The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  Shackleford watched him, spoon raised to taste the bisque—almost as if he expected Roger to ask.

  Roger looked around the library. He saw no wheelchair. He couldn’t remember seeing a wheelchair in the old man’s room. His mouth went dry and he wriggled his tongue around in his mouth to try to work up enough spit to swallow. “The only time you’re in a wheelchair is when Ms. Patching is in the house.”

  Shackleford stuck the spoonful of soup into his mouth and nodded. “Not entirely. I’ve kept it around for you until we had a chance to get acquainted. There are a couple others who seem to think they know what’s best for me. It amuses me to make them think I’m less than I am.”

  “The fairies,” Roger said.

  Shackleford nodded.

  “The pixies,” Roger said.

  Shackleford nodded again.

  “It’s not possible,” Roger said.

  Shackleford shrugged. “Lots of things aren’t possible. Impossible things happen every day. What makes them impossible, Mulligan?”

  “They can’t happen,” he said, knowing that his answer was wrong.

  “Close,” Shackleford said, taking another spoonful of bisque.

  “People think they can’t happen,” Roger said.

  “That’s the right path,” the old man said, rolling back from the table in a wheelchair. “Now think, Mulligan. What didn’t you find in your tour this morning?”

  Roger swallowed hard. “Dust, sir.”

  Shackleford nodded. “Still want to work in Shackleford House?”

  Roger looked around the room, trying to spot a camera. It had to be some kind of prank. A joke. Even as he looked, he knew that he couldn’t spot it. Cameras can be hidden almost anywhere.

  “Well, Mulligan?”

  “What happens if I don’t, sir?”

  The old man settled back into his wheelchair and shrugged. “For you? Nothing. I’ll pay off your year’s salary and give you the million that Naomi offered. You’re free to go.” He paused, tilting his head and seeming to weigh Roger with his eyes. “Do you want to leave?”

  Roger’s brain kept slipping its clutch, running a million miles an hour in circles and seizing up for a moment, only to start spinning again. “I—I—.” He shook his head, forcing himself into combat mode. Assess the situation. “What if I want to stay?”

  “You’d make an old man grateful,” Shackleford said. “You’ll still be paid well for your work. You get to live here.” He looked around the room. “While it lasts, anyway.”

  “Is any of it real?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford chuckled. “Define real.”

  “That chair?” Roger asked, trying to find some ground to stand on.

  “Oh, quite real. The wheels are the illusion. These days it’s harder to maintain.”

  “Pixies? Fairies?” Roger asked.

  “You know the answer to that,” Shackleford said. “You’ve examined the evidence yourself. Can you explain the atrium some other way? The lack of dust built up in the wings? You’ve lived here a month now. Have you ever seen a yard crew working the lawns? Housekeepers stopping by to dust and wax the floors?”

  Roger shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “The world is magical, my boy. Always has been. We put names to things we don’t understand and tend to avoid the things with no names. It makes them no less real because we don’t believe in them.”

  “So pixies are what? Tiny invisible people?”

  Shackleford shrugged. “If that’s how you choose to visualize them, sure. Fairies are human-shaped dragonflies, if you like. Invisible to those who lack the sight, and—sadly—too few have the vision.”

  “You can see them?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford shook his head. “Not my skill. I know they exist. I can see their effect. I can’t see them.”

  “Like electricity,” Roger said.

  Shackleford smiled and nodded. “An apt metaphor. Magic and technology are sometimes seen as the two sides of a coin.”

  Roger took a deep breath and looked around the library again. “Your dementia?”

  “Very real,” Shackleford said. “I’m having what might be called ‘a good day’ in certain circles. I’m quite aware when I’m here. It’s when I’m not that I run into problems.”

  “But it’s not age related,” Roger said.

  Shackleford’s eyebrows rose slowly. “What are you saying, Mulligan?”

  “You’ve never lied to me, that I know of.”

  Shackleford nodded. “I’ve never knowingly lied to you.” He shrugged. “I can’t be sure I haven’t inadvertently done so. Nor can anyone.”

  “You said it wasn’t age. You became rather distressed.”

  “Did I?” Shackleford said, his face closing in a frown. “Hm. Well, it’s true.”

  “It’s the amulet,” Roger said.

  Shackleford’s eyes grew round. “Where did you hear that?”

  Roger shook his head. “Not important. What’s going on here, sir? If I’m going to stay in the fight, I’d like to know the rules of engagement.”

  “Are you, Mulligan? Are you going to stay in the fight?”

  “I need to know what I’m up against.”

  Shackleford nodded. “That’s fair. Let me finish my soup. Come back in an hour. I’ll answer all your questions then.”

  “All of them, sir?”

  “All of them, Mulligan.” He shrugged and grinned. “Although I reserve the right to say ‘I don’t know’ if I need to.”

  Roger gave his Jeeves bow. “Very well, sir. Enjoy your lunch, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. I shall.”

  * * *

  The front bell rang just as Roger reached the ground floor. He swung the door open, expecting to see Samantha Bicker. Instead he was met with Naomi Patching’s scowling face. “You changed the locks.”

  “You said you didn’t have a key, ma’am.” Roger shrugged. “It’s my responsibility to keep the property secured. It starts with the doors, ma’am.”

  “May I come in?” she asked, the peevish tone clear in each word.

  “Of course, ma’am.” Roger stepped back from the doorway, holding the heavy door open for her. “May I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?”

  “It’s been a month. I’ve come to check up on him.”

  “Mr. Shackleford is eating his lunch at the moment, ma’am. He’s asked not to be disturbed.”

  “My, my,” she said. “Really getting into the role, are we?”

  “I’ve found that I quite enjoy the position, ma’am.”

  “Performance art? I had no idea you were more than a pretty face on a sturdy frame.”

  Roger nodded. “As you say, ma’am.”

  “So what’s happened in the last month? Any visitors?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shackleford’s affairs, ma’am.”

  Her frown came back with a crash. “I’m your employer, mister. Not him. I have a question, you answer it. Capisce?”

  “Capisco, ma’am, but you hired me to be the Shackleford House butler, not to be your spy on Mr. Shackleford.”

  She grimaced. “Damn barracks lawyer. Don’t pull that crap with me or you’ll be out of here before you knew you were leaving.”

  “I’m sorry you find my service unsatisfactory, ma’am. Might I suggest you take it up with Mr. Shackleford.”

  “Do you want to get paid?” she asked. “Or do you want to get fired?”

  “As you remember, ma’am, I have a copy of the employment contract which explicitly states that our arrangement is not ‘at-will.’ You cannot fire me except for just cause. Since none of the duties listed in that contract involve me spying on your uncle, I am under no obligation to answer those questions which involve him. If you’d like to litigate it in court, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Fine. How’s the house?” she asked.

  “The house is in good repair, ma’am. The facilities all work properly.”

  “You’re n
ot finding your duties too onerous? Caring for the house and one old man?”

  “I’ll confess I felt a bit overwhelmed the first few days, ma’am, but I hope I’m settling in well.” He indicated the parlor. “If you’d care to wait, ma’am. Mr. Shackleford should be done with his luncheon shortly. May I offer you coffee? Tea? Some lunch for yourself?”

  “Coffee would be fine, thank you.” Her fulminating tone backed down to a simmer and she crossed to the parlor.

  “One moment, ma’am.” He half expected her to make a dash for the library as soon as his back was turned. He found her lounging comfortably in one of the armchairs when he returned with a tray containing coffee, creamer, sugar, and a small dish with a few shortbread cookies. He placed it on the coffee table in easy reach. “I’ll be back shortly, ma’am.”

  “Stay a moment, Roger, if you would.” She seemed to have calmed down a great deal in the few minutes he’d been gone.

  “How may I assist you, ma’am?”

  “Tell me about the change,” she said.

  “Change?” Roger asked.

  She finished amending her coffee with cream and sugar, stirring them together—the metal making quiet tings on the cup’s sides. “You’ve changed from the angry man who applied for the job a month ago.”

  “I’ve found the house to be a settling influence, ma’am. Seeing it functioning as it should satisfies my desire for order.”

  “You like the control,” she said.

  Roger let that idea roll around in his head for a moment. “I used to think so, ma’am. Control is everything in the military, but without order, control becomes an impossibility.” He smiled. “I find it mildly ironic that the order I chafed against in military service should be revealed as the key ingredient to my contentment now that I’m out.”

  “Without control, how can you have order?” she asked sipping the coffee.

  “A good question, ma’am. I’m not sure. I think order depends more on preparation than control.”

  “But don’t you need control to be able to say what the order should be?”

  “Perhaps, ma’am.”

  “So you like controlling the house?”

  He gave a short laugh. “I don’t control the house any more than I control the sidewalks out front. True, I guard its entrances and care for the inhabitants, but I serve the house.”

  “So it controls you?” she asked, a smirk growing on her lips.

  He recognized the jab behind the question but nodded. “In a way, yes, ma’am.”

  She sipped her coffee again and took up a cookie. “You have changed.”

  “It’s the uniform, ma’am.” Roger gave his Jeeves bow. “If there’s nothing else, ma’am?”

  “Thank you, Mulligan. You may go.”

  He returned to the kitchen and cleaned up from lunch, wiping down the counters and settling the dishes in the dishwasher. He’d no sooner paused to look around when the beeper went off. Its message read “Bring her up.”

  Returning to the parlor, he found Naomi sipping coffee and reading something on her phone. “Mr. Shackleford will see you now.”

  She sighed and stood, tucking the phone in her bag and smoothing the front of her skirt. “Thank you, Mulligan.”

  He led her up the stairs and knocked before entering. “Ms. Patching, sir.”

  Shackleford looked up from his lunch tray, blinking as if just waking up. “Ah, Naomi. Lovely to see you, my girl. Come in. Sit down. Entertain an old man.” He waved her into one of the easy chairs and rolled across to park opposite. “Would you like some tea? Coffee? A sherry, perhaps?”

  “Nothing, thank you, Uncle.” She crossed her legs at the ankle and settled into the chair. “I just came to see how you’re doing.”

  Shackleford looked at Mulligan. “Thank you, Perkins. If you’d check to see that my tux is ready for this evening?”

  “This evening, sir?” Roger asked.

  The old man wheeled the chair around to face him, putting his back to Naomi. He winked. “This evening, Perkins. The banquet? Surely you remember.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll make sure all the preparations are in order, sir.”

  Shackleford grinned before straightening his expression and turning back to Naomi. “Thank you, Perkins. Carry on.”

  Roger bowed and took the used lunch tray from the table. “Of course, sir.” He caught the raised “I warned you” eyebrow from Naomi before he closed the library door and retreated to the kitchen. He took the opportunity to review the evening’s menu from the Bible. It listed meals that interested him, but he lacked the basic tools even to understand which ones he might attempt. He’d served Shackleford most of the easiest ones—those he could confidently prepare with a skillet and saucepan—but what exactly was coq au vin? Chicken in wine? He hadn’t known what lobster bisque was until he opened the can delivered by standing order. He paused that thought, wondering how much of “standing order” involved some mechanism of communication he just didn’t know about. Could the old man be ordering stuff telepathically?

  He took out his notebook and started jotting questions on a fresh page. The longer he wrote, the more intrigued he became by the idea that magic—real magic, not the sleight-of-hand, rabbit-out-of-my-hat kind—existed in the world.

  He stopped, pen poised. Did it really? Or was it some con the old man had pulled on him?

  He couldn’t explain the lack of dust or the garden in the atrium. On a whim, he stepped into the telephone nook and lifted the device off its table. The table gleamed, dust free. He placed the phone back down and flipped his notebook closed, tucking it and the pen away.

  He’d learned to trust his eyes and ears in the field. If he could see it, hear it, smell it, it was real. The trampled brush meant something. Somebody left footprints in the sand. He hadn’t cleaned the dust off the table but it was gone. Somebody did it. Either the old man was messing with him or something else happened. Pixies? Possibly. Giving it a name—even a frivolous one—gave him an anchor.

  The pager went off, summoning him to the library again. He shook himself to center his thinking and climbed the stairs. He knocked before entering. Shackleford still sat in his wheelchair across from his niece. “You rang, sir?”

  “Yes, Perkins. Ms. Patching is leaving.”

  Naomi rose from the chair and sighed. “Please think it over, Uncle.”

  Roger stood out of the doorway to allow her to pass. She breezed past him without even looking in his direction.

  “When she’s gone, please come back, Perkins.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He followed Naomi down the stairs and opened the door for her. “Good day, Ms. Patching.”

  “You’re not fooling me, you know,” she said, making no move to actually leave.

  “Fooling you, ma’am?”

  “This butler act.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.”

  “He’s much worse,” she said. “I have the right to know about his condition.”

  “You seem to have ascertained his condition, ma’am.”

  “You could have saved me a great deal of trouble if you’d just told me.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the happenings within Shackleford House, ma’am. Especially not where Mr. Shackleford is concerned. You’ve seen him yourself. You’ve made your judgment.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said and strode from the house and down the steps.

  Roger closed the door behind her and set the bolt before returning to the library.

  “She’s got her hair on fire over something,” Shackleford said. “Any idea what it might be, Mulligan?”

  “She was most interested in any visitors you may have had, sir.”

  “Was she now?” Shackleford’s eyebrows levitated up his forehead. “What did you tell her?”

  “That I was not at liberty to discuss the matter with her.”

  Shackleford snorted. “Oh, that went over well, I’m sure.”

  “I
enjoyed it, sir. Ms. Patching seemed less enthusiastic.”

  “Did she threaten to fire you?”

  “She did, sir.”

  “You don’t seem upset by that, Mulligan.”

  “She needs cause, sir. The amendments I made to the draft contract negate the default at-will employment. We both signed the contract. It should be binding. If she defaults, she has to pay double.”

  “You know she’d fight you on that?” Shackleford asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

  “I’d expect nothing less, sir.”

  “If she does, I’ll hire you. Same terms,” Shackleford said. “She can fight me on that. I’ve got better lawyers than her father and more money than both of them combined.”

  “If I may be so bold, sir?”

  “Yes, Mulligan?”

  “Why did she hire me, sir? Why didn’t you?”

  “When Perkins passed away, she volunteered. I let her. They had a regular parade through the house for weeks. Tedious.”

  “What did you do without a butler, sir?”

  “Well, I can feed myself, after all, Mulligan.” His eyes twinkled with mirth.

  “The wheelchair, sir? There are no ramps.”

  “I don’t need one, Mulligan, remember? I’m perfectly capable of climbing the stairs.”

  “But the ruse, sir?”

  “Oh, that? Pfft. The door won’t open if I don’t want it to.”

  “You know she had a key, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. I expect she has duplicates. You changed the locks on the first day. Smart move. Good initiative, Perkins.” He caught himself. “Sorry. Mulligan. It slips out.”

  “For a man with dementia, you seem fairly present, sir.”

  “It’s the moon’s phase. New moon protects me from the worst of it.”

  “I see, sir,” Roger said, schooling his features.

  Shackleford laughed. “You didn’t believe the pixies and fairies either, did you?”

  “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure I believe now. I just don’t have an alternative hypothesis.”

  “Fair enough,” Shackleford said. “Now, I promised you answers.” Roger pulled his notebook out and the old man’s eyebrows rose. “You wrote them down?”

  “So I wouldn’t forget, sir.”