“You’ve come back!” Scratch exclaimed, his voice barely audible above his purrs. “I was afraid you were gone for good! Thank you-thank you-thank you for bringing back my dog!”
“Oh. My.” Clarence gasped, staring in astonishment at the hairless winged cat rubbing itself against my shins.
Scratch froze in midpurr. “Who’s the nump in the suit?” he growled.
“Clarence is an old friend of mine. Please don’t call him a nump. He’s going to be living here now. Clarence, this is Scratch.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance . . . sir?” Clarence said, with his usual aplomb.
“Great, another num—I mean, human underfoot,” the familiar sniffed, fixing the butler with a bloodred glare. “But if Tate and Beanie say you’re cool, then I guess I’m okay with it.”
“Where’s Hexe?” I asked.
“He’s still locked in his office,” the familiar replied in a worried voice. “He won’t talk to me anymore. I’ve never seen him like this—it scares me.”
“Hexe—it’s me, Tate,” I called out, tapping on the closed door. “Can you hear me?” The dead bolt abruptly unlocked itself, although I had not heard any movement inside the room. I glanced down at Scratch, who nodded his head, before pushing open the door.
The office looked like it had been ransacked. The floor was covered with books and scattered papers pulled from Hexe’s sizable collection of grimoires, as if someone had been frantically searching for something. The shadows thrown by the Tiffany lamp with the armadillo-shell shade made the taxidermied crocodile hanging from the ceiling seem far less dead than usual. Hexe was slumped across his desk, surrounded by empty bottles of absinthe, Cynar, and barley wine, with a hookah sitting by his silver-clad right hand.
As I stepped into the office, I was struck by the peculiar odor that permeated the room. At first I was at a loss to identify it; then, with a start, I realized it was Hexe. He normally had a warm, pleasantly chypre-like smell that reminded me of citrus and oakmoss with just a hint of leather, but now he seemed to be exuding something closer to bitter lime with a touch of mildew. I knew then I had made the right decision coming back.
He stirred as I drew closer, raising his head to squint at me. “Tate—? Is that really you?” he asked in a ragged voice. Although his hair was uncombed and he was wearing a couple of days’ worth of beard, there was no sign of the sneering, cold-eyed stranger in his weary face.
“Yes, it’s really me.” I smiled gently as I knelt beside him. “I’ve come back to help you, baby.”
“I never meant to say and do those things to you,” he said in an earnest whisper. “It makes me sick to my stomach to even think about it. I never wanted to harm you, Tate—you’ve got to believe me.”
“I know,” I said as I caressed his stubbled chin. “The gauntlet is doing something to you, poisoning you, somehow. Your mother says she knows a psychic surgeon who can help you.”
Hexe drew back and a flicker of fear crossed his face. “But—but—I need the gauntlet.”
“Do you need it more than you need me? More than you need our baby?”
“But that means I’ll no longer be able to work Right Hand magic.”
“You can’t work Right Hand magic now, anyway. So why fight getting rid of the damned thing?”
Hexe dropped his gaze to his gauntleted hand, which he had yet to move or try to touch me with. “I was going to cast a Come Hither to summon you back and hold you to me. I even looked up the spell. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Does that make me weak?”
“No,” I said as I put my arms around him. “You’re the strongest man I know.”
It took a pot of coffee and a couple of Vegemite sandwiches, but I eventually coaxed Hexe out of his office and into the kitchen. As he sobered up he became more and more like his old self, even though he still smelled a bit “off.” Throughout it all, Scratch sat on his favorite perch atop the refrigerator and watched his master intently, as if afraid Hexe might disappear if he looked away.
“What did you say to my mother about the gauntlet?”
“Just that it’s cursed and turning your Right Hand magic widdershins. I didn’t tell her about Boss Marz smashing your hand with a witch-hammer. She’s scheduled a meeting with the psychic surgeon for tomorrow.”
Hexe froze in midchew. “That soon?”
“The quicker we can get that thing off you, the better,” I replied.
“I suppose you’re right.” He set down his half-eaten sandwich and stood up from the table. “I’m going to go take a shower. Care to join me?”
“I’ll be there shortly,” I said. “I just want to check in on Clarence and see how he’s settling in. This has been a big day for all of us.”
After tidying up the kitchen, I headed upstairs and stopped by what, until recently, had been Octavia’s room and knocked on the door.
“It’s unlocked, Miss Timmy.”
I opened the door to find Beanie sitting on the bed, patiently watching Clarence as he unpacked a collection of loud Hawaiian shirts from his luggage and placed them in the wardrobe.
“I see you’ve got a fan.” I laughed.
“He seems to find everything I do fascinating and of the utmost importance,” Clarence replied. “It’s certainly a boost to my self-confidence.”
“What’s with all the Hawaiian shirts?”
“All my adult life, I have dressed like a butler. Years ago, I promised myself, once I retired, I would never wear a suit and tie again. I have been collecting Hawaiian shirts for exactly this occasion. I can’t wait to start trying them out.”
I tried to picture Clarence in something besides the tidy three-piece suits he had worn for as long as I could remember, but my mind just wouldn’t go there. It was like trying to imagine my grandparents naked.
“I trust your young man is feeling better?” he asked solicitously.
“He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s doing a lot better,” I replied. “He’s more like his old self than he’s been in a while.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I know you love him very much. I can see it in your eyes whenever you talk about him.”
“I was never able to sneak much past you when I was a kid.”
“No, you couldn’t,” he agreed as he unpacked the clay ashtray I made for him at summer camp twenty years ago, and carefully placed it on the bed stand. “But, then, you were always a very loving child.”
“Clarence—are you sure about all this?” I asked gently. “I appreciate you wanting to help me, but if this places any hardship on you at all . . .”
“Ever since I was a boy I’ve wanted to see exotic places and unusual people,” he smiled wryly. “However, I am not much for travelling. I have a deathly fear of flying, I turn green the moment I set foot on a boat, and I have an unfortunate tendency to become carsick after a couple of hours. For someone like me, Golgotham is the answer to my prayers . . . provided the cat doesn’t eat me.
“And as for hardships . . . what I said to your mother wasn’t hot air, Miss Timmy. You don’t have to worry about money for the time being. I would be honored to handle the household finances until you and your young gentleman get back on your feet.”
I jumped off the bed and threw my arms around the old butler—or at least tried to, since my belly was now in the way. “Clarence, you’re my very own fairy godfather!” I exclaimed. “And you’ve really got to stop calling me ‘Miss Timmy.’”