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Chapter 5:
In Which Lucien Is Forced to Play Well with Others

It was day four of my intolerably violent case of influenza; I knew this only because of the date on the newspaper Helene had left on my night table that morning. Otherwise, who could tell? I was miserable as could be. Time passing, the sun rising and setting, had no meaning for me when I was lying in bed with the drapes pulled over the windows.

I lay still a moment, wondering what it was that could have woken me. I had been sleeping like a stone lately. As it turns out, a terribly high fever was the miracle cure for my sleeplessness. I could close my eyes for a mere second and lose consciousness completely for hours at a time.

“Lucien?”

I jumped, startled to see Helene at my bedside so suddenly. “Oh! You frightened me,” I said, wincing as I spoke because of how it irritated my sore throat. “H-How long were you standing there?”

“I knocked, but I do not think you heard me. How are you feeling?”

“Not much better.”

She put her hand to my forehead. “You still have a bad fever. If it lasts one more day, we will have to call Dr. Maxwell again.”

“No, please,” I sighed. “I can’t go through that again.”

“What do you mean? Do you not like him? He is a nice man, and your friend.”

I shook my head. “You wouldn’t understand.” I sneezed and grabbed my handkerchief. The fact that Dr. Maxwell was a nice friend had only made it that much worse when he’d come in and examined me and said nothing. As usual. Until of course he shocked me by calling me thoughtless and telling me I needed to change. It’d been awfully embarrassing. I didn’t think I’d like to repeat the experience.

“Why would I not understand?” Helene reached behind me and fluffed my pillow, before tucking my blankets more firmly around me. She never seemed to be able to just sit and talk; she always had to be doing something useful at the same time. “Doctors are your friends. Maman says that—”

“Doctors are not your friends,” I contradicted, frowning at her over my handkerchief. “They are helpful when one needs surgery, or medicine, or some such thing. But the poking and prodding part is totally unnecessary. Or when they need to take blood….” I shuddered.

“Ah, oui, you are scared of blood. I had forgotten.”

Misère climbed out of the blankets beside me and nestled up by my head, ruffling his feathers against my cheek. I reached up weakly and stroked his breast plumage. “No, I don’t feel much better, little fellow. But aren’t you afraid you’ll catch the bird influenza?”

Misère showed he didn’t care by nipping at my ear in a friendly fashion.

Helene patted Misère’s little head. “Pretty Misère. I shall fetch you a kipper from the kitchen. Lucien, will you eat some soup, do you think?”

I hadn’t felt much like eating anything for a while, but I nodded anyway. “Water too, s’il vous plait?” Helene skipped out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her. I smiled and curled up inside my blankets.

I could feel myself getting quite spoiled. Helene was the ideal nurse, always with a smile on her face, acting as though her greatest pleasure was to serve—which it most likely was. As long as it made her happy, and convenienced me, I saw no reason not to let her indulge herself. After all, I did deserve some kind of reward for allowing her and that ingrate Tom to live in my flat. Not to mention that this whole mess was her fault anyway. If I’d not held my tongue when those confounded Fairfaxes had interrogated me, I would never have been beaten within an inch of my life and tossed off London Bridge like so much trash.

At first, however, I was too sick to make much use of Helene’s service. She didn’t have to do much besides give me tea and make sure I had my medicine twice a day. All I did was sleep. That is, I did, until the medicine began to do its job, bringing everything in my lungs up so that I spent all night coughing, and all day sneezing and blowing my nose until I thought my head would come off.

By day five I was a perfect wretch.

“Augh! Helene!”

She rushed in, wearing a frilly nightdress and matching cap. “Lucien? What is wrong?”

I stared at her confusedly. “Why on earth are you dressed like that?”

“It is four o’clock in the morning. What is the matter?” she asked, taking my hand.

“It’s my throat. It feels as though it’s on fire—oh damn—” I burst into a fit of coughing so violent that Helene’s hand tightened on mine.

“Your face, it is all flushed, and you are covered in sweat,” Helene said worriedly. “Lucien pauvre. I should send Tom for Dr. Maxwell.”

“No! I don’t want Dr. Maxwell, and I especially don’t want to bloody see Tom—”

“What’s goin’ on?” Tom said, entering the room and yawning loudly. “What’s all the racket? People are trying to sleep, you ken?”

“Get him out!” I cried, turning over and burying my face in the pillow. “Make him be quiet!”

There was a slight scuffle, and then I heard the door close. Deeming it safe, I peeked out to see only Helene by my bed once again. She was pouring honey into a spoon. “Swallow this, Lucien. It will help your throat.”

I did, then looked at her sorrowfully. “I need tea.”

Nodding, Helene dutifully left, only to return several minutes later with a cup of steaming chamomile. Then she actually remained by my bedside till I fell asleep. Of course, it didn’t take me long to get used to such treatment. Throughout it all I was convinced that it was the least she could do, having unwittingly caused my quarantine in the first place.

“Helene! Where’s my tea? Gracious, I could die in here and no one would even notice. What, is the house deserted?” On day six I was sitting up in bed, shaving with a hand mirror. I hadn’t done so in a day or two and had been well on my way to growing an eerily impressive beard. “Helene!”

The door banged open, and Helene marched in, carrying aloft not my tea but a familiar green bottle. I dropped my razor in shock. “No! I told you already, I’m well on the road to health. I don’t need to take that disgusting stuff anymore.”

“Dr. Maxwell said to take it till it is empty,” Helene insisted, ladling the thick green liquid out in a teaspoon.

I laughed, ending with a short bout of coughing. “He can say what he likes. My fever’s gone and I’m through with that medicine. Now, I’d like tea if you please, and oh! Draw back the drapes. I’m wasting away for lack of sunlight.” I calmly resumed shaving.

“Ouvrez voutre bouche,” Helene commanded.

“Ha! Non,” I said. “But it is touching how you’re trying to tell me what to do.”

“Ouvre voutre bouche, or I will open it for you,” she repeated, eyeing me sternly. When I shook my head absently, she grabbed me by the chin and tried to force the spoon into my mouth. I clenched my teeth tightly and we spent several minutes struggling.

Finally Helene pulled back in frustration. “Fine! If you will not take your medicine, you will not get any better! You will stay in your room and eat nothing but soup forever!” To my dismay she yanked open the night table drawer and began emptying it of sweets. “You are not well enough to have any of these things. I am taking them away.”

“You can’t do that!” I exclaimed, trying to grab as many candies out of the drawer as I could hold. “Those are mine—Helene!” The sweets vanished out of my hands as soon as I grabbed them. I stared at her in shock. “How dare you!”

“I am your nurse. You must do what I say.”

“I beg your pardon, Helene, but you are a child. I am an adult. There is no way on earth that you can make me do anything I don’t want to do.”

Grimoire, peeking out of Helene’s pocket, began squeaking excitedly. Helene nodded slightly and replaced the cap on the medicine bottle. “We shall see. I will leave you alone now, since that seems to be what you want.”

“Good, leave,” I snapped. “I am tired of your bossing me about. I will get better all on my own without your help. Heavens, what do you imagine I ever did before I met you? I got along quite well, thank you very much.”

“We shall see about that, too, vous homme mauvais,” Helene declared, stalking out and slamming the door behind her.

“You left the drapes closed!” I said, but she either did not hear me or she was intentionally ignoring me. So be it. I didn’t really care; I’d gotten used to her attention but I could live without it. I took up a Shakespeare volume and got on reading it for what had to be the thousandth time.

The sunlight peeking in from behind the drapes eventually faded; I looked at my feebly ticking old watch and saw that it was nearly suppertime. I expected it was soup again. Helene had promised that such fare would be my only sustenance for the remainder of my existence.

Misère doubted that would be the case, but he sounded rather cross with me for making Helene leave before she could bring him a kipper. He thought I should have been a bit gentler if I wished her to continue helping me.

“Why should I? I didn’t ask her to help me. She did it all on her own. And if at any point I should refuse her aid, she should obey my wishes. I never once—”

The door burst open suddenly, and I glanced up, nearly dying in horror when I saw that it was Tom, not Helene, who stood grinning and bearing a tray.

“Oh, no. The angel of death would have been more welcome,” I sighed, covering my face with my hands. “What are you doing here?”

“Only what Helene forced me. I hear you’ve just learned this morning that she runs the house. You haven’t noticed ‘cause you’re never home,” Tom said, striding over and setting the tray down on the night table without so much as a clatter. “Well, look at you. A couple of days in here and you don’t look at all better. I bet you miss eating the stuff me and Helene have over in the kitchen. What was it yesterday…angel cake? Something like that.”

I uncovered my face. “Did you come in here to tease me? Because it’s really not—”

“Oh, no. Well, partly. But mostly I’m bored. Helene’s up in her attic and I already cleaned out the biscuit jar, so there’s not much else to do.” He crossed the room to my desk and began fingering my papers.

I stiffened. “Please don’t touch those.”

Tom ignored me, shifting the papers back and forth with magic as he pleased. “Why? You don’t got nothing to hide.” Blarney leaped off him onto the foot of my bed and began idly scratching the footboard.

“That isn’t the point. No, leave that…stop….”

Tom paused in the middle of opening my wardrobe. “Is there something you don’t want me to see? A dress, maybe?” He continued busily poking through my things. I sat up and watched him suspiciously, making certain he didn’t put anything in his pockets.

“Blimey, I don’t feel the least bad for making you pay me up next year,” Tom said, his voice partially muffled by the wardrobe. “Look at this stuff! No wonder you don’t got food in that pantry never—you spend every penny to look like a bloody toff!” He kicked the wardrobe door closed. “Nothing worth looking at in there.”

“There’s nothing worth looking at in here, either. Now would you please leave and allow me to get well?”

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Tom asked, pointing to the tray he’d brought in. “Helene put good hard work into making that, you ken?”

I looked at him suspiciously as I raised my teacup to my lips. I was almost surprised to find that the tea tasted normal, but Tom was still watching me, smirking. I frowned. “What is it? Did you poison me or something?”

He laughed. “While that’s an excellent plan, no. Never you mind.” He crossed back towards my night table and pushed the tray closer to me. “Eat your soup, nancy boy. Oi, what’s this?”

I glanced over the rim of my teacup to see him holding up a photograph in a round pewter frame, and sputtered my tea a bit. “Er, it’s nothing. Please, Tom, put it down,” I said quickly.

Tom’s eyes studied the photograph and then darted to me, before returning to the picture. “Aye, I see. It’s your mam, ain’t it? Got to be. You look exactly like her—like mother like daughter, aye, Luce?”

“It is my mother,” I said somewhat stiffly, “and yes, I do realize I bear quite a resemblance.”

“She dead?” Tom asked casually, glancing lazily over the photograph once more before replacing it on my table.

“No! She’s living somewhere in Italy. Why don’t you just go back to the parlor and leave me alone?” I demanded.

“Your father live in Italy too?”

“He’s dead, you nuisance.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Tom said shortly. He picked up the book I still had in my lap and studied the cover a few moments, then flipped through it, laughing and showing it to me every time he came upon an illustration he deemed amusing.

“I don’t see anything so droll about that,” I said, my arms crossed, when he opened to a woodcut of the famous ghost scene from Hamlet. “That’s a very well-known portion of the play, and with good reason. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that’s supposed to be a ghost,” Tom said, somewhat loftily, “and I can tell you right away that ain’t what ghosts look like.”

He would know, having apparently had quite a close encounter with some that night at Anabelle’s. It seemed a lifetime ago, and it rather scared me to think that I was already beginning to forget what life was like before Tom, Helene, and the coven. I rather wished to ask Tom a few questions about ghosts. I had seen nothing but shadows when I burst into the study that night, and I had never seen so much as that before in my life. All I had ever experienced was presences, feelings, and I was very curious as to what Tom had seen in his short life as a warlock.

But I bit my tongue. I wasn’t about to have a heart-to-heart conversation with Thomas. That was far too exclusive to friendships, and Tom and I were not only not friends, but also about three steps away from being mortal enemies. I held out my hand. “I would thank you kindly to please return my book, and keep any further critique of the illustrations therein to yourself, Thomas,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” he said, tossing me the book. He picked up Blarney in his arms and headed for the door. “I’m leaving. Nothing to do in here anyway besides talk to a bedridden milksop. Well, I’ve about had it.”

“No one asked you to invade my room in the first place,” I replied, opening my book.

“Enjoy your soup,” Tom said with a snicker, walking out and leaving the door wide open behind him.

I tasted the soup apprehensively, but like the tea it seemed fine. My appetite was getting a little better, and I finished tea and soup only to remain somewhat hungry afterward for real food. Even Misère’s kippers, which he had the presence of mind to go himself and request from Helene, were starting to look appetizing.

“I’m bored,” I said to Misère finally by the next day, sliding down in my bed, “and peckish. I’ve nothing to read and no one to talk to and nothing good to eat. I haven’t gone to a party or kissed a lady in a week. I’m going mad.”

Misère gave a squawk and nearly choked on a kipper bone. I frowned. “Don’t laugh! It’s true, I am in the worst way yet. Now the fever’s gone I can’t even sleep. Surely you understand how perfectly miserable I am.” I lay there a moment, then sat up. “Helene! Venez ici! Je vais bien maintenant!”

No one came. I could not even hear a sound in the flat outside my door. Helene had not come to see me since she’d stormed out of my room the day before; Tom had been in a few times to drop off a tray and pester me for a quarter-hour or so. Although I hardly dared admit it, I was feeling incredibly lonely and sick of staring at my own four walls.

I got up out of bed and put on a dressing gown before slipping out into the hall, looking around curiously. Misère fluttered onto my shoulder and peered about with equal concern. “Where is everyone?” I said to him. Sticking my head into the kitchen, I saw that a pot of something was boiling on the stove, smelling rather good. But Helene was nowhere to be seen; the only sign of life in the house was a sudden clear strain of violin sound that echoed from down the hall. It stopped suddenly and was followed by loud, appreciative mewing. Blarney sounded as though she were lauding a performance at the Royal Opera House.

“Well, I’m not so desperate as to go in there and try to talk to Tom,” I muttered, entering the kitchen and peeking into the biscuit jar. Some sort of shortbread with raspberry jam latticed into the top. “Good heavens! The child should consider a career in the culinary arts.” I nibbled at the end of one; then, because I was so hungry, crammed it and a second into my mouth at once. No one was watching, so there was no need to be polite about it.

“Ha ha! You are better, you are! Eating biscuits! Ha ha!” Helene was suddenly in the doorway, laughing hard; she was wearing her coat and carrying a large paper bag with two baguettes sticking out the top. “Now you are glad I sneaked medicine into your soup, are you not? Ha ha!”

I nearly had a conniption trying to swallow and avoid looking like a glutton. Some of the biscuit went down the wrong way and I spent several minutes unable to speak for coughing.

“That is what you get when you eat like the pig!” Helene said cheerfully, setting her groceries on the table. “So you are well enough to be out of bed? Bon! You can have supper with us!”

“Did you pick me up some whiskey?” Tom asked, wandering into the room, his violin in one hand and its bow in the other. “I told you, it’s a necessity, I’ve got—oi, Luce, you choking?” He switched his bow to the other hand and pounded me on the back a few times.

“S-Stop!” I sputtered. “You’re going to break my spine!”

“And that’s the thanks I get for saving your life,” Tom sighed, going over and digging through the bag on the table. “Bread…kippers…milk…blimey, what’s this?” He pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “It’s bloody heavy!”

“Give me that!” Helene cried, snatching it from his hands and clutching it to her chest. “You must not look at that!” So saying, she ran from the room and we heard her footsteps clambering up the attic stairs.

“Never mind! Gone in the head, that lassie,” Tom grumbled, walking out towards the parlor.

I decided to follow him and pick up a few more books from my small library, as I was thoroughly sick of everything in my bedroom. Tom tried to shut the door behind him but I caught it open. “Don’t worry, I shan’t invade your privacy any more than absolutely necessary,” I said, walking over to the bookshelf. “Unlike some persons I know of, I don’t enjoy making myself a nuisance to others.”

Tom sat on the chair by the window and drew out two notes on the violin. “I hate to tell you this, you old plonker, but you’re a nuisance whether you mean to be or not.”

I shook my head, still looking over the shelves. “Fine thing to say, considering you’re living in my flat.”

“Aye, and not for free either, so you can quit tryin’ to hold it over me head.”

“Wherever did you learn to play the violin?” I asked presently, after listening to several minutes of Tom’s surprisingly skillful playing. I’d seen plenty of Irishmen toy with the fiddle, especially around Cheapside, but Tom’s technique seemed more intuitive, as though he’d had a studied tutor. And I couldn’t imagine how he could have had such a privilege.

He stopped playing abruptly. “Nowhere. I taught meself,” he said, and just as quickly packed the instrument away in its case. “So Luce. Wherever did you learn to be such a bloody sap? I hear you couldn’t even mind the doctor’s business.”

I realized too late my fatal error of expressing any interest in Tom’s life whatsoever. I turned away and continued perusing the book spines.

Tom came up beside me and began going through the liquor cabinet. I could hear the clink of near-empty bottles until he finally came up with one that was yet about a quarter full of brandy. “You’re scared of blood and you won’t drink a drop of liquor,” he said suddenly. “You spend all your money on clothes and when you’re a wee bit sick you whine like a bairn. How do you live with yourself?” he asked, staring at me as though I was a freak of nature.

I fully intended not to humor him with a response. I pulled down a thick book and started leafing through it.

“You’re a big faker, that’s what you are,” Tom continued, swigging from the bottle, his blue eyes watching me as though waiting for a reaction. “At least my whole life isn’t a huge fib.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, but Tom laughed.

“Oh, I know a good deal more about you than you think,” he said cheerfully.

“Good for you.”

“And I’m ever more convinced that you are an irritating, girlish dosser who thinks the whole bloody world exists to do what he wants,” Tom replied smoothly. “Not to mention cranky ‘cause no one likes you besides your ugly bird.”

Misère ruffled slightly but said nothing; the insult miffed me considerably more than it did him. “You are obviously thicker than I thought, for that’s simply a stupid thing to say. Misère’s an exceedingly fine bird. How would you like it if someone offended Blarney?”

Tom picked the cat up and rubbed her head against his cheek. “Well, a bloke would have to be blind to think Blarney wasn’t absolutely grand.”

I couldn’t say much to that. Blarney could not help being cute, even when she looked smugly at me while Tom cuddled her. “Just keep your thoughts about Misère to yourself, Thomas.”

“Fine then. But it don’t change a thing I said about you.” He took another swig from the brandy bottle. It annoyed me exceedingly and, without exactly meaning to, I glanced back at him and sent the bottle flying out of his hand on its own accord. It smashed to pieces against the wall, brandy splashing everywhere. Tom’s mouth fell open and he used magic in turn to shove me backward a little. I knocked into the bookshelf and all the books on the top three shelves came crashing down on my head.

Tom was laughing uproariously; I angrily grabbed a volume of poetry and threw it at him. He blocked it with his arm and threw it right back at me, hitting me in the stomach and sending me crashing down into the fallen books.

“Tom, you are such a child!” I cried, picking myself up as he continued laughing. “Why can’t you behave like an adult for once?”

“Speak for yourself! You’re the one who’s throwing books around like cricket balls…about the only use these trash novels are good for, anyway,” he said, tossing another at me. I ducked it and threw a book at him that hit his shoulder, narrowly missing Blarney. Tom clenched his teeth and speedily flung a dictionary.

“Arrêt!” Helene burst into the parlor and made the dictionary freeze in midair three inches from my forehead. “What are you crazy men doing? What is this mess?”

Neither of us considered ourselves accountable to this little girl. Tom turned away with a huff and I crossly shoved the books back into their places. Helene was not fooled, however; she folded her arms. “I heard you fighting,” she said, “and you must not do it again. It is not good for covens to fight. We must be a team. We should never try to hurt one another.”

“If he could keep from insulting my familiar, I’d be more than obliged,” I muttered.

Tom spun around. “You just threw a book at Blarney!”

“I did not! Why would I do that? I threw it at you!”

“Assez! No one should be mean to familiars in any way!” Helene declared. “Now if you can please be nice to each other, we can have a nice supper. I have finished cooking.”

I glared at Tom. “Of course, Helene. I for one can be civil even if I don’t wish to be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go put on something presentable.” I strode out of the room with a flourish.

I wasn’t going to allow Tom to upset me anymore. This was just far too ridiculous for words. I did not need to hear Tom insulting me or Misère; why I had even stayed so long in the parlor was a mystery. Indeed, though I was sick to death of being alone in my room, anything was preferable to Tom’s snideness and teasing. I could scarcely wait till he and Helene were out of my life forever.

I dressed in my bedroom and walked into the kitchen just as Tom was coming down the hall himself. I entered first and sat down at the table. Helene was standing on a stepping-stool before the stove, stirring the food in a pot. Three bowls were set in a pile on the table, and each place was set with a spoon. I sighed. “Is it…soup?” I asked. I was rather tired of soup.

“No…stew,” she replied happily.

“What sort?”

“Cotriade.”

I sat up straighter. “Oh, lovely,” I said, just as Tom asked, “What’s that in English?”

Helene picked up a bowl and ladled a steaming helping of stew into it. “It is very good. It has all kinds of fishes in it…of course, I could not afford all the seafoods that are supposed to go inside, so mine only has mackerel and some scallops.” She set the bowl upon the table before Tom, who recoiled a bit.

“Hate to tell you, but I haven’t never been too fond of fish,” he said slowly. “I suppose I could take them out—what else is in there?” He peered at the brownish broth suspiciously.

Helene wiped her hands on her apron and counted the ingredients off on her fingers. “Well, there is butter, herbs…salt and pepper…onions…potatoes….”

“Bloody hell!” Tom exclaimed when the words were barely out of her mouth. He stood up so fast Blarney nearly lost her footing on his shoulders. “There’s potatoes? In there?” He pointed at the bowl as though it were a poisonous reptile.

“Of course,” said Helene, confused. “Do you not like potatoes either?”

“No! I don’t! Why would you even put them in there?” Tom’s voice had reached a rarely-heard tone, and I looked up at him, surprised. His blue eyes were round and he had the transparent look of someone who was moments away from being violently sick.

“Tom! What do you mean?” Helene asked. She looked suddenly very small. I glanced back and forth from one to the other, expecting some sort of breakdown.

Tom gestured desperately at the bowl. “Why? How could you even make that…how could you stand it? I’m-I’m not eating that! It’s disgusting! I won’t eat that stuff never and no one’s going to make me!”

“Tom—”

“It’s bloody disgusting! I won’t even look at it!” Tom cried venomously, turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

I stood up and made a move toward Helene, to do I don’t know what, for she was staring open-mouthed at the doorway, her face very pale and her chin quivering. She suddenly threw down her ladle and tore off her apron, tossing it to the ground in a heap. “I cannot do anything right!” she cried, bursting into tears. “All I wanted was to have a nice supper, all of us, just once!”

I hesitantly reached for her arm. “Helene—”

“Laissez-moi seul!” She pulled back from me and ran past me out the room. A moment later I heard her attic door slam upstairs.

Misère thought it all very distressing, especially since he knew I was tired of entertaining myself in my room. I shook my head. “What on earth is wrong with Tom? Even if he hates potatoes, he doesn’t have to be so very rude. Poor girl,” I sighed. “Well, I suppose we shall have to get our own supper, Misère.”

Misère was silent a moment, then gave a little twitter. I stopped short and looked at him on my shoulder. “What would be the purpose of that? You heard her. She wants to be perfectly alone. I shall not disturb her.”

I had supper, sharing some with Misère, and then retired to the bathroom to take a bath. I was feeling considerably better physically than I had in a week, but there was yet a lingering cough that I knew must be got rid of before I went out in society again. I had already missed far too many parties. The week ahead would be full of writing apologies to everyone who’d invited me.

I looked in the mirror after stepping out of the tub, and regarded my ribs and stomach critically. The bruises were healing very slowly but still looked quite ugly. I definitely could not see Anabelle or anyone else until they were almost gone. There were too many questions I wouldn’t be able to answer. I would have liked to give Anabelle an earful of what her precious Stephen Fairfax was really like, but unfortunately that was not possible. I was already leading a multi-layered life of half-truths and deception that I was not at all sure I’d be able to keep up for long.

It was quite late in the evening when I returned to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, only to find that Helene was already engaged in that very activity. At least, the tea-kettle was on, and a set of dainty china tea-things was laid out on the table. I hesitated near the doorway a moment before Helene turned away from the stove and saw me.

“Bon soir,” I said, bowing because I didn’t know what else to do.

“Lucien,” she said. She sounded happy enough, which made me feel a little better, but her green eyes looked a bit red-rimmed still from crying. She gave a smile. “Have some tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, sitting down.

“I hope you are hungry for dessert,” Helene said, bustling about the kitchen. “I have a special surprise. I had been going to save it for Halloween but I planned we would have an extra nice supper, because you are here and we could all sit down together.”

“My being here isn’t all that special,” I said, shrugging and helping some by spooning tea leaves into the little china pot. “It’s only because of my influenza. Come next week I’ve got to get back to my parties.”

“Ah, oui, the parties,” she sighed. She placed three silver confectionary bowls on the table, each with a silver spoon. “They must be very fun, because you are always there.”

“It isn’t all fun, my dear. It’s work.”

“What sort of work?” The kettle sang. Helene opened the teapot and poured boiling water into it.

“I do magic tricks.”

“Real magic? Do the people like it?”

“Yes, real magic, though nothing special. Young girls like it.”

Helene’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you have a special girl? You know, like a lady friend? Are you in love with anyone?”

I laughed. “No, not at all. The girls I do magic for are…my friends. I have many lady friends.”

“I think boys make the very best friends,” Helene said knowingly. “Sabine was my only friend who was a girl. All my other friends are boys—Grimoire, Tom, and you.”

“Well, I don’t have any male friends besides Misère,” I said.

“And Tom,” Helene added.

I said nothing, just watched as Helene brought out a tin of vanilla ice cream and struggled to break its frozen surface with a spoon. After a moment or two I laughed and took the spoon from her hands to do it for her.

“Merci,” she said, sitting down in a chair beside me. “See, it is good to have friends who are boys.” She was silent for a moment, directing me with her finger to scoop generous helpings of ice cream into each little bowl. When I was done, she grabbed my arm. “Show me a magic trick, like the ones you do at parties.”

“Why? You can likely do ten times better. You won’t be impressed,” I said.

“Yes, I will! I want to see one. Please?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, all right. But I promise, it’s nothing grand.” I stood up, and Helene sat up on the table, watching me excitedly.

“Do exactly as you do for the party girls,” she pleaded.

I looked at Misère, shaking my head, and turned to Helene. “This is going to feel quite silly, you know. The girls I do magic for are not witches.”

“I do not care! I will like it. I promise.”

I smiled and bowed, going straight into a routine. “A fine promise for one who does not know the future, little one. Now I am not suggesting you have anything to be frightened of, darling, because a lovely damsel like yourself has nothing but sunshine and a happy ending ahead of her. Like Cinderella, rather. You do know Cinderella?”

Helene nodded enthusiastically.

“Ah, but even Cinderella had that wicked stepmother to contend with.” I winked roguishly. “And not even yourself, I presume, is the happy owner of a pair of glass slippers! But you just may have a fairy godmother to help you along.” I leaned forward. “What do you suppose fairies look like?”

“Good fairies are very small and have sparkles,” Helene said, with an unnerving certainty.

“An excellent deduction. There should be one in your pocket,” I said abruptly.

Helene frowned and reached into her apron pocket, then removed her hand to reveal that it cradled a small, vaguely butterfly-shaped object. It sparkled briefly in the light, then dissolved into a little cloud of glittering dust.

“Well, they can’t stick around forever. She had to return to fairy land,” I explained.

Helene laughed and clapped her hands. “How did you do that?”

“Fairies bring you to your true love, you know. You’re young yet, but we shall see,” I continued, drawing a heart in the air with my finger and watching as a red silk scarf appeared in the shape I’d drawn. It hung in the air a moment, then coiled around Helene’s neck and settled there. Helene squealed with delight. “And for a finale—”

“—I’d like to see you conjure up those bloody glass slippers. Sound like they’d fetch a fortune,” Tom said, appearing suddenly in the doorway.

I gave him a condescending look, and Helene hopped off the table, throwing the scarf over her shoulder like a feather boa. She took a dish of poached pears out of the icebox and started ladling them onto the ice cream. “Will you be having some dessert, Tom?” she asked, somewhat timidly. “It is Pears Belle Hélène. It is very good, one of my favorites. It is only ice cream and pears and chocolate sauce.”

“Chocolate sauce with liquor in it,” I added. “You’d like it.”

“I suppose I would like that,” he said evenly.

Helene finished making the dishes and slid one across the table to Tom and the other to me. “Tea, Lucien?” she asked next. “This teaset you see is mine. It is my very own special set, real china, hand-painted in my favorite color.” She used magic to pour the tea with the pot, a delicate lavender lacquered thing, and handed me a steaming cup. “Thank you so much for the pretty scarf and the nice show,” she said. “I did like it very much. You were very charming.”

“Merci,” I said, a little embarrassed after all.

Tom, who was tentatively taking a first bite of his dessert, dropped his spoon with a clatter. “You’re giving him a cup of that tea because of his silly show? Did he tell you he also whores for money?”

“Did you want tea too, Tom?” Helene asked politely.

“No. Why would I want tea in one of those girly purple cups? Flowers on ‘em, and all.”

“But I already poured you a cup.” Helene held it out to him expectantly.

“Oh. Well, fine then.” Tom took the cup and proceeded to dump every condiment in the teatray into it, before stabbing his Pear Belle Hélène with a spoon and starting to devour it. He was probably famished, after that ridiculous potato episode. Fortunately I doubted Helene would ever make the mistake of making cotriade again.

It wasn’t so very bad as I’d thought, eating with the two of them. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but I stood it rather well and almost enjoyed myself. Helene, once you got to know her, was very pleasant for a child and it was easy to be polite to her. Tom would never be pleasant, but the cotriade had quelled him to the point where he was relatively decent. At least, he said ‘please’ when he asked Helene for a second and then a third helping of Pears Belle Hélène.