Magic's Design

by Cat Adams

  She nodded as she caught it, actually feeling a little sick now. “Alan Lee’s office. I was on my way down there.” While she knew logically it wasn’t really her fault, Mila couldn’t help but feel a stab of conscience. No, she couldn’t have stopped having an episode, but she should have come back to work as soon as she woke up. Then there wouldn’t have been a question of running around to hospitals and gardens and the whole firm wouldn’t have been screwed by the actions of Bob the temp. She never would have gotten involved … with Vegre, with magical eggs and sinister plots, or—

  With Tal—That stopped her cold and she realized she had a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought. I wouldn’t have met him, wouldn’t have kissed him, and never would have learned the reason for my episodes all these years. She forced a smile and raised the microcassette to shake it lightly, listening to the click of the gears rattling. “I’ll do it first thing, so you can get out of here. But there’s not a transcriber in Alan’s office. I’ll have to use your handheld, if that’s okay.”

  He nodded, dug under some papers, took out the tape inside, and tossed that as well. “It’s not very long, maybe a couple pages. When you’re done, just buzz me and leave it on the half-wall outside. I can get someone else to get the exhibits together and file it. That way you can finish your own work and get out of here.”

  She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That would be great. I might be able to find my way out of the sequential vortex now.”

  “No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own vortex to escape so I can pack and catch my plane. I had to bump up the ticket to miss the winter storm they’re forecasting. First-class rates, so I shudder at the thought of missing it.”

  She was already turning to leave. “Color me gone.” But then she paused and turned. “By the way, Mike.” He raised his brows and waited. “Thanks. For everything. I know Lillian would really be pleased at how hard you’re working on this, and I wouldn’t have been able to fight it without you working pro bono for me.”

  He waved off the praise. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ve pitched in plenty through the years. You’ve paid your sweat equity a hundred times over.”

  She smiled and walked away, feeling at least a little less guilty about the mess the temp had caused. Because Mike was right—she had worked hard over the decade she’d worked for the firm. She’d started as a file clerk right out of high school and eventually had found herself working as paralegal to one of the firm’s senior partners—Lillian Armstrong.

  I do miss you, Lillian. The white-haired firecracker had taught her to be confident, strong, and not take any shit from anyone. And for her to be taken down so suddenly … by a simple case of the flu. If only I could have helped—but she was too proud to let me.

  It was a stark reminder of Suzanne’s plight. As she stepped off the elevator onto the darkened twenty-fourth floor, lit only by the few fluorescent bulbs assigned to after-hours security, she wished there had been some news from Baba—a phone message or note under the door. But although she’d immediately called her voice mail when they got home and checked her cell phone for missed calls, there was nothing.

  Alan’s office was cool and dark, except for the dancing electronic flames that decorated a digital picture frame on his credenza. She’d never seen one like it. The images of his family and life appeared and disappeared into the flames every few seconds. One picture in particular caught her attention. Alan was a good-looking man, but she hadn’t realized just how similar he looked to Tal. That one photo, of Alan climbing a rock wall, his face intense and focused, reminded her so much of Tal last night it was a little frightening.

  The whole situation was frightening. Yet, she couldn’t ignore that she’d distinctly heard his voice in her head while they kissed and she finally remembered every bit of the conversation they’d held while he was under Vegre’s spell in the cave. They’d talked about it and both of them had come to the uneasy realization that it had happened. There was simply no way to explain it away. Even if she wasn’t a Tree spirit, she was something to be able to hear his thoughts.

  Unfortunately, while she’d maintained delusions for several hours after getting home of continuing what the kiss promised, reality had wound up far different. Oh, there was sexual tension—no doubt about that. The air had practically crackled every time they were within a few feet of each other.

  But Tal had been either unwilling, or uninterested, in following through. Yet it hadn’t made her feel dismissed. It had been sort of … comfortable. She’d found it fascinating to watch him working with the opal. To see it used as a tool, rather than just a decoration sitting in a drawer, had been awesome.

  And he certainly knew his stuff. Now that she understood how to sense it, she could feel the magic as he crafted. From putting guard spells on the wall upstairs where the magic portal had appeared, to simply moving her candlesticks around the room, she’d watched it all with growing respect for him.

  And the things they’d learned from the scroll! Wow, was that an eye opener. But it wasn’t just the recitation of the events that put Vegre in prison that had held her attention, but Tal’s remembrances of that time. Like the difference between reading a news story in the paper to watching it happen on television, she could almost see the medieval world through his words.

  “And thus it was ordered that houses of the afflicted should place dark cloths in their windows. The number which complied panicked the lords, for the magic which had served us became our enemy as Tin Czerwona laid waste to the guilds.” She remembered him reading from the parchment. He let out a little sniff of derision. “That sounds so simple, doesn’t it? So clean and neat. But it wasn’t.” He paused for a long moment and his eyes glazed over, remembering. “I remember women walking through the frozen mud with reddened, vacant eyes … skirts shredded and flashing their petticoats underneath. Revealing their shame.”

  She must have shown her confusion on her face, because he continued. “Oh, yes—shame. Average people didn’t have closets of clothing to make hangings from, Mila. Cloth was precious, and all but the very wealthy had just the one outfit. To follow the law, one cloth at least two handsbreadths in width had to be flown for each of the afflicted. There were a lot of big families and eventually even the most skillful seamstresses couldn’t hide the missing cloth. For a woman to show her undergarments was grounds for time in the stocks.” He sighed and shook his head. “But eventually nobody pointed fingers or spoke of punishment because there were no families left to point. I was young, you understand, so I had a different view than adults might have had. I remember very clearly the tiny rows of stitches to fix damage after the dead were buried … the patchwork skirts that didn’t quite match. Women would sneak into houses to strip cloth from the dead and dying … risking their lives so their families could retain a little dignity.”

  She didn’t even know how to respond to that. Tears had burned her eyes, because as he spoke—some weird part deep inside her remembered those people.

  “The smell was horrible, wasn’t it?” She wasn’t asking out of curiosity, but in confirmation of the phantom scent that burned her nose.

  “Very. We had magic then, enough for all. But it … permeated our daily lives. You couldn’t walk the streets for the stench of the dead and dying. And it was far worse once it mutated to infect the humans. Whole cities were laid waste by it. The humans called it the black plague because of how their skin would turn black. but we called it Tin Czerwona—red shadow, because of the way our magical aura would corrupt.”

  “Red and writhing. I know. I saw it attacking Suzanne, even though I didn’t know what it was then.”

  He turned to her with horror etched on his face. “You didn’t mention you saw the illness in the girl. How far along was it?”

  All she could do was shrug. “I don’t know how far it can get, so it’s hard to judge. There were squirming tendrils of red and black. They seemed to come from a bruise on h
er neck. It was all over her chest. I beat it back a little by rolling eggs on her, but I would have needed a case to get rid of it fully. And the eggs stank when they exploded … filled with a blackish goo.”

  “Her neck, you say?” He got an odd look on his face and then put the scroll on the floor. Pushing the coffee table aside with one arm, he tossed the bottom roller hard with the other, making it spin across the rug to reveal the entire parchment. He crawled alongside it as it opened, finger tracing back and forth across the carefully inked words. She continued to sit and remain silent, because she didn’t know what he was looking for and it seemed that interrupting would be a bad thing.

  After a few long moments, he apparently found the right passage and tapped the parchment with a grim expression, then read it out loud. “‘And the prisoner doth further stand accused of intentionally inflicting Tin Czerwona on the great guild house of Cabal. Not a single illusion crafter family was spared owing to the prisoner’s careful infecting of the children and elderly at the weakest point of the neck, forcing the healthy to remain exposed to the malady out of duty and familial affection. The council of elders, righteously indignant that those we have sworn to protect were used in such a heinous manner, then laid their judgment on the prisoner. It was adjudged by this august assembly that the prisoner Vegrellion David Peircevil would not be put to death, but would instead be stripped of magic and imprisoned in such place as would contain him for the remainder of his life, or for a minimum of one human lifespan for each guild member lost by the malady he created.’”

  Mila’s mind had swirled as she tried to follow the logic here. “So, you think Vegre infected Suzanne? For what purpose? And how would he even know who she was, and how did he find her?”

  He rose to his knees and leaned back on his heels with a sigh and a shrug. “I wish I knew. But the circumstances bear a striking resemblance, don’t they?”

  “Well, yeah. But bubonic plague still exists in some animals, and it’s not a big deal. We’ve got antibiotics now. How would infecting her do him any good? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  A double chirp startled her and the image of Tal, shaking his head, disappeared into the flames with the other photos. “Alan’s not here,” she said to whoever was on the intercom. “He’s out until after the first, and so’s his staff.”

  Rachel’s voice came out in a terse whisper. “Mila, it’s me. Pick up.”

  She walked the rest of the way to the desk and put down the file, and picked up the handset. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t bother me.” She tried to put some humor in the words, but a little growl came out nonetheless.

  The words remained in a whisper and were now slightly muffled, like her hand was over the microphone attached to her headset. “I know. I know. But you really need to take this call.”

  “Why are you whispering? What’s wrong?”

  She sighed. “I’m whispering because Thomas Harris is standing over by the elevator talking to someone and I’m afraid he’ll hear me.”

  That seemed odd. Normally Rachel got along fine with the elderly senior partner. But she didn’t get a chance to ask further, because Rachel kept talking.

  “The concierge at the Palace Hotel is on line four. He claims someone accidentally double-booked the lobby for Friday night and they’re bumping our New Year’s party.”

  Mila had heard of people feeling their heart stop for a moment after a shock, but she’d never experienced it. She sat down in the chair with a thud, her legs boneless. She’d spent weeks … no, months, planning this party. Every detail was perfect, intended to benefit and flatter every possible A-list client of the firm. Sparkling wine from one client’s Australian vineyard, cheese produced by another’s dairy cows. Crackers made from a particular field of wheat and even imported Beluga caviar for an expat Russian fishery owner. It had to be close enough for one of the partners to walk from his Lower Downtown loft, and have elegant enough rooms to house the entire staff of one Greek shipping magnate. Multiple grandfather clocks had to be rented, to chime the new year in each different time zone of the guests. Every delivery had been confirmed. Each agreement hammered out with a damn the cost mentality that was so unusual for the firm that she’d had to ask twice to be certain she’d heard right.

  She reached for the button so fast she nearly overshot the whole top row. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow was the only thing that prevented the words from coming out in a tiny squeak. “This is Mila Penkin.”

  The caller seemed startled that someone answered. “Oh, um. Yes, Mila. This is Jean-Paul from the Palace. How are you today?”

  She looked at her watch again. It was barely 7:15. Why would he be calling at a time that was virtually guaranteed to miss everyone? It turned her voice cagey, yet smooth. “Always wonderful to talk with you, regardless of the time, Jean-Paul.”

  He made some odd noises that made her wonder if someone was standing over his chair with a gun to his head and she realized he was playing a game of chicken. First one to flinch won.

  She let out a little chuckle. “The receptionist made the funniest joke when she buzzed me. She said you were canceling our reservation.” She laughed again brightly. “But I know that couldn’t be the case. We’ve had a contract in place for nearly a year. The lobby from eight to ten, the Arizona suite from ten-o-one to midnight and the entire top floor thereafter.”

  Jean-Paul cleared his throat nervously. “Well, you see—” he began, but she cut him off by continuing to talk.

  “But really, wouldn’t that be silly? I can’t imagine what David Pierce would say at your next board meeting about that—not being able to celebrate in his own grandfather’s hotel? Why, he’d be humiliated. It could ruin the hotel’s reputation.”

  There was a pause, and then his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Mr. Pierce is one of the guests attending?”

  “Oh, he was one of the very first invited. It’s why we selected your fine establishment to house the party.” She kept the absolute confidence in her voice, feeling as though she was channeling Lillian—even though who would attend among the invited was far from certain.

  “Could you excuse me a moment?” She smiled as she heard his handset being covered and then snatches of a terse, whispered conversation where Jean-Paul’s voice lost much of its usual polish. He sounded downright snippy. “No, absolutely not … didn’t you hear her? David Pierce … I don’t care … what about the Long’s Peak Room? Didn’t that group from … canceled? No! Levi, that’s enough. No more. We’ll talk about this later.”

  Another pause and Jean-Paul was back, his voice once again the epitome of refinement and helpful courtesy. “Thank you so much for waiting. No, Mila. I merely wanted to call to let you know the strawberries you ordered had arrived. They’re still a little green though. They might be ripe by Friday, but I wondered if you would prefer our chef find some fresher ones?” He laughed, light but forced. “Cancel your reservations? I can’t imagine where your receptionist got that idea.”

  Another careful chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure she just hasn’t had her coffee yet. I really appreciate knowing about the strawberries, though. You understand how very important this function is to our firm, and I really appreciate that. I’ll be certain to let Mr. Pierce know how helpful you’ve been. Tell you what. Let’s see how they look on Thursday morning. I’ll make a note on my calendar to give you a call. We do want everything to be just perfect after all.” God, her voice sounded so sweet it was making her teeth hurt!

  He sounded like he was having a similar attack of sweet tooth—itis. “Of course.”I’m so glad we worked this out. Thank you again for your patronage of the Palace, Mila. I’m sure it will be a very special event.”

  “Absolutely, Jean-Paul. Thanks for calling.” She hung up the phone, immediately planning ways to make very certain that was the case. With one press of the button, she powered on Alan’s computer and crossed her fingers while it booted and found the server. She would have crossed her toes if she wasn
’t too afraid she’d start a fire or a flood with one of them. “Saints be praised! Houston, we have a network,” she called out to nobody in particular. But it merited a chuckle from someone walking down the hallway outside. She became aware of life coming to the office—lights flickering on over cubicles, the scent of coffee brewing, and voices. Not many voices, but probably all that would be coming in today. She immediately logged off from Alan’s account and entered in her own code. Soon she was back in her familiar work folders, scanning down the orderly list on her way to the Johnson subfolder. While she had every intention of typing her own motion first, she was a little worried about the brief still being there. So far, Bob the temp hadn’t put in a sterling performance and since that was the sole reason he was brought in—

  But it was safe, and she suddenly realized why. She hadn’t really thought about it when she logged into her named network folder, but she’d entered a password. It was an additional level of security that she’d had installed by the techies when the network was first loaded. They’d agreed because her attorney, Rick Myers, was responsible for the firm’s personnel files. Bet he was digging through my desk looking for it when he ripped the drawer off. I really should tell someone what my password is one of these days.

  She set about transcribing the tape, putting the replay on the slowest possible setting. Even so, she had to type her fastest to keep up, and occasionally had to stop the tape and back it up to understand the wording. Mike had been right. It was only a couple of pages and when she finished, she saved it both to her folder and to Mike’s, so whoever he found to finish it up, could. She quickly went upstairs to deliver it and return the machine. Mike was away from his desk, so she left it on the half-wall, promising herself she’d check back with him before she left so he didn’t forget to sign it.