Chapter Nine

 

I spent the night on Andi’s couch.

“The good news is, your powers are getting stronger,” Andi pointed out over waffles and coffee.

“Yes. True.” I wasn’t quite as enthused about that as Andi, because it sort of reinforced John’s accusation that I had not kept my word about not using magic. In fact, I had used more magic since my marriage to John than in the previous two years.

“Which is a good thing if you’re planning to take on…”

“Exactly,” I said. “If I’m planning to take on who?”

“Well, clearly this Solomon Shimon is part of it.”

“I guess?”

“And your cousin Waite? Could he be part of it?” We looked at each other doubtfully.

The problem with the idea of my cousin Waite as an archvillain and/or evil mastermind is he’s never really been what one would call a go-getter. And it seems to me that part of the job requirement for archvillain and/or evil mastermind is being a go-getter.

“The Goddess knows.”

“Well, anyway. You can stay here as long as you need to,” Andi said.

I was stroking Minerva, Andi’s Dwarf Hotot rabbit Familiar. I managed a smile. “Thanks.”

“Honestly, though, Trace says the best way to deal with John is to be direct and honest. Don’t…rely on subtext.”

I frowned. “Do you discuss me and John with Trace?”

Andi’s hazel eyes met mine squarely. “Do you discuss me and Trace with John?”

I remembered what John had told me about Trace planning to propose to Andi.

“See?” Andi said. “We love each other, and we worry about each other, so of course we discuss each other with our…”

“Beloved consorts,” I finished bleakly.

Andi was silent. “I don’t know about that. Not for me and Trace. But for you and John, yes. Definitely. He is your beloved consort. And Trace says he’s never seen John try so hard, care so much about anyone. And you know, according to Trace, John was pretty wild back in the day.”

“Believe me, I know.” I couldn’t help the tinge of acid that crept into my voice. “We can’t go to dinner that some waiter or bartender or doorman or valet or—”

“Oh. ’Kay,” Andi said brightly. “I have to go now. Sundays are Buy One Get Two Free.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would you give two free cupcakes?”

“We’re called the Mad Batter, Cos.”

“Oh. Right.” Anyway, you couldn’t argue with success, and the Mad Batter was a huge success.

“Let me know if you change your mind about staying,” Andi said, and snapped her fingers.

* * * * *

Oliver Sandhurst lived on York Street in a narrow yellow-and-red Victorian with tidy hedges, bubble-shaped topiary, and a short black-and-yellow wrought-iron fence.

I purchased Blue Moon Antiques from Oliver, and once upon a time, I’d have said he was a friend. But last summer when I had tried to petition the Société du Sortilège for help, Oliver had made some shocking statements that at the time felt like an effort to damage my standing in the Abracadantès. Perhaps I had wronged Oliver, though. He was an excitable personality. He might not have realized how potentially destructive his comments were.

The whole situation had been perplexing, given that I had not known Oliver had ascended to le Conseil Savant. In fact, I’d believed Oliver was on the outs with the Société after the publication of his last book.

I had not previously tried to follow up with him, but with all that happened since, I decided retracing my steps to the point where everything had started to go askew might be my best course.

I opened the wrought-iron gate, went up the red steps, knocked briskly on the red-and-yellow door with its stained-glass window.

From inside the house, I could hear Debussy’s “En blanc et noir,” so I knew Oliver was home, and sure enough, after a moment or two, the door swung open.

“Hello, Oliver.”

Oliver’s pale green eyes widened in alarm. He summoned an unconvincing smile.

“Cosmo, dear boy! It’s been too long.”

And yet, not long enough, I was betting. I smiled back. “Hasn’t it? I was hoping for a word.”

“I’m afraid in this case, the word would have to be no.” Oliver’s regretful smile did not reach his eyes. “I’m expecting company, you see. Any moment now.”

“I do see,” I said. “Only too well.”

“I’m afraid I don’t…”

“As difficult as it is to believe that you would be aiding and abetting the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm, given recent events, I have to conclude—”

“I?” Sounding truly outraged, Oliver drew himself up to his full height—which, yes, he was pretty short, so it’s not like I felt threatened. “You think I would have sympathies with those…those nomag barbarians? I’m not the one who married a mortal. Not just a mortal, a police commissioner!”

He had a point—and he continued to hammer it home.

“It isn’t I who revealed sacred truths to a mortal. It isn’t I who revealed the existence of the Craft to—”

“I revealed sacred truths in confidence to my beloved consort.”

“Who then betrayed both you and the Abracadantès!”

I flushed with anger. “By the Goddess, he did not. He did not betray me. He did not betray the Abracadantès. He’s never spoken a word of Craft to anyone outside myself.”

Oliver waved a knotty finger beneath my nose. “How do you know, heh? How can you know that? He is descended from witch hunters. Nothing is beyond him.”

That stopped me cold.

“How do you know that? How do you know John’s ancestry? In fact, how do you know I told John that I was Craft?”

Oliver blinked nervously. “You told me yourself.”

“No. I certainly did not. I told no one.” No one but the Duchess. But as much as Maman had disapproved of my marriage, I knew she would never betray my secrets.

Oliver shrugged, changed his story. “Then I don’t recall. I only know this is knowledge garnered by le Conseil Savant. It’s true, isn’t it?”

There was no longer any doubt in my mind. It was as though Oliver had ripped off his kindly mask to reveal something clawed and fanged. For years, I had known and liked him, but now I saw that I had never known him at all.

“How do you know Ralph Grindlewood?”

Oliver spluttered, “He’s a friend. He was my customer for many years. Now he’s your customer and your friend.”

“He’s a member of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm.”

“What of it!” Oliver exclaimed. “He could also be a Republican. Or a vegan. What has that to do with anything? The fact remains that it is you who have betrayed your vows and your tradition.”

It wasn’t true, but it was painfully clear Oliver believed it was. Nothing I could say was going to change his mind, and I was still grappling with the knowledge that the only person I had told about John’s bloodline was my mother. I could not believe Maman would have revealed that terrible secret. She can be ruthless, yes, but…no. She wouldn’t do that.

For one thing, it would gain her nothing.

Oliver, taking advantage of my stricken silence, quoted, “Celui qui court deux lièvres à la fois, n’en prend aucun,” took a step back, and slammed shut his door.

If you run after two hares, you will catch neither.

What did that mean?

* * * * *

I knew John would not be home.

Even when things were going well between us, he tended to be a workaholic, so it was no stretch to assume—in fact, I had seen this pattern before—that, following our blowup, he would retreat to City Hall. It wasn’t inconceivable that he might even move in with Sergeant Bergamasco while we figured out what came next now that I had defied his ultimatum.

I landed on our doorstep, snapped my fingers, and the front door swung open.

Andi was correct. My abilities had strengthened considerably even in the past week. I no longer had to, in the words of my mother, sneak through back doors and scurry around the city like a common field mouse. Now I could simply envision the place I wished to be, and, provided it was not too great a distance, make the leap.

I stepped inside, and the house was dishearteningly quiet. Bridget did not work on Sundays unless we needed her for a social gathering. I did not suppose there would be any more social gatherings in this house—which meant I would need to cancel our own upcoming Halloween party. The thought further depressed me.

“Es-tu à la maison?” I called to Pyewacket.

Silence.

I walked into the kitchen and jumped.

John sat at the table, drinking coffee and gazing at me over the top of the Chronicle.

“W-what are you doing here?” I stammered.

Pyewacket, nibbling seafood paté, hissed at me, which was unfair since I was there to feed him.

John said, “I live here.”

“I thought—I thought you would be at work.”

John folded the paper and set it aside. “I don’t work on Sundays.”

I could think of nothing to say.

John said, “When you disappeared last night, was that because you were afraid I was going to harm you?”

“No.”

He stared at me, unblinking, with those yellow-gold hawk eyes.

I said—admitted, “I thought you were going to say our marriage was over, and I…”

“Thought you’d leave first?” His tone was a little bitter.

“No. I didn’t—couldn’t—face hearing it.”

He seemed to consider that. He said finally, “Till death do us part, remember?”

“Yes. I think it’s more of a guideline than a rule.”

He rose, went to the counter, and poured himself another cup of coffee. Back to me, he said, “I think it’s a rule.”

I had no answer.

“I think it’s a vow we both made.” He turned, and I saw he was not nearly as unmoved as I’d imagined. He was not prone to emotionalism, however. He had control of himself immediately. He held the coffeepot up. “Did you want a cup?”

I shook my head.

John replaced the pot in the coffee maker. “You can’t walk out in the middle of an argument, Cosmo. That’s not how problems get solved.”

“I didn’t— Are we—” I had to stop and try again. “I broke my word.”

“Yes. You did.”

“You said— I didn’t think you would want to…” My throat closed, and I couldn’t finish it.

John’s face changed. He looked like he was in pain. He put his cup down on the counter and came to me. He wrapped his arms around me, and for a moment I was too astonished to do more than stand there as straight and unyielding as a broomstick.

“Do you not know how much I love you?” His voice was low, words spoken from the heart, words reverberating against my chest. “Do you think I could stop feeling this way because you broke a promise I forced you to make?”

“I don’t—didn’t—think you would forgive that.”

“I’m not happy. I’m still angry that despite my repeated requests, you’re involving yourself in police business. I’m angry that you endangered a police investigation and yourself. I feel you do bear some responsibility for Darquez’s death.”

I sagged against him. He said more gently, “But you didn’t force him out onto that fire escape. You didn’t involve him in a blackmail scheme or attempted murder. He did all that himself.”

I nodded. I wished I were as convinced.

John’s voice went softer still. “Cos, listen.”

I’m tall, but John is taller. The top of my head reaches the bridge of his nose, so his words brushed my cheek like a kiss. “We’re both new to this. Love. Marriage. We both make mistakes. We’re learning as we go.”

That was true. True for me, certainly. I had not thought about it being true for John.

He was still speaking. “I have a temper. When I get angry, I yell. I shout. Sometimes I say things I regret. I try not to with you. But I’m not always successful. You need to understand that just because we argue, it doesn’t mean I don’t love you or that everything is over. We’re going to argue. You’re just as stubborn as I am and just as used to having things your way. I’m not going to walk away from our marriage ever again. I promise you that. But you have to make the same commitment—and it has to be a promise you make because you feel the same, not because I’m asking you to.”

I raised my head, found his mouth, said, “Till death do us part.”