“See? Was that so hard?” Marz’s lips pulled into a nasty smile. “As long as we understand one another, you have nothing to fear from me, Ms. Eresby. Such stress isn’t good for the baby, after all.”
“How do you know about that—?”
“A little bird told me,” Boss Marz replied, with an unpleasant glint in his eye. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Eresby. If you can.”
Chapter 17
I woke up and reached for his side of the bed, only to find cold sheets. Again.
In the weeks since the murder of Dr. Moot and the disappearance of Madam Erys, Hexe rarely came to bed anymore. Instead, he spent most of his nights either haunting Golgotham’s numerous nooks and crannies for some trace of the mysterious glover or locked away in his study, poring over his collection of grimoires in hope of finding a counterspell that would remove the curse on the gauntlet.
I went downstairs to a dark kitchen. There were no breakfast smells to greet me, no coffee percolating. If I wanted java, I would have to grab something at the Devil’s Brew on the way to work. I poured cold cereal into a bowl and splashed some milk on top of it and shoveled it down as fast as I could. I flipped open the lid of my lunch pail, only to find it empty. I came home so tired from work the night before, I’d neglected to make myself a sandwich and fill the thermos before going to bed. That meant buying lunch from one of the pushcarts on the street—money we really couldn’t afford to spare. Now that Hexe was no longer taking on new clients, and had parceled his regulars out to a couple of associates, our budget was tighter than a drumhead. Luckily, I still had a few more months before I had to worry about taking maternity leave.
I tried the door to Hexe’s office before I left for the day, only to find it locked. Pressing my ear to one of the panels I could hear the muffled sound of his snoring on the other side.
When I arrived at work I found Canterbury in talks with his real estate agent. He had recently decided to buy the property next door to the shop in order to expand his business, perhaps even set up a genuine showroom. I knew better than to bother him, so I quietly set to work on Canterbury Customs’ newest commission: a swanky custom rickshaw for Giles Gruff, who had been very impressed by his friend Bjorn Cowpen’s new ride. I must have lost track of time, because the next thing I knew, Canterbury was looming over me.
“It’s noon,” he announced. “Where’s your lunch pail?”
“I left it at home,” I replied. “I’ll just grab something from Nyko’s pushcart.”
Canterbury wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You shouldn’t eat crap like that even when you aren’t pregnant,” he said with a depreciative snort. “How about I take you to lunch? My treat?”
“You don’t have to do that, Master,” I protested.
“Hey, I feel like celebrating,” he smiled. “I just closed on the space next door. Besides, I have a business proposition for you—so we might as well discuss it over a nosh.”
“Okay—if you insist.” I grinned. “After all, you’re the boss of me.”
“Indeed I am,” he whinnied.
The Feed Bag, located on the corner of Maiden Lane and Horsecart Street, was a restaurant that catered exclusively to Golgotham’s centaur population. Upon entering the barnlike doorway, I was greeted by the flavorful aroma of fresh bread.
“It smells marvelous in here!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, they bake all their own bread here on the premises,” Canterbury explained as he led me up a wide ramp that took the place of a staircase. “It’s all organic—plenty of whole grains, oatmeal, that sort of thing. They also prepare marvelous salads and have an extensive vegetarian menu, both raw and cooked. A centaur’s diet is very healthy, you know, even though we eat like horses!”
Upon arriving at the second floor dining room, we were greeted by a handsome young sorrel centaur dressed from the waist up in a waiter’s jacket. “Good afternoon, Master Canterbury,” he said with a polite bob of his head. “Your stall is ready.”
“Thank you, River,” Canterbury replied, bobbing his head in kind.
The dining room was a huge, loftlike space, the walls of which were lined with box stalls of various sizes. I walked past a group of centaurs dining in one of the larger ones; they were seated on their haunches around a circular, pedestal-style table, the middle of which rotated like a lazy Susan and was loaded down with humongous loaves of homemade bread and heaping plates of turnips, apples, and alfalfa. They were all impeccably dressed from the waist up, with the males sporting elegantly tailored brocaded waistcoats and the females wearing elaborate Edwardian hats you’d expect to see on Derby Day. As we passed, one of the centaurs paused in his meal to stare at Canterbury and then shuddered from head to tail, as if trying to rid himself of a horsefly.
We were escorted to a cozy stall in the corner, where I found what looked like an adult-sized version of a baby’s high chair waiting for me. Upon clambering into the seat, I suddenly realized this was the first time I’d ever actually been face-to-face with my boss.
An ipotane dressed in a waiter’s jacket appeared, carrying a tray heavily laden with loaves of bread and raw vegetables. Without preamble, he set a salad bowl the size of a hubcap in front of me, along with a bucket of beer.
“Take that away and bring the lady some spring water!” Canterbury said sternly. Our server nodded his understanding and whisked away the offending pail.
“Don’t I even get to see a menu?” I asked.
“Since we centaurs all eat the same foodstuffs, there’s no need to waste time ordering different items,” he explained as the ipotane waiter returned, this time lugging a gallon jug of water and a plastic straw. “The moment you arrive at a table, they start bringing out food and don’t stop until they’re told otherwise.”
“Well, I certainly can’t complain about the portions,” I laughed. “This isn’t just a salad—it’s the whole garden!”
“Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do after you’ve foaled?” Canterbury asked pointedly.
“I was planning on coming back to work—assuming you still want me there,” I replied.
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” he smiled, a look of relief in his eyes. “You are the best apprentice I’ve ever trained, Tate.”
“That means a lot coming from you, Master Canterbury,” I said, bowing my head in a show of respect.
“It won’t be long before you will be making the transition to journeyman,” he said. “You could set up your own shop, if that’s what you want. And I won’t stand in your way, should you make that decision.”
“But I don’t want to leave. I like working with you. You’re the only person, besides Hexe, who ever really seemed to understand why working with my hands is so important to me.”
His smile grew even wider. “I can not tell you how it gladdens my heart to hear you say such things, my dear. How do feel about joining me as my business partner?”
My jaw dropped open and the salad fork fell from my hand, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. It seemed like an eternity before I was finally able to find my words. “Master—I don’t know what to say!”
“Just say yes,” he said with a laugh. “We’ll hammer out the partnership agreement before you take your maternity leave. I would be a fool to let a talent like yours walk away from me.”
“I’m sorry about getting emotional,” I said, dabbing at the sudden tears welling in my eyes with a napkin. “It must be the damn hormones!”