Love is full of contradictions. On one hand, it makes you strong. On the other…it leaves you falling asleep, naked and vulnerable, with nothing in your belly but a bite of rose-flavored frosting. The bedroom I shared with Dixon had no natural light, and I woke feeling disoriented and confused as to whether we’d slept for just a few moments or the entire night.
I exited the bedroom and squinted against the pale gray light illuminating the single louvered window. Voices drifted up from downstairs. To this day, I still clenched my fists whenever I overheard Dixon’s family, thinking some irate tenant would pound on the walls or ceiling, leaving me quelling the urge to go pound him. And then I reminded myself that the volshebstvo had handled the man for me. Edward Greaves lived in a defunct insane asylum now, where undoubtedly the walls were thick enough to suit even him.
Although I took care not to step on any of the squeaky floorboards, Meringue heard me nonetheless. How a creature without visible ears managed this, I had no idea. I could tell by the way she ruffled her feathers she would soon wake Dixon with her morning food-begging routine, which consisted of an obnoxious jingle for a competing Spellcraft shop. Just the first few notes, but we all knew it for what it was. I filled her pellet bowl and distracted her before she started singing, then scrounged her a stick of celery from the small refrigerator, which would keep her occupied with the business of de-stringing before she actually ate it.
We were always conscientious about having food for the bird. Not so for ourselves. There was no coffee. Which was a problem, since the flower-shaped sugar cookies were surprisingly dry.
Fonzo and Sabina had not run out of coffee since I’d known them, so I pulled on some clothes and headed downstairs. There was a time when I would not go into the main house without an express invitation—and then, only with Dixon at my side. Until one day the handle broke off my screwdriver right in the middle of installing a new towel rack while Dixon was out getting his hair cut. I tapped sheepishly at the door to see if I could borrow another, and Sabina snapped, “Do I look like your butler? For crying out loud, Yuri. We’re not going to wait on you hand and foot forever. Just come in and help yourself!”
It was the most heartwarming rebuke I’d ever experienced.
Living with the Penn family was unlike living with my own in more ways than I could count. For instance, the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen—men’s. My father’s laugh was nothing like this. A cruel thing, filled with scorn. The sound I heard now was inviting. Even as it made my throat catch…and not just from those dry cookies.
“Well, look who’s here,” Dixon’s father called out as my shadow fell across the kitchen counter. “Did you hear about the Scrivener who walked into a bar and asked the bartender to draw him a beer? Hold on, he says when he gets his drink—you mean you’re not a Seer?”
Fonzo shook his head. “Pull up a seat, Yuri, and take a gander at this.”
Johnny Penn sat with his brother at the kitchen table, each with a mug of coffee placed far off to the side as they studied a bit of Spellcraft. The Crafting was between them inside a plastic sandwich bag. The volshebstvo was unhampered by this precaution, but the paper was protected from dampness or grease.
Chortling to himself, Johnny said, “Fonzo just had his first return since he’s come back to work at the shop…and it’s a doozy.”
Fonzo looked unduly affronted—exaggerating for show. “I still say if they’d just let the darn thing play out, everything would fall into place.”
I poured a cup of coffee and had a look for myself.
You find every shortcut
On the road to success
The Seen—a brown squiggle—looked as much like a road as it did anything else. “What is the problem?”
“Apparently,” Fonzo grumbled, “three hours south of here, there’s a little podunk town called Success.”
Ah. The volshebstvo could be annoyingly literal.
Johnny said, “And the customer knows about eight ways through the surrounding cornfields by now—all found while he was just trying to get to MallMart. So, you can understand why he’d like it Uncrafted.” He clapped Fonzo on the shoulder. “Growing up, this guy gave me all kinds of grief for my alliteration. But who’s laughing now?”
I was baffled that either of them seemed amused by the Crafting’s failure to please the customer. So many of the family’s interactions were harder to figure out than an elusive American idiom that no interpreter could precisely explain.
Fonzo sighed expansively. “Johnny just likes to gloat about his track record.”
“And what would that be?” I asked.
“Over thirty years of Crafting and never once been asked for a re-do.” Johnny buffed his nails on his corduroy jacket. “Not bad, if I do say so, myself. I’ll bet I can even make it to retirement without a single Uncrafting.”
“You did bet that,” Fonzo said. “After a few too many Mai Tais, you bet the Monte Carlo to Ladin Silver.”
“And with any luck, my spotless record will hold up at least as long as that old car. Miss a few measly payments on your business loan and the bank is none too eager to finance an automobile.”
“Bank, schmank,” Fonzo said. “That car will outlast all of us. Your Craftings might be a little stilted, but they always work like a charm. No one’s gonna tarnish your winning streak—and Ladin’s never gonna get his hands on that old jalopy.”
I swallowed my coffee quickly, hardly tasting it, then poured a cup for Dixon and said my goodbyes. I was more convinced than ever that the problematic Spellcraft had contrived to present itself to us at the shop while the rest of the family was gone. Of course, it could also have been coincidence…but if one is willing to draw a long enough line between one event and another, eventually they can all be connected.
Upstairs, I found Dixon now awake and tackling his morning routine. While he shaved, Meringue stood beside him at the bathroom mirror, bobbing happily at the sight of her reflection beside his and making a sound like a bicycle horn. “Maybe we should just let Sabina take a stab at this problem,” Dixon said as he dabbed off the shaving foam. “Since she’s got an inroad with Crouch.”
I trusted Sabina to handle herself, but I was still leery of the randy young men around her. Especially the mime. Besides, the fewer people we involved in dismantling Johnny’s spell, the better. But at the very least, I supposed, I could be grateful that Crouch was unlikely to spread any gossip. “The volshebstvo has placed itself in our hands. We will deal with it ourselves.”
I caught a glimpse of Dixon’s secret smile in the mirror. He had never wanted to hand off responsibility to his cousin at all. Despite the fact that I knew I was being nudged into Crafting, I pulled out my paintbox gladly. I was as eager as Dixon to ensure his father’s good name, such as it was, remained intact.
And it was more than just his car at stake.
It came as no surprise that Meringue’s continual background chatter went quiet whenever the paintbox came out. Birds can sense the volshebstvo. Maybe even more so than humans. A storm was brewing. Far on the horizon—perhaps little more than a quick cloudburst that would be over and gone soon enough. But something in my gut told me it would be wise to take every possible precaution.
Especially now that so much of the waterfront was in an outsider’s hands.
I calmed myself. I closed my eyes. I cleared my mind. And I entered that receptive state by which I approached my Seens.
Nothing happened.
I opened my eyes and glared at the paper, the paints, the brush. They were all as they should be. In fact, I required no particular tool, not like Dixon and his quill. It was not the tools at fault…but me.
Dixon had finished in the bathroom and now busied himself tidying up the lounge. There were no walls between us, and he did his best to act as if he was not simply hovering nearby in case I needed him, though without looking at me, so as not to distract me from my Seeing. But the mere fact that he wasn’t waxing eloquent about some random and meandering topic was evidence enough that he knew what I was doing.
Or…make that trying to do.
Annoyed with myself, I wet my brush and looked at my paint.
I could not choose a color.
When drawing a mundane image, it is always possible to alter one’s artistic impulse to fit the situation—to add more hair to make the customer happy. But Seens are different. They are more than mere images. They are some fundamental truth.
And to have this truth elude me…was disturbing.
I made a sound of displeasure—which Meringue immediately repeated, twice as loud. Dixon seated himself across from me and said, “Yesterday, you spent the whole afternoon drawing. Maybe you just need more rest.”
Seers were notorious for magically depleting themselves as they Crafted, but not only had I enjoyed an entire night’s rest, but it was not Seeing I had done out on the Boardwalk. Only drawing.
I didn’t realize I’d been clenching my fists until Dixon reached across the card table and pried at the seams of my fingers with his fingertips. He took a hand of mine in each of his and said, “You always say the vol-shi-bol-sha’s got a mind of its own, and there’s no forcing it to do what it doesn’t want to do. If you don’t have a Seen in you at this very minute, then put your paints away—at least for now. We’ll go back to the Boardwalk and try again…though I’m going to pose as a tourist this time.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “I’ve reached my limit of polyester.”