Magic and Loss

Chapter 23

“How did you sleep, dear?” my mother asked, as she spread marmalade on her English muffin.

“Okay, I guess,” I replied, as I eyed the plate of bacon and eggs Clarence set before me. “I’m afraid I’m not used to the sound of traffic in the streets anymore. It’s going to take some readjusting.”

“Have you seen an obstetrician? Or were you simply relying on witch doctors for your prenatal care?”

Despite my mother’s recent decision to treat me as an adult, I didn’t see any point in testing her resolution by revealing that I’d left Golgotham because Hexe had stolen money I needed for a prenatal exam. “Well, I have a friend who practices traditional Chinese medicine. . . .”

“I suspected as much,” she said, setting down her knife. “So I took the liberty of booking you an appointment with my gyno, Dr. Blumlein—he’s also an obstetrician. You’ll love him—he warms his hands before he does his exam.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, the image of my mother with her feet in gyno stirrups now seared into my mind’s eye. So much for breakfast . . .

Dr. Blumlein’s practice was in a state-of-the-art office building on East Seventy-second Street, within easy reach of Prada, Frédéric Malle, and Swifty’s. When my mother and I arrived, we entered a tastefully appointed reception room with nicer furniture than most people have in their homes and were greeted by a pleasantly smiling woman who only glanced at my tattoos and eyebrow piercing once as she entered my information into a computer. After that was taken care of, I was handed over to a second, equally pleasant woman dressed in nurse’s whites, who escorted me to an examination room, leaving my mother to her own devices.

I changed out of my street clothes into a smocklike garment, and the nurse took my medical history and drew a blood sample. She then handed me a little plastic cup with a screw-on lid and pointed me to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Once that was taken care of, I was returned to the examination room, where I sat on the paper-wrapped exam table, staring at a laminated poster depicting cutaway views of a gestating womb during the various stages of pregnancy.

There was a polite rap on the door as the nurse reappeared, this time in the company of a dapper middle-aged man dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope looped about his neck. He had a nice smile and kind eyes, and seemed exactly the sort of man my mother and her high-society friends would trust to look at their hoo-has on a regular basis.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Eresby,” he said, flashing me a welcoming smile. “My name is Dr. Blumlein. I’ll be looking after you and your baby from here on.” As the nurse busied herself with preparing the room for my pelvic exam, he glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying. “It says here that you are in your eighteenth week.”

“That’s correct.”

He gave me a dubious look. “Are you certain?”

“I might be off a week in either direction,” I admitted. “But I’m in the general ballpark.”

“I see,” he grunted, jotting something down on the clipboard. “I understand that this is your first prenatal exam? I realize you’re young, but there are risk factors in all pregnancies. You don’t want to gamble with your baby’s health, do you?” he chided. “I see that you’re twenty-six. And the father? He’s—?”

“Kymeran.”

The gynecologist’s smile abruptly blinked off. “I was asking his age.”

“Sorry, my mistake. He’s thirty,” I replied.

The pelvic exam and pap smear proved to be as awkward, uncomfortable, and tedious as all such exams tend to be, landing somewhere between a getting-my-teeth-cleaned and changing-the-oil-in-my-car on the Necessary Evil scale.

“I’m going to leave you with Nurse Riggins here,” Dr. Blumlein announced as he shed his gloves. “She’ll conduct the ultrasound, so we can check on the development of your baby and triangulate your due date. Once that’s finished, I’ll be conferring with you in my office.”

“Just stay on your back and uncover your tummy, Ms. Eresby,” Nurse Riggins said as she rolled over the portable ultrasound machine. Once my abdomen was exposed, she slathered it with a clear gel and then turned on the machine.

“What, exactly, are you looking for when you do this?” I asked as she placed the transducer against my swollen belly.

“Right now I’m monitoring the baby’s heartbeat and seeing if your placenta is in the right place,” the nurse replied, keeping one eye on the monitor as she slowly moved the transducer across the expanse of my bared belly. “I’m also looking for fetal abnormalities. So far everything is checking out just fine.” She turned the computer screen about so that it was facing me. “Do you want to say hello?”

I stared at the black-and-white image on the screen—although it looked like a cross between a smudged Xerox and an X-ray, there was no mistaking what I held within me was a very well-developed fetus, with its legs folded up like landing gear and its tiny hands held before its face like a boxer. The first thing I did was laugh in delight at the sight of my child—so close, and yet so far from me. And then I began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” I said as the nurse paused in her duties long enough to hand me a tissue. “I didn’t mean to lose control like that.”

“It happens all the time.” She smiled. “I’m used to it.”

“I just wish my boyfriend was here to see it,” I said as I blew my nose. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Oh, yes,” Nurse Riggins replied, nodding her head. “He’s definitely a boy.”

I nodded my head. So Lafo’s dessert was right, after all.

“And is he—is he—?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence for fear of saying what I dreaded would somehow make it so.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Ms. Eresby,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Your little boy is perfectly normal. . . .”

A big, stupid smile split my face as I heaved a sigh of relief upon hearing the news.

“He’s got all ten fingers and toes.”

Dr. Blumlein’s private office was every bit as tastefully appointed as his waiting room, with diplomas from a prestigious university and medical school hanging on the walls, alongside framed photographs of famous women whose vaginas he had looked at over the years—including my own mother.

“Nice to see you, again, Millicent,” the doctor said, motioning for my mother and me to take a seat. “I must say it’s a good thing you brought your daughter in when you did.”

“Is there a problem?” I frowned, protectively crossing my arms over my stomach.

“Although your general health is excellent, Ms. Eresby, and the baby’s fetal heartbeat is very strong, it appears there has been a gross miscalculation somewhere along the line. According to the ultrasound and my own physical examination, I’d say you are closer to thirty weeks.”

“That’s impossible!” I exclaimed in disbelief. “There is no way I’m almost eight months pregnant!”

“I don’t know how else to explain it, Ms. Eresby, save that it might have something to do with the baby’s mixed parentage. I admit I know practically nothing about Kymeran biology, save that their gestation period is far shorter than ours. To be frank, I don’t feel comfortable taking you on as a patient, as this falls way outside my area of expertise. However, I can give you a referral to a colleague who specializes in high-risk pregnancies. . . .” He scribbled down a name and address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to me. “He’s in a much better position to handle a case as . . . unique as yours.”

“I see,” my mother said stiffly, gathering up her purse. “Why don’t you just come out and say that your malpractice insurance doesn’t cover hybrid pregnancies, Daniel?”

“Now, Millicent, you’re not being fair—!” he objected.

“Perhaps I’m not,” she conceded. “But that can be said for a lot of things in life. Come along, dear.” As we left the doctor’s office, she paused to give him a final, withering look. “Oh, and by the way, I’ll be stopping by your receptionist on the way out in order to cancel my next appointment.”

“I can’t believe he would try to fob you off on another doctor like that!” my mother fumed as we exited the penthouse elevator.

“He did have a point, Mom.”

“So does a pencil,” she sniffed. “That doesn’t mean I should sit there and let someone jab it in my eye.”

Clarence opened the door before my mother had a chance to retrieve her keys from her purse. “Welcome back, Madam,” he said, then turned to address me. “Miss Timmy—you have a lady caller in the Grand Salon.”

My mother frowned and glanced at me. “Who could that possibly be?”

“Perhaps it’s Nessie,” I suggested.

Upon entering the Grand Salon, I instantly recognized the regal figure with the peacock blue hair standing before the fireplace, staring at the museum-quality Dürer hung over the mantel.

“Lady Syra!” I exclaimed, unable to refrain from smiling in welcome.

“What are you doing here?” My mother asked frostily. She was standing on the staircase behind me, glaring down at the Witch Queen with unconcealed hostility.

“Hello to you, too, Millicent,” Syra replied graciously.

“Why on Earth did you allow this woman into my house?” my mother snapped, turning her withering glare on Clarence.

“The lady said she wished to speak to Miss Timmy, and refused to leave until she did so,” the butler explained apologetically. “I deemed it best not to aggravate the situation, given her . . . abilities.”

My mother snorted in disgust and returned her attention to Lady Syra. “What do you want with my daughter, sorceress?”

“That is between Tate and me,” the Witch Queen replied politely but firmly.

“Her name is Timothea!” My mother’s shout was loud enough to make the pendants on the crystal chandelier jingle.

“Mom, please! Let me handle this,” I said, doing my best to try to soothe her. “Do you trust me to do that?” For a moment it looked like she was going to fight me on it, but then she grudgingly sighed and nodded her head. “So,” I said, turning to face Lady Syra, “why are you here?”

“It’s about Hexe. Is there someplace where we can speak in private?” she asked, glancing about the ballroom-sized salon.

“We can talk in the library,” I said, motioning for her to follow me. My mother glared at Lady Syra as she passed her on the stairs, but remained silent.

Compared to the Grand Salon, the library seemed relatively cozy. Once I closed the door behind us, Lady Syra heaved a sigh of relief and allowed her shoulders to drop.

“If Hexe sent you here to try to talk me into coming back,” I warned her, “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Scratch: I’m not setting foot in that house until he agrees to give up the gauntlet.”

“While I am here on Hexe’s behalf,” she admitted, “he didn’t send me. Something is horribly wrong with my son, and I need your help. I stopped by the house last night for a visit, but no one answered the door. I was about to leave when Scratch called out to me from the rooftop and said Hexe had locked himself inside his office and was refusing to come out. So I used my passkey to let myself in. It took some cajoling, but I finally got Hexe to open the door to his office. I don’t know what he was doing in there, but he positively reeked of Dragon Balm. I asked him what was going on, but all he would say was that you’d left him because you were tired of being poor, and then slammed the door in my face.” She shook her head as she spoke, as if she could not believe her own words. “This has something to do with the Gauntlet of Nydd, doesn’t it?”

“I’m convinced that’s what’s wrong,” I replied grimly. “There’s a curse on the gauntlet that’s keeping Hexe from using his Right Hand magic.”

“I should have known that thing was trouble the moment Trinket hissed at it!” Lady Syra said ruefully, reaching up to pet the familiar looped about her neck. “Is it true Dr. Moot was the one who bonded that thing to Hexe’s hand?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She frowned in consternation. “But why would he go to that old tosser? Was it just a question of money? I would have paid to have it done properly, you know. Curse that foolish pride of his. He’s just like his father!”

“He had his reasons. They seemed to make sense, at the time,” I replied, leery of going into detail for fear of saying too much. Things were bad enough already without dragging the Maladanti into it. “I’ve tried to talk him into getting the thing removed, but he’s convinced that if he can find Madam Erys, he can get the curse lifted without having to remove the gauntlet itself. He won’t listen to reason.”

“It’s the damned Dragon Balm,” Lady Syra said with a grimace. “Esau used to smoke that crap to try to forget the man he used to be. There was always a touch of darkness to my brother—the same that exists in all Kymerans—but once Nina was no longer in his life, it spread like a cancer throughout his soul, until it drew him down the spiral of the Left Hand path.”

“Is that what you think Hexe is trying to do—forget?”

“If my son has indeed lost his Right Hand magic to a curse, he is suffering a fate most Kymerans would rather die than endure. No wonder he seemed a shadow of himself. Tate—I don’t know what happened between you and Hexe, but if you truly love my son, you will come back with me to Golgotham.”

“Please don’t ask me to do that, Syra.”

“I’m not asking, Tate; I’m begging,” she said, taking my hand and clasping it tightly. “I could have cast a Come Hither and dragged you back downtown against your will, but I didn’t, because I know that’s not what Hexe would have wanted. You wear the Crown of Adon, which marks you as his true love, just as it marked his father as my true love. When my father forced me to send Horn away, I became bitter and angry, and I could feel the darkness rise in me, whispering in my ear in a shadow’s voice. The only thing that kept me centered, that drew me back to the light was my child. When I looked into Hexe’s eyes for the first time, I was filled with hope and strength. If not for my son, I would have joined my brother on his downward spiral. Of that I have no doubt.

“That is why you must go back to Golgotham—Hexe needs you and his child to fight the darkness gathering within him. I have already lost my brother to the Left Hand path—I will not stand by and allow it to claim my son as well. If you can get Hexe to agree to it, I will pay to have the Gauntlet of Nydd removed. Once it’s off, I’ll have it destroyed. I don’t care if it’s a historical artifact—it has meant nothing but sorrow to the Royal Family.”

I fully intended to tell her no. The word was resting on my tongue, waiting to be spoken. Going back to Golgotham was risky for me, not to mention the baby. But when I looked into Syra’s eyes, I saw a mother terrified for the sake of her son—a son who had the same golden eyes.

When I told my mother I would be returning to Golgotham with Lady Syra, she was so taken aback she actually set aside her bourbon. “What do you mean you’re going back?” I could almost see the steam shooting out her ears.

“Hexe needs my help,” I explained. “We might be having problems right now, but I still love him.”

This did not mollify my mother in the least. “I know what you’re up to, witch!” she snapped, pointing at Lady Syra. “You’re trying to steal my daughter away from me! You’ve cast some kind of spell over her so you can drag her back to your good-for-nothing son!”

“Mother, please! You make it sound like I’ve pricked my finger on a spinning wheel!”

She turned to glare at me in disapproval. “This was all an elaborate trick, wasn’t it?” she fumed. “You just wanted to get back into my good graces long enough for your father and me to unfreeze your trust fund. Is that why you got pregnant in the first place—to get Grandma and Grandpa on the hook?”

“I don’t want your money if it means turning back into a kid you can push around and tell what to do!” I replied. “I’ve been there and done that, Mom. I didn’t like it the first time, so why should I sign up for it again, and bring my kid along for the ride? And speaking of which, as far as I’m concerned, my baby only has one grandmother . . . and it’s not you.” I knew I drew blood with that last remark because I saw her flinch, and I realized that I would regret saying it later on, but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less that I said something so cruel to someone I loved. I was my mother’s child, after all. I turned to Lady Syra and motioned for her to follow me. “Come on—I need to pack.”

“No need, Miss Timmy,” Clarence announced. He was standing at the head of the stairs that led to the Grand Salon, holding my suitcase in one hand and Beanie’s leash in the other. “I trust I wasn’t being too presumptuous?”

“Honestly, Clarence!” my mother spat. “First you let that witch in the door; now you’re helping Timmy pack her bags! Have you no sense of loyalty?”

“Ah! That reminds me,” the butler said, taking an envelope from his breast pocket as he stepped forward. “Here is my letter of resignation, effective immediately. Normally, I would have given substantially more notice than this, but the circumstances are unique. I will be accompanying Miss Timmy, as she is in greater need of my services than either yourself or the master.”

She opened the envelope, scowling at the contents. “This letter isn’t dated.”

“I wrote it some time ago,” Clarence replied. “I’ve just been waiting for the right opportunity to deliver it.”

“You’re leaving us to go work for her?” she scoffed. “How do you expect to get paid? In magic beans?”

“While I may have served the Eresbies, from boy to man, with my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself, I have also kept my eyes and ears open and have used information I have overheard at table to make certain investments in the stock market,” Clarence replied. “I have managed to accumulate something of a nest egg. Granted, it’s nothing compared to the Eresby fortune, but, to be blunt, I don’t need your stinking money, ma’am. I’ve got plenty of my own; more than enough to retire anywhere in the world. And as it so happens, I’ve chosen to retire in Golgotham—at least until the baby comes.”

“You’re behind this as well, aren’t you?” my mother snarled at Lady Syra, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. “You weren’t happy with taking away my daughter, so now you’ve cast a spell over Clarence and turned him against me as well!”

“You still don’t get it, even after all this time, do you, Millicent?” Lady Syra said sadly. “A true heart is stronger than any magic I can cast.”

And with that, I walked back out of my parents’ penthouse, leaving my mother sputtering to herself, alone and untended, in the echoing expanse of the Grand Salon.