The Kettle was as it always had been: rustic, cozy, and comfortably warm. The walls were stone, the floor wood, and the thick rafters were let to show. I found Leazar in a red armchair next to an oval coffee table. I ordered a drink, asking the plump, short woman behind the counter to just make something with a good caffeinated zing in it, and went to sit in the fluffy white couch against the wall beside Leazar.
“Hey,” I greeted.
He took in my appearance over reading glasses and a steaming cup of black tea with cream. I liked him in glasses—he never used to wear them, but they fit well over his plain nose and cheeks. For once he didn't have a shadow on his chin and jawline, looking like he had been regularly shaving. His hair was a darker version of mine, more brown like Father's. His hair was swept back, chin-length, cut in a fashion I only ever saw when he was mediating between the fairies and the pixies. It looked odd and choppy swept back, but I preferred odd to the porcupine-like spikes I had seen him wear before.
“You look bad.”
With him there was always an implied question in each statement.
“Ugh,” I said, pausing when the barista—Trish—walked my drink out to me instead of calling it. I really must look bad. “Don't get me started.”
“Cymbalene will be out in a few minutes,” Trish said. She gave my brother a pitying look, “Two frazzled ladies by midday. You came to the right place, dearie. Lunch will be out soon.”
She left, and I gave him a quizzical look.
“Later,” he said dismissively, “tell me what's been happening lately.”
I started with my prior clients and the result, then explained the events of today. He listened with an intent ear, making no comments until the end. I was surprised how quickly I'd glossed over everything. It helped that I bypassed the dream about Death.
“Where do you want me to start?” he asked.
“The hit.”
“Hits happen when scandals are uncovered. When the insulted party realized you would be missed, the hit was revoked. I've seen it happen. Barnes suspects that, I'm certain.” he said. I raised my eyebrows, not sure that he did. My brother continued, “He's high status. He can't say anything without knowing it for certain.”
I accepted that. “What of this Mordon? Why did he know me?”
“Did he, or did he seem to?”
“He knew,” I insisted.
This was a little harder for my brother to explain. He leaned back and sighed.
“There are dreams. There are stalking spells.” He started listing off on his fingers, but broke off when a petite woman with freckles came to sit across from him. She had carrot-colored ringlets and shimmering skin, but more than that I noted her sunken eyes and sagging shoulders.
“Leazar,” I scolded him for her state.
“It was a rough night for us, too,” he said.
She—Cymbalene, I presumed—looked up to give him a look, then took his tea and cupped it in her palms, inhaling the scent before sipping it.
I remembered my drink now, looking at it. Steamed milk and lots of espresso, the top shaped into a fiddle head fern. I sipped mine, too, being careful to not disturb the foam artwork. Trish had not given me this shape before—leaves and hearts were more her style. I wondered what caused the change.
“I'm Feralyne,” I told the woman next to me, “Leazar's sister.”
“I'm Cymbalene,” she said, a smile bringing color to her cheeks, “his wife.”
“Wife?” I repeated, eyes raised in more than surprise.
“Very whirlwind,” he said with a smile, “it's our three-month anniversary.”
Cymbalene shushed him. “I overheard part of the conversation. I think we should finish that up before we enter a new one.”
Leazar agreed and waited for his wife to speak again.
“You say you don't know how he knew you, but he did.”
I nodded.
“Dreams give people a sense of uncertainty, but I gather he didn't have that?” she said, now looking flushed from the tea. It occurred to me this was most likely her natural color.
“No.”
“Time travel.”
I frowned, “Time travel?
She set the cup down with a little clatter and motioned to Trish, then talked to me again, “It's a naturally occuring magic with creatures. Not so much with humans, but there are any number of species who can do it.”
“You'd think if he had that he would know how to not make it so obvious that he knew me.” I said, skeptical.
“Maybe he doesn't go back and forth in time much,” Leazar jumped on the metaphorical boat, “I've done it a few times when one of my friends needs me or wants company. Could have met you then, in your future. To him it would be in the past.”
I shooed away the thought, “With my luck, it's one of the creeper stalking spells and he's been watching my every move for the last three years.”
Never mind he would be too busy guarding the constable for all that, but maybe he took a few vacations to watch me. Creep.
As I was clearly closed off to the idea, the conversation shifted to how they met, their wedding, where they went on their honeymoon—apparently a three-month long honeymoon they were just ending—and how they thought I should be the first to officially know. Meanwhile, Trish had sent us out three plates, one filled with sandwhiches, another with scones, and the last with cupcakes. Normally, these things didn't bother me but I found just looking at the mayonnaise on my ham sandwhich so disgusting I had to scrape it off. One bite and my mouth was filled with pulpy bread that stuck to my mouth and refused to slide down my throat. I grew irritated with it quickly, tossing the bread onto my plate and eating the meat with a fork. I nodded and laughed with the tales they spoke of, but the mayonnaise and the bread undercut my enjoyment.
I could also see something else bubbling beneath Cymbalene's demeanor as they neared the end of their story. By now I had choked down a scone just to make up for not eating the bread, drowning the scone in most of the butter intended for our table. I found it only slightly more palatable than the bread, even though I acknowledged this cafe had the best scones I had ever eaten.
Leazar passed out the cupcakes. While the newlyweds shared a memory, I took my first bite of the cupcake and stopped with the thing in my mouth, sickening sweetness racing over my taste buds and churning my stomach. I shuffled the cake to my cheek and pretended I needed to go to the bathroom, catching the eye of Trish by accident.
Once inside the swinging doors, I ran to the sink and spit it out, turning on the water so I wouldn't have to look at it or think about cupcakes for the time being. I dropped my head against the wall and tried to settle my stomach.
Soon, the door swung open and the barista stepped through.
“You shouldn't eat what isn't good for you,” she said, but not in a scolding way.
“Cupcakes aren't good for anyone,” I grumbled back.
“I wasn't talking just about cupcakes.” she said, “I've been watching you, and I think you should avoid all bread for some time.”
“And who are you to judge,” I snapped, “What gives you the right to snoop?”
She wagged her finger at me.
“I have a lot of practice watching out for my customers, and with this thing coming,” she pointed to a bulging stomach, “I've been a lot more careful about eating.”
“I'm grouchy,” I said by way of apology. She'd been here since I could remember and had been a person who I could talk to about my day. Not quite a friend, not quite a stranger.
“No, you're looking for a fight. Hold off on it until they've given you the news. I'll serve you up something that's good for you. Get a hold of yourself,” ordered Trish.
I nodded. She left.
I cleaned up the sink and splashed water on my face, suddenly drawn to what I looked like.
My eyes normally shifted color a little, becoming more green when I was exited, more blue when I was happy, and more gray when I was stressed. They were cold gray. Purple-green lines hung under them, and my skin was pale and taut. I wondered where my vibrancy had gone.
Cold water helped to wake my senses and make me forget the little annoyances I'd had today, still not understanding why they pestered me so much. I decided a hot bath would do wonders for me once I got back to my room.
Feeling ready to listen to the big news, I resumed my seat. Their laughter and smiles put me at ease, but a part of me stung to see what my brother suddenly had. I covered over my discomfort with a smile. True to her word, Trish had removed my cupcake and served me up a helping of low-sugar chocolate pudding with a dollop of whipped cream. I had never been a pudding fan, so my first two bites had been to be polite. Before I knew it, my brother was teasing me about licking the bowl.
“So, Fera,” Leazar said with a beaming smile at his wife, “we were talking about starting a family, but we need a god parent in mind before we start.”
Cymbalene squealed and bobbed her head, exclaiming, “We talked about it for hours, but we just kept coming back to you—I know we hadn't even met yet, but it just fits!”
Very confused, I looked to Leazar.
He smiled at me, “I know we're laying a lot on you, but we would like for you to be the god mother.”
I found myself grinning and nodding before my muddled brain could catch up, my mind filled with the image of a fat baby swaddled in a blanket, sucking on a binkie, sitting in my lap as I recited poems Mother had taught me. I smiled, enraptured with the scene, ignoring the part of me skeptical about being alive by the time it was born, not to mention the crying and diapers. I clung to my peaceful scene. I knew that I would also be Cymbalene's supporting friend throughout the pregnancy and I would be responsible for babysitting on occasion—but I worried about guarding it against anything magical.
“Why me, exactly?” I asked.
The best answer I got was that it “felt right” and no one else “fit”.
I supposed that was the best I would get—they promised to burn me letters and meet up here monthly so we could keep tabs on each other. As they left, my brother dug in a one of his pockets and handed me a few warding stones—little more than a fistful of pea gravel, but he said Cymbalene's father made them and they were more potent than any you could buy. He also said I should stop by the market on the way home and buy a bunch of garlic. I asked if that actually worked. They shrugged and said it wasn't a bad idea for a few bucks. It seemed that knowing what worked or didn't work against vampires was guesswork at best, and werewolves were little better.
Leazar reminded me of a few tricks Father used when he thought someone might show up, and I thanked him.
“If they get through that,” my brother said with a dark chill, “you are out of your league. I will keep my phone on so you can call, but we're going to my next job now and I regret I can't delay it any longer. You will need to find a way to cope with whatever comes your way.”
His job was a constant state of emergency, and this honeymoon was the first vacation I had heard him take in years. I had no doubt that he had to call in a lot of favors to stay away that long and now he had a great deal of work to catch up on.
Yet I couldn't keep my lips from hissing at him, “Thanks, that helps a lot, let me tell you.”
He frowned at me, “I'm being honest.”
“If I'm in over my head, what am I supposed to do, who am I supposed to call on?” I spat, mindful enough to keep my voice low. His wife looked startled, and I avoided her gaze. “I suppose our parents are unavailable as well.”
“Last I heard they were in the middle of an Amazonian Life Leech infestation,” he said calmly, almost condescendingly, “so they're probably near the end of it now, so, no, I think you're on your own. You got yourself in this mess, you can find your way out of it. You've got the tools and the people, use them.”
“That's always been your answer,” I snapped. I heard someone drop a glass in the background but didn't pay it any heed. “I could be dead tonight, how's that supposed to be any good to this family?”
“I have a life,” he hissed back to me, “get one of your own.”
“Railey's fading, I just stirred up the occult for her, and you tell me to get over it and get a life?” I said slowly, my eyes narrowed to slits and I knew my nostrils were flaring.
There were a lot of noises coming from behind me now, too much to completely ignore. I tried anyway.
“Feralyne Swift,” Leazar growled, “control your temper.”
“My temper?” I snorted, “My temper hasn't caused any trouble in thirteen years, unless you've forgotten.”
A curious look crossed his face. He looked over my shoulder. I resisted turning around.
“What?”
His eyes came back to me, giving me a pleased appraisal over his glasses. He refrained from a smile, but said, “I thought there was something different about you.”
I swept my arm over my body, pointing out the bloody jeans, the holes in the hem of my shirt, “Yeah, I look like a hobo. That's different.”
“I mean you look normal.”
“Normal?” I repeated, my voice simmering, “I'm on the brink and you say I'm 'normal'?”
“I really have to go,” he said, brushing me up in a strong hug, “You'll be fine. Tonight and tomorrow, just stop breaking things before Trish realizes it's you.”
“What?” I demanded, but he kissed my forehead—a certain way to muddle my thoughts and he knew it. By the time I finished scrubbing my head, he and Cymbalene were gone, a single white moth the signature of her magic.
I turned slowly and found that most every glass had been shattered, even the ones on the customers' tables, flooding many people's laps. Many a paper and book were held off to the side, some of them being mopped up with towels while a man went around to dry them up with a well-said spell. I watched Trish and a couple good Samaritans clean up. Trish verified that everyone in the shop knew about magic, then snapped her fingers and had the place clean, her trash bucket suddenly full.
She rounded on us, “Who in here has the fight magic?”
No one spoke up. Trish glowered, “Fine! List what you've got.”
The man cleaning the paper goods spoke first, “Communications magic.”
It went through the shop. Healing, law, cooking, potions, enchanting, animating, spell casting, counseling, and another potion magic. The line stopped at me, and eleven pairs of eyes focused on me.
“I lost it thirteen years ago,” I stammered, “There's no way it's back.”
The man frowned at me.
“It wasn't me.” I insisted. It couldn't be me. I hadn't felt the magic move at all.
“Could have been a brownie,” suggested someone.
I knew it wasn't. Brownies would have toppled tables and stolen things during the distraction, but I didn't voice that. They accepted brownie as a possibility.
I left before Trish could chase me down, walking in the early evening sunlit streets.
I passed by all the buss stops, heading for the nearest grocery store to stock up on items. Lost in thought, I twirled my rings around my fingers, not certain what to make of my busy day.
I almost walked by a produce vendor.
I backtracked.
“I don't remember you being here,” I said.
The man shrugged, not looking up from his paper. The title caught my eye: The Thaumaturgical Tribune. It had been years since I'd seen that paper...thirteen years to be exact.
I bought a wreath of garlic from him—it was more than just a few bucks, but I thought it would be worth the peace of mind.
The man took a look at my face and mused, “You new to the area? Haven't seen you around before.”
“Just visiting,” I replied.
“Then why did you say you hadn't seen me here earlier?” the man said, not caring about my answer before he went back to the paper.
I didn't even try to take back my words.
“Thanks for the garlic.”
"Can you believe people still do inducing spells?" he said, "Nothing wrong with being a lamb, it's what the New Age folk say. Course, those with power and class, they don't like change of any sort."
"I take it you don't like the powerful." I said.
"They say I don't got enough magic to sell in Merlyn's, so I sell out here. It's good enough for Trish, I figure, it's good enough for me."
I moved away from the booth, but something brushed against my shirt.
I turned around to see if the produce man had reached for me, but he was where he always had been, reading his paper, musing over the struggle between the classes. I wondered if the magic world even acknowledged it had a struggle brewing.
As if responding to my thoughts, the wind rustled through the small trees around me, kicking up papers and drifting them in a circle around me.
I shivered and bolted for my room.
