"At the risk of prompting you to enumerate that list," I said, "may we return to the question of your non-standard death?"
"There's no sense concealing it," said Crow. "Mr. Tolliver is a necromancer."
"I've never met a necromancer," said John.
"Count yourself lucky," said Crow. "They're foul and noxious creatures, the stench of death clinging to them like vines on a fallen statue, nasty little minds wrapped in wretched little bodies, unfit for any company but the senseless dead. Mr. Tolliver's home is across the fence from mine; long has he lived there and long have I suspected his darker nature, for my keen wizard's senses have—"
"Wait," I said. "You're a wizard?"
"I just said I was a wizard," said Crow, "try to keep up. My keen wizard senses have felt unsavory ripples in the fabric of the mortal plane, and it was not hard to trace them to that hateful man and his hateful pe—"
"Excuse me again," I said, "just for clarification. You're a wizard?"
"I'll prove it to you," said Crow, and waved his fingers mysteriously. "Behold the eerie silence that falls over the building."
We sat quietly, listening to the stillness, and heard Spilsbury still talking in the hallway. I leaned over and opened the door, revealing him in the same position as before, still relaying his message from earlier.
". . .which is why I sent the boy away with only half a penny—not a ha'penny, but a full penny that was cut in half, so then I . . ."
I closed the door again. "That's your silence spell?"
Crow nodded. "It grew so silent the poor man was forced to babble just to fill the aural void."
"You've certainly sold me," said John. "How does one become a wizard? Does it take any special training, or do you just kind of be born with it and point a stick at people?"
"Is it safe to assume," I asked, "that your neighbor Mr. Tolliver killed you in your sleep, through magic, with no outward evidence or signs of struggle?"
"It seems you are more experienced with supernatural force than I suspected," said Mr. Crow. "It happened precisely as you describe: the foul Mr. Tolliver cast his dark magic last night, killing me so softly I didn't even know it had happened until I woke up this morning."
"And how did you wake up if you were dead?"
"He turned me into an undead thrall."
"Then why aren't you following him around obeying his whims?" asked John, but then his eyes went wide. "You used your magic!"
"Correct again," said Crow. "I weave a web of protective spells over my bed chamber each night, to protect me from just such an attack. He tried to turn me into an undead thrall, but my sorcery protected me—I'm still undead, but not a thrall."
As much as I wanted the money, I had to ask: "Have you considered that your neighbor did not, in fact, cast a spell on you at all?"
"Then how did he kill me?"
"Have you checked your armpits?" asked John.
Mr. Crow dismissed the notion with a wave. "Obviously he's a necromancer, or I wouldn't be dead, and obviously I'm a wizard or I wouldn't be not-dead."
"Have you considered that maybe you are not-dead?"
"Don't doubt me," said Crow. "Who's the wizard here, anyway?"
"I have decided that we no longer need to know the details of your death," I said. "It's not exactly a standard funeral question anyway. Let's talk about your future, instead: what, precisely, do you expect to gain from a funeral? Your son or your nephew, if you have them, I can see their interest in it—fill out some paperwork, get the corpse out from under foot, maybe inherit an estate or two—but what will you get out it? Are you going to flee? Run off to Rome while Mr. Tolliver thinks you're dead?"
"Run away?" asked Mr. Crow. "Are you mad? The funeral is to lure him here, away from the wards and spells that keep him safe in his lair. Mr. Beard, your mortuary is going to be the site of a magic duel the likes of which the world has never seen before."
"Oh, good," I said. "I was hoping for one of those."
Chapter Two
"This should be easy," said Mary. Her skirts were caked with mud, which would be odd on anyone else, but with Mary it just meant I didn't have to ask her how she spent her night. She set her bag on the work table, its contents squishing slightly, and leaned her shovel against the wall. "Invite a few professional mourners—the desperate ones who won't ask questions—and then let the old men wiggle their fingers at each other for an hour. What's the worst that could happen?"
"How's your book coming?" asked John.
"Still preparing," said Mary, patting the bag. "I know I shouldn't focus too much on the research, but it's just so fun."
"Nothing," I said.
"I follow strict rules," said Mary. "I have to write five pages a day, and if I don't hit my goal I can't go out to the cemetery that night."
"I never follow rules," said John. "They're too restrictive—my spirit must be free to go where its wildest whims might lead."
"But you rhyme," said Mary, "and you follow meter."
"You asked a question," I said. "What's the worst that could happen? Nothing. Nothing could happen, and that would be the worst."
"Rhyme's not a rule," said John, "it's an expression of my soul made manifest in the physical realm. It's a kind of magic, really, like Mr. Crow's."
"Mr. Crow is not magic," I said. "He is a lunatic, possibly a madman, and most definitely delusional. The only magic he practices are the ancient arts of senile dementia. He's a dementiamancer. And Mr. Tolliver is no better, assuming he's even aware of this insanity. Our best case scenario is that he doesn't know a thing about it—he'll come to the funeral, ask a few pointed questions about why the body in
