Page 67 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
I talk about the decorations. Each historic house on the tour gets a historical period and must decorate like that period would have, so I go on a long lecture about how our bright, colorful decorations evoke the period of the 1950s.
Then I point toward the kitchen, even though usually I’d move into the living room and the library. I feel like it’s easierto lead them away from the newel post this way. “From here, we’ll move into the kitchen. A more modern addition, but withsome interesting historical touches.”
“Don’t we usually head into the living room at this point?” Carol interrupts as I make a move to take them toward the kitchen—awayfrom the staircase.
Why issheinterested in the living room? I thought she was here to spy on the newel post?
Then I remember thenachtkrappon the rug in the living room. She isn’t focused on Azrael. She’s looked at the mermaid, the newel post, and now wants alook at the rug. She’s essentially checking up on anything cursed in Wilde House.
I smile wide, because this is actually a relief. She might suspect something, but she doesn’t know what. She can only guess.
I can work with that.
“Usually,” I say brightly. “But I decided to change it up this year. The kitchen is the heart of the house, and I think tounderstand the rest of the house, you have to understand that.”
I can tell there are no cursed magical creatures in the kitchen because Carol looks bored and irritable, though she’s stillgleaming. There is something alarminglyyouthfulabout her face, which is not something I’ve ever noticed about Carol Simon before.
Once I’ve said absolutely everything I can think to say about a kitchen, with anecdotes about the warmth of Grandma LillianWilde—which, yes, I know will annoy Carol, who never liked her much and had a hand in her early death—I move through the restof the downstairs, always watching Carol to see if there’s some other cursed magical creature I’ve never noticed before.
When we’re in the living room, she stands right on the rug. I see her dig her heel into the bird’s heart.
When we head upstairs, my nerves pick up. Because I don’t know for sure if Azrael is in the newel post, and I don’t dare look.I’m worried it will cause Carol to pay far too much attention.
But, in a move born out of habit more than purpose, I run my hand over the newel post as I start my ascent up the stairs.It’s warm again, that impossible heat I used to tell myself was my imagination. Now I know better.
Azrael.
But I can’t linger. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s simply sent his magic into the post. But he’s there in some way. I glance backand see Carol do the same thing I did.
Then she snatches her hand away, as though she’s been zapped with electricity.
I have to smother a smile.
Upstairs, I go through the same process. I answer questions from eager humans and keep my eye on Carol. There’s a lamp inthe shape of a Piasa bird in the second-floor hall, but she seems more interested in looking out any windows that overlookthe river.
I think back to this morning in my library. I thought I heard that same song that’s been teasing me lately floating up fromthe river. Does Carol hear it too?
And... is that good, or terrifying?
Maybe I need to find the source of it before she does. I should mention it at our next coven meeting.
When I finish the tour of the upper levels of the house, all securely magicked to be as impressive and anodyne as possibleno matter who happens to be living here at any given time, I lead everyone back downstairs. Carol gives the dragon newel posta wide berth, but also a little smirk. As if she’s won.
I’m glad she thinks so.
Personally and strategically.
I herd the group out onto the sidewalk outside. “And now you’ll all head to the next stop on the tour, the Pendell home,”I say, and point toward my father, already standing out on his porch.
He waves. I wave back. We’ve done this for the past five years. I always follow up my wave by proudly telling the crowd myfather is afantastichistorian—witches know this means his designation is Historian, not just that he likes to research arcane topics as manyhumans do in historic villages—and will have great information for them about the Pendell house.
But that man... is not my father. I don’t know what he is to me.
Knowingwho I really amis tricky and hasn’t gotten any easier overnight, but I can’t even really sink into all the ramifications of that, becauseCarol stands right next to me.
“Did you enjoy your first foray into the archives?” she asks, as if we’re good friends and she’s deeply interested, not justevil. This close, I notice that her forehead is entirely smooth, like she finally succumbed to the spell version of Botox.
I play up that smile I’ve spent my whole life perfecting. “I did.”
