Page 44 of Witchlore
“You should meet your taxi,” I say. “You know they get the house number wrong.”
She gives me a steady look, as if to tell me I will not be the one to dismiss her.
“Get warmed up,” she says softly. “There’s kindling for the fire. There is food in the house. Your things are under the stairs. We turned your bedroom into a reading room, but the sheets in the guest bedroom are clean. Please set the alarm when you are done, the code is the same.”
She pulls on a brown trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. She looks like a movie star, but then she always did. She nods to Bastian. “Good evening,Monsieur Chevret.”
“Nice to meet you,” he mumbles, helping me shuffle to the side as she picks up her suitcase and opens the door. I think she’s going to leave without saying another word to me but she turns, shimmering, as her eyes turn back to blue, to look at me.
“Read your emails, Orlando,” she says finally. “It is not too much to ask.”
Then she is stepping out into the darkness, holding her hat to her head as she walks down the driveway to the waiting taxi. It’s only when I’ve seen her get into the car, when I know that I’m safe from any final recriminations and I begin to feel the tiniest bit of blessed relief, that I let the door slam in response.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Just for good measure, I give the front door an angry kick—hateful woman, just the worst person in the world—but I’ve not actually got enough energy for it and Bastian catches me before I sway into the wall.
“Where’s the fire?” he asks.
“This way.”
With my arm still pulled around his shoulder, we awkwardly walk through the door to the living room. My parents haven’t updated their style since the thirties: art deco wallpaper in fern green and gold, dark wood paneling, furniture with faded William Morris patterns, and small mahogany drinks tables with carved spiral legs. All of it has a hint of the magical, the bizarre, to it; it’s dusty and overstuffed with trinkets from the century of travel—enchanted Venetian masks and crystal charms in velvet boxes—scattered everywhere. The TV is the only modern appliance in here and stands out like a sore thumb. When I was growing up, all of it made me feel as if I were living in a museum designed to make me feel bad about myself. Now, compared to Bastian’s sleek flat it looks comically cluttered, perhaps even chintzy or, worse, embarrassingly outdated and colonial. I grimace.
Bastian has already moved to feed kindling and rolled-up newspaper into the fire and it roars into red-and-gold life. I awkwardly crumple down on the Turkish rug in front of it, happy to bathe myself in its warmth, even though my skin is so cold it actually feels like it’s burning in the heat. Bastian slumps down beside me, reaching into the brass coal bucket to feed the fire with the brass tongs. I feel suddenly sleepy, like I might not be able to get back up, and know I should get out of my wet clothes.
“I’m going to change,” I say. “Do you need dry clothes?”
“No, I’ll just take my jeans off.” Bastian is still shaking. He reaches for a tartan blanket that’s spread over the back of the sofa. “I’ll build the fire up.”
“Thanks.” I stumble into the hall to the cupboard under the stairs, kneeling down and dragging out one of the boxes markedORLANDO. I pull out a hoodie, a pair of surf shorts, and ski socks. Standing in the hall, I wrench my boots off my cold, stiff feet and drag down my tight, frozen jeans. I rip off my sodden T-shirt and struggle out of my cold binder, taking a second to recognize the strangeness of this male body all over again. First, the longer, goatish legs with the fiery red hair on my thighs and in a furry trail from my belly button. Then the narrow hips and shoulders, the extra bit of height, and the broadness of the backs of these new hands. I pull on the dry clothes and catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. My jaw is large and square, my nose broad, my eyebrows red; my hair is that deep ginger that’s closer to brown than blond, shorter and tufty. My skin has a very pink, ruddy quality to it, the kind that sunburns in winter. I can already tell I’ll have to shave my face. I cautiously pull the sleeve of the hoodie down to cover the scars on my wrist. Wearily, I move back into the lounge.
Bastian is sitting by the fire and feeding kindling into a strong,crackling flame. He’s got a blanket spread around his shoulders and one across his lap. His wet jeans are on the back of a chair and his ankles and shins are visible, tucked underneath him, flecked with fluffy hair. I look away.
“So,” Bastian says quietly. “You’re not an orphan?”
“No, I’m not,” I say.
“What’s the story there?”
“There’s no story.” I reach for the extra blanket, a dense Tibetan thing with red stripes that’s folded under the sofa, and shake it out, wrapping it around my shoulders before standing up. “I’m going to make tea.”
I move through to the kitchen, turning on the light. They’ve changed a few things since I was last here, finally getting rid of the hideous avocado-green fridge and the yellowed Laura Ashley wallpaper, but the ancient stove and the grimy brown filter-coffee machine that’s about forty years old are the same. Even so, I’m disorientated; it takes me a minute to find the tea bags. Luckily, there’s some milk left in the fridge. I try not to feel anything when I notice familiar little things. Father’s kukicha blend that he has every morning, the woody smell of it drifting across the kitchen flagstones. Mother’s collection of teacups from around the world stored up on hooks, French glass and Chinese jade hanging in neat rows. I fill two cups from the Willow-patterned set and return to the lounge, finding Bastian standing up, looking around the room, taking in the travel souvenirs, photographs, ancient books, and priceless witchlore artifacts that mark every part of my parents’ lives together. I very deliberately do not look at his boxers, striped blue. I hand him a tea and sit down, wishing he would cover up.Why do I care?I ask myself fiercely, glaring into the fire.I love Elizabeth.
“This house is fascinating,” he murmurs, sipping his tea reflectively. I glance at him nervously.
“It’s less of a house, more an antiques shop with too much stock,” I say.
“Amagicalantiques shop.” Bastian’s eyes gleam as he gazes around. “Is that really a collection of shrouds over there?”
“Yes.” I glare at it, the ostentatious curiosity case mounted on the wall, polished wood and miniature filigree gold clasps, the eight or nine shroud necklaces twinkling innocuously behind the glass, hanging on little hooks against black satin. If anything, it’s the item in this house I despise the most.
“The gemstones are incredible,” Bastian says reverently. “Are they all enchanted?”
“No, thank god,” I mutter into my tea. When Bastian looks at me questioningly, I feel like I have to say something and the truth might at least shut him up. “They scoured the world, looking for shrouds of different strengths to use on me. Some of them have worse impacts than others. That one”—I point to the giant onyx stone on a leather braided necklace—“made me have seizures. It hurt more than shifting.”
Bastian says nothing. I wonder what he’s thinking as he frowns and looks around. Maybe he’s wondering how anyone can grow up around this much witchlore, this much culture, and be unhappy. But then he didn’t spend days under the onyx shroud, having so many fits his nose bled.
“There are no photos of you,” Bastian says.
