Читать книгу Magick Run Amok - Sharon Pape - Страница 10

Chapter 2

“You’re back!” Merlin said, swooping down on me as I returned from my abbreviated lunch. I peeled off my cold weather gear and stepped behind the counter to stow my purse.

“Make haste, make haste,” he urged me a good seven times before he added, “It’s Matilda. She is in dire need of you.”

“Why didn’t you say that first?” I yelled, running for the connecting door to her shop. I had visions of her on the floor, stricken with a heart attack or stroke, a broken hip or horrible burns. I was so geared for disaster that it took my brain a moment to reboot when I nearly collided with her. There wasn’t a drop of blood on her, not a red curl out of place. She was beaming at me, a doily covered tray of Linzer tarts in her hands.

“You scared me half to death!” I snapped at Merlin when he caught up to me, panting like he’d run a marathon.

“Well…ah…hmm…” he stammered. “You see, Tilly, dear woman that she is, wished to present you with this gift of her love and gratitude. She was waiting and waiting for you, after standing on her poor aching feet for hours baking these magnificent confections.”

Tilly rolled her eyes. “Poppycock, he was distraught when I told him he couldn’t have a tart until you did. As you are aware, his highness is sorely lacking in patience.”

Not what I wanted to hear, since I was uncomfortably stuffed from lunch. I must have been caught up in Travis’s nervous energy, because I’d bolted my food too. I felt like half of it was still stuck in my throat. As beautiful and tempting as the tarts were, they would have to wait a few hours. But Merlin looked so eager for one I didn’t have the heart to make him wait any longer. I sat down at the elegant tea table my aunt had set and selected a tart with raspberry jam. Tilly and Merlin took apricot ones, after which Tilly poured her homemade ginger peach tea.

I sipped my tea and told my aunt about the cold weather patrons at The Soda Jerk. The wizard didn’t take his eyes off me. He was like a vulture waiting for its next meal to finish dying. Tilly must have warned him not to eat until I did. There was no way around it. I took a dainty bite of the buttery cookie with its mantle of confectioners’ sugar. At any other time, I wouldn’t have been able to stop until it was gone. But at that moment, I was having trouble swallowing the tiny piece in my mouth.

“Never better,” I murmured once I’d gotten it down. “Perfection.”

Tilly was looking at me, one eyebrow arched skeptically. “Something’s wrong. No need to spare my feelings,” she said, squaring her shoulders, but already sounding hurt. “I’d prefer you tell me, Kailyn, so I can correct whatever it is the next time.”

“I swear to you, there’s not the tiniest thing wrong with it. I just had too much lunch. I’d like to save it till later when I can really appreciate it.”

“Okay,” she said, although she didn’t seem convinced. Meanwhile Merlin had made quick work of his and was reaching for another. Tilly slapped his hand away. “You may have a second one, but after that, not one bit more. Do you understand me?”

“Of course I understand,” he said indignantly.

“And don’t try your sad, puppy dog eyes on me. It won’t work.”

We sounded like a good old dysfunctional American family again, the way we had when Morgana and Bronwen were alive. Apparently even magick isn’t capable of changing family dynamics.

“Have you heard what our resident wizard is proposing to do?” Tilly said, no doubt trying to move past anymore discussions of tarts.

“Not yet.” What new can of worms was about to explode in my face? Merlin had chosen a raspberry tart this go-round and didn’t seem to be listening.

“Merlin, what’s this new plan of yours?” I asked reluctantly. The sooner I found out, the more time I’d have to prevent or moderate the consequences. Even so, ignorance seemed like the better option.

He sat up straight with pride, forgetting his tart for the moment. “To right a wrong, as any nobleman of my time would.”

Something about the way he said it, made Don Quixote pop into my mind, along with a deep sense of dread. “What wrong would that be?” I sounded impressively calm for someone whose stomach was trying out for a gymnastics event.

“I intend to make a run for the vacant seat on the town board,” he said grandly. “And when I win, I shall call for a vote to reestablish the proper name of this town and adopt a more appropriate emblem for it.”

There were so many problems within those sentences; I had trouble deciding which one to address first. I finally went with, “You have to be an American citizen and a resident of this town to run for the board.”

“Says whom?”

“The people who made the laws. Since you didn’t enter the country, not to mention the state, the county or the town, legally, you are not a legal resident.”

“Then tell me how to remedy the situation.”

“There is no way.” Fast and blunt, a ripping-off-the-Band-Aid approach. I hoped it might deter any further discussion. I should have known better.

“I see,” he said. I waited in silence while he pondered the problem. Tilly and I shared empathetic glances. “How is one recognized as a legal resident?” he asked finally.

“You would need a birth certificate stating you were born in this country as well as a social security card and that’s just the beginning. If you tried to use phony documents, you would wind up in prison, if not in a psychiatric ward.” Merlin went back to eating his tart, but I could practically see the gears turning in his head.

* * * *

Dinner time came and went, without my appetite making an appearance. I fed the cats, who had no such problem, worked on the computer, and watched TV. At ten o’clock, when I looked at the tart sitting on the kitchen counter, it finally looked inviting to me. I wasn’t going to save it for dessert, though. It was going to be dinner. I enjoyed it thoroughly and was still licking the homemade jam off my fingers when I called Tilly to extol its virtues. She lapped up the praise the way her big Maine Coon lapped up whipped cream.

I listened to the late news before climbing into bed. There was no mention of Travis’s friend, but then it wasn’t yet forty-eight hours since he’d gone missing. I was worried about Travis driving around again all night with no sleep, staring into the dark for any sign of Ryan or his car. I tried to keep Tilly’s premonition of death from wandering into my thoughts, but it was like piling sand bags to stop a tsunami. I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep until the phone woke me. “I found him,” Travis said.

“Is he all right?” I asked, hoping it was just fatigue that made him sound so empty.

“He’s dead.”