Page 29 of The Grip of Death
The dog sat up straighter, his chest puffed up, as if all Reza had said was, “Good boy.”
Gertrude chuckled. “I’ll ask, but only because you’re too shy to ask for yourself. Brutus, may Mr. Arshad pet you?”
“Well, if it’s absolutely necessary for the fulfillment of my duties,” the brass bulldog grumbled. “I suppose some petting won’t hurt. But only a little.”
Brutus could pretend this was unprofessional as much as he liked. His tiny tail was whacking against the floor at a record pace. If Reza had a tail, it would be wagging, too. He bent closer to the floor, reaching out gingerly to stroke the top of Brutus’s head. The dog leaned into his touch, eyes squeezed shut and tail going so fast it could have gouged a hole and dug straight through to the ground floor.
Gertrude smiled. “Jackson? You’re also welcome to ask Brutus for permission to pet.”
I stood back, watching the pair of them with my arms crossed. “I’m all right, actually. Very tempting, but I don’t want to ruin this moment for Reza. It’s kind of sweet.”
There would be other opportunities to pet the brass dog. We still had some business to attend to. We stepped into Gertrude’s office, the comforting scent of sweetness and baking bread more prominent here than anywhere else in the guild.
Gertrude Goodness took her place behind her desk, then motioned for us to sit opposite her in a pair of plush armchairs. I sighed in relief as I sank into one of them. Everything about Mother Dough was just so damn cozy.
“Now,” she said, folding her hands on the table. “Tell me everything.”
And so I did, recounting all the details yet another time. It all slid out of me so easily, Gertrude and her grandmotherly glow, the fresh cups of tea that she magically conjured for each of us. But I managed to stop my story just short of telling her about Hecate and what she knew. There was far too much gravity in revealing the true identity of Madame Catherine Grayhaven to someone outside of our circle of friends.
Preston, Beatrice, Niko, Sedgewick, they all knew about Hecate. Three of them had been there with me and Xander when we retrieved her severed hand of glory, the reason Madame Cathee had appeared at the Grayhaven gala with an injured arm. They were ready to receive the burden of knowing that one of the greatest arcane minds of our time had secretly been an actual goddess all along.
And Reza, again, had proven himself a friend and ally despite our differences. Reza deserved to know. I finished my story. Gertrude reached for her tea, taking a slow, thoughtful sip. Reza was once again either too polite or too shy to drink from his own cup.
Personally I was too polite and too shy to ask for something colder. All the talking back home, at Giuseppe’s, and again here at Gertrude’s was bound to make me so thirsty. A hot beverage wasn’t really going to do it. I licked my lips and waited for her to respond.
She set her teacup down on its saucer with a clink. Gertrude Goodness nudged her tiny glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“You are both aware that my office is also my test kitchen, yes? It’s where I experiment with new recipes to distribute throughout the Mother Dough network. My office is very much my own version of an artificer’s workshop.”
I couldn’t control my face and stop my forehead from wrinkling. “That’s a great analogy. I admit, I’m not exactly sure what that has to do with Xander and the arcane engine.”
“Look around,” she said, motioning with one hand. “Tell me what your artificer’s eyes can see.”
I did as she asked, then shrugged. What was I looking for? Her rustic desk that looked like it simultaneously belonged in a home office and a living room, the stack of mixing bowls decorated with patterns of berries and slices of fruit? Did she mean that big copper thing in the back?
“Your oven?” I guessed. “I mean, it’s very pretty. Kind of vintage, if you ask me. Interesting that it doesn’t get too hot in your office because of it, actually, but I’m still not sure where we’re going with this.”
“Then you see for yourself,” Gertrude said, smiling. “Your parents could fashion wonders with their hands.”
I blinked hard, staring at her face, and then back at the copper oven. “Wait. Sorry. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this thing in your office. Are you saying my mom and dad built this for you?”
She sat higher, grinning even wider. “A paid commission, mind you. A custom enchanted oven designed for the master of Mother Dough by two of the Black Market’s finest artificers.”
It was stupid to get choked up over this, but I couldn’t help getting a little emotional. I held back my tears, channeling the sadness into gladness as I studied the oven more closely. Reza finally took a sip from his teacup, maybe as a way to quietly give me my moment.
Yes. I could see it now. Its exterior had been expressly crafted to resemble one of those old-timey wood-fired ovens, the kind with a grate and a long, extravagant stovepipe. Mom and Dad had worked harder on its insides, somehow regulating the amount of heat it radiated from its surface while still enabling it to bake evenly on the inside.
No wonder Gertrude Goodness made such delicious creations. Even her oven had a little touch of magic to it. Artificing magic, too, of all things.
If I squinted a bit and unfocused my eyes just enough, I could even imagine Dad standing over the thing, scratching the back of his head. Mom stood on the opposite side with a clipboard, batting his hands away from reaching into the oven’s blazing grate. I chuckled, only a little embarrassed when it came out sounding like a pinched sniffle.
“This was a really awesome surprise, Gertrude.” I ran a finger under my eye, just to make sure I wasn’t spilling tears in her office like a baby.
“And here I thought you knew. Ah, well, a delightful surprise it is, then.” She strode over to the oven, patting it like a favorite pet. A mundane stove of this design would have burned her hand. “My point, Jackson, is that your parents were professionals to a T. I’ve used this oven for nigh on a decade and it hasn’t once broken down on me.”
The sensation in my chest was like melting chocolate, this stirring pride and longing I felt for Mom and Dad. It wasn’t hard to feel pride for the Prydes. “The Crucible, I’ve come to call it. Anything I put into it goes through a trial by fire, and no matter how bizarre a combination, it still comes out tasting delicious. Not necessarily marketable, mind you, but still perfectly delicious. Your parents were miracle workers.”
She strode back toward her desk, stepping around it to take both of my hands in hers. So soft and warm, warmer even from contact with the oven. Gertrude stared hard into my eyes.
