Hector studied the rock. “I don’t think so.” But he didn’t explain his reasoning.
Maybe it talked to him. He was a master of cursed objects, after all.
Hector’s turn of phrase, “hidden messages,” reminded me . . . “Remember when you told us about that saying, the one about hiding secrets?”
“Yes, but I don’t really see how that fits,” Sylvie replied.
“Did she have any other odd sayings? Bits of advice, anecdotes, funny sayings . . . anything like that?” My gut said I was onto something, but my gut wasn’t very precise and hardly scientific.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe? My brain’s about to explode. If this wasn’t time sensitive, I’d set it aside and come back to it with fresh eyes. Who knew that thinking could be so tiring? I feel like I’ve been on my feet working all day.” She rubbed her neck for a few seconds, and then a mingled look of excitement and chagrin crossed her face.
She had it.
“You know?” I asked. She looked hesitant. “You know. Trust yourself.”
She sighed. “I might have an idea. Hector, do you have a heavy cloth? Something like denim or canvas?”
After seeing Hector’s library-museum-sanctuary-office, I was sure he did. Probably a magical version that never ripped, or one that didn’t stain.
Hector retrieved a small, perfectly ordinary flannel cloth from a kitchen drawer. “Something like this?”
Sylvie accepted the cloth with a tentative smile. “I hope so.”
And then she sat at the kitchen table and scrubbed on a perfectly clean rock like it was covered in grime—or, from the grim expression on her face, something much worse.
Three or four minutes passed. Her arm had to be sore.
“Can I help?” Watching her toil while I twiddled my thumbs made me uncomfortable.
“No, I don’t think so.” She switched the cloth to her other hand. “If I’m right, I have to do this myself.”
She worked at that rock until my arms ached just watching her, periodically switching the cloth from her right hand to her left, then left to right.
And then, suddenly, she stopped. The cloth fell from her nerveless fingers.
The rock didn’t glow. It didn’t levitate or change colors. In fact, it looked exactly the same. But something changed. I just knew.
Sylvie’s eyes grew wide, and her gaze shifted to the corner of the room. She looked so terribly sad. My eyes burned with sympathy, though hers were dry. She didn’t cry, but she looked stricken.
Several seconds passed, then she collected herself and turned her attention back to Hector and I.
“It’s done,” Hector said.
“It is.” She was more subdued than I expected. With a sad smile and a quick look to the corner of the room, she said, “The magic word isn’t ‘please’; it’s ‘elbow grease.’ My grandmother used to say that when I was a little girl. I teased her that it was two words, but she would smile and say that I should work hard for the things I want, and not just ask nicely. That’s how she was.” A tear slipped down Sylvie’s face.
She brushed it away quickly, and then took a drink from her can of fizzy water.
Hector busied himself in the kitchen, but I didn’t want to leave her, not like she was, as if someone had turned the volume down or washed out the colors that were Sylvie. “Ah, do you feel any different?”
“Not really.” Her gaze darted to the corner of the room. “But I’m pretty sure I can see ghosts. That, or I’ve overdosed on over-the-counter pain meds and am hallucinating.”
“Not on two aspirin.” I looked at the corner. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head then looked at the rock and frowned. “It’s all so anticlimactic. I don’t feel any different, nothing seems to be happening . . . except—” She gestured to the corner, the space where she’d seen her first ghost. “The rock looks exactly the same. Feels exactly the same.”
Hector returned with a shot of some dark liquid. He saw me eyeing the fat shot glass. “Espresso.”
Sylvie reached out to take the glass but then her hand hovered in the air. “Oh, it’s so . . . beautiful.” This time when she reached out her hand, it wasn’t for the espresso.
Hector dodged her, placed the shot glass in front of her, and retreated. “Ah, no. You can’t pet someone’s aura.”
Sylvie blushed a fiery red. “I am so sorry. I have no idea what I was thinking.”
Tamara walked into the kitchen with a grocery bag that looked to be full of actual groceries. “No need for embarrassment. You were thinking what everyone thinks when they catch their first glimpse of Hector’s daytime aura: that it’s one of the most gorgeous things you’ve ever seen. Angelic, even.” Tamara shared a glance with Hector that made him look decidedly uncomfortable.
Lilac arrived on Tamara’s heels and craned her neck to see what was in the bag. “Wait—whose beautiful aura?”
“Hector’s,” Sylvie replied.
Lilac’s head shot up, groceries forgotten. She scrutinized Hector—who I’d swear was blushing, except his skin was dark enough to hide it—and finally said, “No, I can’t see it. I’ve never been able to see auras.” She grinned at Hector. “But I’m not surprised yours is gorgeous.”
Hector might be comfortable with his physical self, but his metaphysical self was something else entirely. And that made me wonder if this was in part the cause of his daytime grumpiness. Tamara had clearly said “daytime aura.”
But I took pity on him and redirected the conversation. We were guests in the man’s home, after all. “Sylvie cracked the rock—metaphorically, anyway.”
“Hm. Yes, I see that.” Tamara set about unloading the groceries she’d retrieved, seemingly quite at ease in Hector’s kitchen. “It appears, Sylvie, that your grandmother was holding out on you. She wasn’t a medium. With her power, you have all the markings of a necromantic mage. Now, who would like a sandwich?”
28
Small problem with being a necromantic mage—or anything else
