Page 5

5

After the initial shock of Lore charging me for the cake, I had just enough of my nerves left to ask whether he meant ten thousand American, or Canadian, or — hell, why not — Singaporean dollars. He exploded into laughter, then explained he’d only said it to see the look on my face.

Xander laughed, too. Somehow, within the tiny alternate reality of Lore’s joke, I’d forgotten that the cake was meant to be his wedding gift. His and Whitby’s gift, in fact, because Whitby had apparently used his familiarity with the grounds of the original Halls of Making to help build the cake’s shape and structure.

To pass the time, long ago, Whitby would scan the guild compound, mapping the terrain and the buildings for posterity. Some years back, if someone had told me that a pair of sentient crystals would be responsible for designing my dream wedding cake, I would have laughed right in their face.

Hell, I would have laughed at anyone who tried to tell me I was going to get married at all. It took me quite a while to process that this was all really happening, despite how I’d initiated it myself by proposing. I liked to think that it was my own disbelief that got in the way. My dream guy, Alexander Wright, wanted to marry me. Me!

In that same way, I still hadn’t fully internalized that the Wrights were about to become my in-laws. That was the very next thing on the docket, to my dismay, right after our trip to Mother Dough. A quick visit with Xander’s parents. The main reason I even made it past the threshold of their admittedly beautiful home was the promise of a delicious lunch.

Well, that and the fact that Edric and Wilhelmina were about to become a part of my family. Or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter. For Xander’s sake, I needed to get used to seeing them more and more. And what better way to do so than by trapping myself with them in their little dining room? Or their little breakfast nook, as they liked to call it.

“A slice of lemon with your water, Master Jackson?”

I blinked, then smiled up at Harlock, the butler of the Wright household and formerly the only friendly presence in the entire place. He deposited a perfect, thin slice in my glass, as bright and circular as the sun. To my left, Xander was already working his way through his salad. Sitting across the table from us were Wilhelmina, powdered and pretty as always, and Edric, he of the sharp looks and even sharper tongue.

A tight squeeze in the breakfast nook, in all honesty. It was strange how the concept of space worked in the Wright house. From the street, or even from my kitchen window, their home had never looked any bigger than any of the other houses on Mystery Row. On the inside, though, I knew that the rooms stretched on and on. They even had an enormous banquet hall for special occasions, one filled with chandeliers and the longest dining table I’d ever seen.

The Wrights had no shortage of room in their palatial manor. But for smaller, more personal gatherings, the breakfast nook it was. At least this time there were no dirty tricks, like when they’d tried to introduce Xander to that fake Incandescent to drive a wedge between us. Archibald Fletcher turned out to be a charlatan and a coward in the end. Maybe the Wrights had learned their lesson.

And I had to learn mine — that is, the lesson of letting bygones be bygones, and of learning to trust my in-laws. They were much kinder to me since Xander and I announced that we were getting married, the harsher edges of their respective signature flavors toning down somehow. I’d always thought of Wilhelmina Wright as someone who was too sweet, artificially so. Edric Wright was the salty one, in contrast, with his cutting words and glances.

This time felt different. Wilhelmina seemed more relaxed, no longer constantly feeling the need to put on a show of sweetness. And while Edric didn’t smile any more than he used to, the subtle, pointed edges in his voice and his expression seemed to have softened. For what could have been the first time since I’d met them in childhood, the Wrights felt truly human.

It was easy enough to make light conversation, Xander and his mother leading with a friendly discussion about wedding preparations. Edric didn’t seem much interested, focusing on finishing his own salad. But Wilhelmina squealed and clapped in all the right places, first when Xander talked about the floral arrangements, and again when he described the wedding cake.

“That AI is simply a work of genius,” Edric said, which nearly made me raise an eyebrow. The Prydes and the Wrights had never really gotten along, even as neighbors, and here he was paying my parents a posthumous compliment. “An artificer’s intelligence, is that correct? Marvelous. You Prydes truly are masters of your art.”

“Um. Thank you.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the slice of lemon in my water. Why was this so awkward for me?

“It runs in the family,” Xander said, swooping in to my rescue, chuckling as he elbowed me good-naturedly. I gave him a meek, appreciative smile, stuffing a cherry tomato in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to talk anymore.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Wilhelmina said, beaming at the both of us. “But back to the wedding, Xander. The Garland, you say? What a delightful venue indeed.”

I couldn’t say why all of this felt so difficult, going through the motions, or maybe part of it was my own guilt in thinking ill of the Wrights all these years. In any case, the breakfast nook felt so stifling, even more so than when there were five of us crammed into that table, back when Archibald Fletcher was so organically introduced into our mix.

My gaze fell longingly on Harlock’s back as he stepped away from the table, a tray with a bowl of lemon slices and a pair of tongs in his hands. At times I’d thought of him as a zombie, what with his gaunt features, but now he reminded me of a ghost, gliding so elegantly across the floor, out the doorway, and — huh.

I’d never noticed that before. He’d stepped through the narrowest sliver of space in the far wall. I must have missed it, how the wood paneling could slide open like that. Didn’t the Wright house have its share of secret passages? This must have been a way for Harlock to travel quickly between the nook and the kitchens.

Somewhere else to be. Somewhere else I could be.

“Pardon me, excuse me, I just need to — I’ll be right back.”

Xander hardly seemed to notice, still deep in discussion with Wilhelmina, who only gave me a quick, polite nod. Edric grunted under his breath. All good enough for me. I rose from the table, left the breakfast nook, and slipped into the little passage.

The sweet smell of something cooking filled the Wright kitchens, what I found to be an astounding mix of arcane tradition and modern convenience, much like the Black Market itself. You had your regular iron cauldrons and curious little bottles of unusual ingredients, what anyone might expect to see in a witch or wizard’s home.

But the Wrights had also invested in state-of-the-art stainless kitchenware. A massive refrigerator, gleaming stoves, a dishwasher. Though no servants in sight, mysteriously enough, apart from Harlock. He had his back turned to the entrance, fiddling with something on the kitchen counter. I stepped up to him carefully, not intending to surprise him, except he already knew I was there.

“In need of a little breather, Master Jackson?”

My hand reached for the back of my neck, an awkward reflex. “I told you not to call me that, Harlock. It’s so formal.”

He looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Old habits die hard, perhaps. Call it tradition. You should embrace it, Jackson. You’ll be hearing it much more often in your capacity as a guild master.”

“Ugh. I swear, I’ll never get used to it.” I sauntered up to join him at the counter. “What are you doing over here, exactly? Where’s everybody — oh. Oh my.”

I mustn’t have noticed the steady chop-chop of a half-dozen knives over a half-dozen chopping boards, most of them dicing vegetables, a few expertly trimming fresh cuts of meat. No one to handle the knives, either, unless you counted Harlock, who appeared to be commanding the knives with the power of his mind. He smiled proudly.

“Ancient butler secret,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with one hand, effortlessly manipulating the knives with the other. And other utensils too, apparently, wooden spoons stirring, pots bubbling over open flames. I watched in fascination as a bowl of peeled and sliced fruit floated its way to a patiently waiting food processor.

“This is incredible. Are you telling me that you manage the household entirely on your own?”

Harlock laughed. “Nonsense. On a normal day, these kitchens would be overflowing with the regular staff. But the Wrights have a soft spot for my cooking. When the masters of the household make a special request, I am more than happy to accommodate.”

I opened my mouth to protest again, but he seemed to read my mind.

“And don’t you fret, Jackson. The Wrights compensate me quite well for my services.” He glanced to either side, finally checking the doorway to make sure we were alone. “Contrary to what you might believe, Edric and Wilhelmina truly aren’t as terrible as you think.”

Hot flame traveled up my chest and shot straight up to my ears. I knew I was blushing. I had to be.

“Why would you think that I think they’re so terrible?” I leaned one hand on the counter and cocked my hip, trying to play it casual. “Harlock, you’re being so silly. I never said they were terrifying.”

The butler smirked. We stared each other down, him waggling his fingers to the music of knives and pots and pans, me stewing over my own stupidity.

“Okay, fine! Yes. I’m freaking out a little. They didn’t like me or my family for a very long part of my life, and I have to say that the feeling was very much mutual. But that has to change now, and I don’t know if I’m changing fast enough.”

I didn’t tell him about how part of me still suspected that the Wrights were both arcane assassins for hire. Also, watching Harlock magically manipulate knives and tools with barely any attention totally supported my long-held theory that he was secretly an assassin, too. Just a nicer one.

“All things take time, Jackson. I find that there’s no sense in fretting over problems that don’t even exist yet. Take things as they come.”

I almost jumped out of my skin when a face appeared in the kitchen doorway. Normally so sallow and stony, Edric Wright suddenly had the look of a curious schoolboy. He hardly seemed to notice me as he crept up to the counter.

“The main course, Harlock. Are you quite sure it’ll be ready for — ”

Harlock nodded and smiled. “Of course, sir. I’ve been preparing all morning.”

“And the custards? You’re sure they’ll have time to set before — ”

“Naturally, sir. Everything is in order and prepared to your liking.”

Edric Wright beamed. I could have had a heart attack. He looked so affable, so sweet, like someone who wouldn’t mind someone like me marrying his only son.

He rubbed his hands together. “Jackson, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Harlock’s cooking. The custard especially is to die for.”

“Oh, I believe you. Looking forward to it. I suppose I’m about to find out for myself.”

Another face appeared in the doorway. “Edric?” Wilhelmina called out. “Darling, what on earth are you doing back there? Are you harassing Harlock again? He’s made your favorite dishes so many times now. He doesn’t need you meddling. Leave the poor man alone.”

Her face disappeared and an obedient Edric came trotting out of the kitchen, calling after her in a musical voice. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m coming, dear.”

Who the hell were these people? Harlock didn’t say a word, only stared at me with a smirk. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“All right, now. Don’t be so smug. Point taken. They’re probably going to be okay, and I shouldn’t stress over problems that aren’t there.”

Harlock shrugged. “Who knows? You might have more in common with the Wrights than you think.”

I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Gods forbid.”

Yet another face appeared in the doorway, this one with a shock of black-and-white hair. My spine stood straight at attention.

“Jackson! What on earth are you doing in there? Leave Harlock to his work. Come back to the table. You’re bothering him, and it’s not polite to my parents.”

“Sorry, Xander,” I called back, already feeling miserable. “I’m coming, Xander.”

I pushed myself away from the counter, then paused mid-step as I recognized the echo. Harlock clearly heard it, too, his smirk somehow even smugger. I jabbed my finger against the counter.

“Not a word from you and your custard, Harlock.”

He grinned, teeth as sharp as knives. “Why, I didn’t say a thing.”