During the course of my life, my mother has dragged me through every upscale department store in the city at least once. But where my mother entered Bergdorf’s or Barney’s like an arctic explorer intent on driving a flag into the North Pole, Lady Syra was far more laid back. The moment she set foot on the sales floor, the personal shoppers seemed to appear as if summoned by a spell, greeting her with eager smiles, without any sign of the nervous trepidation usually displayed by whatever sales staff was unlucky enough to wait on my mother.
However, while the floorwalkers and clerks were pleased to see Lady Syra, the same could not be said for our fellow shoppers, many of whom scowled in disapproval. But if Syra noticed them, she showed no sign of it as she moved through the stalking grounds of Manhattan’s elite with unflappable calm, as elegant and gracious as any crowned head of Europe stooping to visit a department store. No wonder Warhol had been so fascinated by her.
After spending an hour trying on clothes, I found myself staring at a daunting array of flowing tops and frilly, Empire-waisted dresses, any one of which cost more than my take-home pay for a month.
“Syra, I can’t let you pay for all of this!” I exclaimed.
“Tosh! Of course you can!” She laughed as she handed the saleslady a platinum credit card. “I can’t allow the mother of my grandchild to go about dressed in nothing but a pair of overalls, can I? Besides, you’ve done a marvelous job of living lean and making ends meet. A lot of young ladies from your background would have chucked it all by now and returned home with their tails between their legs. You must love my son very, very much.”
“Yes, I do,” I replied. “He’s the only man I’ve ever known who has looked at me and really seen me instead of what he expected to see, or wanted to be there. It’s like I don’t have to explain things to him—he just instinctively knows what’s important to me. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. That’s how I felt about Hexe’s father, when I first fell in love with him. And I still feel the same way, all these years and hardships later.”
“I like Captain Horn a lot. He reminds me of Hexe, sometimes.”
“I suspect he inherited his sense of justice from his father,” Lady Syra said, nodding her head in agreement. “I just wish Hexe would be a little warmer toward him. I realize that it was difficult for him, growing up the way he did—but it wasn’t Horn’s decision to leave him without a father.”
“I’m certain once he starts seeing things through the eyes of a parent, he’ll come to understand his dad a little better,” I assured her.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Lady Syra conceded. “And perhaps the same will hold true for you as well.”
“You’re not seriously suggesting I reconcile with my mother and father, are you?” I scoffed.
“I’m well aware that your mother has cultivated a layer of bitch you can break a shovel on,” Syra said with a rueful smile. “However, in her defense, the mistakes we parents make trying to protect our children are often the hardest for us to admit.”
The sun was beginning to set by the time I returned home, laden with maternity swag. Since neither Hexe nor Beanie were there to greet me, I assumed he had elected to take the dog for a walk. I went upstairs and was hanging my three new maternity tops in the wardrobe when I heard a rustling sound behind me. As I turned around to see what was making the noise, one of the shopping bags from Barney’s abruptly tilted over, spilling Scratch out onto the floor. Although he may be a demon, in many ways the familiar was no different from the typical housecat—right down to the mad passion for investigating paper bags.
“There you are!” I laughed. “Where’s Hexe?”
“He’s out in the garden with Beanie,” the familiar replied as he rubbed the side of his face along the outer edge of a Neiman-Marcus bag.
I walked over to the window and peered out into the backyard, which was incredibly huge, thanks to the Kymeran talent of folding physical space like origami. Hexe was at the bottom of the garden, beyond the living hedge maze, playing with Beanie, who was eagerly chasing a red rubber ball around like a star soccer player.
“I see you survived your shopping expedition with my mother,” Hexe said by way of greeting as I made my way across the garden. “How many stores did she drag you to?”
“I stopped counting at five,” I replied. “It wasn’t that bad. In fact, I actually kind of enjoyed myself. Your mom is a helluva lot more fun to go shopping with than anyone in my family.”
“I’m glad you had a nice time. You deserve to treat yourself,” he said. “Now that I’ve got my hand back, maybe next time I’ll be the one buying you nice things.” He gave the ball another kick and Beanie leapt up as if he was spring-loaded, bumping it with his truncated snout like a trained seal. The ball flew into the dense tangle of ivy in the corner of the garden where the two walls joined, followed by the sound of breaking window glass. As I looked closer, I realized there was a small wooden structure, slightly larger than a potting shed, hidden deep in the dark green foliage.
Hexe walked up to the overgrown door and tried the knob, but it was rusted shut and refused to turn in his hand. I glanced through the broken window, as the other remaining pane was heavily covered by dirt, and saw a small potbellied stove, a table with a solitary, overturned chair, and the rotting remains of a narrow cot, all of it covered in dust. I looked over at Hexe, who had plucked the ball from the ivy and was turning it in his hands like one of his scrying stones.
“I had almost forgotten this was still here,” he muttered. “This was where Jake lived. I was very young at the time, but I remember how he and my grandfather used to sit over there”—he pointed to a pair of weathered Adirondack chairs positioned under a decorative wisteria bower—“and chat while sharing a hookah—not at all like servant and master. When Jake died, it was the only time I ever saw my grandfather cry.
“I wonder what it was like for him, living out his life in the garden, serving those who lived in the house his father built. To be denied his birthright, yet have it constantly dangled in his face—how cruel is that?” He shook his head in disgust. “My family has a long tradition of getting too caught up in what we are, instead of who we are. The gods and devils know it’s hard enough being a half-caste in the Royal Family . . . but a norlock?”
“Are you worried about what your mother said about the baby—?” I asked gently, slipping an arm about his waist.
Hexe grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Astrologer or not, my mother doesn’t know everything. I don’t care how many fingers our kid has or what color his or her eyes might be—no one is going to make him ashamed of who and what he is. Or her.”
“You’re going to make a hell of a dad, you know that?” I grinned.
“I still can’t help thinking about how if Uncle Jack hadn’t disappeared, all those years ago, both Jake and I would have grown up knowing our fathers,” he said wistfully.
“How so?”
“Jack was the true Heir Apparent, not my grandfather. But when Jack was swallowed up by the dimensional rift on the third floor, the mantle was automatically passed to Eben. Had Jack taken his rightful place as Witch King, my grandfather would have simply become yet another member of the aristocracy. He would have no reason to disown Esau in favor of my mother. Indeed, Esau would have had no expectations of inheriting the Throne of Arum at all. And maybe, just maybe, my uncle wouldn’t have become such a twisted, bitter creature. As a minor noble without any claims to the throne, my mother wouldn’t have had a reason to hide her love away, and she could have married whoever she wished without anyone raising an eyebrow. . . .”