Magic and Loss

“I don’t want your money if it means turning back into a kid you can push around and tell what to do!” I replied. “I’ve been there and done that, Mom. I didn’t like it the first time, so why should I sign up for it again, and bring my kid along for the ride? And speaking of which, as far as I’m concerned, my baby only has one grandmother . . . and it’s not you.” I knew I drew blood with that last remark because I saw her flinch, and I realized that I would regret saying it later on, but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less that I said something so cruel to someone I loved. I was my mother’s child, after all. I turned to Lady Syra and motioned for her to follow me. “Come on—I need to pack.”

“No need, Miss Timmy,” Clarence announced. He was standing at the head of the stairs that led to the Grand Salon, holding my suitcase in one hand and Beanie’s leash in the other. “I trust I wasn’t being too presumptuous?”

“Honestly, Clarence!” my mother spat. “First you let that witch in the door; now you’re helping Timmy pack her bags! Have you no sense of loyalty?”

“Ah! That reminds me,” the butler said, taking an envelope from his breast pocket as he stepped forward. “Here is my letter of resignation, effective immediately. Normally, I would have given substantially more notice than this, but the circumstances are unique. I will be accompanying Miss Timmy, as she is in greater need of my services than either yourself or the master.”

She opened the envelope, scowling at the contents. “This letter isn’t dated.”

“I wrote it some time ago,” Clarence replied. “I’ve just been waiting for the right opportunity to deliver it.”

“You’re leaving us to go work for her?” she scoffed. “How do you expect to get paid? In magic beans?”

“While I may have served the Eresbies, from boy to man, with my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself, I have also kept my eyes and ears open and have used information I have overheard at table to make certain investments in the stock market,” Clarence replied. “I have managed to accumulate something of a nest egg. Granted, it’s nothing compared to the Eresby fortune, but, to be blunt, I don’t need your stinking money, ma’am. I’ve got plenty of my own; more than enough to retire anywhere in the world. And as it so happens, I’ve chosen to retire in Golgotham—at least until the baby comes.”

“You’re behind this as well, aren’t you?” my mother snarled at Lady Syra, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. “You weren’t happy with taking away my daughter, so now you’ve cast a spell over Clarence and turned him against me as well!”

“You still don’t get it, even after all this time, do you, Millicent?” Lady Syra said sadly. “A true heart is stronger than any magic I can cast.”

And with that, I walked back out of my parents’ penthouse, leaving my mother sputtering to herself, alone and untended, in the echoing expanse of the Grand Salon.

Chapter 24

“This is most certainly a . . . change from the Upper East Side,” Clarence said as he looked up at the looming boardinghouse. He was trying to remain positive, although I could tell he was somewhat intimidated by his surroundings. “Most . . . quaint. In a peculiar way.”

“Don’t worry, Clarence,” I smiled reassuringly. “It’ll grow on you. I promise.”

As I unlocked the front door, Beanie was so excited he slipped his leash and dashed headlong into the house. He was greeted by Scratch, who rubbed himself along the length of the Boston terrier, a look of feline delight on his hairless, wrinkled face.

“You’ve come back!” Scratch exclaimed, his voice barely audible above his purrs. “I was afraid you were gone for good! Thank you-thank you-thank you for bringing back my dog!”

“Oh. My.” Clarence gasped, staring in astonishment at the hairless winged cat rubbing itself against my shins.

Scratch froze in midpurr. “Who’s the nump in the suit?” he growled.

“Clarence is an old friend of mine. Please don’t call him a nump. He’s going to be living here now. Clarence, this is Scratch.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance . . . sir?” Clarence said, with his usual aplomb.

“Great, another num—I mean, human underfoot,” the familiar sniffed, fixing the butler with a bloodred glare. “But if Tate and Beanie say you’re cool, then I guess I’m okay with it.”

“Where’s Hexe?” I asked.

“He’s still locked in his office,” the familiar replied in a worried voice. “He won’t talk to me anymore. I’ve never seen him like this—it scares me.”

* * *

“Hexe—it’s me, Tate,” I called out, tapping on the closed door. “Can you hear me?” The dead bolt abruptly unlocked itself, although I had not heard any movement inside the room. I glanced down at Scratch, who nodded his head, before pushing open the door.

The office looked like it had been ransacked. The floor was covered with books and scattered papers pulled from Hexe’s sizable collection of grimoires, as if someone had been frantically searching for something. The shadows thrown by the Tiffany lamp with the armadillo-shell shade made the taxidermied crocodile hanging from the ceiling seem far less dead than usual. Hexe was slumped across his desk, surrounded by empty bottles of absinthe, Cynar, and barley wine, with a hookah sitting by his silver-clad right hand.

As I stepped into the office, I was struck by the peculiar odor that permeated the room. At first I was at a loss to identify it; then, with a start, I realized it was Hexe. He normally had a warm, pleasantly chypre-like smell that reminded me of citrus and oakmoss with just a hint of leather, but now he seemed to be exuding something closer to bitter lime with a touch of mildew. I knew then I had made the right decision coming back.

He stirred as I drew closer, raising his head to squint at me. “Tate—? Is that really you?” he asked in a ragged voice. Although his hair was uncombed and he was wearing a couple of days’ worth of beard, there was no sign of the sneering, cold-eyed stranger in his weary face.

“Yes, it’s really me.” I smiled gently as I knelt beside him. “I’ve come back to help you, baby.”

“I never meant to say and do those things to you,” he said in an earnest whisper. “It makes me sick to my stomach to even think about it. I never wanted to harm you, Tate—you’ve got to believe me.”

“I know,” I said as I caressed his stubbled chin. “The gauntlet is doing something to you, poisoning you, somehow. Your mother says she knows a psychic surgeon who can help you.”

Hexe drew back and a flicker of fear crossed his face. “But—but—I need the gauntlet.”

“Do you need it more than you need me? More than you need our baby?”

“But that means I’ll no longer be able to work Right Hand magic.”

“You can’t work Right Hand magic now, anyway. So why fight getting rid of the damned thing?”

Hexe dropped his gaze to his gauntleted hand, which he had yet to move or try to touch me with. “I was going to cast a Come Hither to summon you back and hold you to me. I even looked up the spell. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Does that make me weak?”

“No,” I said as I put my arms around him. “You’re the strongest man I know.”

* * *

It took a pot of coffee and a couple of Vegemite sandwiches, but I eventually coaxed Hexe out of his office and into the kitchen. As he sobered up he became more and more like his old self, even though he still smelled a bit “off.” Throughout it all, Scratch sat on his favorite perch atop the refrigerator and watched his master intently, as if afraid Hexe might disappear if he looked away.

“What did you say to my mother about the gauntlet?”

“Just that it’s cursed and turning your Right Hand magic widdershins. I didn’t tell her about Boss Marz smashing your hand with a witch-hammer. She’s scheduled a meeting with the psychic surgeon for tomorrow.”

Hexe froze in midchew. “That soon?”