Oscar huffed loudly, then snorted, then “coughed”—which sounded a lot like a snicker.
“I’m going to take Oscar upstairs,” I said. “See if I can figure out what’s going on with him. Come on, Oscar. Let’s go.”
He didn’t respond, just continued to loll on his bed, so I finally leaned over and scooped him up, then carried him to the stairs. “Lugged him” is more apt. Oscar might be a miniature pig, but he was still a pig, and he was heavy. I nearly dropped him halfway up. Finally, we reached the top of the steps and he transformed—while still in my arms, which was a decidedly odd sensation—into his natural form.
There was no doubt about it now: Oscar was laughing. Cackling, more like.
“Oscar, what in the world has gotten into you?”
“Woooo,” he said. “The stairs are spinning. It’s like a carnival ride! Awesome!”
“Are you drunk?” I gasped as I set him down on the landing, trying to catch my breath.
“Of course I drink! Everybody drinks!”
“Everybody . . . ?”
“Water! Gobgoyles are ninety-eight percent water! Get it?” Oscar roared, as if this were the funniest joke in the world.
“Oscar, be serious. You know what I mean. Did you drink alcohol?”
More cackling. “Duuuude” was his only response.
“Now you sound like Conrad.” A terrible thought occurred to me. “Oscar, you didn’t take something of Conrad’s, did you? Some . . . pills, or anything?”
Oscar sat up and looked at me intently.
“Oscar . . . ?”
“I’ve got the munchies,” he said, and made a beeline into the kitchen.
“So what else is new?” I muttered as I followed him.
Once in the kitchen, he paused and looked at me with a blank, confused expression on his face. “Wait. Hold on.”
“What is it?”
“What were we talking about, again?”
“Oscar, what is wrong with you?”
“Dude!”
He laughed again, waving his oversized hand in my direction as though I were saying something hysterical. He flung open the refrigerator and practically climbed in, emerging with a white carton of leftover pad Thai.
“This here’s my huckleberry!” he said, and jumped up to perch on the counter, where he started eating pad Thai noodles with his fingers.
“Oscar, I told you I don’t like it when you stand on the counter. This is a kitchen, not a pigsty.”
He slurped more noodles, and sniggered. “Pigsty, fit for a pig! ’Cept I’m not a pig, so that there’s an example of irony! Get it?”
“Off!”
“Geesh,” he said as he leapt gracefully to the floor, then somersaulted in slow motion, a surprised look on his face.
“Okay, this is ridiculous. You’d better stay here in your cubby until this passes. Whatever this is.”
“Can I have something to drink first?”
“Of course. What do you want?”
“A Singapore sling! With an umbrella, please.”
“No. There’s water or— Did you just stick your tongue out at me?”
“Of course not, mistress,” he said, puffing up his chest. “That would be beneath my dignity as a gobgoyle. Say, could you bring me some more cupcakes?”
“What do you mean, more cupcakes?”
“One thing I’ll say for that mistress of the dark: she can bake a mean cupcake.”
“Oscar . . .”
He yawned, a huge yawn like a lion’s, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m sleepy.”
“Don’t go to sleep!” I said, suddenly afraid of what might happen. What had Renee dosed the batch with? Conrad didn’t seem to be showing any ill effects. But no matter what it was . . . I was going to assume that a gobgoyle’s metabolism was different from a human’s. And knowing Oscar, he had probably eaten the whole dozen. I fought panic at the idea that Oscar could be ailing.
“Come with me,” I said, grabbing my extra set of car keys. “We’re going to see Aidan.”
Chapter 18
“Master Aidan?” Oscar’s eyes grew huge. “I, um, I don’t think that’s a good idea, mistress. Let’s just hang out here and watch a movie. We can make popcorn! With butter!”
“We’re going. Aidan will know what to do.”
At least I hoped so.
Oscar put up a bit of a struggle, but though he’s normally much stronger than his physical size would suggest, whatever was in the cupcakes had made him uncoordinated and weak as a puppy. I was able to hoist him up and slog him down the stairs again, though for the first time since I’d met him, he had to be reminded to transform into his piggy guise.
“What’s wrong?” Bronwyn asked as we came through the shop floor. “What’s the matter with my little Oscaroo?”
“Something he ate doesn’t agree with him,” I said. “I think I need to take him to . . . the vet. Did you see how he got into the cupcakes? Did Renee send more over?”
“How do you know he ate cupcakes?” Maya asked.
“He had blue frosting on his muzzle,” I improvised.
“Really?” Bronwyn asked. “I can’t imagine where he got them from. Unless . . . he did go out into the alley at one point.”
“He raided the Dumpster?” I said, outraged, as though a pig ransacking a Dumpster were out of the realm of possibility.
“Sorry, Lily,” Bronwyn said. “It didn’t occur to me that he’d be able to do such a thing. How would such a little tiny piggy get up into the Dumpster in the first place?”
“Pigs are pretty smart,” Maya said.
“Maybe it’s something else,” I said, worried. “Anyway, I’m going to get him checked out. I’m sure he’ll be fine. In the meantime, would it be possible for someone to go pick up my car? I had to leave it in Chinatown. Long story. I’ll take the shop van.”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Maya, holding her hand out for the spare key.
I told her where the car was parked. “And can the rest of you hang out here together? I don’t want anyone to be alone.”
“Actually, we were just talking about that. We were thinking we’d order Indian food to be delivered and have an informal picnic on the shop floor,” said Bronwyn. “We’re hoping you will join us. Bombay biryani, aloo gobhi, and garlic naan, your favorite.”
“Thank you. I’ll get back as soon as I can. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so don’t wait on my account. If there are any leftovers, I’m sure I’ll make short work of them,” I said, realizing I was starving. I wished I had eaten more of Patience’s calamari.
Through the shop windows, I could see the fog had rolled in. I grabbed my cocoa brown wool coat and rushed out the door, a laughing pig in my arms.
* * *
? ? ?
“You can’t take a pig into the museum!” shouted the ever-suffering Clarinda from her post inside the ticket booth.
Oscar snickered loudly.
“Take it up with Aidan.” I barreled past her as fast as I could, given that I was still lugging my hefty familiar. I was panting and my arms ached. “He asked me to bring the pig.”
“He did?” she asked while picking up the phone.
“Loves pigs,” I called over my shoulder, already mounting the stairs. “Can’t get enough of ’em.”
Aidan stood in the open door of his office, waiting for us.
“Clarinda wants me to remind you that livestock is not permitted in the museum,” he said. He did not seem overly pleased to see us.
“Then it’s lucky he’s not actually a pig,” I said, depositing said creature at Aidan’s feet. Oscar rolled onto his back, waved his little hooves in the air, and snickered.
Aidan stared at Oscar. “Is something wrong with him?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. He’s . . . I think he ate some of Renee’s cupcakes and now he’s acting like this. I think she might have poisoned him!” I couldn’t keep the desperation out of my voice.
“I’m not a vet, Lily,” Aidan said.
“Please? See if you can tell what’s wrong?”
With obvious reluctance, Aidan stood back and gestured with his hand to enter his office. He shut the door, and we were plunged into the soft lights and hushed atmosphere of his Victorian fantasy world.
Oscar transformed into his natural state, jumped onto a chair, and said: