by Sara Hanover
“It looks,” he announced, “as if we are all here.” Then, with a flourish, as if he’d had a third arm and hand (I hadn’t noticed he did, but he produced an object out of nowhere), he sat a black bowler hat on the table between us all.
I gave a gasp and half-choked on my soup spoon. “Is that—?”
“It certainly appears to be,” Gregory answered smoothly.
My mother stared at it for a long moment. “Then where is the rest of Steptoe? I’ve never known him to miss a meal if he could help it.”
“Likely not completely about. I suggest we put the hat on the back step, with a small bowl of cream, and see what happens.” The professor picked up a roll and thoroughly buttered it.
“Treat him like a brownie?” Carter peered at Gregory over the rim of his coffee mug.
“Precisely.”
“But he’ll be back?”
Gregory tilted an eyebrow at me. “I really can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” He devoured half his bread in one bite, chewed, and swallowed deliberately before continuing. “This is beyond my experience. If he’s in the process of restoration, this is decades before I would have anticipated it. That could be a very good . . . or very bad . . . thing.”
“Not bad. Couldn’t be,” I remarked. “He is just leaving us word that he’s coming back home.” I have even less experience than the phoenix wizard, but I have tons of faith in Simon Steptoe.
“That’s the idea! Be optimistic.” Gregory paused. “Any more tea in the pot?”
“Always.” Mom got up and whisked herself off to the stove to brew more. She looked over one shoulder. “I can tell you have more news. Out with it.”
It startled me a bit that my mom and Gregory had begun to know each other so well. In the weeks since the Butchery debacle and my classes started, I must have missed some of the subterfuge. But then, with the change in my schedule plus track and field demands, I’ve been busy.
Gregory put both hands on the table. “The news is that the death sentence for Tessa has been lifted. She no longer possesses the maelstrom stone, and no one is seeking it. The small marble that Evelyn holds is far from the magical relic that it was perceived to be—”
Evelyn opened her mouth to argue with that, but he put up an index finger and stopped her. Looking at her, he finished, “I think it’s fair to say we should let that perception rest. If it decides to change opinions, it will do so in its own time, but you, Evelyn, are far safer if it appears to have no value.”
“Amen to that,” Hiram said. He had been sitting back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, with a plate full of roll crusts in front of him. I could tell that he’d been through at least one pan just by himself. No wonder he looked contented.
Gregory paused as the kettle began to whistle on the stove, and the pot got refilled and steeped, and his cup once more brimmed with freshly brewed tea. “Now, as to the sentence pronounced on Mary . . .”
“Still?” She paled a bit.
He nodded. “However, I got that dispensed with this afternoon.”
Mom sank down into her chair. “Thank heavens.”
“Oh, you needn’t have worried, I have you protected, but now it’s official.”
“Whatever did you do?”
“First, we changed your dissertation. From the title ‘Through a Broken Mirror, How the Modern World Overlooks Magic’ (I believe that was it, wasn’t it, Mary? Or something like that.) to ‘How Mankind Constructs Imagination and Needful Magic through Creativity and Folklore.’”
“Humankind,” my mother said, with a frown.
“Ah, yes. I’ll have them edit that to humankind. Is the rest acceptable?”
“It’s changed but not. I suppose it will do. But why does that make a difference?”
“Instead of proposing that Magic exists and our ignorance of it is because we simply can’t see it properly, the new title suggests that we invented it because we are a creative people and inspired to experience what doesn’t exist to fulfill ourselves.”
My mother unfolded and folded her napkin a few times, aware that we all looked at her and Gregory waited for an answer. Finally, she remarked, “But it does exist.”
“It most certainly does, in the Arts. Which is what your dissertation delineates, and quite well, too. We aren’t ready for anything closer to the truth yet.” He reached for more bread and soaked it in his soup. “By the time Tessa here graduates with her advanced degree, we may be ready to start exploring further options.”
“I hope so.”
Carter slid his hand over to cover mine. “We have time.”
With my other hand, I dropped a sizable chunk of my supper to Scout’s eagerly waiting jaws. It never would have hit the floor, that I knew. For years and years ahead of us, I hoped.
Evelyn smiled. “So all’s well that ends well?”
“Except for that prophecy of yours.” I frowned in spite of my relief.
“The one about hard and challenging times ahead?” She shrugged. “Doesn’t every unknown day fit that?”
“Sometimes.” I looked about the table.
The wintry day had turned to sunset, and its color streamed in through the kitchen window. Fabulous red-and-pink hues lined the western sky and promised that tomorrow would be a glorious day. Spring would come someday, and all the days of the year as it should following. My heart lifted as Carter closed his arm about my waist and held me close.
I leaned on Carter. “I think I just learned a universal truth.”
“Mmmm. And what would that be?”
“Life is meant to be good.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sara Hanover lives with a hoard of books, rather like a dragon, and works on improving her imagination daily. She loves plot twists and cats, family and crispy autumn leaves, traveling and good food. She thanks her parents for supporting her first efforts in writing, and her husband for continuing to encourage her, along with the many good people at DAW Books.
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