Magic and Loss

deal of mumbling and resentful looks thrown in the beadle’s direction, none of them were willing to go against the GoBOO’s authority.

Elok pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, a look of open relief on his face. “Praise the Sunken Spires that’s over with,” he grunted. “That could have been far uglier. At least they were only throwing snowballs. Now get the old couple out of here, while you still can.”

“I’m sorry, Tate,” Octavia sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to get mixed up in this.”

“That’s okay. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. I don’t mind helping Torn and Hana move.”

“Move to where?” Hana said tearfully. “We have nowhere to go.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance?” Now that the roadblock had been removed, Canterbury had freed himself from the traffic jam and was now standing at the curb in front of the apartment building. “I have just purchased the stable adjoining my shop. There is an apartment loft on its second floor. Granted, it’s designed for centaurs, but it can be easily retrofitted to accommodate bipeds. It’s yours if you want it.”

“That is most kind of you, friend centaur,” Torn said. “But we do not expect charity. My wife and I insist on paying our way.”

“Of course,” Canterbury replied with a nod of his head. “I’m sure we can reach a satisfactory agreement.”

“You have saved us, just as Arum delivered our people!” Hana exclaimed, lifting her glasses to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“Are we not all Golgothamites here?” Canterbury smiled.

“Okay, let ’er drop!”

There was a sound from high above, like the sail of a tall ship being unfurled, and a huge canvas banner fell from the roof of the center structure of the Machen Arms. It was so big it covered every window on the apartment building from the tenth to the fifth floor.

GOLGOTHAMVUE CONDOS

VINTAGE LUXURY STARTING AT EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND.

A CHECKMATE PROPERTY.

Chapter 18

After carting Hana and Torn’s belongings back to Fetlock Mews, Canterbury, Octavia, and I immediately set to work retrofitting the loft next door.

The second floor apartment was a huge open space with no interior walls save for a stable-box in one corner large enough to accommodate a pair of centaurs, which was fairly easy to convert into a traditional bedroom. However, upon laying eyes on the bathroom—with its tiled surfaces, reticulated shower-hoses, and scrubbing wands—I coaxed Canterbury into bringing in a licensed plumber to tackle the task of making it truly biped-friendly. Some things, I have learned, are best left to the professionals.

Since it was going to be a couple of days before the loft would be truly habitable, Octavia volunteered her room at the boardinghouse to her former neighbors. At first the old couple refused, claiming they didn’t want to impose any more than they already had, but finally relented once she explained she was scheduled for a week’s rotation at the firehouse anyway. Octavia and I helped the elderly couple pack a couple of changes of clothes and a few other essentials into a carpetbag and left Canterbury to deal with the plumber.

“Is this where you live now?” Torn asked in surprise, peering out the window of the brougham at the boardinghouse.

“Yes,” Octavia replied. “I’m renting from Tate’s boyfriend.”

“This boyfriend of yours—he’s Kymeran?” Torn asked warily.

“Yes,” I replied. “Is that a problem?”

He opened his mouth, as if to launch into a tirade, only to be silenced by a glare from his wife. The old man shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Things were different when we were coming up, that’s all,” he muttered, by way of explanation.

As we entered, we were greeted, as usual, by Beanie, who came scampering from the back of the house, eyes agog and tongue flapping.

“That’s an unusual-looking familiar,” Torn said as he studied the Boston terrier. “What kind of demon is it?”

“It’s a pedigreed frog-bat. Can’t you tell?” Scratch sneered as he sauntered into the room. “Now that I’ve answered your question, it’s your turn to answer mine: what are you two doing here?”

Torn gave a dry, humorless laugh. “I see the cat still has a tongue.”

“You two know each other?” I frowned.

“We three know each other,” the familiar purred as he brushed up against Hana’s leg. “Now you I’m glad to see. You’re the one who made those scrumptious mouse-meat pies. . . .”

“You mean mincemeat, don’t you?” Octavia corrected.

“I know what I said.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Scratch,” Hana smiled. As she reached down to stroke the familiar’s chamoislike skin, Scratch rose onto his hind legs and pressed the flat of his head into the palm of her hand, a public show of fondness I’d never seen him bestow on anyone besides Hexe.

I turned and gave Torn a quizzical look. “Do you mind telling me how it is you’re so, uh, familiar with my boyfriend’s familiar?”

“My wife and I served the late Witch King, Lord Eben and his consort, Lady Lyra, for forty years,” Torn explained with a melancholy smile. “I was the butler; she was the cook. My own father had served the previous Witch King in the same capacity, as had his father before him, and his father before him—going back to the drowning of Kymera.

“In fact, I was born in the servants’ quarters on the third floor, back before it became unstable,” he said, gesturing to the stairs that led to the upper stories of the house. “Hana and I began our service as children, and we saw to the Royal Family until the day Lord Eben breathed his last. After that, Lady Syra pensioned us off and we moved into the Machen Arms. Today is the first time we’ve set foot in this house in twenty years.”

“Is Hexe, I mean, His Serenity at home?” Hana asked hopefully.

“He left just before you arrived. I’m afraid he had pressing business elsewhere,” Scratch replied.

“Let me show you and Hana where you’ll be staying,” Octavia said as she reached to take the carpetbag from Torn. “It’s the second bedroom off the stairs. . . .”

“That would be Lady Syra’s old room,” the old butler grunted, refusing to relinquish his grip on his luggage. “I know it well.”

As Octavia made sure her friends were settled in, I retreated to my room to change out of my work clothes. I tried to call Hexe on his cell, to let him know about our new houseguests, but it rolled straight to voice mail. I left a brief message, asking him to call me back ASAP, and then stripped down to my undies.

I turned sideways to inspect my silhouette in the mirror. I was just over three months along, and my lower abdomen was already swelling like a ripening fruit. I rested a hand on my stomach and gave it a little pat. I was still conflicted about advertising my pregnancy to the world at large, given the recent racial tensions in Golgotham, but there was only so much camouflage I could expect from my welder’s jumpsuit. Pretty soon everyone and his familiar was going to know I was carrying the Heir Apparent’s child simply by looking at me.

I found myself suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of dizziness and decided to stretch out on the bed for a couple of minutes. I must have been more tired than I realized, because the next thing I knew I was awakened by the smell of cooking.

My initial thought was that it was morning and that Hexe was once more making breakfast in the kitchen. Then I glanced at the bedside clock and realized it was still evening, albeit an hour or so later than when I first lay down. Feeling slightly disoriented, I put on a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt and headed downstairs.