Page 44 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Rory turns off the car and looks over at Calliope. She’s wearing a blue dress so dark it looks like it was cut from the expanding night sky above. Her long curls are pulled back into a braid and, remarkably, seem to be staying put. In her lap, sits a small bunch of wildflowers left over from their sojourn in the forest the day before. Her lower lip is between her teeth, and he can just see the needlepoint taper of her canine tooth.

At first, he thinks her worry is anxiety about the kelpie. They’ve spent all day buried in kelpie lore after all and have only uncovered a handful of verifiable facts. One thing that was emphasized, across almost all the texts, is that a bridle is a kelpie’s most sacred artifact. The longer a kelpie is separated from their bridle, the more physical and emotional anguish they will experience, as they slowly drift into grief-stricken madness. Every minute he and Calliope spend away from the library is another minute that the kelpie of Graeme Lake is suffering.

Rory is worried as well, of course. He feels it too: the minutes slipping through his fingers as the sense of urgency increases. But his worries are more focused on the small problem of procuring the ingredients for the potion. Before Calliope locked herself in her room to get ready for dinner at the Claytons, they bickered over where they could find the more obscure items, such as Minotaur horn powder (Rory is still on thefence as to whether a Minotaur is real, to be honest) and poke berries (which don’t grow wild in Willow Lake and are unlikely to be stocked by the general store downtown).

In the end, Calliope won: they will travel to Lyon’s Cross, the nearest magical town, to find an apothecary. It’s not that he has a better idea on how to acquire the ingredients, but that he’s been avoiding magical communities for a reason. He is perhaps willing to face the consequences should he be recognized, but what about Calliope? Would she be a target by mere association? It’s not something he’s willing to learn.

But Calliope wouldn’t budge, and he can concede that there are few alternatives. They are set to leave in a few days, when Rory doesn’t have to worry about being back for work. Not for the first time, he questions why he’s so willing to fold in the face of Calliope’s determination. It’s like something has shifted after their walk through the forest. She has absolved him from his past crimes, however subtly, and he feels he owes her. “You’ve got it bad,” Kane told him while he waited for Calliope to get ready for dinner earlier.

He denied any understanding of the bird’s cryptic words, and they left Kane with his books and a promise to return with pot roast, if that is, indeed, what is being served tonight. However, looking at Calliope now, as she twists her fingers in her lap, he can’t help but thinkKane’s right.

“Feels weird being without them. So light.” Shewraps a hand around one of her bare wrists. The manacles were removed before they left the house. Out of curiosity, he suggested she try cracking one of the concrete pavers that line part of the driveway. It would seem his earlier worries are unfounded. The paver barely crumbled.

She’s still looking at the house, wrist clenched in front of her chest. “If I lose control, you’ll—stop me, right?”

Realization of Calliope’s true worries washes over him and his own memory of how she reacted the last time she was around a human comes back to him. “You’ll be fine,” he assures her, thinking of her frozen in the kitchen, fear and regret writ large on her face.

“No.” She turns in her seat so that she’s facing him. “Compel me if I try to…well, you know. Just promise.”

He looks at her solemnly, taking in her furrowed brow and pursed lips. She looks frantic, on the verge of tears. Not the best way to show up for dinner. “I promise,” he says quickly. “But you’ll be fine.”

“How are you so confident?”

“Because I trust you—” Her eyes flash at him, surprised, “—and because I can compel you,” he finishes, with a smirk. “But I won’t need to.”

She huffs lightly, looking steadier than before, and she nods. “Right. Okay. Let’s do this.”

They exit the car and make their way down the front pathway, her pointy-heeled boots sliding precariously against the gravel here and there. She’s clutchingthe bouquet in front of her like a shield.

Martha greets them before they even knock, the screen door squeaking as she holds it open. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat spills out from the house, and it smells so welcoming—so homey—that Rory feels that pang of something quite like yearning. It’s a different homelife to the one he grew up in, which was cold and brittle, not to mention so many centuries ago, the idea of electricity and television would have been considered witchcraft. If his childhood was forged in iron, however, then Martha and Bill’s home is an heirloom quilt that he’d happily wrap around his shoulders.

“Come on in,” Martha says with a smile. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Calliope.”

“You too.” Calliope smiles and holds out a bouquet. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting us over for dinner.”

Martha places her hand over her heart, taking the bouquet with her free hand. “Our pleasure, darling.” Then, she turns to Rory and clucks her tongue. “Too thin, as usual. Let’s get you a drink.”

She motions for them to follow down the entryway, into the kitchen and then through the large archway that opens into the living room. Rory ducks his head as they pass through. He feels too big for the tiny living room, a dark hulking monster amongst the chintz loveseat and pastel floral paintings that adorn the white walls. It’s a familiar feeling though; he isforever hunching over to fit himself into spaces that are too small and he has long since made peace with it. Doesn’t stop him from noticing, though.

He can see Martha as she flits about the kitchen, arranging the bouquet in a recycled milk bottle before leaning down into the fridge. Rory is entirely prepared to hold onto a glass of iced tea through the evening, letting the condensation drip down his hand as he moves the glass around in an effort to make it look like he’s drinking it. But really, he should have known better. Bill and Martha know full well what he is, and he’s grateful that she hands him a small blue glass of blood without hesitance. Chicken, by the smell of it. Fresh, too.

“I wasn’t sure which you preferred,” Martha is saying. She bustles into the living room with a glass of wine for herself, “but we’re having chicken tonight and it seemed a waste to not…use it all.”

“Thanks, Martha,” he says, earnestly, taking a sip. He looks over at Calliope, who is clutching her glass so tightly, he’s worried she’s going to break it. He takes a step closer to her, giving her a reassuring smile. She gives him a strained look in return, but her shoulders do seem to loosen as she takes a sip of her drink.

Heavy footsteps announce the arrival of Bill. He passes through the archway, carrying a bottle of beer. His presence is stoic but congenial, and Rory realizes he’s never really had much of a conversation with Bill outside of placing an order and a few tidbits of a smalltalk.

Bill shakes Calliope’s hand, introducing himself as “Mr. Martha Clayton,” with a chuckle. “Bill,” he adds. “Bill Danes. It’s nice to meet you.”

Calliope smiles and Rory notices that when she drops her hand back to her side, it stays there. Likewise, the hand clutching her drink is decidedly less tense as Bill’s grin and endearing joke put her at ease. But no sooner does Bill stand back than Martha takes his place again, pulling Calliope’s attention away to the side. They sit down on the loveseat, heads bent toward each other like old friends.

This leaves Bill and Rory standing awkwardly by the unlit fireplace.

“Sorry about this,” says Bill, taking a swig from his bottle. “Martha’s been dying to get you two over here. In a little while, she’s going to ask you about her great-grandfather, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s fine.” Rory takes a sip from his glass. “Can’t say I remember him much…”

Bill shrugs. “She found some photos.”

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