Pocket Full of Tinder

by Jill Archer

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  Fourscore men and fourscore more

  Couldn’t make Humpty what he was before.

  —ENGLISH NURSERY RHYME

  1

  TWO CRONES

  Noon

  This Year

  Fourth Semester

  The claw-and-ball had been chewed clean off. It lay on a patch of sunny parquet floor, just to the right of an antique, aubergine wool rug now covered with the splintered remnants of an eleventh-century pedestal table and one very large, ghastly looking, somewhat repentant barghest.

  Nova’s head rested on her front paws as her gaze shifted warily from me to Miss Bister, Megiddo’s dormater, or house mother.

  “Megiddo’s lobby is not a kennel, Miss Onyx. That”—she motioned dismissively toward Nova—“beast can no longer be housed here.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but Miss Bister continued speaking, her tone rising only infinitesimally, her back as stiff as Luck’s lance must have been and her expression just as hard. She pointed toward the previously priceless, three-footed piece of furniture that was now a worthless, two-footed pile of kindling.

  “No amount of money – or magic – can fix that, Nouiomo. It’s beyond repair. I warned you. I made an exception to my ‘no pets’ rule because you never cause trouble. You never forget your key; you promptly pick up your deliveries; you change your own light bulbs; you double-bag your trash. You leave nothing behind in the bathroom; you don’t monopolize the washing machines; you are exceedingly polite to the lift operator; you don’t sing in the shower.”

  I suppressed a sigh. After a year and a half of painstaking effort, harrowing experiences, and endless hours of education, my worth had just been measured by the fact that I could change a light bulb. I’d mastered fiery magic, become an adept fighter, learned the law, killed countless demons (one regrettably, the others much less so), freed myriad immortals from an accursed, tortured bondage, and survived having my heart nearly destroyed by both love and an arrow, yet none of that meant bupkis next to the fact that I double-bagged my trash. And yet…

  I couldn’t really argue with Miss Bister either. Everything she’d said was true. And who was I to tell her what she should deem important? I respected that she valued domestic order and antiques. I did too, if not nearly as much as I valued the thing that now threatened our continued access to such. I glared at Nova, who swept one paw over her eyes as if she could hide from me and the evidence of what she’d done.

  Barghests are giant hellhounds. They’re bigger than bears, fiercer than rabid raccoons, and uglier than naked mole rats. Their teeth are the size of railroad spikes, their claws as sharp as a sickle, their breath as foul as sewage gas. But they are also affectionate, brave, and loyal. What barghests lack in magic, they make up for in devotion. And even though I was plenty mad at Nova for chewing up Miss Bister’s table, I also knew it wasn’t Nova’s fault.

  It was mine – for thinking the lobby of a demon law school dormitory would be a good place to keep her.

  “Miss Bister, please,” I said. “I’m truly sorry. I know I can’t replace that exact table. But if you would just allow me to—”

  “No,” Miss Bister said simply. “Either the beast goes… or you do.”

  I stared at the small, frail, magicless woman in front of me, trying desperately to think of some way to fix this problem. Wasn’t there something I could do, or say, or offer her that would make amends and convince her not to kick us out?

  But all I could think of was how useless some of the things were that our society valued most. As Miss Bister had pointed out, neither magic nor money would help. If I was going to repair the table, I’d need to find another way. Which would take time. And that meant I’d need to find somewhere else for us to sleep tonight. Because if the beast was going… I was too.

  “Yes, Miss Bister,” I said. “I understand.”

  She narrowed her eyes, slightly suspicious of my now-gracious defeat since I’d just spent the last half-hour trying to persuade her to accept various forms of reparation. But then she nodded, handed me a couple of paper bin bags, and left.

  I slid one bag inside the other and stooped down to pick up the slobbery remains of Nova’s mangled chew toy. When I finished, she came over to me and nudged my arm with her head. She let out a woofy whine.

  Was she sorry? She darn well better be!

  I gave her a scratch behind the ears.

  “Now that you’ve sharpened your teeth on my former dormater’s furniture, are you ready to eat some real food for breakfast?”

  Nova growled her assent and I made for the door, carrying the double-lined bag on my hip. Miss Bister may have given up on her table, but I wasn’t going to. I was leaving tomorrow for a six-month outpost residency. If I could find lodgings elsewhere for tonight, I’d have half a year to figure out how to fix Miss Bister’s table. With Luck’s blessing, I’d be back here for my final year at St. Luck’s.

  I exited Megiddo, hoping it wasn’t for the last time, with a bag of soggy sticks, a shamefaced barghest, and renewed determination.

  Culpa est mea, mi amice. The fault is mine, my friend.

  Within minutes I had bought two A.M. Grab Bags #9 and a pound of scrapple at Marduk’s, our school’s underground pub, and walked over to Abaddon, one of the dorms next to Megiddo. I waited outside, alternately taking bites of bannock and bacon and tossing bits of scrapple to Nova. The students who exited Abaddon were only momentarily startled by seeing us there. They were used to seeing a barghest on campus by now and, so long as we weren’t blocking the fastest route to coffee, they were happy to ignore us.

  A short while later, a puckish young man with cantaloupe-colored hair came out. He looked nearly as sleep-deprived as I felt (no doubt because he’d spent the night carousing with his girlfriend, not because he’d been studying), but he grinned when he saw me.

  “How’s Francesca?” I asked.

  He cocked a brow at me. “She’s fantastic, as you would know if you hung out with us more often.”

  “I do hang out with you. I spend almost every day with you, Fitz.”

  “Study group and classes don’t count, Noon.”

  I handed him the other grab bag from Marduk’s.

  “For me? What’s the occasion? Did you read the cases for Armed Conflict today? Oh, probably not, since you’re leaving tomorrow.” He spied the remaining scrapple. “Can I feed her the rest? Where’s Ivy? Did she read the cases for Armed Conflict?”

  When I wasn’t off campus tracking down rogares or near-irretrievable objects, I spent most of my time with Ivy, my Hyrke roommate, and her cousin, Fitz. Ivy wouldn’t take the news that I’d be moving out well. She wouldn’t be mad at me. Or Miss Bister. She would be mad at Nova. Which was why I was hoping Fitz might keep an eye on her while I finished the last two things I had to do before I left.

  “Never mind,” Fitz said. “I’m sure she’s ready. So why’re you up so early? Did you bring me a bannock and bacon too?” He peeked in the bag. “Is there any—”

  Fitz pulled a small black jar out of the bag. There was no label, but every St. Luck’s student would recognize it. The product of a back-room partnership between the manager of Marduk’s and an Angel who had epicurean skills but no desire to work with wine, it was experimental and expensive. Fitz’s eyes grew round as a bolt of lightning flickered inside the jar. He hooted with delight.

  “You bought me a jar of Thunderbolt?” He twisted the top off, his tone reverential. Despite the clear morning, ominous thunder rumbled in the sky.

  “You could save it for after finals, you know.”

  “Sollicitudo, solitudo.”

  “‘Worrying about tomorrow is a waste of today?’”

  He grinned, raised the drink toward me, and downed it in one gulp. Students who had been ignoring us were suddenly drawn to him as if he were a supermassive black hole emitting gaze-grabbing radiation.

&nbs
p; I glanced over at Nova and then back at Fitz as I handed him her half-eaten loaf of scrapple. His hair stood on end, buzzing with electric bolts of blue and white.

  I was a law student, not a math whiz, but I was pretty sure the day’s equation would be:

  Nova and a pound of pork + Fitz and a can of Thunderbolt = What could go wrong?

  After leaving Nova with Fitz, I caught a cab to Siujan Street. “Finish trousseau” was the penultimate item on my To Do List before I left. Ordinarily, trousseaus are for brides, which I most certainly was not. But in my country there are other less marital, more martial groups of people who gather trousseaus before leaving one place for another.

  I’d spent the last four months amassing a pile of hand-crafted clothing and armor at Sartabella’s, a very upscale tailor’s shop in Barter Hill. My oftimes glamoured Guardian Angel, Fara, had recommended that I begin (and end) my preparations for this semester’s assignment by shopping at Sartabella’s. She’d made it sound as though it would be as simple as making an appointment to have my pants hemmed. But Sartabella didn’t work like that. It wasn’t that Fara had to recommend Sartabella to me, it was that Fara had to recommend me to Sartabella. And, at first, Sartabella had wanted nothing to do with me.

  A Maegester?

  Sartabella only worked with Angels.

  A female Maegester-in-Training?!

  Even worse. How was she supposed to design clothing for a woman who was so dark and dreadful? So grim and ghastly?

  I’d reminded Sartabella that the sign outside her shop said she designed armor as well as clothing. What did she imagine her other female clients did in the armor she made for them? Did she think they used their spells to knit baby bonnets and tea cozies?

  Certainly not. She knew exactly what her Angel clients did in the armor she made for them. Because becoming Sartabella’s client wasn’t the real hurdle, being her client was.

  Once Sartabella agreed to work with a client, the two engaged in extensive thaumaturgic psychoanalytic fittings. Sound flaky? It was anything but. Sartabella was a consummate professional. But there was no denying that her methods were odd and deeply uncomfortable at times. Starting with that first day. She’d demanded that I take off a piece of jewelry and give it to her.

  Will I get it back? I’d asked.

  If you have to ask, you shouldn’t be here, she’d answered.

  Reluctantly, I’d handed over the only piece of jewelry I wore – the silver bracelet that my former Guardian Angel, Raphael Sinclair, had given to me. Sartabella had reached for it and the moment her fingers made contact with it, she’d looked surprised and troubled – two of the many emotions we’d experienced frequently during her unusual fittings.

  Today was my last appointment with Sartabella. As with previous fittings, I had no idea what item of clothing or armor Sartabella would design and make for me as a result. My trousseau was nearly complete and I had no idea what was in it. It was only Fara’s complete confidence in Sartabella, and mine in Fara, that compelled me to see these sessions through to the end.

  Like many small, central New Babylon shops, Sartabella’s was located on the ground floor of an old row house. I’d never been upstairs, but I knew that Sartabella lived up top. The outside was fairly nondescript – four marble steps leading up to a door that was so pristinely white it had to be ensorcelled.

  Fara was waiting for me on the steps, unglamoured, which was a rarity for her but something Sartabella insisted on. (No one but Sartabella was allowed to practice magic in her shop.) Fara was dressed as I was, in canvas pants and a cotton tunic. Her brownish-blonde hair was knotted in a simple bun and she wore no make-up. Her scars were ever-present, as was her menacing-looking feline companion, Virtus, but her expression was light. If she was feeling any discomfort as a result of dropping her usual glamour, it didn’t show. I paid the driver, ascended the steps, and paused briefly at the top.

  “Ready?” Fara asked, her voice involuntarily and permanently pitched between a squeak and a croak.

  I nodded, not trusting my own voice. If my voice shook, what excuse could I give? I couldn’t claim to be the victim of an old botched spell like Fara. I could only be the victim of old-fashioned nerves, which was something Maegesters-in-Training were trained not to show.

  We entered a foyer that was cool and dark compared to the midsummer sun outside, and soon stepped into Sartabella’s fitting room, a beautiful, contemporary, elegant space painted in crisp cucumber and mint, sparkling silver, and moon-bright white. Inside the room were two dupioni-covered barrel chairs, a fitting platform, and five floor-length mirrors in a semicircle surrounding the platform. Since Sartabella wasn’t there yet, I gave the fitting platform a wide berth and took a seat in one of the chairs while Fara did the same. We faced each other silently.

  She gave me a knowing look. “So… big day tomorrow, huh?”

  I was tempted to make some quip like Fitz’s sollicitudo, solitudo maxim, but I was too keyed up to pull it off without betraying my anxiety so I went on the offensive instead.

  “Are you ready, Fara? Did you learn Precision, Amplification, and Cohesion?”

  “We both know you don’t need those anymore, Noon. Asking me to learn them is a crutch. And a diversion. You never want to talk about the spells that I’ve found that might actually help you – like Acceptance, Moving On, Rapprochement, Avoiding Rebounds…”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Avoiding Rebounds? Where’d you find that one?”

  “Rafe.”

  I grimaced and faced a fivefold reflection of myself looking guilty.

  But what did I have to be guilty about?

  Rafe had left me. Walked out on our relationship before it even started, so that he could train with the Ophanim. Luck knew when I’d see him again. And as for Ari, the person I’d been rebounding from, he’d done worse to me than just leaving before things got serious. We’d been super serious, and he’d trashed our relationship with a big, fat demon lie.

  “Rafe also suggested I learn the spell Finish What You Start, but then he had the most extraordinary change of heart. Made me swear – actually swear an oath – not to find it and cast it over you. What gives, Noon? Are you ever going to tell me why Rafe gave you his bracelet? Did he just feel bad about leaving to go train with the Ophanim? Or was there a more… intimate reason he gave you something to remember him by?”

  I resisted the urge to hiss shhhhh because it seemed so childish. And yet I felt childish. Hiding secrets when I hated them. Yes, I’d kissed Rafe. Yes, he’d claimed he was in love with me. And, yes, I’d felt something for him too. But, under the circumstances, it was best not to dwell on what.

  “Noon, I’m a witness to the biggest secret you’ve had since you tried to hide your magic – that your new employer, Lord Aristos, is really your old boyfriend, Ari Carmine. I don’t think confirming my suspicion that you started something with Rafe – your ex-Guardian Angel – that he’s afraid you’ll finish is that big a deal.”

  Then I did hiss shhhhh and I didn’t care how childish I sounded.

  “The only spell I need, Fara, is a cloaking spell to hide my emotions. Because I don’t want Ari”—I cleared my throat—“ahem, Lord Aristos, to feel them. Ever. And I don’t want to talk about any of this”—I made a swishing motion with my hand—“ever again.”

  “You don’t want to talk about Sartabella’s ever again?” Fara said. She looked confused, but I couldn’t be sure. Even without a glamour Fara’s true expressions could be hard to read.

  “No. I don’t want to talk about Ari—”

  “—well, that’s going to be hard since you’re going to be working for him starting tomorrow—”

  “Or Rafe,” I said through clenched teeth. Fara was being intentionally obtuse. My life was complicated, but she knew all of the major players and most of what had happened among us. “As a matter of fact, I do need you to find another spell.” She perked up.

  “The spell Keep Quiet. And then cast it over yourself.”
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br />   She harrumphed (“as if any Angel would ever cast a spell like that over themselves”) while I slumped in my seat, hoping Sartabella wouldn’t be as late as she normally was. Was it just me? I wondered. Because I wasn’t an Angel? Or was Sartabella simply late for everything? I sighed and stared morosely at the ceiling, resisting the surprisingly strong urge to spin in my chair.

  When Sartabella entered the fitting room ten minutes later, I was a little more ratcheted up than usual. I wasn’t worried about my magic getting away from me. That never happened anymore. And I wasn’t worried that Sartabella might feel my jitters because she was an Angel and couldn’t. No, I was worried about what today’s fitting might reveal.

  The aging seamstress clapped her hands together and motioned toward the fitting platform. “Up, up, Ms. Onyx, neither of us has all day. Last fittings usually only require something easy like a handkerchief or scarf, but every now and then, the fitting platform will call upon me to make a wig or a watch or something equally complicated.”

  She strode over to me, shooing me toward the mirrors, and took the seat that I vacated. As soon as I stepped onto the platform, the room transformed itself. The ceiling disappeared and was replaced with open sky. The smooth green walls became the crumbling ruins of an old stone keep. The floor was suddenly strewn with dirt, leaves, rocks, and rubble. And Sartabella’s mirrors instantly morphed into a giant, three-story throne made from the bony skeleton of some ancient sea colossus. Its massive ribs encircled the throne’s seat and its gargantuan skull hung over its top, jaw open, as if poised to swallow whoever stood before it.

  Sartabella inhaled sharply and started coughing. Remembering previous fittings, I started to go to her but she held out her hand to stop me before I left the platform. “Always, always such interesting settings for your fittings, Ms. Onyx. Where are we?”

  I glanced over at Fara, who would also recognize this place. Fara hadn’t been with me for every fitting, but she’d come to a lot of them. I didn’t know if she did it because she wanted to know more about the ward she’d be protecting this semester or if she knew that Sartabella’s sessions were often harrowing and wanted to lend me her support. Maybe both. In any case, it was she who answered.