by Juliet Dark
“Ah, there you are! We got worried when you didn’t answer the door and went looking for your key. Only it doesn’t seem to be under your gnome.”
The ceramic gnome had come with the house. Practically all the houses in Fairwick had one of the twee figurines in their front garden. I’d considered removing the little apple-cheeked man in blue pants, green suspenders, and red cap, but each time I had, he’d seem to glare at me and I’d thought better of it. I had moved my key a few months ago, though, because it seemed like too obvious a hiding place.
“It’s here,” I said, nudging a flowerpot full of geraniums with my toe.
Liz and Diana exchanged a puzzled look. “Why would you put it there? It belongs with your gnome,” Diana said, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. “Everyone hides their key under their gnome.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of hiding the key if everyone knows where it is?” I asked, feeling as if I were trapped in an Alice in Wonderland tea party.
“On the contrary,” Liz replied. “These gnomes are threshold guardians. Your gnome protects your key from those wishing you harm, but lets in friends who wish you well. We wanted to make sure that you were all right after what happened at the circle. A power surge like the one you experienced can have unexpected repercussions. Did you sleep all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, blushing as I remembered the erotic dream I’d had last night. “I’m just a little groggy.”
“That’s to be expected,” Diana said briskly as she came up onto the porch, extracted my spare key from beneath the flowerpot, and handed it to Liz to put under the gnome. I thought I detected a faint glow emanating from the ceramic figure when she righted him over the key.
“There,” Liz said. “You ought to name him, though, to seal the threshold spell.”
“I’d feel …” like an idiot, I almost said, but looking into Diana’s wide doelike eyes, I amended it to “unsure of what sort of name to give him.”
“Oh, any old name is fine. Does he remind you of anyone?”
I looked down at the little bearded, red-capped man. “Well, he does look a little like my high school orchestra leader, Mr. Rukowski.” As I said the name, the glow around the gnome grew.
“He likes it. Mr. Rukowski it is. May we go inside, Mr. Rukowski?”
For a moment I worried that the ceramic figure might talk—in which case I would have to get rid of him. Ancient threshold guardian or not, a talking ceramic garden gnome was just plain creepy. But no speech issued forth from Mr. Rukowski’s mouth, only a warm glow that spread up the porch steps and into my front door, like a welcome mat that had been spread out for my guests.
“Come on in,” I said. “Apparently you’re welcome.”
I tried to seat Liz and Diana in the parlor while I went to put on water for tea, but they followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Liz folded her hands on top of the table and pressed her lips together. Diana rearranged the sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, and a mason jar full of wilting wildflowers.
“What is it?” I asked, finally picking up on the women’s tension. “Is something wrong? Has the circle banished me? Is Ann okay? Has her hand gotten worse?”
“Ann’s fine,” Liz assured me. “And the circle … Well, there was some disagreement at first.” She pressed her lips together and I guessed that Moondance had probably given her a hard time about bringing me into the circle. “But we found a private tutor who we think will be perfect for you. One of our circle can personally vouch for him and I spent the night calling his references.” Liz placed unusual stress on the word calling. It took me another minute in my groggy state to realize why. Last year when Liz had hired Liam Doyle to take over a creative writing class she had relied on his internet profile and emailed references—all of which had been fabricated by my crafty incubus. Liz was trying to assure me that she wasn’t making the same mistake.
“Thank you for being so thorough,” I said, turning to pour boiling water in the teapot—and also to hide the blood that had risen to my face. I knew I should be grateful to Liz, but instead I felt a sudden wash of grief at the thought that even if Liz wasn’t this careful—and no matter what dreams I had of him—I’d never see Liam in the flesh again.
“His name is Duncan Laird,” Diana blurted. “He has a DMA from Oxford!”
“A DMA?”
“A Doctorate of Magical Arts,” Liz explained. “He’s a wizard of the Ninth Order. We’re lucky to get him. He happened to be visiting friends in Rhinebeck. He’ll be here early this evening, around five.”
“Today?” I asked, appalled. “I’ve got a flooded basement and a leaking roof. Everything’s a mess …” I looked around the kitchen and noticed for the first time that it was not a mess. The pots and pans I’d used to catch drips had been rinsed, dried, and stacked, and put away in the pantry. The mud on the floor had been mopped up. Even the coffee cup I’d given to Bill earlier was rinsed and drying in the draining rack beside the sink. There was a note from Bill under it that read: I’ve gotten a tarp over the roof to stop the leaks for now and went for roofing supplies.
Wow, a man who cleaned up after himself and left notes. What better reference did I need for him?
“The house looks spick-and-span,” Diane said. “Better than mine, in fact, which reminds me, I should be getting Dr. Laird’s room ready and baking some scones for tea. A British wizard will expect a real high tea.”
“He’ll also expect that you know the basics of magical history,” Liz said to me, unloading a stack of books onto my kitchen table. “I’ve brought you Wheelock’s Spellcraft and LaFleur’s History of Magic, volumes one through five. Try to skim through them today, would you? We don’t want him to think we American witches have no standards.”
“But he knows I’m a beginner, right?” I asked as I followed Liz and Diana to the front door.
Diana and Liz exchanged a guilty look. “Not exactly. We told him you had an unusual energy signature and had short-circuited our circle. He was … intrigued.”
Great, I thought, Liz had made me sound like an interesting lab rat. But what difference did it make what Duncan Laird thought of me? The important thing was to gain enough power to bring Brock back from Niflheim and keep the door open.
“Have you heard anything more from the governing board of IMP?” I asked on the porch.
Liz sighed. “I spoke last night to Lydia Markham at Mount Holyrood. She’s always been a great supporter of the fey, but she was evasive when I asked how she planned to vote. Then I did a little snooping on the web and discovered that an anonymous benefactor has just given a huge bequest to fund a new science lab for Mount Holyrood. I hate to say it, but I’m afraid Lydia’s vote might have been bought.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “But there are still two more members of the board who are pro-fey, aren’t there?”
“Yes, Talbot Greeley in literature at Bard. He’s an Irish cluricaune who did his DMA dissertation on the fey influence on Shakespeare. And Loomis Pagan, a pixy in gender studies at Wesleyan. I think we can count on Talbot, but I’m not sure of Loomis. To tell you the truth, I never understand a word she’s saying. Even if she speaks up for the fey her argument is likely to be so incoherent that she’ll do our case more harm than good.” Liz got into her car, shaking her head. “Our best bet is to make sure that, no matter how the vote goes, you can prevent them from closing the door.”
After Liz drove away, I stood on the porch, thinking about what I could do to help. It didn’t sound as if we were going to be able to count on support from IMP. If only we knew for sure what the Grove was up to … Then I remembered I did have a source at the Grove who might be able to help. I went inside and called Jen Davies.
Jen Davies was the freelance reporter who had exposed my roommate Phoenix’s memoir as fraudulent last year. I later learned that she belonged to the Grove (and that she felt bad about her treatment of Phoenix). After I was initiated into the Grove, Jen confided t
o me that she and a group of other young members had formed a splinter group, called Sapling, that questioned the ultraconservative policies of the Grove. If anyone could tell me more about what the Grove was intending to do next week when they came to Fairwick, it would be Jen.
I reached her voicemail and left a message asking her to call me back. Then I stood in my foyer wondering what to do next. Even with Bill’s ministrations, the house still needed cleaning and I needed to do that reading before my new tutor showed up. I suddenly felt exhausted and unable to choose which I preferred: for Duncan Laird, DMA, to think I was a slob or an idiot? Of course, he was bound to be impressed when I showed him the Aelvestone …
The Aelvestone. With a guilty start, I realized I hadn’t told Liz or Diana about it. How could I have forgotten? I must have been too distracted by their news about my tutor. I should call and tell them now … but first I should check on the stone to make sure it was still okay.
I went upstairs to my bedroom and opened the drawer where I’d put it last night. The drawer was empty.
I’ve just forgotten which drawer it’s in, I told myself, my heart beating faster. I opened all the little drawers. Shells, stones, feathers … all the little oddments I kept, but no Aelvestone. There was only one drawer left: the one in which I kept the key to Liam’s manacles, but that one was locked. It couldn’t be there …
I got out the key from my night table and opened the locked drawer. There between the two iron keys—mine and Dahlia’s—lay the Aelvestone, the flannel cloth folded neatly beneath it.
How the hell had it gotten there? I wondered, lifting the stone and cradling it in my hand. The only explanation I could imagine was that I’d gotten up some time in the night and moved it. Only I had no memory of doing that. As far as I knew, I’d spent the night making love to Liam in Faerie … but at the end of the dream he had handed me the Aelvestone and told me to lock it up. Maybe I had gotten up then and moved it. It was disturbing not to remember doing it, but I’d heard of people on certain sleeping pills getting up and doing strange things they couldn’t recall later—and last night the Aelvestone had certainly acted like a powerful narcotic.
I looked at the stone in my hand and wrapped my fingers around it experimentally, waiting to see if it made me sleepier. Instead I felt a surge of energy. The fogginess I’d felt since waking vanished. Strange, I thought. Maybe something in the books Liz had given me would explain the effects of Aelvesgold.
I slipped the stone in my pocket and went downstairs to the kitchen, where I’d left the books, and took them into the library to read.
The library had been my favorite room in the house when I’d first moved in. What book lover doesn’t dream of having an entire room dedicated to their books? Mine had floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases crowned with classical molding and brass lamps above each section, and brass nameplates on each shelf which held little cards to identify that shelf’s subject (not that I’d gotten around to filling out the cards). It also had a fireplace, a comfortable couch, and a small television. Liam and I had practically lived in here last winter, building fires, watching old movies, making love on the couch …
Which was why I hadn’t spent much time in here since. The room had acquired a sad, derelict air—dust floating in the air, ashes in the fireplace, the sofa cushions askew and deflated. I sank down on the couch and stroked the nap of the velour, inhaling the scent of scotch and ash and … No, I couldn’t smell Liam anymore. I reached my hand into my pocket and cradled the Aelvestone. He had said in the dream that Aelvesgold could connect true lovers … but I didn’t feel connected right now. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t been able to love him. We weren’t true lovers. But then why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? And why did I want to love him so much?
Sighing, I settled down on the couch with the books, opened up LaFleur, and read a hundred pages.
In about ten minutes.
The words seemed to fly into my brain. I’d never believed in speed reading, but this didn’t feel like speed reading. I hadn’t skimmed. I had a complete and thorough understanding of the history of magic from the Iron Age to the twenty-first century. I could list all the major witches during that time period (Queen Elizabeth I and Eleanor Roosevelt, who knew?) and name the dates of all the major wars, treaties, council rulings, and grimoire editions. And I had a firm grasp of the differences between practical and sympathetic magic.
All in ten minutes. Wow! This stuff was better than the Adderal my freshman roommate had given me during finals week.
I picked up Wheelock’s Spellcraft and committed the first hundred spells to memory.
In five minutes.
But had I really absorbed all that information?
I decided to give myself a little quiz.
“Flagrante ligfyr,” I pronounced.
The candles on top of the mantel burst into flame, then sputtered and went out. Ralph, who had been napping behind the Oxford English Dictionary, poked his nose out and wiggled his whiskers at the smoke.
Okay, so my magic was still a bit erratic. What had Liz said—that my energy signature was unusual? Huh. Right now my energy signature felt just fine. I tried an air-moving spell.
“Ventus pyff!”
A gust swept across the library, stirring the ashes from the unswept fireplace and the dust off the furniture into a small funnel cloud that bounced off the walls and knocked over a lamp. Ralph scurried back behind the OED.
“Oblittare astyntan!” I shouted, recalling the spell for canceling spells.
The dust devil collapsed in a heap on top of the couch. Great, I thought, as a coughing fit wracked my body, I’ve just made things worse in here.
I looked around the room again. A crystal tumbler with an amber ring at the bottom sat on the coffee table. I lifted it and inhaled the peaty aroma of the scotch Liam favored. On the rim was an impression of his lips. I touched it, recalling the feel of his mouth on mine … but instead of shivering with passion I felt anger. Those hadn’t been his true lips, they’d been an invention to lure me into loving him—and they’d failed.
I marched into the kitchen, picking up a few other stray glasses and dishes along the way, dumped them all in the sink and filled the basin with hot soapy water. I went back into the library and went to work. I picked up the rug, which usually took two people to lift, and hung it over the back porch railing and beat the dust out of it. I shoveled old ashes from the fireplace. I tossed the couch cushions into the hall and vacuumed the couch frame, throwing pebbles, twigs and bird feathers, which must have fallen from Liam’s pockets, into the trash. I mopped the floor with Murphy Oil Soap, getting down on my hands and knees. I polished the brass lamps and fireplace tools. I took out every single book to dust it, dislodging a disgruntled Ralph from behind the OED. While I was at it, I thought I might as well organize the books by subject and label the shelves …
Only when the shadows lengthened across the floor did I stop. Then I stood back and looked at the library. The floors and brass lamps gleamed. The books stood on the shelves like soldiers arrayed for battle. I’d also rearranged the furniture. The room glowed … and it no longer held any trace of Liam. It was only a matter of time, I assured myself, before I’d be able to say the same for myself.
I reached into my pocket and took out the Aelvestone. “If we are really connected,” I whispered to the stone, “show me! Monstrare leoht!”
A blinding gold light blazed out of the stone. And then the doorbell rang.
TWELVE
I slipped the stone back in my pocket and fumbled my way to the door, my eyes still dazzled by the light. I opened the door, squinting against the light that formed a corona around the dark figure of a man. My heart beat harder and I thought of Liam in my last dream of him, his face dark against a blaze of Aelvesgold. He had come back to me!
But then the man stepped closer and his face came into focus. Not Liam. He was good-looking, though, with fair hair that swooped up from a high brow and then fell over on
e eye like a wing. He wore a wrinkled linen suit and carried a worn leather satchel—the kind British schoolboys used in Goodbye Mr. Chips—strapped across his chest. He would have looked like a British schoolboy if his features hadn’t been so severe. He had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes that narrowed at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a sexy Scottish accent. “You look disappointed. Were you expecting someone else? Dean Book told me to come as soon as I arrived in town. You are Cailleach McFay?”
He pronounced my name correctly, so he’d probably heard it from someone who knew me. Still, I didn’t want to leap to any conclusions.
“Who are you?” I asked brusquely, still trying to get over my disappointment that he wasn’t Liam.
He took out a card from the inside of his linen jacket and handed it to me. DUNCAN LAIRD, DMA was engraved on the heavy cream cardstock.
“It doesn’t say wizard,” I said.
He smiled, relieving the severe lines of his face and revealing very white teeth. “Oh, but it does,” he said, “if you look at it the right way. Focus your energy on it. You’ve got enough magic coursing through you right now to light up the Eastern Seaboard.”
I stared at the card harder, focusing the energy that was fizzing through my veins. A watermark appeared in the paper—a five-pointed star within a circle. A pentacle.
“Cool,” I said. “Does the reverse side have a picture of Jesus blessing the masses …?” I flipped the card over while making my, admittedly, lame joke—really, I was just trying to give myself time to recover from my ridiculous idea that I’d summoned Liam to my door—but the smile vanished from my face when the card burst into flame.