A Little Familiar

by R. Cooper

  “But no lover,” Bartleby mourned. “No life in your bed for the six months of dark and cold. Half a year spent without a friend to bring you flowers, and you wanted one. You did, didn’t you? Want a lover? Before you were thirteen, you imagined it, and then you thought it couldn’t be yours. So you prepare for winter alone. You provide for everyone else, and cultivate your garden for their sake, but not flowers.” He hardened his voice. “No flowers, Piotr. That is so… you!”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Piotr answered stiffly. “Wishing for flowers isn’t going to give me any.”

  “If you say so,” Bartleby responded with strange dignity. Then he slouched against his chair and pinned Piotr to his with a hot, golden stare. “But everyone tells their own fortune. Everyone, Piotr. Even familiars without much magic of their own. So if you tell me you haven’t, that you—with your legacy and your power to make the clouds roll in and the streams change course—haven’t looked at your own future again and again hoping for the answer to your heart’s question, I’ll call you a liar.”

  And as though to prove it right there on the spot, Bartleby reached into the bowl of toasted pumpkin seeds and spilled a handful across the table. Piotr stared at them, unable to resist, as the last of them skidded and stopped and spelled out their message for Bartleby.

  Bartleby didn’t look down, as if he knew exactly what they said, as if he’d played this game countless times in search of a different answer.

  Piotr drew in a shallow breath, and Bartleby scraped his hand through the mess of spilled seeds to scoop them back up. He gathered the last of them and then took the bowl into the kitchen.

  “I should go. I have an early shift tomorrow,” he said as he returned, and stopped close to Piotr’s chair. Piotr wanted to ask him if he had been thinking about his future when he’d thrown the seeds across the table, and if so why was he still planning to show up tomorrow, to do nothing but watch Piotr bake.

  Instead he swallowed dryly and thought of the two joined rings of seeds Bartleby had cast on the table. Two joined rings meant Bartleby was going to marry. There was no mistaking that, not in Piotr’s presence, with Bartleby himself feeding Piotr’s power. Bartleby was to have a husband, probably a powerful witch who would need him as Piotr did not. That was good, for Bartleby anyway.

  Yet Piotr couldn’t move. “You’re coming tomorrow?”

  Bartleby studied him. “That depends. Do you want me to? Did I help you tonight, or did I get in your way?”

  Piotr considered him. “Not once.” He couldn’t think with so much silence. Bartleby took a rasping breath, surprised, and Piotr shook his head. “Not once did you get in my way. It was… easier. With you here. I didn’t have to cook for myself. You put warmth in the food, bread and salt and butter. You….” filled up the house and drowned out the ticking of the clock. But that was too much to say, too frightening. That was a spell with no control behind it, only feeling and all the power Bartleby gave him. “It was good that you were here.”

  That was safer. That was words spoken through the door, but still for Bartleby to hear.

  He waited, and then Bartleby curved his lips up into something hopeful. “Then I will be here. You had only to ask,” he explained softly, and held out his hand to show the pumpkin seeds nestled in his palm.

  He popped one in his mouth, and smiled again, wider, when Piotr took the rest.

  ~~

  Clouds covered the sky by morning, light gray and bright as the first sprinkles hit the ground. By noon there was drizzle, which released the metallic scent of fresh rain as it hit the earth. Piotr stopped to watch the people who turned their faces up to it, how they smiled and lingered outside the shelters of bus stops and doorways.

  Kelly brought him a roasted red pepper and hummus sandwich for lunch, and asked if this weather would ruin his Halloween, or make it. He’d told her he had a day to wait and see, because he hadn’t known how else to answer. Some people liked the gray days, he reminded himself. Some people saw them for what they were, and waited all year for the first real rainfall.

  By the time he finished his route and got to finally head home, the drizzle had steadied into rain. The wind was momentarily quiet, although the chimes were beginning to sway as he went up the stairs into the house.

  He hadn’t put new logs in the fireplace since the other night. So after he’d changed out of his dripping clothes, he corrected that, and then stared at the flames as they dried his hair. He turned on the heat, and then pushed up his sleeves and went to the oven.

  He took care of the leftover apples first, as many of them as he could. He made a pie, and then a few tarts, before sticking the remaining apples, the buttery ones, in a bowl on the dining room table. A portion of the scraps of dough went in the oven with cinnamon and sugar on top, and he nibbled the sweet crisp as he collected ingredients for everything else.

  The kettle whistled with water for tea he hadn’t planned to make, but the black, citrus-tinged taste woke up his senses and settled his stomach as he put the pie up to cool and listened for the door. The sky darkened as he waited.

  He started the dough for the bread and left it to rise while he made the muffins. And like a fool, he stood in front of the oven as they baked rather than let himself wait in the parlor. His face got too hot, then the rest of him, so he stripped off his sweater and stood there in a small t-shirt and stared at the cup of tea he didn’t dare finish.

  The window above the sink had fogged a little, but he could see the storm front building. The wind whipped it forward, pelting the window with bursts of rain. He hesitated. But there was nothing, no sound at the door, no bells, no lighting of candles, so he began the bread.

  He poured out the cold cup of tea and the remains in that pot, and made himself a new one. The wind was loud, but he was aware of the clock in the other room, and the skittering of Pallas’s talons on the top of the fridge. The aroma of steeping tea mingled with the warm scent of chocolate and pumpkin, but he had to make himself take his first sip. Hours had gone by. Hours past the time Bartleby usually showed up. Hours for Bartleby to realize Piotr wasn’t worth the struggle. Once again, Piotr hadn’t needed anything from him. Everything was done.

  He pulled the loaves of sweet bread from his oven and positioned them on racks to cool. He took another sip of tea. The clock ticked away, reminding him he would have a life of this. A life of preparing offerings for others to enjoy at revels he wouldn’t attend. Years of silence in his kitchen, and a ghost in the parlor. Maybe, someday, with Bartleby gone, he would get a cat.

  No, a cat would hurt Bartleby worse than any other familiar he could have chosen. Piotr was meant for more than a cat, more even than a raven.

  He raised his head a second before the flash of lightning outside the window gave him a view of what promised to be an epic storm. The image burned the inside of his eyelids, and made him swallow. The shed door rattled. The shutters on the upstairs windows hummed with the force of the wind.

  Piotr remembered he hadn’t locked the front door, and turned to see Bartleby in his dining room, soaked and shivering.

  The way Bartleby stared at him made him shiver too.

  “The rain surprised me,” Bartleby stammered, eyes shadowed with the remnants of some makeup. “I had to wait for the truck to be available, but I wanted to change, to wear something nicer. But it rained, hardest whenever I was running to the truck, I swear. And then I remembered I needed to bring you something, and—”

  “Bartleby.” Piotr reached for the nearest towel—a dishtowel, but it would do. He stepped to Bartleby and began to gently dry his face, first his cheeks and his nose, then his ears, then his hair.

  “You aren’t wearing a shirt,” Bartleby quietly informed him, still shaking. Piotr was wearing a shirt, but a thin one with short sleeves, and to Bartleby this mattered. Piotr put down the damp towel and tried to tug Bartleby’s red coat from his shoulders. The fabric was heavy with water, but Bartleby was stubbornly holding onto th
e basket in his hands, so Piotr stopped to relieve him of it and set it on the table. Then he took Bartleby’s coat from him, and what was probably a very soft sweater when it was dry.

  Bartleby had no shirt beneath that. Piotr stared for a moment at the freckled dusky skin, the sinuous line of his tattoo, before silently offering the sweater he’d thrown aside earlier. Bartleby met his stare and then held up his arms and allowed himself to be dressed. He kicked off his red sneakers and stood there in his socks. He should have complained about his wet jeans, but he only tried to roll up the sleeves of the sweater—and keep them up—and smiled when he couldn’t.

  The sweater itself reached his thighs. Perhaps that was why he finally shucked his jeans himself while Piotr was hanging his wet clothes up in the laundry room for him.

  Piotr inhaled sharply at the sight of the vine creeping around Bartleby’s dimpled knee and caressing his calf before it disappeared into his sock.

  Bartleby’s shivers were slowing. Piotr thought his gaze alone would be enough to warm him, and forced himself to look away. “If it was inconvenient, you didn’t have to come.”

  “But I did, and it wasn’t inconvenient.” Bartleby tutted. “Difficult, but not inconvenient. I wanted to be here, but I had to stop first so I could get my offerings.”

  “Offerings?” Piotr belatedly remembered the basket.

  Bartleby reached into it with a flourish. “I was going to bring you something for your altar, but your whole house is your altar, isn’t it?” His tone was questioning, but his attitude was certain. “Blessings and harvest and preparation for the winter, gifts to appease mischievous spirits and children, food for when times are lean. You offer all these things with your home. So, I’ve brought you offerings.” He paused to lick his mouth nervously, but then pressed on. “In remembrance of the dead—a cigar for your grandmother.” He held out a cigar, wrapped in paper. “She smoked the cheaper ones, but I thought she might like something more expensive. I always caught her smoking them away from the others after she’d had a sip or two.” She only smoked when drinking, but hadn’t liked the kids to see her do it, Piotr recalled. He accepted the cigar with a short nod. It was a good gift. Bartleby licked his lips again. “And um. For you.”

  He pulled out a bundle of flowers, the kind from grocery store buckets. He’d chosen an autumn bouquet, yellow and peach roses, and orange and red daises amid green leaves. It required greenhouse trickery to have them blooming this time of year, but it was nonetheless a pretty splash of color.

  “Thank you.” Piotr felt the life of it in his hands, nearly tingling, and took a moment before he removed the rubber band at the bottom. He didn’t know if his family had a vase that wasn’t packed away in the attic, so he put the flowers in the bowl of apples, letting them fall where they may.

  Pallas startled him by swooping down to the table. She grabbed a red daisy and croaked at him, a pleased, “Big Bear,” before she took her prize to the parlor.

  “Of all times not to have my phone with me,” Bartleby commented, although his phone was in his jeans and within reach. If he’d taken a picture, the others would know where he was, and who he was with. But he had already taken pictures to share, Piotr remembered, and yet Piotr hadn’t heard a curious or smug word from anyone.

  He shook himself. “Are you cold?” He couldn’t believe he’d left Bartleby to stand there, half-dressed and shivering. “Come into the kitchen where it’s warmer.”

  Bartleby in his kitchen was good. Piotr didn’t have a chair for him, so he picked him up and set him on the counter, then turned to pour him a cup of tea. Bartleby made a noise, a kind of exclamation, but wrapped his hands around the cup when it was given to him. “Big Bear,” he echoed Pallas, amused or lost or fascinated.

  Piotr stared blankly at him. “All that running around… did you get to eat? I didn’t make dinner, but I have food.” He reached for a muffin. “Or there’s pie—apple, right now. I used all the pumpkin for the bread and muffins.”

  “I had a candy apple for lunch today at the store because we were selling them, but I’m not going to say no to pumpkin brownie muffin.” Bartleby followed up word with deed and ate the entire muffin in a few bites.

  “Did you want some cider?” Piotr asked, startling Bartleby into opening his eyes wide. “Here.” He cut him a slice of bread.

  Bartleby accepted it, but stopped for a drink of tea first. He took a bite, and then sighed in pleasure. “The muffin was good, but this… it’s still warm. That makes it extra delicious.”

  Piotr cut another slice just to watch him eat it. “How did you ever convince yourself you were goth?” Bartleby was practically glowing.

  Rather than being insulted, Bartleby was surprised into a snorty giggle that only made him laugh harder. “It took a lot of conscious effort.” When he finally quieted, he leaned back with his head against the cabinet to study Piotr. “You’re different tonight. Did something happen?”

  “You showed up.” Piotr thought he could have phrased it better, less accusatory, so he added, “You were late. But it’s okay, because you came.” Because he honestly didn’t know what he would say if he kept on in that vein, he took a step away. “I have to package up all of this before it can be taken to celebration tomorrow night.”

  “Of course,” Bartleby agreed, and slid to his feet without spilling his tea. He finished it and set it down. He breathed out in almost a hiss when he saw the dregs, but gently placed the cup upside down in the sink before washing his hands. “I’ll do it,” he tossed out a moment later, after the foil and sealable bins were out. “Aren’t you tired? I can’t believe you did all this in a few hours.” Despite his words, he neatly wrapped everything in a matter of minutes, as he must have done for the handmade products at his parents’ store. He left a muffin and a slice of bread out, and took both into the parlor, probably as a gift for Elysia. It was the thought that counted with her.

  He came back to wrap the tarts and pie, then set it all together on one side of the counter. Piotr watched his every move. This was, he reminded himself, Bartleby’s final night here. For all intents and purposes, as far as Piotr was concerned, it was Bartleby’s last day as a single man.

  “There’s cider in the fridge,” he pointed out, but had to clear his throat to do it. He got raised eyebrows in return, but then Bartleby fetched a bottle and cracked it open. He took one long pull, then snuck another muffin from the pile he’d just wrapped.

  “Cakes and cider. Our very own revels,” Bartleby remarked, in his innocently suggestive voice, and after another drink, handed off the bottle. “You know, some humans have chosen to call this night Devil’s Night, or Mischief Night. They reverse the rules on their own, and set out to show the evil spirits something to be afraid of.” He observed Piotr as Piotr drank. “I don’t think the old ways are forgotten. You’re right. Some part of them remembers how it was.”

  “Halloween is a little tamer than Mischief Night.” The cider was crisp in Piotr’s mouth, warm and boozy, with a hint of buttery golden apples.

  “You’ll still be here?” Bartleby reclaimed the bottle but didn’t drink from it. “Handing out candy is still more fun? I’m surprised you haven’t made the treats yourself.”

  Piotr would have, but people didn’t trust that anymore.

  His silence seemed to spur Bartleby on. He waved at the pile of wrapped muffins and bread. “I understand your past reasons, but I don’t believe it must be this way. You would do all this for us, but you won’t join us?”

  “When I go, they are always so certain. They’re always so eager for what they think is my destiny.” Piotr firmly shook his head. “I know better.”

  “And again, because you don’t think something is possible, you ignore how it’s possible?” Bartleby huffed at him, gently furious. “A witch of your power?”

  “Everyone always talks about my power.” Piotr swallowed. His mouth tasted of apples. “It doesn’t mean what they think it does.”

  “It means everyone
looks to you,” Bartleby corrected him. “And they want you to be happy and part of things.”

  Piotr worked his jaw, but the frustration spilled out of him anyway. “That doesn’t mean they have to force this on you.”

  Everything stilled, the clock and the fizzing cider, even the rain. The world quieted and Bartleby narrowed his eyes before very carefully setting the bottle on the counter.

  “Force this on me?” he repeated, soft and dangerous. “They can joke and tease me all they like, Piotr. They can hope and plot to match us, to match you with the human familiar, to match me with the witch I was meant for, but when they mentioned you might need help, pointedly, or with pity for me, it didn’t matter. I volunteered to come here. One final time to see, to try. Force this?” He raised his voice. “Is that what you imagine when you won’t look at your future? That they arranged it because you’re not loveable on your own? Is that why you’ve avoided my every attempt to know you? Why you stand clear of mistletoe, and hide away from the maypole, and glared at me over the top of that stack of hay bales?”

  He lifted his hand, fingers splayed wide to stop a protest Piotr hadn’t yet made. “Piotr, all I have to do is mention hay, and you look ready to rend the world with your bare hands. You know exactly what I mean. You might think I’m some brainless, helpless pawn or something in all this, but I’m not dumb. I know when someone wants me, and you want me. You wanted me even then.”

  “Of course I want you!” Piotr snarled. The very idea that he wouldn’t was enraging. He’d wanted Bartleby for so long and so obviously the entire coven knew it.

  Except, possibly, Bartleby, who had said so, but now appeared shocked. “You do?” He blinked a few times, then shook his head. “You do. Then….” He swallowed and recovered his wits. “Then you don’t get to be furious that I made out with someone else behind those hay bales when it could have been you, but you ignored me. You have no right to get mad when I flirt, because you were the one running off to date ordinary people. The one who wouldn’t come to gatherings. Who stopped speaking to me unless he had to.” Hurt throbbed in his voice.