“But Claire…” Dean whispered back, trying to see around Jacques’ translucent body.
“This you cannot rescue Claire from. And as much as I would like my cushion to remain, pick it up. We are leaving.”
“I was worried sick and you were reading?” Austin repeated.
Something in the cat’s tone suddenly got through. Eyes wide, Dean stared at Jacques who nodded frantically toward the cushion.
“It wasn’t like that, Austin.”
“It wasn’t like what? It wasn’t like you never even considered my feelings? Is that what it wasn’t like?”
Careful not to break into the line of sight between cat and Keeper, Dean scooped up Jacques’ anchor and the two of them raced into the sitting room.
“So what was it Claire save you from?” Jacques asked as they slowed.
Dean shrugged, the material stretched by Claire’s hands riding on his shoulders like tiny wings. “A dinosaur.”
“A what?”
“A very big carnivorous lizard.”
“Ha! If I can go through the wardrobe, she would not have to rescue me from a big lizard. She would not have to rescue a real man.”
“Real men admit it when they need help.”
“Since when?”
“I think it started around the mid-eighties.”
“Ah. Well, it did not start with me. I would have did what I went into the wardrobe to do.”
“You would have done what you went into the wardrobe to do.”
“That,” said Jacques, staring down his nose at the living man, “is what I said.”
“Okay.” Dean half-turned toward the bedroom, gesturing with the hand holding the cushion. “If you’re so brave, go back in there.”
Austin’s voice drifted out through the open bedroom door. “…consider more important than…”
Jacques looked thoughtful. “How big did you say was that lizard?”
Later, after tempers had cooled and apologies had been offered and accepted, Austin rested his head on Claire’s shoulder and murmured thoughtfully, “Maybe it had nothing to do with either of us. Maybe it only had to do with Dean.”
Claire stopped halfway across the sitting room and shifted her hold on the cat so she could see his face. “What are you saying?”
“Maybe he needed to go into the wardrobe; to begin tempering.”
“Tempering?” Her eyes widened as the implication hit her. “Oh, no. Forget it. We don’t need another Hero. They’re nothing but trouble.”
“Granted, but he fits the parameters. No parents, raised by a stern but ethical authority figure, big, strong, naturally athletic, not real bright, modest, good looking…”
“Myopic.”
“What?”
“He’s nearsighted,” Claire said, feeling almost light-headed with relief. “Who ever heard of a hero in glasses?”
Austin thought about it for a moment “Clark Kent?”
“Fake prescription.”
“Woody Allen?”
“Get serious.”
“Still…”
“No.” She stepped out into the lobby, closing the door to her suite behind her. Patting the gleaming oak counter with her free hand, she headed for the kitchen. Since the unsuccessful search for the Historian had taken most of her energy, she had no memory of Dean actually finishing the work, but it sure looked good. Granted it would look better if they refinished the lobby floor, painted and recarpeted the stairs…
“No. I’m a Keeper, not an interior decorator, I have a job. If I can’t find the Historian,” she muttered, stepping into the kitchen, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Austin jumped out of her arms, landing by the sink and whirling around to face her. “I beg your pardon.”
“Sorry.”
He washed a shoulder. “I should hope so.”
Hardly daring to breathe, Claire pulled the plastic container holding the site journal out of the fridge. Faint fumes could be detected seeping through the seal.
“Do you have to do that now?” Austin demanded. “It’s twenty-five to ten. I thought we could have breakfast first.”
“I have no intention of opening this when I have food in my stomach.”
“That’s probably wise, but factoring in wardrobe time, you haven’t eaten for nearly twenty-four hours and, more importantly, I haven’t eaten for two. After you deal with that you’re not going to want to eat for a while.” He sneezed. “If ever. It’s worse than the last time!”
“But the lid’s still on.”
“My point exactly.” His first leap took him nearly to the dining room. Ears back, he headed for the hall. “If you want me, I’ll be doing canine therapy next door. Out of my way, junior.”
“Junior?” Dean repeated, flattening against the wall to avoid being run over by the cat. Still shaking his head, he turned the corner into the dining room and coughed. “What in…”
“If you want to do something useful,” Claire told him a little breathlessly, setting the lid to one side, “you can find me a lifting thingie.”
“A what?” he asked, noting with dismay that she was reaching for another fork.
“Something to lift the journal out of the liquid with.”
Reminding himself that it was her hotel and she could therefore destroy as much of the cutlery as she wanted, Dean took his least favorite spatula from the spatula section of the second drawer and handed it over. “Did you and Austin work out, well, you know…”
“Yes. We did. Just so you don’t worry in the future, we always do.”
“You guys, you have a interesting relationship.”
“Of course we do.” She wiped one watering eye on the back of her hand. “He’s a cat.” Carefully, she slid the spatula under the journal.
Once again, the onions had turned indigo but, this time, there was still about an inch of brine sloshing around in the bottom of the container.
“Boss, I, uh, just wanted to say…”
“Not now, Dean.”
“Okay.” Left hand cupped over his mouth and nose, he walked over to the dining room side of the service counter. “How can you stand over it like that?”
“I do what I have to.”
“And what do you have to do, cherie?” Jacques asked, appearing by her side.
“Watch.” Holding the journal just up out of the brine so that none of the solution splashed out of the container as it drained, Claire carefully used the fork and flicked it open to the first of Augustus Smythe’s entries. Although the paper remained
