The Last Will of Moira Leahy

by Therese Walsh

  I unwrapped the box, opened the lid. Made a sound, inarticulate. Draped over a quilt of cotton lay a necklace coated with deep red gems.

  “They’re garnets,” he said.

  “Holy extravagance, Batman! Noel, I gave you paper!” If I’d been home, if he had, if I’d been prepared to see him, I would’ve given him something better than a blank book from an airport gift shop, surely, but nothing close to the level of gems.

  “I love my journal. I’ve been using it.”

  “Really? Do tell.” I leaned forward. So did he.

  “Tell me what you think,” he said. “The Impotent Artist. Some poor guy holding a limp paintbrush.”

  “Oh, uh-huh.”

  Noel’s smile vanished. “It’s not … me. I mean, I can …”

  I looked down, around, anywhere but at Noel.

  He snorted first, and then we broke down into paroxysms of laughter. “Bloody hell.” He wiped his eyes and stood. “Let’s see that.”

  I handed him the necklace. He moved behind me, and then the chain hung before my eyes and bounced twice on my chest.

  “Garnets are good for preventing nightmares. So says my grandfather—and the storekeeper in Paris.”

  “Paris? You bought this before you knew about my nightmares?”

  “Must be fate. A Maeve Leahyesque mannequin wore it just a toss from where I stayed. I had to have it. And now, let’s see.”

  He turned me around. I studied his eyes as he studied me. “Well?”

  “Much better than the mannequin.” He reached forward and trailed his fingers over gems near my collarbone.

  Avventura, something in me whispered.

  “I love it, thank you,” I said. Was that my voice, sounding all breathless? “You shouldn’t have.” And a cliché. God.

  I had a hard time keeping the smile off my face that morning, even though my headache didn’t improve. Noel made an educated guess about the pain when he caught me with my head thrown back in a chair, rubbing my temples.

  He grabbed his coat. “I’ll run out. There has to be an open pharmacy somewhere. People get sick on holidays all the time.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “Drugs won’t touch it.”

  “I’ll pick up lunch, too. Maybe you’re hungry,” he said, patting the coat with his hands before throwing it down again. I sat up, watched with a growing suspicion as he looked under the bed, behind the table. I stood beside him as he opened drawer after drawer of his desk and dresser. I spied a blue-gray check, pajamas maybe.

  “You lost your wallet,” I said as he checked his coat for the third time. “When’s the last time you had it?”

  “The tarts.”

  “And you came right back?”

  He cursed. “I walked through a crowd of artists, kids, beggars. One of them knocked into me.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Must be. Shit.” He tallied his losses as church bells tolled in the distance. “Credit cards, traveler’s checks, euros, photographs, the key to my place in Paris. I’ll have to call Ellen.”

  “Ellen?”

  “I’m renting part of her house.”

  “You have your own place?” I sat on the bed, dizzy. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  “I don’t know.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a piece of paper and pen, started writing. “Oh, a debit card, too.”

  “Noel,” I said, louder. “Are you staying in Paris indefinitely?”

  “What?” he said, then, “I don’t know. Paris is the best. Amazing antiques, wine, interesting people. Ellen’s great.” A noise came from my throat, part grunt, part growl. He seemed oblivious. “No one ever stole my wallet in Paris, and everyone seems to know a little English.”

  “I thought the French hated Americans,” I argued.

  “Oh, they do, but one of the benefits to being homeschooled by an Englishman is I can pass as a Brit when I want,” he said with a thickened accent. “The French hate the English just slightly less than the Americans. And I can always tell someone to bugger off.”

  God, I loved that accent.

  “So, this Ellen—Ellen, the great,” I said, unable to help myself. “She’s the reason you’re staying in Paris?”

  He cocked his head, and then he had the audacity to laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re jealous!”

  I tightened my lips, which only made him laugh harder.

  “Maeve Leahy, jealous? Of Ellen Dubois?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Come on, make my day. I’ve been robbed, after all, and it is Christmas.” He hunched his back, took on a conspiratorial whisper. “Be just a little jealous.”

  “No.”

  “C’mon.” He winked.

  “Maybe just a little.”

  His grin widened. “Pinch me, I’m dreaming.”

  And because he sounded cocky, I reached across the table, aimed for his arm, and obliged his request.

  “Hey, ow.”

  “I’m not jealous-jealous,” I said.

  “Good.” He rubbed his arm. “Because she’s eighty-three. Though I’ll admit she looks cute in her running shorts.”

  “You’re horrible.”

  Ink swept over the page as he made notes about who to call, steps he’d have to take. I wandered into my room and lounged on the settee, traced my necklace, and thought of eighty-three-year-old Ellen, who’d been born a few generations too late.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, looking at me from the doorway.

  I thought about it, nodded; my headache was gone.

  “Thought so. What’s that song?”

  Only then did I hear the melody sprung from my throat—hummed notes that carried an air of joviality, of Parisian necklaces, cherry tarts, and handsome men. “I don’t know,” I said. “Too merry? Not postrobbery enough?”

  “Nah, it’s nice,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m making it up as I go.”

  His eyes honed in on something beyond me. “Maeve.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your phone’s off the hook. What—”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just didn’t want to talk to anyone today.” A small fib, but worth it. The query on his face smoothed over.

  “Why talk when you can hum, right?” he said.

  My eyes stung a bit as I matched his smile and started up again, consciously this time, welcoming my new-old gift back, unwrapping its song, inviting it to stay awhile.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DARK NOTES

  Sunshine streamed through the window the next morning,-and a melody played itself in my head. The hummed bit I’d made up the day before had evolved into something more complex. I didn’t shut it down, just left it to whatever sustenance it might find within me. What a relief that these sounds were not piano. They weren’t sax, either. Just pure tone, the way it used to be. I couldn’t think what it meant, to be rejoined with this long-gone part of myself, but I felt more refreshed than I had in years and my blood seemed to fizz, effervescent, a restless brew in my veins.

  I plotted my day. I’d have to call Kit and tell her just how fine I was and that Noel was back to his old self. But before that, I wanted to explore. And before that, I meant to find Sri Putra. I had my persuasive speech prepared for Noel but didn’t need it in the end. He’d stuck a note under my door.

  I have to deal with my bloody wallet this morning, but I’ll be back to hunt empus with you after lunch. Be my date? p.s. If you go out, you may want to put your keris in the safe.

  Noel was humoring me, I knew; he’d hate having to dedicate any part of what remained of his day to my keris obsession. So I’d spare him and go by myself.

  I showered and dressed, and eventually slunk over to the mirror for a cursory check. It was still impossible to see anything but her in the looking glass, even after draining my color and hacking my strands. I spied a hint of red roots, then tousled my hair to hide them. That fix would have to wait.

  Traffic or no t
raffic, I would have avventura today.

  WALKING THROUGH ROME with a weapon in hand sounded like a ticket to trouble, so I did something I’d never done before. I bought a purse—a big one, with room enough for the kern. I probably should’ve just tucked the blade down a pant leg and secured it with a shoelace, Alvilda-style. Whatever, at least now I could tote it around without drawing attention to myself, and, I thought wryly, I’d have some defense against pickpockets.

  Though I knew it worked out on paper, I still impressed myself when I located Sri Putra’s place. I’d nearly forgotten about the sledge-wielding landlord until I stepped through the door and saw him walking up the stairs.

  “You’re back,” he said, stopping to tip his head. “Unencumbered.”

  Three things happened in close succession.

  I gasped as a static charge radiated through my bag-wielding arm, raising gooseflesh all over my body.

  The Italian bolted down the stairs. “It will always be a struggle for you!” he said. “Why not let me have it? I can care for such things.”

  “Wha—What are you talking about?” I leaned away, took a step, but he followed each movement, inch for inch.

  “Don’t be alarmed. You have the keris with you, yes? I know why you fear it!”

  “I don’t fear it!”

  “You should, it is too much for you.” So close now I could smell his breath, a strong, sweet mint. “Let me take it. I will even buy it. It will be very fair.”

  “I don’t want to sell it! Back off—”

  “Why not be reasonable? Let me see it.” His fingers had somehow slithered inside my purse.

  That’s when the third thing happened, just as I yanked my arm back, a hundred blue curses crystallizing on my tongue: A woman walked into the apartment building behind me, carrying groceries. She was old, weathered as a Castinian, but with sharp Italian eyes that spied the man’s hand resettling on my purse.

  “Cosa sta facendo?” she asked him. What are you doing?

  He lifted both hands in the air, took a step away from me. “Sto cercando d’aiutare la signora.” Just helping the lady.

  “I don’t need help,” I retorted, tucking the purse tightly beneath my arm again. It no longer tingled.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “We will see.”

  “No,” I said. “We won’t.”

  He smiled at me, then addressed the woman. “Now, Mrs. Fiori,” he said in Italian. “Don’t work yourself up again, remember your heart. You know I wouldn’t harm a hair on her head, anymore than I would harm a hair on yours.”

  Pears tumbled out onto the peeling linoleum when she dropped her bag. Chuckling, the landlord disappeared up the steps. She stared after him, her olive flesh pallid; maybe she did have a heart condition. I retrieved her pears, some with torn skins, and stuffed them back inside the bag, then offered to help carry her groceries.

  “Mi segua, prego!” she agreed, and led us down the hall with a limp. From her belt loop, she produced a key on a crocheted band, and unlocked a door a few feet from Putra’s apartment, on the opposite side of the hall. The smell of onions wafted out at us as she set her bag inside. I handed her the bag I’d carried as she regarded me.

  She asked if I knew who that man was.

  The landlord, I replied.

  She clicked her teeth. “Come si chiama?”

  Though unused to strangers asking me, flat out, for my name, I told her: “Mi chiamo Maeve Leahy.” I was here to visit with Sri Putra, the empu, I said. Did she know where he was?

  He’s dealing with an illness, she said.

  What illness? I wanted to know.

  She scrunched up her face, asked if I was a troublemaker.

  No, I told her. I just wanted to see Sri Putra.

  “Why do you?” she asked in her tongue.

  I hesitated, then pulled the keris from my bag. Her eyes bulged as she backed into her apartment.

  “Wait!” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just a—”

  “I know what it is,” she said, hiding behind the door. “Magia nera.”

  “Black magic? You’re joking.”

  She looked at me sternly, said it was no joke.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, “but I don’t believe in those things—curses and spells and voodoo dolls.”

  “Maeve Leahy.” My Irish name distorted in her mouth. “You look like a good girl. You should not be here. You should not have that … thing.” Again, her eyes dipped to the blade. “And you should stay away from Ermanno.”

  “Ermanno? Is that the landlord? What’s wrong with him?”

  She lowered her voice. “They hate one another. They will destroy one another. The woman will be hurt—always the woman. You will be, if you don’t get rid of that.”

  I didn’t understand, and told her so.

  “It is true that Ermanno is the man you met, but he is not a landlord,” she said. “Only the landlady’s son. He is taking over temporarily. He has always done crazy things but not had such power to match his skeleton-key fingers. Now, I fear he will creep in at night and pluck at my hair for his spells if the rent is late.” She crossed herself.

  “He’s just trying to intimidate you,” I said. “Like a schoolyard bully.”

  “No, he tries to summon evil spirits.” Demone was the word she used. “He tries to conjure the magic his brother brings from the east. I thought that was all behind us, but now that the empu brother is back—”

  “Fratelli?” They’re brothers?

  “Fratellastri.” Half brothers. Sri Putra’s mother had been Asian, she explained, and Ermanno’s Italian. They shared a father. “Now go and never return. There is no good here.” She shut the door.

  At least now I understood why Sri Putra lived in Rome. He and Ermanno were brothers. Half brothers. One short and clearly Javanese, as Garrick had confirmed; the other tall and seemingly a purebred Italian.

  I took a few steps and knocked on Sri Putra’s door, hoping Mrs. Fiori was mistaken as to his whereabouts. No response. I breathed a little quicker, though, when I spied another note addressed to me. I tore it free of a nail, read.

  Visit Il Sotto Abbasso

  Taken literally, that meant “the under down.” Was I meant to search under something? Was there a trapdoor in Putra’s apartment? A basement of some sort?

  My hand hovered over the doorknob as I considered trying my luck again with the weak lock, but then I noticed Ermanno standing with his eyes on me—no, on the keris in my hand—from the wrong end of the hall. The building must have two sets of stairs. How long had he been there, what had he heard?

  I didn’t wait to find out. I bolted down the hall the way I’d come, my head full of demon spirits and my nose the stench of onions.

  I DIDN’T LIKE to admit that Ermanno had bent any of my steel nerves, but I looked behind me more than a dozen times as I traced my path back to the hotel. It didn’t help that I felt the lift of my skin, the sense that someone’s eyes were all over me. Then I realized that everyone’s eyes were on me and that I still held the keris, and so I tucked it back into my bag.

  It must be very powerful or he wouldn’t want it so badly.

  Hadn’t Glinda said something like that to Dorothy about her red shoes? Though I didn’t believe there was anything otherwordly about the keris, I had to admit that shock had been curious. Maybe the threat of black magic had been enough to make even a keris flinch. Or—I smiled—maybe that zap was the universe’s way of telling me I shouldn’t carry a purse.

  I’d nearly reached the hotel when a mime’s street performance caught my attention. Dressed all in black, with a spade painted over one eye, the man entertained a small crowd with a deck of cards. Choose one, he’d indicate with a sweep of a gloved hand, and someone would. Now, tuck it back in the deck.

  I knew the trick, the way he marked the chosen card with another so that he could find it again in a flash. Moira and I had awed our friends with that exact illusion countless times; it was one of the allowables
. Harder to explain were the times we’d be separated and know what the other was holding—or what the other was feeling. But that wasn’t magic. That was just … just.

  The mime did a quick shuffle, then lifted the two of diamonds before a young boy, who giggled and clapped along with the others. A good trick. The man caught my eye, offered me the deck, but I shook my head and kept walking.

  My skin rose up again, but I didn’t look back. I wouldn’t fear Ermanno. He was just a man, as he’d said. A man and perhaps a fool, for trying to appear more than he was, for making others like Mrs. Fiori with her bruised pears afraid of him over something as phony as magia nera.

  Phony or not, though, there was no reason for Noel to know about today’s adventure. What would he have done if he’d seen Ermanno’s hand in my bag? I imagined heated words. Dagger-eyed stares. Pistols at dawn. A sword fight. I grinned, despite myself. The beautiful, noble Englishman versus the beautiful, twisted Italian. I knew whose cravat I’d have tied around my arm, the scent of it faint with turpentine.

  THOUGH MY ITCH to explore never lessened, Putra’s latest note took priority. Visiting Santa Maria in Cosmedin and the Mouth of Truth—though I hadn’t a clue why he’d wanted me to go there—had brought good things. I was beginning to think that Il Sotto Abbasso must be a Roman attraction, too, since Putra must’ve known that my gaining entry to his apartment with Ermanno lurking would be unlikely. This was a disappointment; finding a trapdoor would’ve been fun.

  I was passing through the hotel lobby on the way to my room when I ran into Giovanni. “You weren’t kidding when you said you work all the time.”

  “I told you, my mamma is the owner. But what can I do? She makes fantastic cannoli.” He winked at me.

  Ah, Italians.

  “Any messages?” I asked.

  “One. Your friend, Noel, wanted me to tell you that he is at the shops.”

  Oh, well. Hearing from Sri Putra would’ve been more surprising than not at this point, anyway. I pictured Noel appraising antiques throughout the city and wondered if he’d remember our lunch date; the lost scepter of Romulus would trump his appetite any day of the week.

  “He needed clothes,” Giovanni said, rupturing the image.