Whiskey and Water by Elizabeth Bear

Author:Elizabeth Bear
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group (USA), Inc.
Published: 2007-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Please Come to Boston

Rumpelstiltskin finally resolved that Gypsy wasn’t an immediate threat to the health and well-being of all concerned around suppertime on Thursday, after the assemblage had broken for sleep and daylight duties and reconvened to continue discussion of unicorns and Faeries and points between. The cat celebrated by slipping from his usual vantage in the hallway behind the wrought-iron plant stand to twine the big man’s ankles and beg for crumbs of cheese, which Gypsy fed him whenever Autumn wasn’t looking. Rumpelstiltskin pushed them around on the carpet with soft white-rimmed toes until he was satisfied they weren’t going to bite him back, then consumed them with a great show of satisfaction and a flipping tail-tip.

Gypsy sat in Autumn’s usual armchair with a pile of reference books beside him and Carel’s ThinkPad open on his knee, the sound dialed down to counteract the tinny MIDI files infesting half the Web pages he surfed. Autumn, her hair held out of her face with the back of her left hand, sprawled on the floor, where she drew charts and family trees on a big sheet of craft paper with repurposed dry-erase markers. All three lifted their heads when the front door swung open, cooling the house with a draft.

“Carel?”

“I’ve brought company,” Carel called back. “Is that Gypsy’s car in the drive? . . . Oh, hi, Gyp.”

“Hey your own self,” he said, and set the laptop computer aside before heaving himself to his feet. And stopped halfway, blinking, while Autumn knelt up, and Carel and her company appeared in the hall doorway. “You weren’t kidding.”

Three children clustered behind her, two boys and a girl. Well, Gypsy allowed, children might be an uncharitable description. Young men and a young woman, twentysomething. A black-haired boy, slender and well-made. The second boy a Gothy type with his dye job showing red at the roots, and the girl ash-haired and contrasting hippie chic with the scars and piercings decorating her flesh. She made Gypsy’s old scars itch, in particular, which was odd because there was nothing to her, metaphysically speaking, and he could see the power dusting the boys as if they’d been rubbing their hands over soft, silvery schist and the flakes of compressed mica had coated their fingers and palms.

Carel, as she always did, glared with power like the coals in a black iron furnace. She hesitated in the doorway, met his eyes, smiled a little, and then turned her attention to Autumn. “Sorry there wasn’t more warning,” she said. “I didn’t think to call. Autumn, Gypsy, I’d like you to meet Ian MacNeill, a Prince of the Daoine Sidhe; Jewels—the young woman I spoke to you about on the phone, Tums”—Autumn winced at the nickname, but couldn’t hide her smile—“and Geoff.”

“And who’s Geoff?” Gypsy said, collecting himself enough to finish rising from among the books, step over Autumn’s legs, and extend his hand.

“Nobody in particular,” Geoff answered, but he was the first one to put out his hand. His grip was firm, a little cool, as if he had been not wearing gloves outside.

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