Mama?”
Mama nodded.
I grimaced, not in love with the idea of dabbing that concoction anywhere.
“And if someone being ridden by the same hex that drove the Sprangs and the firebug gets close to it, we smell the whole pot, all at once, all over again.”
“Well, I reckon you know a mite more than I was given’ you credit for knowin’, niece. That’s just how it works. A dab on your door. A dab on any door. Nobody gonna smell it but you.”
“Any door? What about objects? Pens, hats, money? Would that work too?”
“It will. Anything. Can’t wash it off, neither. I makes my brews to stick.”
I nodded. If the stuff worked, it certainly had potential.
And in any case, it would probably repel mosquitoes.
“Thank you, Mama. I mean that. I know you put a lot of work into this.”
“Hush. Now. I been askin’ about that last one, the firebug. I talked to old Mrs. Ramsay. Her son spent the night in the Old Ruth for tryin’ to snatch a hair off’n an ogre on some fool bar bet. He claimed the firebug was a Packer from over Deep Ditch way. Niece, you ain’t kilt no Packers, have ye?”
“Mama.”
Mama cackled. “Well, I had to ask. Now this Packer seemed a mite slow, dim-witted I mean, according to Mrs. Ramsay’s son.”
“If Mrs. Ramsay’s boy is pulling on ogre hair he’s no genius himself, Mama, but go ahead.”
“Well, don’t that sound odd to you, boy? If this Packer be touched in the head, how’d he go thinkin’ about setting your door on fire to get everybody looking the wrong way?”
“So somebody was helping him?”
“Somebody smart enough to stay their distance. Somebody hexed, too, I’m thinkin’, because there was enough spent hex in the air to cover two men thick and strong.”
“Damn.”
Mama nodded. “So there’s another one out there, smarter than the rest. More dangerous.”
I rose and closed and locked my burnt door.
“Gonna take more than a door to end this, boy.”
I sat and sighed. “I know, Mama. Going to have to take the fight to the wand-waver. Either of you have any idea who that might be?”
Both Mama and Gertriss shook their heads. I muttered an unkind word.
We spent another hour turning over possible motives. I couldn’t see anything about a two-acre cornfield that would be worth hexing for, let alone killing. Gertriss was sure that the land her late fiance had paid down on was nothing special, and that no princely sum was ever involved. And both were adamant that Harald Suthom’s family didn’t number any witch women, anyone with Sight, or any wand-wavers.
But my door and my missing cat were testament to the fact that someone with magical talent and a connection to Gertriss’s former fiance was determined to see us dead.
Mama at Avalante. The words ran hob-nailed through my mind. Mama and her cleaver, and that famous Mama mouth, setting her halfdead hosts straight with her salty down-home homilies at every opportunity. I’d be lucky if Evis himself didn’t yank my silver brooch off my jacket and rescind my beer privileges forever.
But the idea, repellent though it was, was looking better. I couldn’t be everywhere at once. The Hoogas couldn’t spend their lives guarding Mama’s door. And Buttercup needed somewhere safer than Mama’s back room until this was all over.
There are times, in life, when you must either bow to the inevitable, or be crushed by it.
“Gather up Buttercup and some clothes, ladies,” I said. “Enough for a good long stay.”
Gertriss nodded. Mama’s face pinched and glared.
“And just where you think I’m a goin,’ boy?”
“I need you to watch over Buttercup, Mama. And the safest place to do that right now is at Avalante.”
Mama expanded. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw clenched.
“If’n you thinks I’m going to sleep under the same roofs as them halfdead devils, boy, you are mistaken.”
“Mama. Please. Hear me out.”
It wasn’t easy, getting a single word, much less a dozen in a line, past Mama’s grumbling.
But I’ve had lots of practice. In the end, Mama cussed and muttered, but she agreed.
“Wonderful. Let’s get you packed.” Gertriss started to bring up her plan to stay with me, but something in the set of Mama’s jaw stopped her cold. For once, I was glad that Gertriss still regarded Mama with a certain measure of terror.
We even packed a bag for Buttercup, who helped us by stuffing it with whatever was closest at hand, be it a spoon or a jar of feathers or a stray bent nail.
Mid-morning saw me putting Mama, Gertriss and Buttercup into a cab and sending them off for Avalante. My last sight of them was of Buttercup leaning out the window and waving before Mama grabbed her and yanked her back inside.
The cab rounded the corner, and I was alone, with only an ensorcelled murderer lurking close by to keep me company.
“Good morning, Miss Marchin,” I said to the woman seated behind the enormous marble desk. “Remember me?”
She smiled, but only a bit.
“Let me guess. You still don’t have an appointment, do you?”
“Oh, I hardly need one, Miss Marchin. Mr. Lethway and I are practically brothers, these days. Why just the other night we shared a cigar at the Troll’s Den. You can ask Mr. Pratt, who I suspect is now tip-toeing up behind me, aren’t you, Mr. Pratt?”
“Dat I am, Mr. Markhat.” There was humor in his voice. I turned around and greeted him with an outstretched hand.
He surprised me by taking it, and surprised me further by not breaking the arm to which it was attached.
His grip was firm but not threatening. Had I not known better, I would have suspected he was happy to see me.
“You got some nerve, coming back around here.” He spoke quietly and kept smiling for Miss Markin’s benefit. “You expecting lunch and a pat on the head?”
“Lunch would be nice. But before anyone pats me on the head, you might want to peep outside. My carriage belongs to Avalante. They know I’m here. Should that carriage return to Avalante empty, there will be unhappy people in unusually high places.”
“Is dat so? Well. Tell you what. Let’s you and I sit on a bench outside and have a little chat. Miss, I’ll be right outside.”
And then he sauntered out the door.
“If Mr. Lethway should inquire, Miss, I prefer fried chicken to baked. And dark beer to pale.”
Miss Markin stifled a snort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I followed Mr. Pratt out into the sun.
The street was busy. Pedestrians were three deep on the sidewalk. Cabs and carriages and ogre-carts choked the cobblestone street with rattles and scrapes and shouts from the drivers.
Mr. Pratt, true to his word, settled on a bench in the shade of the Lethway building. I sat beside him, leaving room to dart away should any cutlery inadvertently appear.
“Nice morning, Mr. Pratt.”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Markhat.” He pushed the brim of his hat down and closed his eyes. “Now what am I going to do with you?”
“I imagine you have instructions regarding that. Something involving burlap bags and a shallow grave?”
He chuckled. “Why dig a grave when the Brown River flows south all night? But yes. That’s the spirit of the
