Utterly Charming (16 page)

She nodded.

“I won’t hassle you about it any more,” he said. “But if you need help, you come to me, all right?”

“Yeah,” she said, knowing she wouldn’t. She wasn’t sure she could get help from anyone. At least, not anyone normal.

And that was the biggest problem of all.

***

For the second time that day, Blackstone stood outside a building with Nora inside and stared at his car. It was becoming, to him at least, a symbol of everything that was wrong with the computer age. Why did a status symbol have to be so very small?

He had parked in a parking space near a newly planted maple tree. The street was lined with a dozen of these newly planted trees, apparently some city planner’s attempt at beautification. Downtown Portland was beautiful enough; it didn’t need trees that would someday tower over the road or block the view from the lower windows.

He felt particularly protective of those lower windows. For the past ten years, he had gazed at them and thought of Nora toiling away in her ratty office. He hadn’t realized, until today, that she had graduated to an entire floor at the building’s top.

The Porsche was baking in the heat. For some reason, he hadn’t wanted to go into the parking garage. The garage almost felt as if it were too filled with memories, too much a part of his past.

His past with Nora, not Emma.

His fists were clenched again. What was wrong with him? He should have charmed Nora, forced her to un-uninvite him, and gone to see Emma. But charming Nora would be difficult, if not impossible, and even if it were possible, he didn’t want to.

He wanted her to like him for his own sake. And for the first time in the last millennium, maybe the first time in his life, he wasn’t confident of being liked. Nora seemed to see down inside him, and he was getting the sense that she didn’t approve of what she saw.

Why should she? In her opinion, he had imprisoned for a thousand years a woman he claimed to love, then he had treated that woman insensitively when she had awakened from her coma, and he hadn’t once told her that he loved her.

Somehow he hadn’t been able to say the words. At least, not with Nora in the room. Even if she hadn’t been in the room, he wasn’t sure how convincing he would be. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Emma—besides guilty and slightly ashamed. He could blame this whole thing on Ealhswith and his own inexperience, but somehow that seemed wrong.

It was time he took responsibility himself.

Responsibility meant that he be the one to work with Emma, he be the one to train her in the ways of this brave new world, he be the one to show her how wonderful the twenty-first century could be.

Somehow he had to get Nora to trust him. He shook his head slightly. That wouldn’t work. Not after all she had seen.

He leaned on his hot tiny car and crossed his arms, staring up at the building where she had once had an office the size of a closet. She had come so far since he last saw her. She didn’t look like a kid just out of high school anymore. She looked like exactly what she was—a powerful woman full grown. She had been an attorney for ten years, and she saw things clearly. She would know when someone was trying to manipulate her, even someone as good as he was.

In fact, she would be expecting that.

He shook his head. If only they could work together. But she wasn’t ready to do that either. And he didn’t have time—actually Emma didn’t have time—for Nora to gain his trust.

So he would have to play things her way. He would have to see if he could bend the rules of her world, her legal world, so that he could spend time with Emma.

And for that, he needed his faithful sidekick, the man Nora only knew as Sancho Panza. Blackstone knew Sancho’s real name, of course, but those who had come into their magic never used real names—not casually, anyway. It was too dangerous.

Sancho was in the South of France, or so he said. Sometimes he just disappeared for weeks at a time, coming back looking sadder than he had when he left. Blackstone always had the sense that Sancho, for all his bravado, was lonely, but he could never confirm it. The one thing Blackstone knew was that he was Sancho’s best—and only—friend.

It was time to cash in on that friendship. Blackstone couldn’t get to Emma, but Sancho could. If they argued this right, Sancho would leave Nora’s with Emma at his side—and then Blackstone would be able to talk to her, to help her, to make her see reason.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, he would find a way to convince her to forgive him.

When Nora got home, she found her mother and Emma in the living room, deep in conversation. Emma looked calmer. Darnell was on her lap. Nora felt a twinge of jealousy—even the cats thought Emma was the be-all and end-all of women—and then put it aside. Nora stood for a moment, taking in the scene before her.

Apparently, Emma had gotten used to Nora’s mother. And a few other things. Emma was holding the television remote as if it were the Holy Grail and occasionally, she would point it at the TV. She kept turning to the Home Shopping Network. After a moment, Nora’s mother would change the channel to CNN, and after a while, Emma would change it back.

It was going to be a long night.

As Nora came inside, carrying her Saks bag and her briefcase, her mother waved gaily. “I have dinner in the refrigerator,” Amanda said. “Emma helped.”

Emma smiled at her, as if she had completed the greatest accomplishment of her life. “I like the stove,” she said. “It is so easy. Even if food is strange here.”

Amanda patted Emma on the shoulder and stood up. She walked to Nora, took her bag, and said, “Let me help you put your new clothes away.”

“They’re old clothes,” Nora said. “I’m wearing the new ones.”

“So you are.” Amanda brushed imaginary lint off her shoulder. “They’ll need to be dry-cleaned.”

“Mother.”

Amanda shrugged. “Come along.”

And Nora let Amanda lead her into her own bedroom at the top of the stairs.

“Good,” Amanda said. “Now—”

“It’s not that private here,” Nora whispered.

Amanda took her arm and led her into the upstairs bathroom, pulling the door closed. Nora had remodeled the room with the rest of the loft, making the bathroom her own private sanctuary. There was a separate area for the toilet, double sinks because the designer had insisted, a fancy shower with its own stall, and The Tub. The Tub was on a raised platform with windows that opened to the city. The shades were down now, and the room was dark. Nora flipped on a light. Amanda blinked as if unaccustomed to such brightness.

“The problem is worse than you know,” Amanda said, keeping her voice low.

“I doubt that,” Nora said.

“Emma believes she is a witch.”

“I know,” Nora said.

“A witch without powers.”

“I know that too,” Nora said, wishing that she had been able to convince Emma to lie.

“A witch without powers from the Middle Ages.”

“The Dark Ages, Mother,” Nora said.

“I thought there was no difference.”

“There is quite a difference,” Nora said. “The Middle Ages were modern compared to the Dark Ages.”

“Oh, dear,” Amanda said. Then she slapped Nora’s arm. “You knew this.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

“Because I thought it might bother you.”

“It does bother me. Does her psychiatrist know?”

Nora didn’t know how to answer that. So she tried the indirect approach. “Everyone knows who needs to know.”

Amanda’s mouth formed a thin line. “Emma says you’re protecting her.”

“Yes,” Nora said.

“She says her mother and her boyfriend are after her.”

“More or less.”

“You’re not equipped to handle that. Why isn’t she in one of those shelters?”

“Believing she’s a witch from the Dark Ages?”

“So they’ll put her in an institution. And frankly, Nora, I’m beginning to think that, no matter how sweet she is, she belongs in one.”

“If I do that, Mother, then she’ll eventually be remanded into the custody of her mother. Or her boyfriend if he can convince them he’s her husband. And I’ve met the man. He can convince you that the Moon is made of cheese.”

“I’m not convinced it’s not,” Amanda said archly. “I think that whole landing thing was a public relations hoax.”

“Mother.”

Amanda shrugged. “That Nixon. He’d do anything to win any competition.”

Nora knew better than to get Amanda started on her own weird brand of politics. “Mother, please. We were talking about Emma.”

“Yes, and I do see your point. But really, you are no match for a determined woman and a strong man.”

Nora smiled. “I’m match enough,” she said, hoping she exuded confidence she didn’t feel.

“Well,” Amanda said, “you’ll obviously need help caring for this girl. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll be your assistant until you can find this girl the help she needs.” Amanda leaned closer. “I think we made progress today. She’s really quite convincing about this Dark Ages thing. She asked more questions! I had no idea I knew so much about so little!” Amanda frowned. “She won’t forget all of this by tomorrow, will she?”

“No,” Nora said.

“Have you ever thought there is a real possibility that she is who she says she is?”

Nora peered at Amanda. Her no-nonsense mother, who wasn’t even willing to believe in manned space flight, let alone magic. “What do you think?”

Amanda blinked, then leaned back. “If this is mental illness, then the girl should win an Academy Award.”

“They don’t give awards for illness, Mother. Only acting.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“What’s what you mean?”

“Crazy people aren’t this consistent.”

“And consistency makes her sane?”

“Well, she does believe what she’s saying.”

“And that makes her sane?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, Mother, I don’t.” Nora put her hand on her mother’s back as she opened the door. “But I’m willing to go with it, whatever you mean, as long as you don’t tell anyone about Emma.”

“You know me,” Amanda said, placing her index finger over her mouth. “Mum’s the word.”

“Good,” Nora said. “Staying for dinner?”

“No, dear. I’m quite exhausted by all this
thinking
. I don’t know how you do it, day in and day out.”

Nora suppressed a grin. “I get paid to.”

“I hope so,” Amanda said. “Emma claims not to know what money is.”

“That’s not a surprise either,” Nora said.

“You seem quite calm about this.”

“Actually,” Nora said, “I’m too overwhelmed to be upset.”

“That seems sensible, my dear,” Amanda said. “No use wasting energy on things we can’t change.”

Then Amanda pulled open the door and let herself out of the bathroom. She made her way through the bedroom, calling out some nonsense to Emma. Nora remained there for a moment, holding on to the tile countertop for support. She would make it through this day, she promised herself. She had to. There were only a few hours left. And if she was lucky, she would wake up tomorrow and realize that this was a long, extended, extremely detailed version of her reoccurring nightmare.

***

No such luck, of course. That was her first thought as she struggled out of sleep, hearing the doorbell chime below. She glanced at her digital clock. It read 1:30 a.m. She had been in bed a little under two hours. It had taken her forever to convince Emma to go to sleep. She had the feeling Emma was angling for sharing a room, so that she could hear the comfort of Nora’s breathing. But Nora had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, sharing a room in this loft also meant sharing a bed, and Nora wasn’t about to do that, no matter how responsible she felt toward Emma.

The doorbell chimed again. Nora threw back the covers, imagining Emma cowering in her own room, worrying about the strange sound. Nora slipped on a robe but couldn’t find any slippers. She hurried down the spiral staircase, the metal cold against her bare feet, and looked through the peephole at her guest.

She saw no one.

Great, she thought. A phantom caller. Just what she needed. Life had gotten strange today, and it seemed it was going to continue being strange. Her heart was pounding. Did opening a door make someone invited? Was this a trick that Ealhswith was playing on her? Or, God forbid, Blackstone?

Then, through the peephole, she saw a tiny hand rise out of the darkness and strain to reach the door chime. Even though she was expecting it, the sound made her jump.

She pulled the door open a smidge, leaving the chain on, and looked down. Sancho Panza, or whatever his name was, stood before her, his hand just going down to his side.

“It’s about time,” he said.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’d be having breakfast in France,” he said.

“You’re not in France.”

“More’s the pity.”

He was wearing a natty ice-cream suit and a bowler that made him look like something out of Renoir. She stared at him. He would also be at home in a Fred Astaire movie, one of the early shipboard romances—was that
Top Hat
?—with Ginger Rogers, or on stage with the Broadway musical
Ragtime
, even though she doubted he would have fit all that well into E.L. Doctorow’s book. He was too short. Not that he was tall enough for the stage, either. And he would have made Fred Astaire look like a giant—

“Are you going to let me in, or do I get to stand in this wretched hallway until dawn?”

She blinked. Boy, she was tired if she let herself go on mental tangents like that. “I don’t receive clients in my home. Office hours are nine to five.”

She started to close the door, but he stuck his foot in it. “You weren’t at your office at nine this morning, were you?”

“Yesterday morning,” she said. “It’s tomorrow already.”

“
Were you?
”

“If you don’t know, you’re the only one in your social set who doesn’t.”

He grinned. He had been toying with her, testing her. She hated that. She pushed his polished spat with her bare foot, trying to get it out of her door. “I’m going back to bed,” she said.

“Not yet.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pile of paper that didn’t look as if it had fit into the space. She recognized one piece. It was a birth certificate, with Emma’s name on it.

Her new name.

“I told you,” Nora said. “I don’t deal in illegal documents.”

“Neither do I,” Sancho said. Then his grin widened. “Do you really want to have this meeting in your office?”

She sighed and pushed on the door. “If you want me to let you in, you need to move your damn foot.”

He did. She toyed for a moment with shutting him out entirely but decided she still wouldn’t get any sleep. He would continually ring the door chime or knock or do something to keep her awake.

She unchained the door and opened it. Sancho’s hand was hovering near the chime. “Thought you forgot me,” he said.

“Wish I could,” she muttered. “Come on in.”

He did. She closed and locked the door behind him. Then she surveyed the living room, wondering why the sound hadn’t awakened Emma. Maybe it had. Maybe she really was cringing in her room.

“Excuse me a moment,” Nora said as she flicked on a light. “I’ll be right back.”

She went down the hallway to Emma’s room, knocked, and then pushed the door open. Emma was asleep, her hands beneath her perfect oval face, her long hair sprawled around her. She looked like a princess, a fairy-tale princess, like the ones in the cartoons Nora had seen as a child, or the detailed illustrations that had lined her favorite children’s books.

Darnell was sprawled in Emma’s hair. He looked up at Nora, his yellow eyes catching the light. His expression was not pleasant.

“I’m the one who feeds you,” Nora whispered.

It didn’t seem to make a difference to him at all.

She sighed and went in closer to see if Emma was faking, but her breathing was soft and even. Nora whispered her name, and Emma did not respond. Good. The girl probably was exhausted, even though she had slept for a thousand years. Her brain probably ached from all the things she had seen, heard, and learned that day.

Nora tiptoed out of the room and pulled the door closed. Then she went back to the living room. The little man had turned on more lights. He was standing beside the unshuttered window in the kitchen, staring at the city.

“Nice view,” he said.

She didn’t answer. Instead she went back up the stairs to her bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She had felt at a disadvantage, talking to a man in a suit in her living room, even if that man were Sancho Panza.

When she went back down, he was on the sofa, the identification papers spread like cards on the coffee table. He was perusing them as if they were a tarot deck.

“We can’t use them,” she said.

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“Because you couldn’t have gotten them legally.”

“And you can?” He perched on the edge of the couch like a little boy, his feet not touching the floor. His bowler was on her favorite chair. Before sitting down, she removed the hat and put it on an end table.

“Of course you have no answer for that. Why would you? Why would anyone?” He smiled. “You haven’t encountered anything like this before.”

“And you have?”

“Just once,” he said. “But the thousand years spanned a less complicated time.”

Her entire body stiffened. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Exactly?” He ran a hand through his short hair. “I’m not sure exactly. Calendars have changed a lot since I was born. If you use the Julian system, then I’m one age; the ancient Egyptian, another; and the current system, I am a third age. Add to that the fact that no one recorded the moment of my birth and you have quite a mess.”

She sighed. “Do you always give such rambling answers to such easy questions?”

“Do you always ask such difficult questions expecting easy answers?”

She decided once more that she didn’t like him. She leaned forward, examining the identification. It looked complete. Everything was here, from a birth certificate to a passport to that special ID card that was given to people who didn’t qualify for a driver’s license. All of them listed Emma’s age as twenty and her last name as Lost, even though Nora had told no one that was what she had chosen.

“How did you know Emma’s last name?” she asked.

“It was in the air.” He glanced at her sideways. “Did you wake her?”

“Emma? No.”

“Well, you have to. I’m here to take her away.”

“And how do you figure to do that?”

“You’re done. The job I hired you for is over. You can keep whatever remains in your escrow account as payment for a service satisfactorily rendered.”