by Tim Pratt
I didn’t fly, of course, but amazingly, I didn’t get hurt, either. Dad said he enrolled me in gymnastics class the next week, because he saw me fall, headfirst, but when I hit the ground, I somehow instinctively tucked, rolled, did a perfect somersault, and bounced up to my feet, laughing uproariously—at least until I got a well-earned tongue lashing for doing something so dangerous. Despite a few years of classes, though, I never showed much of an aptitude for acrobatics after that, and my dad sometimes joked that I used up all my talent in one shot, to keep myself from breaking my neck.
Now, seeing evidence that my biological father had been watching from a distance—and knowing he had a certain ability to make reality do his bidding—I wondered: Had he saved my life that day? Given me a little lift, a little nudge, sent me rolling instead of crashing? And if he’d acted that day, had he acted on others? The car wreck I walked away from in high school? The time the riptide nearly carried me away on one of our rare vacations to the ocean, only for a weird crosscurrent to come bearing me back to shore?
Was the thought of Archibald Grace watching over me from a distance creepy, or sweet, or both all at once? More and more my life contained contradictions and multitudes.
I curled up more comfortably on the rug, leaning my back against a handy couch, and flipped through the album. There were a few more photos of me, most from ages six to twelve, all outdoor shots taken from a distance. But there were other pictures, too, of other children. The first one in the album was an old black-and-white photo of a preteen girl with pale hair and thin lips wearing a prairie dress, posing in front of a log cabin, utterly serious and unsmiling. The Firstborn as a little girl, I was pretty sure, or at least a relative of hers. I took the photo out, looking at the back, hoping for a date, a name, something, but it was blank. That girl showed up a few more times, always posed with her arms by her sides, usually next to a tree or a crumbling shack or in a field, her expression always serious, and I felt sorry for the kid, because no matter what she grew up to be, she didn’t look like she was having much fun in her life as a child. Of course, she did grow up to be a murdering house-breaking lunatic, and the last thing I wanted to do was think of her in human terms, but there it was: basic empathy rearing its doleful head.
I worked my way through the book, and there were more pictures of kids, most of them in color, a few of them ancient Polaroids. Mostly they were terribly shot and unremarkable and blurry—apparently being a wizard didn’t make you a good photographer—but a few pictures stood out.
There were many shots of a chubby, sour-faced little white boy at the beach—wading in the surf, building a sand castle, standing on a pier—all pictures apparently taken on the same day. None of them made much of an impression, except the last: the boy stood facing the camera, lips and chin and cheeks smeared with chocolate, holding an ice cream cone in one hand, and—I had to stare at it for a while to be sure—a seagull in the other, the bird dangling from his fist by its feet, beak open, wings outstretched, caught on film in a moment of frozen terror. The kid’s expression was hard to make out under all the smeared ice cream, but I was pretty sure he was smiling—and it was the only photo in the bunch where he looked anything other than bored or annoyed.
Next there were several more or less interchangeable photos of three infants in a row, resting on a pale blue blanket, all dressed in frilly gowns, all three babies holding hands with one another in each photo. Did babies usually do that? Maybe they’d just grab onto anything in reach, and the hand-holding was a coincidence, but there was something eerie about the sight anyway.
Just before the photos of me, there was a nearly blank section, with three empty pages, and one photo not quite centered on the fourth and final page. It was a little girl, with skin darker than mine, wearing a one-piece black swimsuit. Her back was to the camera, and the setting was muddy and blurry, but she seemed to be sitting on gray sand in a cavern—there were stalactites hanging down above her head. Something huge and dark loomed beyond the girl, but it was so out of focus I couldn’t tell if it was a boulder or a bear or something else. The picture was chilling, though. Wherever it was taken, it was no place for a little kid.
I closed the album, frowning. I was in there. So was the Firstborn, I was pretty sure. Did that mean the other kids were my half siblings, too? Other children Grace had stalked, watched, looked after? But, no—the other photos weren’t taken by someone hiding far away in the bushes. They were up close, or at least showed awareness on the part of the kids that they were being photographed. Had those other children had relationships with our presumed father? If so, why was I the only one who got abandoned, left on a doorstep like an unwanted phone book or a take-out menu flyer or a bag of flaming dog poop?
I’d written down the same question in the lawyer’s office—why did my parents give me away?—and the answer in the sealed envelope had said, “For your own protection.” Was it true? Had there been some danger, by the time I was born, in being Archibald Grace’s daughter? My lifelong assumption that my biological parents had abandoned me without a second thought was pretty well shattered by the stalker pictures and the possibility of supernatural intervention to ensure my well-being. I wasn’t ready to forgive my father, let alone my still totally mysterious mother, but I was open to gathering additional evidence.
I put the album back on the shelf. Funny how it fell down, just when I was asking the house to give me some kind of information about the Grace family. Or else, not funny at all. “Thanks, house,” I said. “That was interesting. I don’t suppose you’d make me a sandwich?” I wasn’t really hungry, but I wondered what would happen if I asked.
I went back into the kitchen. No sandwich. Clearly I still had a lot to learn about this magic-wielding thing.
#
At nightfall I wanted to crawl into bed and just stay there, but I could feel the gravity well of anxiety and depression dragging at me, and I know from long experience there’s only one surefire cure for those maladies, at least for me: doing some work.
I went to my glass-walled studio, where the natural light was fading fast, but I’d brought in several of the million lamps of Archibald Grace, and they filled the space with a mellow, even light.
If I’d doubted my decision to hold on to my inheritance despite the obvious costs, that doubt drained away as I stood in that golden room. I already felt it was my place, my wizard’s tower, my inner sanctum, the place where I’d make the only magic I really understood. Apart from pure pigheaded opposition to bullies and thieves like the Firstborn, this was the reason for my resistance: that feeling of home.
I sat down with a sketchpad and started drawing. That mental image I’d had when Trey came out of the mirror—his body, with the head of a lion—was still stuck in my head, and the best way to get things out of my head is to put them on the page.
What I ended up drawing was less Trey and more like his grandfather, an elder statesman sort of lawyer, standing upright on courthouse steps, briefcase in one hand, wearing a three-piece suit, with the noble head of a lion, eyes steady and calm, mane a beautiful tangle of locks that dangled down around his shoulders.
I flipped the page over and kept drawing, images bubbling up in my mind, jumping off from the lion-headed man. I worked without conscious thought, letting the images form on the page, experiencing a sense of flow I’ve only felt a few times in my life while drawing or painting, and have learned to cherish.
I drew a rough version of the Statue of Liberty, but instead of the crowned head of a woman, I gave her the head of a jackal, like something from an alternate history where the Egyptian empire had never faded, and depictions of their death gods were erected in New York Harbor. Then I scribbled a fat Vegas-era Elvis in a white jumpsuit, with the head of a leering boar. Then a person in an old-fashioned diving suit, the elaborate windowed helmet tucked under her arm, revealing her fish’s head, big-eyed and gaping. Then the Three Musketeers, swords held aloft, but all three with the heads of rabbits, with floppy
ears and wide eyes. Then a man in a three-piece suit, with a pocket watch on a chain, but instead of an animal head, I gave him a head like a sun, all jagged rays and hazed corona.
I looked up from my sketches and realized three hours had gone by. I was starving, I had to pee, and I had missed calls from Charlie, my parents, and Trey.
Talking to other humans seemed too difficult—I was still thinking mostly in images, not words, as if language had receded to reveal some more primal form of consciousness underneath—so I decided to tend to my more immediate needs instead. After the bathroom I went into the kitchen…and there was a plate in the center of the counter, holding a sandwich that, when examined, proved to contain turkey, a slice of tomato, Swiss cheese, and just the right amount of mayonnaise and mustard.
“Trey?” I called, backing out of the room, and then raced around the house to check all the doors and windows (at least all the ones I could find). Everything was still secure and locked up tight.
I walked slowly back into the kitchen and looked around at the cabinets, the windows, the yellow curtains, the tile floor. “House,” I said slowly. “I asked for a sandwich earlier. Did you make me this one?”
The compressor in the refrigerator kicked on just then, filling the room with an audible hum. I wondered if that sound was supposed to be an answer. Then I realized I was trying to find meaning in the buzzing of a refrigerator and decided that was not a fruitful line of inquiry.
“I could go for a glass of water, too,” I said. Nothing happened. The sink didn’t turn on, and a glass of water didn’t appear in a puff of lemon-scented smoke on the counter. I sighed, picked up the plate with the sandwich, and started walking toward the garbage can—eating a mystery sandwich seemed ill-advised—only to find a glass of water beside the sink, filled to the top, ice cubes bobbing. I am proud to say I didn’t drop the sandwich and shriek or do anything similarly dramatic. Instead I swallowed and said, “Thanks.”
To a house.
I took the water and the sandwich and sat down at the counter and took a bite. The sandwich was pretty good. Not the best I’d ever had, but adequate, and every ingredient was something I actually had in the house, so it probably hadn’t been conjured from the vasty deeps or whatever. The water was cold and tasted like the usual slightly mineraly well-water that always came from the tap. “Why didn’t you make me a sandwich when I asked before? Why wait?”
There was no answer, except for the one that popped into my mind, and I don’t think it was a crazy “house-to-mind” telepathy situation, either. I think it just seemed kind of obvious: when I asked for a sandwich before, I wasn’t hungry. When I was actually hungry, the house provided.
Or else the Firstborn had crept in and made a sandwich to poison me, but hey, that’s why I had the sword of healing with me, for just such a deadly eventuality.
Once I was fed, I considered calling my parents, because I knew I could keep the conversation with them superficial and light, but it was getting late back in Chicago. I settled for sending an email instead, apologizing for missing their call, and told them everything was fine: I’d made a friend, I was doing some art, I was settling in. I did tell them my neighbor had been found dead in her garden, and that I’d had to talk to the police, but I managed to make it sound like natural causes and like I hadn’t been the one who found the body, without outright resorting to falsehoods.
Those other missed calls on my phone nagged at me. I wasn’t ready to tell Charlie about the crazy stuff happening in my life, because he was my best friend, and I wanted to be honest with him, and it was all too much to go into. Plus, he’d probably want to hop the first plane to come make sure I was okay, and I didn’t want him in the middle of all this. The only thing Charlie cares about more than maximizing pleasure over the longest possible time frame—“sustainable hedonism” he calls it—is art, and the only thing he cares about more than art is his friends.
But calling Trey didn’t have the same drawbacks, since he was already neck-deep in the weird, and it wasn’t too late, so I gave him a ring. “Hey. Sorry I missed your call.”
“Oh, good.” The relief in his voice was so plain I felt guilty for not calling him sooner. “I was trying to decide if I should come over when you didn’t answer, but I thought just showing up like that would be crazy—I’m a little paranoid, for obvious reasons.”
“I’m fine. Trying not to dwell on the terrifying things I can’t do anything about.” I considered telling him about the photo album, and the house’s willingness to make me sandwiches by magic, but decided those were subjects better broached in person.
“I just wanted to let you know, I got a call from this deputy I’ve worked with a few times—she said there’s no reason to think Melinda’s death was anything but natural causes. Apparently she had a congenital defect, something she was born with, and her doctor wasn’t surprised to hear her heart finally gave out—said he was surprised it hadn’t happened years ago.”
I closed my eyes. “Do you believe that? That Melinda just happened to die, the same time the Firstborn decided to wear her face?”
“I don’t know, Bekah. It would be a hell of a coincidence. We know the Firstborn isn’t afraid to try to kill people—she tried to kill me. Whether she killed Melinda or just took advantage of her death or just, I don’t know, scared her to death—if someone appeared in my yard, looking just like me, and I had a bad heart anyway, I might fall over and die. Shocks or surprise or bad news can trigger heart attacks, right?”
“Sure happens a lot in movies, anyway.”
“We all know movies are a perfect model of life. But I guess it’s possible. The other thing is…the deputy said Melinda was dead at least a couple of days before we found her.”
“Oh, God. You mean Melinda was there, in the garden, when you first showed me around the grounds? When we went and knocked on her front door and the cats ran and hid from us?”
“I guess so, yeah. If we’d walked through her garden…The upshot is, there’s no doubt, the woman you talked to—it was the Firstborn, every time. You never really met Melinda. It’s a shame. She was nice.”
I had a sudden irrational flare of concern. “What happened to her cats? Are they okay?”
Trey laughed, and it was nice to hear lightness in his voice again. “I asked, actually—I like cats—and one of the other deputies took them in. The cats are fine.”
“So there’s some good in the world after all. That’s reassuring.”
“Bekah…we’ll figure this out. I mean, you’ll figure it out—we haven’t known each other long, but I can already tell you’re tough, and smart, and if you want my help, I’m here for you, and if you want me to leave you alone and let you deal with things your own way, I can do that, too.”
“Alone is good,” I said. “I could use some time to think. Tonight, anyway. Maybe tomorrow I’ll want help. Okay?”
“You’ve got it,” he said, and though I’m sure he tried his best, there was just a hint of disappointment in his voice. I felt a bit of disappointment myself. Forgetting everything and falling into his stronger-than-I’d-realized arms was tempting, but I wanted to focus on figuring things out a little bit longer first. Time enough for play once work was done.
We said good-bye, and I wandered through the living room, and on into the warren of rooms that led to the studio. I looked around, finally deciding the direct approach had served me well before, so why not try it again?
“House, is there anything I can use to protect myself if the Firstborn comes back? I mean, I appreciate the stuff I’ve found already, believe me—the sword is great, and who doesn’t want an invisible pickup truck? But I’m thinking something with a little offensive capability.” Disappointingly—and perhaps predictably—the house did not drop a magical double-barreled shotgun into my path, or provide a giant battle-axe with a blade made of starlight, or even offer up an enchanted paring knife. I shrugged, sighed, and returned to the living room…
…which is where I f
ound a little silver bell resting on top of one of the coffee tables.
“Ah. Okay. So what’s this?” I’d stopped hoping for direct answers, but still wanted to voice my questions—it helped keep me from just howling in frustration. I picked up the bell, gently, then gave it a shake. It didn’t summon a hurricane or shoot fireballs or anything—in fact, it didn’t even ring, and when I turned it over, I saw it didn’t even have a clapper. “Well, this is useful. Listen, house. If you don’t stop with the cryptic stuff, I’m going to pack up my stuff and let the Firstborn have you—”
The bell rang—all on its own and without any motion in my hand—producing a tinkling jingle, very pleasant.
“Uh. Why did the bell ring, house? You don’t like being threatened? Ring once for yes, twice for no? Anything? House, you’re really not helping me here. I’ve got half a mind to take my nice cash inheritance and run off to Tahiti—”
The bell rang again, still not moving, the sound emerging as if by—well, yes, okay. As if by magic.
“The musical accompaniment is nice and all, and I don’t mean to be dense, but I need more guidance…”
Another book fell off the shelf. I sighed, walked across the room, and picked it up. The book was some glossy pop-science thing, called The Ring of Truth: An Inquiry Into How We Know What We Know—
“Ohhh,” I said. “Uh…My name is Rebekah Lull.” Silence. “I am eighty-seven years old—”