Mr. and Mrs. Dee looked at each other silently. This was very serious indeed. A certain amount of boyish inattentiveness was allowable; encouraged, even, for it showed spirit. But a child had to learn the basics, if he ever hoped to become a full-fledged wizard.
“I can tell you right here and now,” said Miss Greeb, “if this were the old days, I’d flunk him without another thought. But there are so few of us left.”
Mr. Dee nodded sadly. Witchcraft had been steadily declining over the centuries. The old families died out, or were snatched by demoniac forces, or became scientists. And the fickle public showed no interest whatsoever in the charms and enchantments of ancient days.
Now, only a scattered handful possessed the Old Lore, guarding it, teaching it in places like Miss Greeb’s private school for the children of wizards. It was a heritage, a sacred trust.
“It’s this accounting nonsense,” said Miss Greeb. “I don’t know where he got the notion.” She stared accusingly at Dee. “And I don’t know why it wasn’t nipped in the bud.”
Mr. Dee felt his cheeks grow hot.
“But I do know this. As long as Morton has that on his mind, he can’t give his attention to Thaumaturgy.”
Mr. Dee looked away from the witch’s red eyes. It was his fault. He should never have brought home that toy adding machine. And when he first saw Morton playing at double-entry bookkeeping, he should have burned the ledger.
But how could he know it would grow into an obsession?
Mrs. Dee smoothed out her apron and said, “Miss Greeb, you know you have our complete confidence. What would you suggest?”
“All I can do I have done,” said Miss Greeb. “The only remaining thing is to call up Boarbas, the Demon of Children. And that, naturally, is up to you.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that serious yet,” Mr. Dee said quickly. “Calling up Boarbas is a serious measure.”
“As I said, that’s up to you,” Miss Greeb said. “Call Boarbas or not, as you see fit. As things stand now, your son will never be a wizard.” She turned and started to leave.
“Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?” Mrs. Dee asked hastily.
“No, I must attend a Witch’s Coven in Cincinnati,” said Miss Greeb, and vanished in a puff of orange smoke.
Mr. Dee fanned the smoke with his hands and closed the door. “Phew,” he said. “You’d think she’d use a perfumed brand.”
“She’s old-fashioned,” Mrs. Dee murmured.
They stood beside the door in silence. Mr. Dee was just beginning to feel the shock. It was hard to believe that his son, his own flesh and blood, didn’t want to carry on the family tradition. It couldn’t be true!
“After dinner,” Dee said, finally, “I’ll have a man-to-man talk with him. I’m sure we won’t need any demoniac intervention.”
“Good,” Mrs. Dee said. “I’m sure you can make the boy understand.” She smiled, and Dee caught a glimpse of the old witch-light flickering behind her eyes.
“My roast!” Mrs. Dee gasped suddenly, the witch-light dying. She hurried back to her kitchen.
Dinner was a quiet meal. Morton knew that Miss Greeb had been there, and he ate in guilty silence, glancing occasionally at his father. Mr. Dee sliced and served the roast, frowning deeply. Mrs. Dee didn’t even attempt any small talk.
After bolting his dessert, the boy hurried to his room.
“Now we’ll see,” Mr. Dee said to his wife. He finished the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth, and stood up. “I am going to reason with him now. Where is my Amulet of Persuasion?”
Mrs. Dee thought deeply for a moment. Then she walked across the room to the bookcase. “Here it is,” she said, lifting it from the pages of a brightly jacketed novel. “I was using it as a marker.”
Mr. Dee slipped the amulet into his pocket, took a deep breath, and entered his son’s room.
Morton was seated at his desk. In front of him was a notebook, scribbled with figures and tiny, precise notations. On his desk were six carefully sharpened pencils, a soap eraser, an abacus, and a toy adding machine. His books hung precariously over the edge of the desk; there was Money, by Rimraamer, Bank Accounting Practice, by Johnson and Calhoun, Ellman’s Studies for the CPA, and a dozen others.
Mr. Dee pushed aside a mound of clothes and made room for himself on the bed. “How’s it going, son?” he asked, in his kindest voice.
“Fine, Dad,” Morton answered eagerly. “I’m up to chapter four in Basic Accounting, and I answered all the questions—”
“Son,” Dee broke in, speaking very softly, “how about your regular homework?”
Morton looked uncomfortable and scuffed his feet on the floor.
“You know, not many boys have a chance to become wizards in this day and age.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Morton looked away abruptly. In a high. nervous voice he said, “But Dad, I want to be an accountant. I really do, Dad.”
Mr. Dee shook his head. “Morton, there’s always been a wizard in our family. For eighteen hundred years, the Dees have been famous in supernatural circles.”
Morton continued to look out the window and scuff his feet.
“You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you, son?” Dee smiled sadly. “You know, anyone can be an accountant. But only a chosen few can master the Black Arts.”
Morton turned away from the window. He picked up a pencil, inspected the point, and began to turn it slowly in his fingers.
“How about it, boy? Won’t you work harder for Miss Greeb?”
Morton shook his head. “I want to be an accountant.”
Mr. Dee contained his sudden rush of anger with difficulty. What was wrong with the Amulet of Persuasion? Could the spell have run down? He should have recharged it. Nevertheless, he went on.
“Morton,” he said in a husky voice, “I’m only a Third Degree Adept, you know. My parents were very poor. They couldn’t send me to The University.”
“I know,” the boy said in a whisper.
“I want you to have all the things I never had. Morton, you can be a First Degree Adept.” He shook his head wistfully. “It’ll be difficult. But your mother and I have a little put away, and we’ll scrape the rest together somehow.”
Morton was biting his lip and turning the pencil rapidly in his fingers.
“How about it, son? You know, as a First Degree Adept, you won’t have to work in a store. You can be a Direct Agent of The Black One. A Direct Agent! What do you say, boy?”
For a moment, Dee thought his son was moved. Morton’s lips were parted, and there was a suspicious brightness in his eyes. But then the boy glanced at his accounting books, his little abacus, his toy adding machine.
“I’m going to be an accountant,” he said.
“We’ll see!” Mr. Dee shouted, all patience gone. “You will not be an accountant, young man. You will be a wizard. It was good enough for the rest of your family, and by all that’s damnable, it’ll be good enough for you. You haven’t heard the last of this, young man.” And he stormed out of the room.
Immediately, Morton returned to his accounting books.
Mr. and Mrs. Dee sat together on the couch, not talking. Mrs. Dee was busily knitting a wind-cord, but her mind wasn’t on it. Mr. Dee stared moodily at a worn spot on the living room rug.
Finally, Dee said, “I’ve spoiled him. Boarbas is the only solution.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Dee said hastily. “He’s so young.”
“Do you want your son to be an accountant?” Mr. Dee asked bitterly. “Do you want him to grow up scribbling with figures instead of doing The Black One’s important work?”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Dee. “But Boarbas—”
“I know. I feel like a murderer already.”