Chapter Nine
“Do you mind if I borrow these?”
Mordon wasn't precisely in a temper, but from the way the shop was closed up today and he wasn't conversational, he clearly wasn't having the best of days. I stood at the door to a back room, a stack of books in my arms, wondering what I had said to offend him. Too sheepish to ask.
He put a bookmark in the text he was reading, slowly closed the cover. It was dark and blank, just like his expression. “Take the whole lot if you want them.”
Was that an invitation or a threat? I had no idea. “Should I put them back? I'll put them back if you don't want me to read them.”
Leaning the cluttered table with both hands, he breathed out nice and slow. When he lifted his head, he had an apologetic smile. “No, it's fine if you wish to borrow them. Take them up to your sun room.”
“Okay.”
As I returned upstairs, I felt as if I were slinking away like a scolded dog. What he was upset about, I didn't know. It stung after the intimacy following the nightmare last night. Guess that's what I got for reading too much into basic kindness.
For today, I needed to focus on one thing at a time.
I'd start with Griff's theft.
Why did he want that vase, and was even was it?
As is the conundrum with all researchers everywhere throughout time, I found myself easily distracted. In part, this had to do with the fact that I had to browse through the books in order to find any references at all to vases, women, and art. I accidentally found something called Death's Merlot. Also called Death's Wine, Death's Drink, or Revival Spirits.
It brought the recently deceased back to life.
Naturally I wanted to know all about it. Where it came from, how it could be obtained, what the symptoms of having had it were, if it was foolproof or if there was margin for error.
I found my answers.
All too many of them.
My notes looked something like this.
How to get Death's Merlot
1.Local apothecary cooking wine mixed with vinegar
2.At the mouth of the River Styx
3.In a barrel beside the Fountain of Youth
4.Summer rain holy water infused with blackberries fermented in a cathedral cellar then purified by dipping the toes of a saint in it
5.Dry out Merlot, powdering the residue, combined with melted tallow of a recently killed wild Scottish boar
6.Make a raven cry
7.Cider pears in the urine of celestial virgins
I pretty well gave up on creating lists after examining this one. Amongst those who claimed to have been given a second chance at life, their stories varied by the individual. However, there were some common trends.
Basically, every person reacted differently to living again after death. Some gained magic they never had, going so far as to switch elements, others lost touch with it altogether. A few developed 'a grotesque intolerance' for previously-beloved foods. Others were seized by wanderlust, leaving all friends and family behind.
Now, how people reacted to these revived people was understandable. A couple were declared divine intervention. Another was attacked and left for dead. Many, many others had shocked observers who soon found ways to write off the whole incident as a case of “we only thought you were dead, but you must not have been.”
I supposed, it confirmed that my after-life experiences were within the realm of normalcy.
Exciting times.
One of the pages mentioned a vase, and it had the illustration of the item Griff had taken from Mordon's shop. Intrigued, I put some effort into studying it.
There was an incredible lack of information about the Lady of the Vase, only a short article that was written by Mordon in an artifacts book. The Lady was essentially Death's nameless sister, presiding over what could only be called purgatory or prison; during the turn of the Egyptian Wizarding Empire (there were no non-magical references, so I had no clue when that was) the Lady's reign was restricted to those souls who were so unwise as to touch the mouth of the vase.
Apparently there was a vacuum effect once one person touched the vase, so it was highly recommended to stay as far away from her vase as possible. During the Arthurian Era, it was used to contain the most wicked of all sorcerers, including the infamous Morgana. Mordon wrote in the notes that Morgana was also called Moragan, Morgan, Morgana Le Fey, and Morgain, as well as any spelling variations imaginable.
Despite a whole afternoon of looking for more information, there was none to be found.
While I knew now what the vase was, I still couldn't be sure why Griff wanted what was essentially a mobile prison holding the most dangerous wizards in the world. Unless he wanted to release one or more of them, which had so far never been managed in history.
Of course, it was entirely like Griff to attempt the impossible.
Fantastic.
I was taking the books downstairs when I bumped into Mordon on the stairs.
“Watch where you're going.”
“You ran into me. I was standing here,” I said. “I was going to give you these back. Thank you for letting me borrow them.”
He blinked. “Oh.”
I waited for an apology or something. None came. I crossed my arms. “What did I do to deserve this treatment?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
With that, he tromped down the stairs and into his shop. I reached out into the air and pretended I could strangle him, letting out a small shriek. The doors rattled as the air pressure changed.
“I could do that to him when he gets like this, too,” came a slow, gruff voice from behind me. It was Barnes.
“What is his problem?” My face had gone bright red. I had to focus on controlling my voice.
“I always presume it's a drake thing. This time around, I think he's frustrated about not making headway with the theft. That shop is his hoard, and nobody steals from it. They're more like dragons than they care to admit.”
“And how do you cope?”
“I get into a brawl with 'im then start pouring my latest brandy wine recipe.”
“Mmmm,” I said. Though getting into a brawl with him sounded appealing, I also doubted that I would come out the victor. “What about Lief and Lilly?”
“Lief gives 'im one a those long lectures an' when he's had enough, Mordon goes on a long flight and comes back normal…Lilly, well, she tells 'im to suck it up and stop scaring the customers.”
“I doubt there will be much more talking between us,” I muttered and fell into the breakfast nook. Had losing my temper with him done anything productive?
“You did good,” Barnes said, coming to sit next to me. “What you need now is something to distract yourself.”
A distraction? It sounded enticing, but I knew what sort of 'distraction' Leif, Lilly, and Mordon would encourage. “Nothing involving books, magic, or keeping it civil.”
Barnes grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. “Perfect, you can come with me for a day trip.”
“Oh?” I asked, skeptical and intrigued. “And what do you do for recreation?”
“Ever gambled on snail races?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Snails?”
“Comin' or not?” he asked, heading across the living room floor.
“You mean, right now?”
Barnes twitched his mustache and checked his pocket watch. “The races start soon, and there's no bettin' once the snails get goin'.”
Wasn't there someone I should tell first?
Barnes saw my expression and said, “You a twelve-year-old girl living with Mummy or somethin'?”
The taunt rankled, but I didn't take it out on Barnes. He was just bold enough to say it.
I followed him across the living room, crossing my arms in defiance. Barnes nodded his approval. He paused at the wall near my door and barked, “The Mermaid's Tale!”
I wondered if he had been hitting the brandy already, but the wall began to morph before my eyes, a
door gradually emerging from the plaster. Though the frame matched the trim work around our house, the door itself was strange. Purple paint was peeling, revealing a rust red coat below it. In some place I could see navy blue beneath that. The door handle housing was missing a couple screws so when Barnes grasped it, the whole assembly wriggled and twisted.
Barnes looked over his shoulder and said, “Well?”
What could I say? He had my curiosity piqued, and my restless mind would not be able to focus with while imagining what happened at snail races; it couldn't be as dull as it sounded.
Barnes held open the door for me, and I hesitated another second before stepping over the threshold. The room swayed. I staggered, found the wall supportive until my dizziness passed.
When my eyes adjusted and Barnes stood next to me, I saw tavern with low lighting coming from thirteen candle chandeliers over thirteen tables with an odd number of chairs to each table. Pipe smoke billowed up around my face. I waved at the sweet scent as I walked through the haze. A cheer greeted me as Barnes followed.
Cries of welcome came from all angles, one after the next so quickly that I couldn't identify who was saying what.
“Constable! Told ya he'd be here!”
“Nick of time, as always!”
“…can I change my bet to his?”
“Who's this you bring with you?”
I felt very small once an assemblage of patrons crowded about us, sweaty faces peering at me and flushed men eyeing me from across the room. The ambiance of the room made my magic feel relaxed even as I felt nervous; it was a peculiar sensation I couldn't describe.
“She single?” called one man, thankfully one who was more or less my age.
“Outta the way, folks! I got a bet to make.” Barnes pushed through the crowd. They reluctantly parted ways for me as well. They wanted me to stop and talk, but I wasn't willing to leave Barnes' side.
We came to a table that stretched around a bar shaped like an island; it had a sandy bottom with various obstacles scattered throughout the track such as leafy twigs, bits of chopped fruit, rocks, and shells. Sixteen tick marks were spaced evenly along the track. These corresponded with a billboard behind the barkeeper. The man passed Barnes and me each a sheet of paper numbered one through sixteen and three lines below it.
“You write down your top picks for which snail will reach each marker,” the barkeeper explained.
Barnes hid his paper and refused to allow anyone to sneak a peak, taking furtive glances at the odds for or against any particular snail.
I sat staring at the snails for a few seconds, nodding absently while the barkeeper talked jovially about his favorite snails: a garden snail with animated flames painted on its shell, a black snail with a yellow shell, and a red rams horn snail. I was soon lost in the variety of snails available—several looked as though they were primarily aquatic, but this track did not seem to bother them. Possibly that was due to some spell.
In the end, I went with my gut. I picked a purple-fleshed, cream-shelled snail for my favorite up till maker 14, then the garden snail to finish the race. When I passed the paper back to the barkeeper, his eyes opened and he said, “Where did you learn to bet?”
I gave him a smile and a few coins I thought weren't too valuable, hoping that I might see some of that money come back to me. With thirteen snails in the race, I doubted it.
“Final call for bets! Final call!”
A few more sheets were turned in, then the barkeeper held his wand up and a countdown started in the air.
The crowd chanted with the numbers.
“Thirteen…twelve…ten…nine…eight…seven…seven…six…”
I wondered if the miscounting was because they had been downing too many drinks. At my less-than-impressed expression, Barnes whispered, “Double numbers don't have a place here. You know, numbers like eleven, twenty-two, thirty-three, and the others. Bad gambling numbers.”
And they double-counted seven so the total number would still equal thirteen, or some such thing. There was a tiny gun fired into the air. Bubbles around the snails popped. The purple snail started to wriggle forward while the others appeared interested in getting to know their neighbors.
“How long will this race last?” I asked.
“The record is 45 minutes for the first snail to cross. Average is an hour and a half. Takes about two or three hours for all of them to cross, if it's a quick day,” said Barnes.
I cocked my head at him. “And what do we do in the meantime?”
Barnes waved his finger in a circular motion, perhaps to indicate all corners of the room. “Whatever you can think to do in here! Ya can't leave; if you do, you forfeit your bets.”
“Ah,” I said, feeling like this might be dull after a few hours. “Can't have that.”
“Not with the way you bet!” He clapped a hand on my back.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Doesn't matter! Here, Barkeep! Two orders of fish and chips, a heavy stout for me, an' your best guess for my friend Miss Swift!” Barnes thumped a fistful of coins onto the bar. A waitress caught my eye and giggled.
“Constable,” she said, her scold more of a purr from beneath low eyelashes and high breasts. “You know I tend to the food orders.”
“Of course, but I can't order around such a pretty thing as yourself.”
The woman winked at me. “I'll have the food right out, doll.”
Still feeling uncertain about joining the crowd the way that Barnes did, I took a seat at the bar and watched the race with half my attention. The snails were only starting to leave their stalls, and two were more interested in getting to know each other intimately than sliming their way across the finish lines.
A blush colored cocktail landed in front of me, a bright cherry sitting in the bottom.
“That's from the man in brown,” said the barkeeper, motioning to the corner of the room. “It's an Avalonian variation. Berry juice, ginger ale, and a splash of vodka. He was very specific.”
I wondered at first if it had been the man who had asked if I was single. I squinted through the haze and recognized him, though not the woman on his arm.
“Who sent that?” asked Barnes.
I pointed.
In a flash, Barnes was on his feet, cutting through the crowd, and getting acquainted with the lady. I blinked. That couldn't be…could it? What was he doing here, of all places?
Barnes waved me over to their corner booth. I picked up my drink and the two baskets of fish and chips the waitress passed to me. I slid into the booth next to my brother.
He looked a fair deal like me; his hair was more brown than golden, though, and his eyes were more green like Mother's. He was slender like she was, too, while I was stockier like our father. His hair laid in chunks about his chin, not blending very well when it was not styled in the traditional spikes called for by mediators between feys and fairies.
The woman next to him was so pale as to be nearly translucent, golden freckles scattered over her small nose and down her fine neck. Her hair was carrot red, hanging down about her elbows in thick ringlets.
I had not expected my brother to end up with a fairy.
“Mother's going to flip,” I said with an evil smile.
“How do you know Leazar?” asked Barnes across the table.
My brother smiled. “Simbalene, you know Constable Barnes. This, here in The Mermaid and sitting quite decently with magic, is my sister Feraline. Fera, this is Simbalene, my wife.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, more than a little numb at the news. “I didn't know you were engaged.”
“Engagement is…pretty much a human invention,” said Leazar.
“A rather silly one,” said Simbalene. “If you need the transition time, there's nothing to stop you from taking it, but I prefer to do the thinking beforehand, make a decision, and just do it.”
That could have come straight from my brother's mouth. “You two seem very well-matched.”
“Barnes is one of my most trusted friends,” Leazar said, as though he felt he owed an explanation to me. “And I thought he should be the first to know, followed by family. I would have extended the invite to you if I'd known you were on this side again.”
He raised his eyebrow, as though accusing me of being the one who didn't share news. I said, “I still can't do flames. The last time I tried to burn a letter, it burned.”
Simbalene laughed, a delicate laugh like tinkling bells. Leazar had inherited Father's rumbling laugh, and I was suddenly curious what their children would laugh like.
Simbalene said, “I will ask my husband to mention your good fortune in our letter, then.”
“So, sister,” said Leazar, pulling me up to him with an arm over my shoulder. “There are plenty of men with eyes on you. Know any of them?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. It was just like him to jump straight from his own marriage to the prospect of mine.
Barnes' rough voice surprised me. “Sure she does.”
“I do?” I asked, certain that I didn't know anyone else here, and at the same time suspicious of what it was that Barnes was going to say next.
“Who?” asked my brother, leaning forward as though he were involved in a secret.
Barnes leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “Mordon Meadows.”
My stomach did a little flip and I caught my breath.
“Mordon? He's that drake that hangs around Merlyn's, right?”
Defiance made me find my voice. I said, “I've already had this talk with his parents. There's nothing between us. What do you mean he likes me?”
“Beware. When you meet the family, you should know a little something,” said Leazar. At my confusion, he said, “They dock the hair of rejected prospects.”
I crossed my arms. “I learned some of your diplomacy, dear brother.”
He shook his hair at me, showing several places where it had been dyed green, red, and blue. “My own considerable diplomatic skills haven't saved my hair.”
I said, “He hasn't shown me any particular regard.”
Barnes snorted. “Two times.”
The number of times he'd seen Mordon come out of my house with me first thing in the morning. Was it two times or once, I wondered, but I pursed my lips in warning. I suspected I knew what he was going to say.
Leazar asked, “Three times what?”
Barnes grinned, so broad I saw for the second time today his chipped tooth.
“Don't,” I growled.
“Why not, feyling? Why, I'm honor-bound, with being best friends with the man and you being his younger sister,” Barnes said.
“I'll tell the others about the elderberry liquor.”
Simbalene, while very much enjoying the conversation, looked confused by my threat. My brother thought about it for a second, then asked, “Do you mean to say our dear Constable has expanded on his brandy line?”
Barnes tapped his finger on the table, then said, “You win for now, feyling.”
“Good.”
But he didn't look defeated. Not by a long shot. Barnes said, “Mordon's always looking at you.”
I pointed at Barnes with the Avalonian.“I haven't seen him even look at me for longer than a second.”
“What kind of a man would he be if he let himself get caught?” said Barnes. “Getting caught comes once you're certain she returns the affection.”
“Besides,” added Simbalene. “Your best angle is when you walk away and turn to look at something.”
I stared at her, feeling slightly violated. “That's terribly specific.”
“I would have sent you the Avalonian if your brother hadn't.”
I choked on said Avalonian. “You're practically my sister.”
She shrugged. “Now you know what to expect when you meet my friends.”
From there we went into a lengthy discussion of fairy culture and ritual, ending in a game of dare which went around the table.
By the time the last snail crossed the line, Barnes had stood on the bar and yodeled, Leazar swept the entire room into a square dance, Simbalene dusted two spatting lovers with fairy glimmer, and I coaxed nine drinks out of strangers without so much as talking to them.
Even when the barkeeper stopped giving me alcohol, I still received a couple more “IOU” ginger ales. Barnes collected on our earnings—it was a good deal, much of it coming from my guessing twelve rankings perfectly—and declared it was time we move go home.
I had multiple people request I come back, and even promised my brother to meet up with him again. It was a good thing the barkeeper knew our portal door because neither of us could enunciate well enough to open a portal to get home.
When I stepped through the portal, this time I found myself stumbling instead of swaying.
The living room was blindingly bright with sun streaming through open windows. I tumbled into the first chair I found and stared blankly at my surroundings, my mind wandering between the conversations at The Mermaid's Tale, Mordon's possible infatuation with me, my possible infatuation with him, and the sensation that the floor had turned into the sea.
Barnes made his way over to his door, appearing only slightly better than I felt. “I got some hangover be gone potion, be right back.”
“K,” I said, mind swimming through exhaustion and booze, wondering if Barnes would even be able to come back again.
His door shut behind him, and I stayed exactly where I was. Eventually the floor stopped wriggling and I just felt thirsty and tired.
Curling into a ball, I snuggled up on a blanket and basked in the sun.
The wainscoting door downstairs slammed shut, waking me from my rest; I was much more alert than I anticipated being, and when I heard Mordon's weighted footsteps moving quickly up the stairs, I let out a quiet groan. This wasn't going to be good.
Mordon stood in front of me, hands on hips, frowning. He looked tired, beyond tired—but if he had been trying to do a teamwork spell without me, then I felt he should suffer for it.
He asked, “Where were you?”
“Safe.”
“I should be the judge of that. Where did you go?”
Was this some sort of a test to see if I was lying? Anger heated my veins, but guilt made me blush. I dismissed both feelings, using a bouncy voice and one of the smiles I used to gather drinks.
“With Barnes, and now I'm going to get some rest.” I brushed by him, heading to my door. “Excuse me.”
Mordon grabbed my elbow. “It's nine in the morning, past time to get to work. I need your help for the festivities.”
“So,” I hissed, yanking my arm away from him, not caring when I staggered. “For days you treat me like I'm going out of my way to annoy you, and when I find someone else to be with, you get jealous.”
Mordon's face turned to stone. “I am supposed to keep you safe. How am I supposed to do that when you disappear?”
“Aren't you the least bit worried about what I did or who I was with?”
He winced. Clearly, he had thought about it. “I am not jealous.”
“So you said.” I sighed and rubbed my forehead.“I was with Barnes at a snail race. We gambled, cleaned out the house, had too much to drink, met up with my brother and his wife, and I was the biggest flirt in the joint.”
Mordon stared at me for a minute, then his stony expression cracked. He seemed instantly older as he sank into a chair. “I know.”
I stared at him, wondering for an instant if he had tracked down a couple of people from the Mermaid. Most people who had been there were in worse shape than I was. Heart stopping for a beat, I realized how he knew. “You followed me.”
Had I seen a glimpse of him? I couldn't remember. The haze and drinks combined with the bustle of the night made everything blend together. Now that I studied him, I noticed dark circles under his eyes and oily skin. Mordon did not confirm my accusation, but he didn't object to it, either.
I sat next to him. “Alright. I'll mak
e you a deal. If you can keep your temper under control for the next few days, I will help you in the shop and I won't dart out the back door.”
His eyes were vacant for a few seconds, then he shook himself. “Good. Get cleaned up. We aren't going to go easy on your magic because you had a few drinks.”
“Clean up, yourself. You look like you've spent half a day and an entire night hiding in a tavern.”
“You're one to talk,” Mordon said, but there was a smile in his eyes.
I stood up and glanced at him over my shoulder, with a hint of a smile. Then I went through my french doors, shutting the curtain in between them.