Hot guilt rushes through me. I jump to my feet. As frustrating as I find Ben Magnus, I like Dru and I don’t want her to get rid of me, even after all of this. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I just have a hard time with a lot of this.”
The elderly woman shakes her head, and one of the curlers goes pinging to the ground and slides across the tile floor, right to the base of one of the ancient marble busts along the hall. “It’s perfectly all right to have questions, darling. I’d be worried if you didn’t.” She comes to my side and takes my hand in hers, patting it. As she does, another curler tries to make an escape and falls directly in front of her eyes. Dru ignores it, continuing. “I don’t want Caliban to chase you off, you know. You just have to understand him.”
I’m not sure I want to. He’s an arrogant ass and a half, and he seems to delight in making my job harder. “He’s your nephew—”
“You have to understand him,” Dru says again for emphasis. “He’s really quite smart and lovely. He’s just lonely. He’s not good with people. Never has been. His parents are to blame for that.” She gives my hand another pat, as if unwilling to release it. “They weren’t ready to be parents, and so they left him with nannies and friends as often as possible. Our family is notorious for feuding, too, so it wasn’t like he could have many peers or even companions. Someone that’s been hired to look after you isn’t a friend. They’re a keeper.” She smiles gently at me. “He could use a friend.”
She imbues that statement with so much meaning that I know what she’s aiming at, and I want no part of it. That curler in front of her eyes is bothering me, though, so I extricate myself from her grip and fix it for her. “He needs to get a familiar of his own, then.”
Dru’s expression brightens. “I’ve said the same, but he has a dreadful time keeping one. He’s very exacting and controlling. If only I knew someone like that . . .” She clucks her tongue.
I purse my lips. Well, that was a very pointed jab. “I’m not going to be his friend, Dru.”
“Aunt Dru,” she corrects. “And you don’t have to be his friend, but maybe you two could court. Or fig.”
“Fig?” I choke.
“That’s what they call it now, right?” She looks confused for a moment. “Some sweet, dried thing.”
“Date?”
Dru brightens. “Yes, that’s it. A date. Strange name, but whatever. You can date my nephew. I give you permission. Just don’t get pregnant, at least not right away. It puts an awful wrench in things.”
“I am absolutely, positively not going to date your nephew! I can’t stand the man! He—” A door slams somewhere in the kitchen, and I realize Ben has overheard all of it—Dru’s awkward matchmaking, my loathing—and I feel a tendril of guilt. “I’m just not,” I finish lamely. “Sorry.”
“Yes, well, that’s too bad.” Dru shrugs. “Do you still want to work for me?”
I nod.
“Even though Ben might have cursed your boyfriend?”
“Not my boyfriend, and he’ll be fine.” Which is more than I can say for me if I lose this job. I think of my credit-card bills, the rent that’s due, the debt collectors that find my phone number no matter how many times I change it. If I could be free of all of that . . . Yeah, I’m willing to put up with a little witchcraft to have a future, to be able to breathe easier.
Dru looks delighted. “Wonderful. How are you with makeup? I have a ladies’ luncheon, and I need to look my best so they can all be horribly jealous of me.”
“I can do an excellent winged eye,” I brag.
“Oh, no wings, just eye makeup,” Aunt Dru tells me.
Oh boy.
11
REGGIE
A few hours later, I follow Dru into one of the ritziest places I’ve ever seen. I feel entirely out of my depth, though I should have guessed something like this would happen when Dru insisted that I wear my nicest dress. Turns out I have only one nice dress, since I’m broke as a joke, so I’m wearing an A-line black sleeveless dress that I also wore to my boss’s funeral three jobs ago. I might be wearing brown loafers with it, but I figure no one’s looking at me. When a black sedan with a driver shows up to take us to lunch, though, and Dru is wearing a silk jacket over a pleated accordion skirt and tons of jewelry, I start to get the idea that this is a fancy place.
I put on a little more lipstick in the car, just in case, and powder my freckles in another attempt to hide them. My hair’s pulled back in a tight bun atop my head (mostly because it’s been years since I’ve had my hair cut and styled and this is my go-to), so there’s not a lot I can do with it. I feel terribly underdressed as we head downtown, and it doesn’t let up as we arrive and I notice valet parking. It only grows worse as we step inside.
The restaurant has marble floors and delicate plants in every corner. Large, lofting windows let in a ton of natural light, and there’s a fountain in the corner. Classical music plays, and the waitstaff are dressed in black . . . like me. I look like a waitress. My insides shrivel just a little, and I lean down toward Dru. “Should I go wait outside?”
“No, darling, it’s fine. You look lovely.” Dru scans the dining room, as if searching for familiar faces. “It’s just lunch, after all.”
So she says. I rub my arms, clutching my beat-up purse against my side. It’s times like this I’m extremely aware of just how little money I have. I watch as someone brings a bucket with ice to one of the tables and there’s a bottle in it, just like in the movies. Another table has a three-tier display of what look like cookies and sandwiches. Every table has a fancy white tablecloth on it, and I don’t think anyone here has ever heard the word “drive-through.” “Just so you know,” I murmur, “I’m absolutely going to be using the wrong fork. That’s a thing, right?”
Dru titters. “It doesn’t matter. I grew up without forks. It took me forever to figure them out myself.”
Er, okay. I’m not going to touch that one. I bite my lip, remembering too late that I have lipstick on, and then hastily scrub at my teeth with a finger. The host (in a tuxedo, because of course) gives me an odd look and points at one of his canines helpfully. I give him a smile of gratitude and rub my teeth again. “Do you see your friends, Dru?”
“Oh, I didn’t say they were my friends,” Dru tells me brightly. She clutches a spangled purse to her chest and peers at the tables. “I said they were acquaintances. We are enemies, actually.”
The host stares in confusion, obviously eavesdropping.
I try not to, even though I know just how he feels. “I see. So this is an enemy luncheon?”
“Rivals,” she agrees. “Friends close, enemies closer, yada yada. Oh, I see Livia! I’d recognize that dreadful mole anywhere.” She raises a hand in the air, waving. “Come on, Reggie darling. Let’s go introduce you!”
The host shoots me a look of pure sympathy as Dru tugs me forward into the dining room. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.”
I follow my boss inside, and sure enough, it’s easy to pick out Livia. That is definitely one hell of a mole, right in the center of her forehead, like a unicorn’s horn. I do my best not to stare, because it’s not as if she can help it. Instead I smile brightly and avoid direct eye contact with anyone.
“Livia! Julia! I told you I’d find a new familiar,” Dru crows as we approach the table. “You two bitches can suck it!”
“Dru!” I gasp, shocked. “Oh my god.” I give the women an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry—”
They stare at me with narrowed eyes. “Why is she talking to us?” one asks, her tone utterly polite as she leans over to her friend. The other shrugs.
Ooookay.
“My new familiar,” Dru tells them. “Her name is Reginald.”
“Reggie,” I correct gently. “Regina if you have to.”
“Regina,” Dru continues in a lofty tone. “I’m going to teach her everything I know.”
Livia just smirks at the two of us. “That won’t take long.”