She was certainly systematic. The piles were: definitely useless, probably useless, interesting but off-topic, possibly useful, and useful. The “useful” pile was short indeed.
Occasionally, she asked him a question. Could she wish for her old apartment back? Indeed, but if the Appetites had found her there once, it might not be safe. Had any of the other bearers taken the ring off willingly? They generally died of violence after sending him away. Why the hell would they send him away? If they desired privacy—for example, while wenching, or—
Wenching? Her eyebrow had lifted, and he could only shrug helplessly.
She’d asked him if the wound hurt. It was mending, he would be more prepared in the future. How many attacks did he expect? It was difficult to say. Was her home address changed in her phone? She’d looked at the device and frowned. Huh. Look at that, it is. How much money did she have? As much as she wanted, money was easy. She had tapped at her small device again and let out a small sound of shock, before gulping and setting the damn thing aside.
He hoped the amount was adequate.
Hal leaned forward, took the papers. He had decided not to stand, looming over her; he had also decided to remake his appearance slightly, after the illustrations on the covers of those fascinating romance books. He quite liked the solidity of this form, and had remade the blue sweater somewhat to accommodate its different proportions. She seemed easier with him when he copied her posture.
Now, in a battered pair of loose knit pants with penguins dotted over the fabric and a sweatshirt much too large for her, his bearer waited while he scanned the pages.
“The London Evening Post,” she said. “1763. Cavanaugh’s name is in the second column, about halfway down.”
* * *
A certain CAVANAUGHE, of BLESTON PLACE, would advertise for the Return of a Finger, lost in HELL’S HOLLOW, this Sunday last, no Doubt while on his Way to Church.
* * *
“I see it,” he murmured, absorbing the information. “And yes, Bleston Place. Quite a scandalous little event, to be stated so. But he was a very rich man, and that made for interest in his case.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “Reading between the lines, I think—I’m not really sure, but I think it’s saying he was attacked and someone cut his finger off?”
“Hm.” His eyebrows drew together. “That’s interesting. I would not have…ah.”
“What?” All her attention was focused on him. She leaned forward, and being the sole object of her regard was…pleasant.
Very pleasant.
“It might imply that in a fit of drunkenness, he cut his own finger off.” A small but distinct possibility. Wine did much to a man.
“Jesus. Was he trying to get rid of the ring?” Her tiny shudder was gratifying. If he could lead her to believe only such a thing would free her of Hal—but that would be dangerous. He suspected this mortal woman possessed the unflinching resolve to do such a thing, were it to be necessary. She did not know the half of her strength.
So, a judicious retreat was called for. “Unlikely. He rather enjoyed wielding me. He did have a habit of deep religiosity while sotted, though.” Hal considered this. “We know his finger was removed. How, though…ah.”
“What?”
“There were several among the Fratres who might have used his debauches to attack him.” Perhaps one of them—Islington, Breeks, Lord Reacher—had merely waited for such an occasion? Or perhaps, in a fit during one of his black moods and well into his cups, Cavanaugh had been overwhelmed with religious sentiment—or simple fear? “Still…he had something as close to immortality as I can grant. It is unlikely the loss of a phalange would have killed him.”
“Well, that’s all nightmare fuel, thanks.” She stretched a little, arching her back, and Hal dropped his gaze back to the paper. “There’s something else—there was an auction of all his stuff in 1764. That’s on the second page.”
He nodded, slowly. Lord Reacher, of course, would have been the one to arrange that. Of all the Fratres, he was the one who envied common-born Cavanaugh the most, and without Hal’s fetter, certain revenges would no doubt have been indulged in. “Yet the man arranging that could not have been unaware of the ring.”
“So somehow he chopped his finger off and…what, someone picked it up with the ring attached, and ran away?”
“Not entirely out of the question. He may even have been attacked by a husband or pimp of the women he was set to enjoy that evening.”
Disgust on her transparent face. Her eyes darkened. “He sounds like a real winner. So someone chops his finger off, and the ring gets…pawned, maybe?”
“That could happen.” It was, indeed, fairly likely. “Normally, he was exceeding cautious. That night, though, he wished to celebrate, and did not…” Did not wish to force me to see or partake, for once.
“Maybe someone was just waiting for when you weren’t around.” A delicate shudder raced through her; she glanced at the rest of the stack of paper waiting for her. “Well, at least we’re making progress.”
Of a sort. “Was there a funeral announcement?”
“Not that I found. Just the auction. But we are talking about two and a half centuries ago. It’s amazing I found this.”
A blast of sound broke the quiet and she reached for her tiny phone with an elegant motion. She was so unconsciously graceful; how had he not noticed the exact curve of her fragile wrist, the line of her cheekbone, the shapeliness of her throat before?
“Hullo, my dear.” A new, richer timbre to her voice. “What’s on fire?”
Gabbling from the instrument. Who was it?
“Yes, I saw that.” Her gaze rested on him, but it was soft, turned inward. She wasn’t really seeing him. He could examine her all he wanted now, while she was distracted. “You mean you want me to do the organizing and tell you and Glo what to do, because you know I’ll comparison-shop for tinsel.” A small, absent smile. Her shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, he glimpsed her happiness again.
She deserved more of it. Much, much more. The only problem was how to discern what would induce such joy.
More gabble-noise. It sounded like the redhead from the coffee shop.
“I can’t promise anything, Mayday. I really can’t. I’m in the middle of something right now. No, it does not have to do with a certain cowboy…no, I am not giving details. Mh.” Her gaze clouded. Her left thumb found the bottom of the ring’s band, played with its finish. Hal watched, and wished he could feel that slight contact.
She shook her head, an impatient motion, and a single curl brushed her shoulder. “I’ll do my best. What? It’s not that late—what?” She glanced around, not finding what she sought. “Christ. I should be in bed… Will you get your mind out of the gutter? God.”
That, apparently, was that. She pressed at the device’s face, and sighed, looking down at stacks of paper. “It’s past ten,” she said, morosely. “I’m done for the day.”
“Ah.” There was something in his throat. He coughed—that was wrong, he had not done such a thing since he was mortal. “Then you must rest.”
“Yeah.” She stared at the order she had made out of a mass of chaos. “I wish…”
She caught herself, glancing at him. Shook her head, and went no further.
And Hal, who served desires, found himself almost grateful.
Right and Wrong
It was no use.
Em just kept tossing and turning, even though the dove-gray bed was soft and deep, but with just the right amount of firmness so her back didn’t ache. It was, in a word, perfect, and the sheets didn’t cling. They were either just-warm-enough or just-cool-enough, and the pillows were all the right shape.
Kind of maddening. You couldn’t find anything else to blame for insomnia when your bed was a magical nest of rainbows and kitten fur.
Her eyes were grainy, her mouth tasted awful, and she was so tired. Her muscles all cried out for rest, but her brain wouldn’t shut off. It just kept c
ircling back to the man in the black coat—the priest, for God’s sake—choking on his own blood. The huge, world-ending noise of the gun. Hal’s tortured face running like softened candlewax as she tugged on the hilt of the black-bladed sword.
He rather enjoyed wielding me. Hal didn’t even consider himself a person anymore. If he ever had—I was a slave, there was nothing to want.
What was it like, to live like that? Could she even imagine?
Yep. Definitely no use. Her conscience had hold of the entire situation and it was speaking loud and clear, just as it always did. It would be so nice if she could ignore that quiet, persistent nagging.
Finally, she rolled over and pushed the covers down to her hips. Stared at the gauze swathing the bed. He’d done all this as a gift. Someone who would take all that time and care—even if it was magic—deserved more than a fair shake at things.
Hauling herself out of the bed was difficult. She could just lie there, she supposed. Talk herself into donating some of whatever he’d given her to charity and pretend it evened the score. Pretend to be all concerned about him, pretend to be stupider than she was, pretend she didn’t know the ring was slipping easily on her finger now. Maybe he had a reason for leading her to think it wouldn’t come off—maybe she was a better bet than those Fratres guys.
Magical frat boys. Jesus Christ, the world was bad enough already, it didn’t need that, too. If they got hold of Hal again, who could tell what they’d do—to him, or to her, or to any sad sack who got in their way?
She could intend all the good things she wanted, but sooner or later, she suspected it would get awful easy to mistake what I want for the right thing to do. That was adulthood in a nutshell.
If she didn’t do this now, she might lose her nerve. Not only that, but would she even be able to look at herself in the mirror after a while? Or sit still and smile when May called her “the conscientious one”? How long before she started just arranging things the way she thought they should be? Which was great at the beginning when things were all shiny and new, but it never ended well, in history or in fiction.
“God damn it,” she muttered. “I’m so goddamn boring.”
The gauze didn’t reply. So she slid her legs out, pushed herself upright, and gave the bed a regretful pat before she padded for the door, bare feet cold against thick carpet.
It took a while to find the kitchen again. Roaming up and down the hallways, peering into other rooms—each in a different color—and finding marvels. A library full of the smell of leather and vanilla-tinged old paper, its door quivering expectantly as she almost, almost stepped in to investigate. A gaming room, with shiny consoles wired to a television screen as big as the wall in her old apartment. An exercise room—she was tempted to whisper “what, no pool?” just to see what the house would do.
Not enough bathrooms, and she recognized some of the rooms from magazine layouts. She recognized other things—a couch she’d wistfully circled in a catalog one rainy day while she ate popcorn and half-watched a movie about demons hopping into and out of people, a Seurat print she’d turned the page down at while watching a movie about a time-traveling duke looking to escape a marriage contract. Had he gone through every magazine she had lying around?
It…actually sounded like something he’d do. He seemed a really thorough, belt-and-suspenders type.
So had Steven. But then there was that night, the squeal of tires on wet pavement, and the sickening thud and a crumpled shape on the pavement. Her own breathing, loud in her ears. Him saying, We could just leave, and twisting the wheel. Her own horrified gasp, and in that moment their marriage was over. Steven didn’t know it then, but that was the split-second she had found out she couldn’t live with the man she married. And loved, of course, she would always hurry to add to herself.
She’d even held Steven’s hand all through the hearings. The investigation showed the pedestrian was drunker than a skunk after six barrels of cider, and there was no way Steven could have stopped in time. But you never really knew someone until they opened their mouth in a situation like that and said something that showed just how much an alien country lived inside them.
We could just leave.
Her fingers on the seatbelt catch, her door opening on that misty autumn night because he couldn’t leave her behind, or if he did, he would have to face that choice on his own. She could still remember the smell of crisp leaves sagging under the fog and woodsmoke from someone’s chimney.
Why was it always fall when her life fell apart?
An accident, only an accident. Steven was cleared, and the pedestrian’s family didn’t want to press charges. They’d even met with him and told him it wasn’t his fault. She’d seen Steven through all that, and once it was over, the look on his face when she’d said, We’re getting a divorce.
He hadn’t argued, much. He never had.
The kitchen was brightly lit, and Hal was there, bent over, fiddling with the shiny stainless-steel espresso machine. He turned his head, slightly, and the pleased smile that lit his entire face—now, she recognized the kitchen as the one she’d planned on an Ikea computer a year ago, for God’s sake—made her chest feel a little strange.
“Hello, Emily.” He just looked so thrilled. “Is it morning? You like coffee. I am acquainting myself with this machine in order too—”
“Can we talk?” It came out far more brusque than she intended, and she could have kicked herself, because that shy smile fell right off him so fast it almost shattered on the floor. “Please?”
“Certainly.” He straightened, and folded his hands together, lifting them slightly. “I listen, my mistress.”
Oh, crap. “Not like that. I mean, really talk.” She found herself fiddling with the ring, nervously. It slipped along awfully easily, really. She twisted it on her finger, and his dark eyes narrowed.
“As you like.” He didn’t drop his hands, but he did tense up. Those shoulders were really absurdly broad. Jeez. A genie could look like whatever he wanted. Had he been watching some of her action-flick DVDs?
She braced herself against the right-hand cabinets. The track lighting was really nice and she could never have afforded it, even if she decided to throw caution to the wind and try some do-it-yourself home renovation. “Okay. Here’s the thing.” Em took in the deepest breath of her life. “Hal…” It escaped her, just when she’d worked herself up to the sticking-point. “Look. You’re…a nice guy.” Way to go with the clichés, Em.
“If you like.” His expression turned shuttered, inward. Closed off. He looked a lot better than when he’d shown up. Wherever he waited between bearers probably didn’t have any natural lighting.
She tried again. “Do you…pardon me asking, but do you understand about right and wrong?”
“Right is what my bearer wishes. Wrong is…” He shrugged, a beautiful fluid motion. “Unimportant.”
Well, crap. All that power, and no moral compass. This is a bad idea. Really, though, every single choice in this situation was a bad one. So it was, as May always said, time to jump and hope for the best. “But there are things you wouldn’t do, if it was up to you. Right?” Please tell me I’m right.
“That is…beside the point. I am chained, Emily.” A flicker of…something, around his mouth. “Such decisions are not mine to make.”
“But hypothetically? Come on, just answer me. Please.” Christ, maybe he’s a lawyer, too.
He spread his hands helplessly; those newly broad shoulders dropped. “Were I left to my own devices, yes, there are things my bearers have asked that I would not have performed.”
Relief, hot and acid, went through her. “Great. I just wanted to know. Listen to me. I want to go back to bed and fall asleep. In the morning I want my old apartment back, and my old job back, and everything you did there, or to Brett, undone. Okay? I’m not finished.”
He’d opened his mouth as if to protest, shut it again so fast she heard his teeth click together and winced afresh. How long was he go
ing to wear that blue sweater? Didn’t he ever sleep?
Jesus.
She forged on before she could lose her nerve. “And I want you to find that guy—that priest—and make sure he’s okay. You said yourself he probably didn’t know what you were. Will you do that?”
His chin set. “Yes, mistress.”
“Do you promise? That no matter what happens between now and when I wake up, you’ll do that? All of it?”
“I swear, by my fetter, that I will obey your wishes.”
Well, that’s going to have to be good enough. “All right.” The kitchen floor was too cold. The tiles in here were white with just a ghost of pale peach, bright golden veins running through them. She would have preferred black and white and a small retro cooking area, but he’d done his best. It was kind of endearing, actually. How many other guys, genie or not, would have taken this much time and paid this much attention to small folded-down corners in old catalogs? Em kept twisting the ring, took another step. “Give me your hand. Please.”
He froze. “Mistr—Emily. Emily. Don’t.”
She edged closer. “Please.”
He eyed her sideways, a skittish stray cat. “Don’t.”
Em had the ring worked past her middle knuckle. Even if it shrank now, she could yank it off. What would that do? “Please give me your hand, Hal.”
His left hand jumped out, and his entire body had turned rigid. Was he sweating? A sheen lay on his forehead, strange under the bright light.
The ring slid free easily, and she kept a firm hold on his wrist.
The circle of metal was too small for anything but his pinkie. Em’s mouth bolted, a runaway train. “You know, with this ring I thee wed, and all that.” She slid it onto his smallest finger. “You’re free, Hal. And now I’d really like to—” To fall asleep, she meant to say.