I’m not sure if I can say the same for me.
It’s been a few days, but . . . working for Dru is weird. Fun, but weird. I’m getting used to the big, creaky house and the peculiar assortment of things inside. I’m getting used to Dru’s cat, Maurice, who insists on following me everywhere, even into the bathroom. I’m even getting used to my new room, with the scent of herbs and the princess bed and the drawers full of dead bugs that I haven’t bothered to clean out yet. I actually just avoid the drawers entirely, keeping my laundry in my backpack and living out of it.
It’s an old habit of mine—after years of my parents having to flee town and creditors at a moment’s notice, I keep things packed and light. Just in case. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen them and almost seven years since I lived with them, but old habits die hard. I guess part of me still feels as if Dru’s going to change her mind about the job and show me the door. It seems too good to be true.
Dru herself is actually the weirdest part of the situation.
It’s not that I don’t like her. I do. She’s sweet and just lovely to be around. She’s charming and funny and . . . and okay, she doesn’t act normal. At first I chalked it up to the whole witch nonsense and the fact that everyone’s been catering to her about that. Strangely enough, that’s not what ends up being weird. It’s that every time she sees me, she holds her breath. She squirms like a kid, and a light flashes in her eyes. If she wasn’t an adult and at least eighty years old, I’d swear she’s a toddler with a secret.
As it is, I have no idea what’s going on, and she won’t tell me. Every time I ask, she gives me some sort of task to do and then giggles and gets strange about it again. Like yesterday, when she gave me a shopping list and then giggled like a maniac. Or when I offered to dust her library and she gave me a few books and then winked obnoxiously. Twice.
Right now, I’m doing her laundry, folding her clothing with a T-shirt board because it gets the lines the neatest. I’ve also arranged her dresses by color and separated the winter ones into a different part of the closet. The laundry room is across from the basement, which I’ve not been allowed into yet, and catty-corner from the big kitchen. It’s also dusty as hell, and I don’t think anyone’s ever cleaned the lint trap in the dryer, so I pull it out and head toward the kitchen to wash it clean of lingering detergent.
Before I can enter the kitchen, however, I hear voices. One deep and rich, and the other Dru’s softer, sweeter voice. I clutch the lint trap to my chest, not wanting to intrude. Do I wait to clean the lint trap, or do I interrupt? There’s a sink in the laundry room, but there’s a big note taped to it that says, “DO NOT USE—ENCHANTED,” and I figure that’s just another one of Dru’s quirky things, so I don’t touch it.
“I’ve returned early,” comes the dark, sensuous voice. It makes a shiver go down my spine. If the word “sultry” was a voice, he’d be that voice, I decide. Decadent, slightly dark, and mysterious. The man speaks again. “The girl. Have you fired her yet?”
I freeze in place. Well, I can’t walk away now. Not when they’re talking about me.
“No. No one’s been fired. She’s an absolute delight, Caliban. Just a sheer delight.” There’s a clink of dishes. “I can’t find my mugwort, darling. Can you help me look? I think she reorganized my kitchen and put my casting herbs in with the spices.”
I wince. I might have also had a hard time sleeping last night and reorganized Dru’s kitchen. It was cleaner than I expected, but she has a lot of spices. Like a lot of them, and some I’ve never heard of. Even so, I reorganized everything and put them on the spice rack, which had been holding nothing but a few empty salt canisters. Now I’m regretting my late-night cleaning frenzy. What if it’s the thing that gets me fired?
No job. No piles of money. I’d have to move back in with Nick, who is clearly thriving with his privacy. He texted me yesterday and said he walked around in the nude all night and that he could get used to no roomie. I think it was a joke to make me feel better about leaving him, but now I just feel tight and anxious. Like I’ve got no home once again and no one to have my back.
My throat knots up as the man replies. “Fire her. Have you cast anything yet?”
“I’m not firing her, Caliban—”
“Ben,” he interrupts. “My name is Ben, Auntie. You know it is.”
My nostrils flare with distaste and I bite back a hiss of anger. He’s still trying to get me fired? How dare he? Ben—or whatever he’s called—needs to learn to mind his own damn business.
“I haven’t cast anything at all,” Dru says, her tone dramatic. “And it is making me so very twitchy. You have no idea. I can’t keep living this lie, Ben. I have to be me. I have to!”
A heavy sigh. “No one’s asking you to live a lie, Aunt Dru.”
“But you said I can’t cast around her!”
“I also said you should fire her, and you’re not doing that.”
“I miss my magic,” Dru says woefully. “I haven’t even done an entrail reading in days. How am I supposed to know if it’s safe to go out?”
Another heavy sigh. “It’s safe to go out. Why wouldn’t it be safe to go out?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Dru says indignantly. “I can’t read the entrails, so I can’t tell you.”
“Fine.” The single barked-out syllable is one of complete and utter frustration. “Just . . . fine. Let her in on it, but you have to be willing to get rid of her if things don’t go as planned.”
“Rid of her? How?”
“You’re a witch. How do you normally get rid of people? You curse them.”
Curse me? What the fuck? I tilt my head. Exactly what kind of witches do these people think they are? Here I thought they were like, I don’t know, pretending to be good witches or something. Nice, benign, friendly Glinda witches. Curses are . . . fucked up, and I’m not even sure I believe in them. I just know I don’t want one.
I don’t even know what to think about this whole “reading entrails” business. Dru seems so nice, even if her interests are a little strange. How can she talk about cursing me? Or letting her nephew fire me? I blink back tears of frustration and disappointment. I don’t know why I got my hopes up. I should have known better. I should have guessed that I can’t count on anyone but myself.
“Can you ease her into it for me?” I hear Dru ask her nephew. “She doesn’t listen to me when I mention anything to do with magic. She just looks at me like I’m senile.”
My jaw drops. I do not! I try to be understanding, even if it seems ridiculous.
“I’ll talk to her,” Ben says tersely. “Just let me take care of it.”
“I’m so sorry to pull you away from your little warlock party, dear. Was it nice?” Dru’s tone turns motherly, all the frustration disappearing instantly.
Before I can hear a response, the big black cat saunters into the hall. He sees me and pauses, and I make a shooing motion with my hand. Probably thinks he’s about to be fed. Now is not the time, though. I—
Maurice opens his whiskered mouth and lets out an unearthly howl.
Shit! I clutch the lint trap to my chest even as I hear a plate rattle on the other side of the door. Maurice immediately howls again, as if he’s being tortured, and I know someone’s about to come out of the kitchen. So much for subterfuge. Deciding to take the bull by the horns, I push through the door, smiling brightly.