I coveted the position from the first moment I heard it whispered over the gossip-loving Magical grapevine. I poured every drop of my heart’s desire into answering the application’s essays, gathered stellar recommendations going back to the midwives who attended my birth, and fainted upon receiving my letter of acceptance.
Here I was, moments away from meeting the person who would be my guide into the nuances of working across a diverse array of cultures. I was simultaneously thrilled—and filled with trepidation—and my body was betraying me.
I was sweating.
I eyed the hooded cape of silvery cotton plissé hanging from the freestanding coat rack in the foyer. Wearing custom-made capes and cloaks had become more than a signature look. The garment was my calling card, my billboard, and my refuge. My hand wavered with indecision. I wanted Maritza to see me, and I wanted her to accept me for who I was and allow me to walk alongside her, a mere shadow to her brilliant—
Enough.
I decided against the cape, clasped the door handle, and pressed down. I was not on my way to a death or a disaster or one of my family’s numerous formal events. I was a well-mannered guest in a gracious home on an island off the coast of British Columbia, on my way to dine with Maritza Brodeur.
Felicia, personal assistant and house manager to my hosts, waited at the end of the short, wide hall. I greeted her and was pointed in the direction of the family’s wing where we would be dining. “Enjoy your evening,” she said. “The parents are here as well.”
“Maritza’s parents?” I asked. The need for accurate information welled in my chest. A misstep this evening was not acceptable. I wiggled my toes to make certain I had remembered to put on my shoes.
I had. And they matched.
“Yes. They visit twice a year. Your stay overlaps with theirs.”
I adjusted my cuffs. I had selected a pair of off-white linen slacks and a lightweight cotton button-down—lightly starched—for the night’s attire. Even against the white cloth and the stainless steel of my watch, the pale skin of my inner wrist was marred by an underlying shade of green. That’s what a ten-year apprenticeship based in mortuaries, funeral homes, and graveyards did to one’s complexion.
At age twenty-two, after completing the undergraduate years of my higher education, I had applied for, won, and accepted an apprenticeship with Toronto’s most revered undertakers.
At age twenty-two, I was too cocky to consider the ramifications of what it would mean to go a decade without regular exposure to sunlight.
Upon completion of that first apprenticeship, I was expected to engage in another, and another, until I had completed a minimum of three in-depth, hands-on trainings in the full spectrum of Necromantic Studies: processing the dead, raising the dead, and reanimating the dead. And the dead meant everything from neglected house plants, to beloved pets, to Great Uncle Eugene.
But in this glorious moment, I didn’t have to think about any of that. “Then I shall look forward to meeting them,” I said, giving Felicia a curt nod. “Now, where am I expected?”
“When the parents are in residence, dinner is taken in the formal dining area. Follow that corridor to the next set of double doors. They will open to your thumbprint.” Felicia smiled. “If there is anything else you need, do not hesitate to let me know.”
The curt and competent house manager turned on her heel and headed down another hall.
I was on my own.
An almost inaudible snick sounded when I activated the keypad. The door on the right opened toward me, necessitating a slight shuffle. I used the wait to survey the room coming into view.
Stunning.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on three walls overlooked a wide channel and the silhouettes of distant islands. The sky was sharp blue and bright, a consequence of geographic location, which also meant the late-July sun wouldn’t set until nine or ten. To my left rose a massive stone chimney, its hearth ringed by leather club chairs. Next to them, a sectional couch upholstered in ruby red velvet begged to be stroked. Shelves with books and sculptures lined the inner walls.
The dining table was set on a raised dais. I counted eight places, with plenty of elbow room. The click of a lighter announced the man in gray slacks, white shirt, and a gray vest leaning across the table was on candle duty. He looked up when I entered.
“Mr. Nekrosine, welcome. May I get you something to drink? An aperitif, perhaps?” He lifted a small round tray off the table, tucked it under his arm, and strode toward me. “We have all of the usual and a curated assortment of the unusual and the rare.”
I took that to suggest the Brodeurs entertained Magicals—and humans, perhaps—with tastes beyond wines and spirits. “I would start with sparkling water or something non-alcoholic,” I said.
He nodded. “Señora Bordador has prepared two aguas frescas, one with watermelon and mint and the other with strawberries. All of the fruit and herbs used in our kitchen were grown in the Brodeur gardens.”
“Watermelon and mint, please. Light on the ice.”
The server exited through a set of swinging interior doors, allowing me a glimpse into the kitchen. I held back from gawking at the miles of stainless steel and steered myself to the bookshelves. The sitting area of my quarters held a wide array of popular and classic fiction, as well as guides to the flora and fauna of coastal British Columbia. Here, in the heart of the house, pottery, intricately woven baskets, and sculptures of mythological figures shared space with oversized volumes cataloging Mexican arts, crafts, and history. On other shelves were books and folios related to the magical arts.
A soft shushing sound followed by ice cubes crackling announced the server had arrived with my drink. He offered to set it on a side table. I indicated I would take the glass in hand. I was thirsty and it would not do for words to stick in my throat
