Magic and Loss

experienced at Doc Mao’s. Up until that moment I had been propelled by nothing more than nervous energy and the fear that if I didn’t keep in constant motion, I would grind to a halt like an unwound clockwork.

“And that you shall,” Mr. Manto said gently. “But first you must take care of yourself. You will do no one any good by fainting while carrying a loaded tray upstairs—especially your child.”

“So, you know about me being pregnant, too,” I sighed. “The way things are going, half of Golgotham is going to know about it before Hexe does.”

“I know about a great deal more than the child you carry,” the oracle replied. “Earlier this evening I decided to celebrate the Jubilee in my own way by imbibing a certain hallucinogen, which resulted in a vision. In it I saw Boss Marz maim Hexe with a witch-hammer. I assure you, had I known what the Maladanti planned prior to that, I would have warned him—but you, more than anyone, know that my prophecies are not the easiest to decipher, once spoken. I also saw Boss Marz threaten your loved ones, should you go for help—and I am honored to find myself amongst those endangered.”

“You said you’re here because you ‘must’ be here. What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“It is difficult to explain,” Mr. Manto replied as he poured a cup of tea from the steeping pot and pressed it into my hand. “Drink this—it will help steady you.”

“What’s difficult to explain?” I asked, giving him a speculative look over the rim of the teacup.

“The means by which I see the future. Sometimes it points straight as an arrow, but more often than not, the future is more like a spider’s web. Some threads are stronger than others, while others are weaker than most. They all shine, in their way, but those threads that are the strongest shine the brightest, marking destiny’s trail. But when all threads shine equally—that indicates a Crossroads where all futures are valid. No soothsayer can see beyond a Crossroads until the fated one makes their decision. You stand now, my dear, at one such Crossroads. Only your will, and no other, shall decide which thread will be cut, and which will be followed.”

“But how will I know what decision is the right one to make?”

“Do you recall the final portion of the prophecy I spoke to you?” he inquired offhandedly, as if he was asking whether I had remembered to pick up a carton of milk on the way home from work.

“You know I can’t remember any of that stuff until it’s damn near too late.”

“It is true that the Fates do not surrender their mysteries gladly,” he admitted as he placed the teapot on the serving tray. “When you stand on the Crossroads, the prophecy will come to you and you will know what must be done. Just as I know that the Fates have led me to this time and place, to ensure you safely reach your destination.”

As I finished my tea, the oracle took the cup from me and, holding it in his left hand, swirled the contents about three times clockwise.

“I didn’t realize you read tea leaves,” I said. “I thought you foretold the future by tearing the pages out of books.”

“Bibliomancy is my preferred means of divination,” Mr. Manto replied as he placed the saucer on top of the cup and flipped it upside down, allowing what liquid remained to drain away. “But I have been known to dabble in tasseography, now and again.”

Upon righting the cup, he removed the saucer and peered inside, his brow furrowed like a freshly tilled field. After studying the inner rim for a long moment, he smiled, apparently relieved by what he had read in the tea leaves.

“What did you see?” I asked.

“That you will not faint and fall down the stairs,” he replied. “And that Hexe is waiting for his tea.”

* * *

As I carried the tea service Mr. Manto had been kind enough to prepare for me upstairs, it occurred to me that perhaps instead of simply relying on trusting a were-tiger’s sense of smell and a soothsayer’s tripped-out prophecies, perhaps I should confirm things for myself with a nice, old-fashioned home pregnancy test. At least that would allow me to hold off on breaking the news to Hexe, who already had enough to worry about without my dumping this on top of him.

The last time I had to deal with something like this was back in college. My boyfriend at the time was a music major named Taylor. We had been seeing each other for eighteen months, and I thought what we had together was pretty real—up until the moment I told him I was late. Within seconds, the man I believed cared for me became a distant, stony-faced stranger. As emotionally devastating as the possibility of my being knocked up was, it was nothing compared to Taylor’s rejection of me. A couple of days later I finally got my period, and we both heaved a sigh of relief, but the damage was done. There was no way our relationship could return to what it was after what I saw in his eyes. What disturbed me the most wasn’t just Taylor’s total disregard, but the sober realization that the love I believed we shared didn’t truly exist. It was like walking far out onto what appeared to be solid ground, only to realize it was actually quicksand.

Although I knew my relationship with Hexe was completely different from the one with Taylor, part of me was still hesitant. The thought of his beautiful, golden eyes looking back at me with that same horrible, uncaring stare made my heart tighten with dread. I have withstood a lot of things in my life, but seeing that would completely destroy me. So I told myself it was best to put things off until I knew one hundred and ten percent for certain I was one hundred percent pregnant. Isn’t rationalization grand?

As I reentered the bedroom, I was relieved to find Hexe looking far more collected than he had earlier. Scratch remained perched on the footboard, his wings folded against his sides.

“About time!” the familiar sniped as I placed the tray on the bedside table. “How long does it take humans to boil water?”

“I would have been back sooner,” I said, ignoring the jibe, “but I ran into Mr. Manto in the kitchen.”

Hexe sat up a little higher in the bed, a concerned look on his face. “Does he know—?”

“Of course he knows,” I replied. “He’s an oracle. But since he’s in no hurry to end up on Boss Marz’s hit list, we can trust him to keep quiet.”

“It feels so strange, using my left hand,” Hexe said as he reached for the cup I held out to him. “I’m so accustomed to doing everything with my right. . . .” He grimaced as he slopped nearly half its contents onto the floor and bedclothes. “See what I mean?”

“You’ll adjust to it, in time,” I assured him. I turned to Scratch, who was still watching the bedroom door like it was a rat hole. “Would you mind giving us a little privacy, please?”

“If you can say it in front of them,” the familiar said, gesturing with his wings to the owls atop the bedposts, “you can say it in front of me.”

“Scratch: do as she says,” Hexe said firmly. “Go make a perimeter check.”

“As you wish, boss,” he grumbled, hopping off the bed. He padded over to the fireplace and, in a single bound, disappeared up the chimney.

“How’s the pain?” I asked.

“It’s not as bad as it was,” he replied. “But I can’t move my fingers.” He frowned at his splinted right hand, which lay motionless atop the pillow beside him. “I’ve been trying to make them twitch, but they won’t respond.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself so soon. Even with magic, an injury like that takes time to recover from,” I said, leaning in to deliver a reassuring kiss. “Remember the mauling you got in the pits? Even with your mother’s regenerative salve, you were bed-bound for a week. Give yourself some time to recuperate, and take it easy for a little while, okay?”

Hexe’s eyes abruptly darkened. “Where did you get that bruise on your cheek? Did Marz do that to you?”

Surprised, I reached up to touch my face, only to wince as my fingers came in contact with bruised flesh. “I must have gotten that when I passed out over at Doc Mao’s,” I explained.

“You fainted?” Hexe sat up even straighter, a look of concern on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I replied as I shrugged and dropped my gaze to the floor. “It was nothing, just . . .”

“Just what?” He frowned. “Tate, I can tell something is weighing on your mind.” He reached out and took my hand, gently pulling me toward him, so that I was sitting next to him on the bed. “My right hand is broken, but that doesn’t mean you have to treat me like I’m made out of spun glass.” He touched my chin, lifting it so that he could