As Oscar and I were finishing up our third batch of cookies, I asked: “Oscar, you know how my guiding spirit shows up when I brew?”
“It’s awesome when she does that!”
“What do you . . . I mean, what would it mean if . . . I mean . . .”
“Mistress?”
“What if she didn’t show up?”
He blinked.
“What if she started not showing up?” I rephrased as I used the spatula to transfer a dozen cookies, hot out of the oven, onto the rack to cool. Oscar’s huge eyes followed the progress of each and every cookie.
“I never heard of that,” he said.
“Surely I can’t be the first—”
“Oh, I dunno. Seems to me you’re the first at a lot of things.”
“You’re saying it couldn’t happen?” I gestured with the spatula. “Once a guiding spirit, always a guiding spirit?”
“Pretty much. Maybe she’s just being shy. Or maybe you just didn’t notice her, somehow.”
“Maybe. Hard to imagine, though,” I said as I deposited the empty cookie sheet into the sink. I sensed movement behind my back. “I’m serious, Oscar—you’ve already eaten at least a dozen cookies’ worth of batter. Those are for the fund-raiser tomorrow, and it’s a good cause. So no more cookies, understand?”
“Yes, mistress.” He grumbled something about me having eyes in the back of my head.
“Oscar, I’m not your mistress anymore. You know that, right?”
He nodded. “And I’m not supposed to call Master Aidan ‘master’ anymore. I remember.”
“Right, because he’s not your master. But . . . do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Working for Aidan.”
“How do you mean?”
“I just wondered if you would ever consider going back to work for Aidan.”
His bottle glass green eyes grew even bigger than normal, and started to glitter with the beginning of tears. “I won’t eat any more cookies! I promise! Don’t send me away, mistress!”
“No, Oscar, that’s not what—”
He hopped up onto the sink and started scrubbing the cookie sheets. “Let’s get this kitchen spic-and-span, shall we?”
“Oscar, honestly, I appreciate the help, but—”
“Yup, you and me, mistress. We’re gonna make cookies, and clean up right after, and—”
“It’s not about that. Oscar, would you please calm down and listen to me?”
“It’s that mandragora, isn’t it? I never liked him. He’s the sneaky sort, going behind a guy’s back—”
“No, I promise you. Finnall belongs to Calypso. This isn’t about replacing you, Oscar. I’ve told you before: You’re family. It’s you and me, for better or worse.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I couldn’t help but notice that, once reassured, Oscar abandoned the dishes in the sink and went back to staring at the cookies cooling on the rack.
“Feeling better now?” I asked.
“Much, mistress. Why were you asking about Aidan?”
“Aidan told me he wouldn’t help me get Sailor out of jail unless either you or Sailor went back to work for him.”
“Oh.”
“It wouldn’t be like before, though. You would be a regular employee. He would pay . . .” I trailed off. What was money to someone like Oscar? “Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t need Aidan. I can pull this off myself.”
“Without Aidan, and without your guiding spirit?”
“It looks like it.”
“If . . . if it means saving Sailor, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, Oscar. Now that I think about it, I realize I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You said I could be the ring bearer at the wedding. How’m I gonna do that if there is no wedding?”
“I tell you what, Oscar. I appreciate the offer so much, you have no idea. But let’s get through the Magical Match Tea tomorrow. Also, Graciela’s coven is set to arrive tomorrow as well. Maybe things will shake out differently, and we won’t need Aidan’s help at all.”
“Maybe. You still think it’s Wind Spirit?”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, see if I can get her to admit what’s going on. But for right now, I have to brew, guiding spirit or no. Will you help?”
“Of course, mistress. It was real classy how you said to Conrad, ‘It will be an honor, and a pleasure.’”
“Thank you, Oscar.”
“It will be my honor, and my pleasure.”
Chapter 27
After the brewing—which went well enough, though the Ashen Witch once again failed to appear—Oscar curled up in his cubby over the refrigerator, and I took a long shower, then dressed in a fresh white cotton nightgown I had bought from a lovely elderly woman in North Beach. Its vibrations were sweet and calm. I could use all the help I could get at this point.
I wanted to look through the shoe box alone. I sat cross-legged on my bed, centered myself, set out my stones, chanted for a minute, then slipped off the top of the box.
Despite Selena’s perusal, everything looked just as it had. Ignoring the squirming silverfish, I gazed again at the photo of my mother and father on their wedding day. Instead of putting it back, I propped it up against the frame holding Sailor’s photograph on my bedside table. No matter how fraught our personal history, these were my parents. And, according to the expressions on their faces, they had once loved each other. Perhaps they had once loved me, too.
Next, I unwrapped the lachrymatory and held the small bottle up to the light. I gazed at the tiny crystals within, tumbling as I turned the glass bottle. Were these the vestiges of my tears? Had I cried? I remembered Tristan saying—via Hervé—“The tears of the daughter . . .”
If these truly were mine, they were too precious to keep in a shoe box. I secured the stopper with some soft wax, then cleaned and anointed the bottle with olive oil, and added it to my leather medicine bag.
Next, I took the stones and crystals from the shoe box and added them to my basket of stones. Several hummed with teenage angst and energy, a few with great sadness. But as I knew only too well, negative forces could also be useful in spells. It was all about balance.
Finally, I picked up the watch. The glass face was scratched, the brown leather band worn. Had my father given this to me?
