The Ondine Collection

by Ebony McKenna

  The original spell that Old Col had cast on Hamish to turn him into a ferret had included the phrase, ‘and you can stay like that’, which was why he hadn’t aged since he’d been ferretised. “Is your spell wearing off Col?”

  “Maybe it is,” she said, with a heavy swallow that made the wattle at her neck wobble. “Anyway, let’s not dwell on that, Ma is calling for you. Come along.”

  As Hamish and Ondine set to clearing the plates in the dining room – Ondine’s thoughts swirling over her worries about Hamish ageing – a woman approached Margi and Cybelle and gave them her business card. Ma stepped forward and hugged her daughters, then kissed them multiple times on the cheeks. Josef, their father who usually tended bar, approached with a bottle of Busuioacă de Bohotinand and a tray of glasses. [274]

  Her father, being friendly? Giving away wine? Ondine felt sure something momentous had just happened.

  “Oh, by the way Hamish,” Old Col said as they returned to the kitchen with arms filled with plates. “Would you do me the honour of partnering me at my abnormal formal?”

  “Your what?” Ondine and Hamish said together.

  “My do-over debutante ball. We didn’t get it right the first time around, so let’s try again for old time’s sake. It’s not until May. Plenty of time to rehearse.”

  The old dear had such a hopeful look; Ondine didn’t want to let her down.

  Considering how much her great-aunt had done to help the two of them this past year, it would be a good way to return the favour. Then something zinged in her brain at how fortuitous this could be. It would give Ondine and Hamish the perfect excuse to be out of the house, which meant she could dart off and meet with Duchess Anathea and keep her informed of Vincent’s nefarious endeavours. “Of course he’ll do it, won’t you Hamish?”

  “Aye,” he agreed with a nod. “It’s the least I can do for ye.”

  “Lovely!” Old Col clapped her papery hands together. “This will be such fun. Oh, and you might want to dye your hair for the big night if the grey keeps sprouting out like that.”

  HAVING SPENT A SIGNIFICANT part of the past three seasons slagging off The Democratic Republic of Slaegal, it is important to note that Brugel’s eastern neighbour has a great many good points. [275]

  It has more beach frontage of The Black Sea than Brugel, and therefore more holiday resorts and a larger tourism industry. However, their claim to have more sunny days per year than Brugel is completely false. [276]

  They have the ordinariness of a rectangular flag, although their unique selling point is that theirs is the only completely blue and red flag in the world, being mostly blue with a horizontal slash of red at the top. Their national motto, “Proudly Not Brugel”, resonates with the country’s longstanding animosity with their neighbour. This sets Slaegal apart from nearby Craviç, whose motto is, “We are so different to Moldova.”

  Slaegal has more wine production than Brugel and also produces a national car, the Slabi, which doubles in value when filled with petrol. Being further north than Brugel, Slaegal takes longer to wake up from winter. Snow is still thick on the ground in March, when only the bravest yellow crocus and snowdrops dare show their heads. [277]

  On this particular not-really-spring afternoon, Lord Vincent of Brugel stood in a Norange street. Standing beside him, the young witch Melody puffed a cloudy breath onto her gloved hands.

  “Thank you, for your help with this.” Steam poured from his mouth as he spoke.

  “Happy to,” she said with a nod and another puff of steam.

  It had been winter when Melody came into his life; she’d brought sunshine and possibilities with her wherever she went. When she’d offered to assist him just a few days ago, he’d accepted.

  The house before them was a big sloppy lump of a thing, which tapered like a badly built sand castle. Behind the windowpanes were hinged timber panels, closed against the cold of winter. Heavy columns stood guard near the front door, with lavish baroque cherubs smiling down upon visitors. On closer inspection, the cherubs weren’t smiling but were cracked across the face from centuries of weathering.

  “Are you ready?” He asked.

  “Let’s do this.” She answered.

  Straightening his shoulders, Vincent rapped on the heavy wooden door. Footsteps echoed, somebody opened the door with a shudder and a pained creak. A butler in faded clothes greeted them, his greasy hair dragged back into a ponytail.

  “Please wait here,” the butler said, as they stepped into a vestibule. The umbrella stand in the corner lay empty. A panel of wood nailed to the wall would have held their coats, had there been any brass hooks on them.

  The butler kept walking.

  Vincent shot Melody a confused look. In turn she volleyed him an equally confused one straight back. Were they supposed to stand around or walk after the Butler? Maybe it was a Slaegal thing, where “wait here,” really meant, “follow me”.

  They followed the butler until they came to an atrium in the centre of the house. He then nodded and walked off, leaving them there.

  Right in the middle of that atrium grew an impressively huge tree with a trunk so wide it would take four people to hug it. The bark was deeply furrowed like a grandfather’s forehead. Its roots twisted in and out of the soil, creating crevices and rolling hills for moss and mushrooms.

  Its branches reached outwards in all directions, resting on the balustrades and balconies of the upper floors. Some branches cut straight through the floors of the upper rooms, or, more correctly, the upper floors had been built to allow the branches to keep growing.

  “That’s some tree,” Melody said as she gazed at the snow-covered glass ceiling. More accurately, a cracked and groaning snow-covered glass ceiling, as the top of the tree pressed hard against its bonds in an effort to break through.

  On a soft breath, Vincent said, “I’m sure you’re just bursting to tell me about it.” Chatting about something innocuous would stop his terrible fear from taking over. The fear that reminded him that every day spent outside Brugel was another day out of the public’s sight. Every day allowed his aunt, Anathea, to become entrenched as Duchess. Which was why he was here, doing everything he could to gain support for his claim. His rightful claim. Even if it meant going to Slaegal.

  “It’s a gorgeous custom,” Melody beamed. “The oldest families in Norange plant the Slaegalpine trees first, then they build their houses around them. As the tree grows, they add further storeys to the houses. But never taller than the top of the tree.” [278]

  Vincent looked up and caught a subzero snowflake in his eye. The pine was not simply pressing against the ceiling; it had broken through in places, allowing rain and snow to fall through.

  “The tree is hundreds of years old,” Melody continued. “So is the house. You would have noticed the different architectural eras on the facade? I mean, of course you did. Because you’re so clever.”

  He didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm, but there had to be a way to deal with this annoying crush of hers in a non-traumatic way. He just hadn’t worked out how yet.

  He puffed a warm breath into his chilled hands. If they had to wait any longer, the Zendgraf and Zendgravine would find their visitors turned into frozen ornaments. [279]

  Hardly conducive to having top-level meetings if Vincent’s mouth froze shut.

  Changing his weight from left to right, gently stamping his feet to keep the blood flowing, Vincent exhaled with relief when the butler emerged through a set of double doors with an elderly couple behind him.

  “My dear cousin.” Vincent held his arms wide to embrace Nikolai, the Zendgraf of Norange. “How good it is to see you again.” When they embraced, as family is wont to do, Vincent was gentle so as not to damage his frail-looking relative, who was of the same vintage as his aunt Anathea.

  “And I you, cousin-mine.” The Zendgraf said. [280]

  Being closer gave a better view of the gin blossoms on his cousin’s aged face, no doubt the result of the cold cli
mate breaking his capillaries. [281]

  The matronly Zendgravine Bohdanna extended her liver-spotted hand, indicating Vincent should bow over it and kiss it. A year ago she would have curtseyed to him. Not that he’d show signs of discomfort here. If cousin Bohdanna wanted her status, she’d get it. He didn’t want her respect. Just her money.

  “This is Melody, my witch,” Vincent said, indicating the young woman at his side.

  “I’m honoured,” Melody said, making the most courteous of curtseys.

  Good girl. He’d thank her later for picking up on the vibe.

  “A real witch?” Bohdanna raised one eyebrow. “Or a personal assistant?”

  “A little of both,” Vincent said, keen to hurry them on to business matters.

  “An asswitchant,” Nikolai said.

  Melody nodded but Vincent was pleased to see her keeping her opinions to herself. He opted for, “I like it.” I hate it.

  “Let us honour the tree,” Nikolai said, his hand wafting towards the pine. His fingers did not straighten. The long winters must be agony on his arthritis.

  Bohdanna linked her arm with her husband.

  Must we? “Of course,” Vincent said, having no clue what Niko was on about. “When in Norange.” [282]

  “Be my guest,” Nikolai motioned his bent fingers to a wooden pail that sat near the edge of the tree trunk.

  What was Vincent meant to do with it? If he asked, he’d be exposing his ignorance of Slaegalese customs. Doing the wrong thing would insult his hosts; a terribly bad way of beginning negotiations.

  The water in the half-full wooden bucket had iced over from the cold. Leaning against it was a long-handled wooden spoon. [283]

  Silently moving beside him, Melody touched her un-gloved (and cold!) fingers to his wrist. Enough to transfer magic, so he’d know what to do. With a nod to his hosts, he took the spoon by the handle, cracked through the ice and ladled a splash against the base of the tree. Then he turned and offered the spoon to Melody, who did the same. Melody passed the spoon to Bohdanna who gave a gracious nod, as if everything were in order and she was pleased. Not that she smiled, but at least she wasn’t grimacing. When it was Nikolai’s turn, his hands shook in the effort to hold the wooden spoon, but he managed to water the tree all the same. Then he leaned the long wooden ladle against the bucket.

  No, not quite, the spoon slipped. Nikolai grabbed it and straightened it again. It slipped, so he straightened it again. Vincent didn’t know where to look. The longer Nikolai took, the more Vincent wondered if he should step in and help. The water’s skin began freezing over. Cold drafts clawed at Vincent’s sleeves and crept inside his coat. He couldn’t feel his feet. Flakes of snow fell between his neck and his collar.

  At last Nikolai was satisfied the spoon wasn’t going to slip away. The butler directed them to a room off to the side.

  In comparison to the atrium, it was a tropical paradise in here.

  ​“You honour us with your adherence to our customs,” Bohdanna said as she patted the cushion beside her, inviting Vincent to sit. “I feared there was too much Brugel in you.”

  “I’m adaptable,” Vincent said as a wave of relief fell over him. “Would you care to honour one of our customs?”

  “I know the one,” Nikolai said. “How I miss the taste of plütz.”

  Melody delved into her witchy satchel and produced a cloth-covered bottle. Then she retrieved a set of shot glasses, also wrapped in cloth to prevent breakage. With a deft flick of the wrist and a metallic crack, Melody opened the plütz and poured four shots; filling the glasses so high they spilled onto the tray below.

  They each took a glass, Vincent saluted their continued good health, then they crashed their glasses together so a little of everyone’s drinks slopped into the others’. [284]

  They downed their drinks in one swallow. When the burn left his throat, Vincent said, “Who needs a roaring fire when you have plütz?”

  Nikolai and Bohdanna exchanged glances, then Bohdanna said, “You should have mentioned you were cold. Living so much further north than you, we are quite acclimatised.”

  Did she have to come right out and say how soft he was? “I am very comfortable,” Vincent lied so smoothly he surprised himself. “How are the children, by the way?” Not that he should call them children, when they were all older than he. ​

  ​A smile plumped Bandanna’s cheeks and crinkled her eyes. “They are doing well and send their regards. It is a pity they cannot be here to receive you. Boris is at a manufactory and Kolja is giving a speech at the university.”

  “Given the choice, I’d much rather be busy than idle,” Vincent said.

  “Oh yes, we’re all terribly busy,” Nikolai chimed in.

  “In which case.” May as well push on. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, perhaps we shall get down to business?”

  “Of course,” Nikolai sat on the opposite sofa. In doing so, his sleeve caught the doily on the armrest, revealing threadbare stitching beneath. He laughed it off. “That’s the trouble with antiques, not built for today’s bodies.”

  “I shall not take up much more of your time,” Vincent said. “I’m sure you have been following our family’s fortunes, and how my dear Aunt Anathea has taken my birthright from me.”

  Bohdanna accepted another shot of plütz. “But she is older than you, she has more experience.”

  “This is true,” Vincent agreed. “But she never had the training, nor the expectation, of leadership. And now my cousins, Ausra and Viktorija . . . and the other one . . .”

  Silence hung over them.

  “Electra,” Melody prompted.

  “ . . . That’s right, Electra. The three of them are getting way above their station,” he said, with what he hoped sounded like concern, not distaste.

  “Perhaps,” Nikolai looked to Bohdanna. “They are merely showing support for their mother?”

  “You are being far too kind,” Vincent said, as he too had another shot of plütz.

  Finally he was starting to feel warm, although his feet remained stubbornly numb.

  “Let’s be honest. Anathea’s not up to it. We know I am; yet I lack the finances to change things back to the natural order. To draw this to its obvious conclusion, I need money.”

  Chapter Three

  Vincent’s blunt words hung in the air like a poison gas nobody dared breathe.

  “I see.” Nikolai said at last, taking another shot of plütz.

  Vincent waited. Nobody said anything further. Nikolai and Bohdanna didn’t make eye contact. Another shot of plütz ought to do it. No, he still couldn’t feel his feet.

  Enough of this waiting. “It is the truth. I need money from you,” he said, hating that he had to state the bleeding obvious.

  “Ahh,” Nikolai said as he put his glass down. “That could be problematic.”

  “We cannot be seen to interfere with another sovereign state,” Bohdanna said. “Not only would it be unconstitutional, it would be unseemly.”

  “I understand my request has come at short notice,” Vincent said, idly playing with the doily over his armrest. Something caught his eye; the label on the reverse side came from a discount supermarket chain.

  “Perhaps we should leave the Zendgraf and Zendgravine to consider your request?” Melody said as she screwed the lid on the plütz bottle and wrapped everything back into her satchel. Either Melody had seen the signs of thrift or she was very, very good at reading his mind. Maybe she’d cast some kind of exposure spell, so Vincent would see for himself why his cousins were so reluctant to help?

  “That might be for the best,” Nikolai said, rising from his seat.

  The handshakes may have been friendly, but the atmosphere was colder than the atrium as Vincent and Melody said their goodbyes.

  As they walked through the snow-slurried streets back to their rental car, a late model Slabi, Melody put on her chauffeur’s cap and took the wheel.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For t
he spell.”

  “It’s as old as dirt. Drink as much as you want and not get drunk. Helps tremendously when you’re negotiating. Of course, it has the effect of making the other people drunker, but that’s no bad thing.”

  Vincent scratched his head. “I meant the revealing spell, so I’d see the truth. They can’t afford to replace the glass roof, let alone help my cause.”

  “I didn’t cast that kind of spell. But I will at the next one, if you want me to?”

  What a mess. What a miserable, cold, waste-of-time mess they were in. “Please do.”

  Melody negotiated the streets of Norange like a local. Vincent tapped his feet to get the circulation moving. “I guess you didn’t need a spell to see how broke they were.”

  “The Sletto clothing was a dead giveaway.” [285]

  “And the lack of heating,” he said, leaning forward and flicking the car’s thermostat up so his toes didn’t snap off. “I bet Boris isn’t visiting a ‘manufactory’ or whatever they want to call it. He’s probably working in one.”

  “Manufacturing is very important,” Melody said as she negotiated a three-lane roundabout.

  Vincent let out some pent-up expletives. Melody held up her palm to stop him. “Your fine words butter no parsnips!” [286]

  Vincent dragged his fingers through his hair and looked out at the sleet-filled sky. “Any idea what the hell we’re going to do?”

  “Oh yes,” Melody beamed as she wove their car into another round about streaming with traffic, “I know just the right person, I set up a meeting with him, just in case the Old Money didn’t pay out.”

  “Not another relative without a bean to fry?”

  Melody pulled out of the traffic like a rally driver. “You’re going to love the next one. He’s Babak Balakhan. New money. Emphasis on money.”

  “Good,” Vincent felt his body warming, his circulation circulating again. “Should I ask where he gets his money from. Because I’ve never heard of his family.”

  “It’s not family money, it’s oil money. That’s what his wiki says. [287] He also bankrolled Slaegal’s last three PopEuroTube entries.” [288]