No offense, Your Majesty.”
“If that’s the worst you can say about my brother, you’re doing far better than I can right now,” Syra said dryly.
Once visiting hours were over, Hexe and I returned Torn and Hana to their apartment in Fetlock Mews. As we bid them good night, Canterbury popped his head out of his shop next door. “Good—I was hoping I would catch you two,” he said, motioning for us to come inside. “I take it your father is making a full recovery?”
“It’s going to take more than a knife to the chest to slow him down,” Hexe said with an admiring laugh.
“Glad to hear it. And how is our young friend, here?” the centaur asked, nodding to the baby dozing in the sling dangling from my shoulder.
“He seems no worse for the wear, now that he’s been properly fed and changed,” I replied.
“I’m even gladder to hear that,” Canterbury said. “Well, the reason I wanted to catch you is that I have something I wish to give you. Call it a baby shower present, if you wish.” The centaur clopped over to his workbench and picked up a long cardboard tube, the type used to store blueprints. “Here,” he said, handing it to me, “I want you to have this. It contains schematics and blueprints for various clockwork limbs, including a right hand.”
“Where did you get these?” I frowned. “They’re not Esau’s work, are they?”
“Those aren’t his designs,” Canterbury replied with a shake of his mane. “They were created by his mentor, Dr. Tork.”
“The former Royal Surgeon?” Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “How did you come by them?”
“Because Dr. Tork was my father,” the centaur replied matter-of-factly.
“Canterbury, I can’t accept these—!” I said, handing him back the tube. “These are heirlooms.”
“No, I insist,” he said firmly. “I am a mule, which means I must choose my own heirs, not make them. And I have chosen you, Tate, to inherit my father’s work. Besides, with your talent, Hexe’s knowledge as a healer, and my metal magic, I believe we could produce prostheses for both the human and Kymeran market that would make Esau’s designs look like windup toys.”
From where we sat inside the limo, it looked like just another middle-class suburban Long Island home. One of the next-door neighbors was mowing his lawn with a rider mower, occasionally butting up against the hedge that separated the properties.
I glanced over at Hexe, who was seated next to me in the backseat. The limo, along with the driver, belonged to my parents, who had lent both to us in exchange for an afternoon of spoiling the baby. “Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Just a little bit,” he admitted as he pulled the purple kid glove over his gleaming metal right hand. “No point in putting this off any longer—it’s showtime!”
The neighbor on the rider mower did a double take as we exited the limo, and plowed right into the hedge. Judging from his reaction, Kymerans on house calls were not a day-to-day event.
Hexe rang the doorbell, which was answered by a middle-aged man in dad pants. He raised his eyebrows upon seeing Hexe’s purple hair and golden eyes, but did not close the door.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lattimer,” Hexe asked politely. “Is Ashley home?”
“Come inside,” Ashley’s dad sighed, stepping aside so we could enter. “Sweetie!” he called out. “Someone’s here to see you!”
As we stepped into the living room, I spotted a framed photo sitting on the mantelpiece that showed an attractive fifty-year-old woman, wearing a Homecoming Queen’s tiara and corsage, standing next to a gawky seventeen-year-old boy in a rented tux. Both were smiling at the camera.
There was the sound of hurrying feet, and a second later the same fifty-year-old woman, dressed in Aeropostale jeans and a top from Forever 21, came running down the stairs from the second floor. “Who is it, Dad—is it Justin?” She froze upon seeing her visitors, then grinned ear to ear, revealing her braces. “Mr. and Mrs. Hexe!”
“Hello, Ashley,” Hexe smiled as he took the brass clock from his coat pocket. “Are you ready to turn back time?”
“It looks like FAO Schwarz exploded in here,” I said, staring in amazement at the nursery that had once been my bedroom. “Was he any trouble?”
“Oh, no. He was a perfect little angel. Weren’t you, sweetheart?” my mother cooed. “By the way—what are you going to name him? You know, your father and I were hoping you would continue the Eresby family tradition. . . .”
“You want us to name him Timothy?” I frowned.
“Well, you’ve got to name him
“Well, Hexe and I have been kicking around a few ideas,” I admitted. “But his family has their own traditions, and they go back a
Hexe and my father were talking over scotch and sodas in the Grand Salon. As I entered, I saw that Hexe was allowing him to examine his new right hand.
“There you are, Princess!” My father smiled. “Hexe was just showing off the prosthesis you crafted for him. I must say, I am extremely impressed! I have never seen anything like this before in my life! It’s not just functional, but elegant as well. It’s a true work of art.”
“I guess my art degree wasn’t such a waste of time, after all.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say
“Mom, Dad,” I said, clearing my throat. “I appreciate you reinstating my trust fund. I know that things have not been that great between us in the past—but I want to change that. You are right—I
My father opened the envelope and studied its contents for a long moment, and then looked at me for another long moment, as if truly seeing me as an adult for the first time. “This is quite an ambitious undertaking. Are you sure you’re ready to tackle something like this?”
“I’ve never been readier in my life,” I assured him.
“Very well; I’m prepared to back you on this,” he said, “but it’s going to cost you.”
“Just name it,” I replied.
“Exactly.” My father smiled.
“Okay, fellas!” I said into my smartphone. “Let ’er rip!”
“You’re the landlady!” Octavia replied.
A couple of seconds later, the huge banner advertising Golgotham Vue was cut free from its moorings at the top of the apartment building and fluttered to the ground like a surrendered flag, allowing sunlight to strike the face of the building unimpeded for the first time in months.
As one of my ancestors was fond of saying, it takes money to fight money. And few people have as much money as the Eresbies. Not even Ronnie Chess, who, upon reading the latest poll numbers for Mayor Lash’s reelection, decided to divest himself of his Golgotham properties. Oh, he made a tidy little profit on the deal, of course—his type always do—but nowhere near the killing he had hoped for.
The first order of business was changing the name of the building back to Machen Arms. The second was inviting back all the evicted residents, and reinstating their old leases. Octavia had already moved back in, but, as it turned out, Torn and Hana preferred living in Fetlock Mews, as it gave them the opportunity to serve as day care for their great-grandson while I was at work. Like Chess, I’m also interested in renting to humans looking to live in Golgotham—just not investment bankers, financial officers, and corporate lawyers. If the first wave of writers, visual artists, dancers, and musicians work out, then I’ll convert another property I have an eye on into genuine
