chair. Before sitting down, she removed the hat and put it on an end table.

  “Of course you have no answer for that. Why would you? Why would anyone?” He smiled. “You haven’t encountered anything like this before.”

  “And you have?”

  “Just once,” he said. “But the thousand years spanned a less complicated time.”

  Her entire body stiffened. “How old are you, exactly?”

  “Exactly?” He ran a hand through his short hair. “I’m not sure exactly. Calendars have changed a lot since I was born. If you use the Julian system, then I’m one age; the ancient Egyptian, another; and the current system, I am a third age. Add to that the fact that no one recorded the moment of my birth and you have quite a mess.”

  She sighed. “Do you always give such rambling answers to such easy questions?”

  “Do you always ask such difficult questions expecting easy answers?”

  She decided once more that she didn’t like him. She leaned forward, examining the identification. It looked complete. Everything was here, from a birth certificate to a passport to that special ID card that was given to people who didn’t qualify for a driver’s license. All of them listed Emma’s age as twenty and her last name as Lost, even though Nora had told no one that was what she had chosen.

  “How did you know Emma’s last name?” she asked.

  “It was in the air.” He glanced at her sideways. “Did you wake her?”

  “Emma? No.”

  “Well, you have to. I’m here to take her away.”

  “And how do you figure to do that?”

  “You’re done. The job I hired you for is over. You can keep whatever remains in your escrow account as payment for a service satisfactorily rendered.”

  Nora’s hands felt clammy. “My office will issue you a refund in the morning.”

  “No—”

  “I don’t need any more money.”

  He smiled. “True enough.” He started picking up the ID. “So, would you get her for me?”

  “No,” Nora said.

  “No?” He reacted in much the same way Blackstone had. Did no one say no to these people?

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Emma’s my client now.”

  “She can’t be. She has no identity, no money, and—it’s some sort of conflict, isn’t it?”

  “No,” Nora said.

  “But you were to guard her for me. And then when I came for her, you were done.”

  Nora shook her head. She was waking up and spoiling for a fight. She hadn’t realized it, but she had been spoiling for a real fight all day. “You asked me to guard a microbus and its contents. You said nothing about a woman.”

  “She was in the microbus. You know that. You helped her get out this morning.”

  “For all I know, she crawled in this morning, and I helped her escape,” Nora said.

  Sancho narrowed his eyes. For some reason, that look on him scared her a lot more than it had when Ealhswith had made the same expression. “I asked you to guard Emma.”

  “I can show you my notes from the time,” Nora said. “I keep detailed notes. But I also have an excellent memory. And I believe what you said to me was that you wanted me to store the microbus. You gave me a little worksheet to show how you came up with the figures for my payment, and on top was the phrase ‘Microbus Storage.’ I told you I would not inspect the contents of that bus, and I would not relinquish the keys to anyone but you.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Why did I what?”

  “Inspect the contents of the bus.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You have Emma.”

  “I opened the back because I had been having horrible nightmares. There I found an envelope with my name on it. I followed the instructions in the envelope.”

 
“Seems like you broke your word.”

  “I did not.”

  He shrugged. “She was in my bus.”

  “As of this morning,” Nora said. “But no human could be in there for ten years.”

  “Who says she’s human?”

  “Who says she’s not?”

  They glared at each other. “You’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you?” he asked, and she could swear that she thought he was suppressing a grin.

  “No,” she said. “I’m just sick of the way that Emma’s been treated.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Your friend Blackstone thinks that she will just run into his arms after he’s robbed her of centuries.”

  “Don’t judge him too harshly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t know the whole story.”

  “Do you?”

  He shook his head. “I think it’s still playing out.”

  “Would it make a difference if I did know the whole story?”

  “Probably not,” Sancho said. He shoved the ID at her. “You’ll need this.”

  “I can’t use illegal ID.”

  “You won’t. Emma will.” Then he frowned. “She is all right, isn’t she?”

  “No,” Nora said. “She’s scared and traumatized and thoroughly confused by this world. And she won’t accept Blackstone’s help to get her through the hurdles.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t let her accept Blackstone’s help.”

  “Magically. He said he can give her a memory of the last thousand years.”

  “Stupid infant,” Sancho said. “That’s not what she needs.”

  “Oh?” Nora asked. “What does she need?”

  “A good teacher. And frankly, my dear, you’re not it.”

  “Why not?”

  “What were the Europeans doing to the pagans in 1575?”

  “Burning them, I assume.”

  “Assume.” He frowned. “And the Chinese?”

  “What about them?”

  “What were they doing to people with magical abilities in 1575?”

  “Our 1575?”

  “Your 1575.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t know enough about Chinese culture to know if they had a particular attitude toward magic or not.

  “What about the Jews?”

  “What about them?”

  “When, if ever, did they accept the wisdom of the Kabbala?”