“Phillip Deville,” she stated, giving him a steady look. “Yah, I know who you are. Don't you remember me?”
He obviously didn't. He blinked for a moment, then turned to me. “This here is-”
She interrupted him again. “Stormy Fiona Spooner.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. How did she know my name? I never even used Fiona; my mother had given me that middle name after herself, and I hated it.
“How do you know Stormy?” Phillip demanded.
“Why don't the both of you come off the porch and get out of the cold before I'm forced to give explanations,” she said with a dry cackle, and pulled us both inside.
The house was so tiny, the living room and kitchen were basically one room. I couldn't imagine Phillip here in his rock star days, even if he'd only come by to pick up dope. It seemed almost too small for him, his head near the ceiling. Another inch and he'd be brushing up against it. We both sat down on a mauve couch and a puff of dust rose in the air when I sat.
“I don't use this room much,” she explained, sitting across from us. “I mainly stay in the back bedroom. I'm sick and have a bad back and prefer to lie down most of the time. I rarely get company anyway. I'm afraid I don't have any refreshments to offer you.”
“That's okay,” Phillip said. “We don't plan to stay long. I really just wanted to find Guthrie. I assume you know a little about-”
She laughed again, the sound as dry as bone buried in sand. “I would surely hope so. Since I'm his wife.”
“But you two live apart?” Phillip asked, evident confusion in his voice. “You said you hadn't seen him in ten years.”
“He just up and left you?” I asked, incredulous. “But you said you’re ill…”
“I’m better off without him. Guthrie couldn’t take care of a plant,” she said bitterly, then fixed her eyes on Phillip. “I wish I could tell you where he is, dearie, but I can’t. I’ve not seen him in years, and that suits me fine. Whatever you need to ask, you’ll have to ask me, I’m afraid.”
“I'm not sure you can help me,” he said, unsure. He was tense and disappointed, the muscles in his arms rigid.
“Sit down, Sidhe,” she said, and I looked at her, confused, wondering what word she’d just called him. I’d never heard it before. She looked back at me with clear eyes, then uttered another laugh. “You sit down, too, Fee. Let’s see what we can do.”
We both sat down dutifully, but I was confused. “Sidhe and Fee,” she said, and it sounded like shee-n-fee. “I like the ring of that, don't you?”
“What does it mean?”
She took another puff of the cigarette, ignoring the question. “So, Sidhe, I assume you have questions about the spell. About what you are, among other things.”
“I do.” His voice had gone low. He didn't particularly care for this woman, even though it seemed she was being helpful enough. After all, she could have turned us away once she realized we were looking for Guthrie.
“Ask, then,” she said. “I'll answer what I can.”
“A spell,” he began, then told her about the spell Guthrie had given him, how he'd put it on his album, and how I'd recited it. “Obviously it was a real spell, because it worked. Stormy here brought me back.”
“Fee,” she said again, looking at me. “That’ll be short for Fiona, dear. You might dislike it, but it’s part of you, and you should learn to embrace even the parts of yourself you don’t understand or care for.” She gave me a grizzled old smile, then turned back to Phillip. “Fee brought you back. Good job, dearie.”
It struck me that she was giving a performance, almost a caricature, barely real. The woman was one warted nose away from a fairy tale villain. I tried to smile at her, but I felt like Dorothy faced with the Wicked Witch; I wanted to throw a bucket of water at her and run away. Instead, I steeled my gaze and spoke. “I didn't know the spell was real. I was drunk and reading an album cover. It was a total fluke.” This was a stretch of the truth, but I wasn’t quite ready to admit just how far I’d gone with it. “When he showed up on my doorstep it was a hell of a shock.”
“And then you were pleased as punch,” she said, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Right?”
I looked down and didn't answer. She was poking fun at me.
“How did it work?” Phillip demanded. “How could it have? When Guthrie gave me the spell, he owed me money. I never took it seriously for a second, and when I printed the damn lyrics in my liner notes-”
“Not lyrics, a spell,” she corrected him.
“Right, fine, the spell – when I printed them in the liner notes I had no idea that it was a real thing, that I'd be sealing my fate as this, this -” he gestured with his hands, “-whatever I am.”
“Didn't you?” she asked. “Didn't you have some idea it might be real? Otherwise, why would you have bothered?”
“It's not like I knew I was going to die in two years,” he said petulantly.