The rules for safely eating cereal with Milo were as follows: Don’t stare at him while he’s doing it. Don’t walk in and startle him while he’s doing it. Don’t talk to him or try to get anything social out of him.
Two days after her brother’s departure, Calliope was feeling fairly confident of this. She was awake with Lucy anyway, she might as well eat some cereal. And Milo… could not really offer any opinion on the cereal-eating while he was doing so, see Rule Number Three, but he seemed okay having her there afterwards. He nodded a lot and smiled sometimes, or he did that thing where he covered his mouth with a hand and looked embarrassed, which was like smiling.
She wasn’t totally sure he wasn’t just being extra nice to her because of the bruise.
Well, the bruise and what happened after. With the makeup.
The makeup part was okay, when they got around to it. She asked Ann to teach her how to fix bruises. Ann was really good with makeup, she knew how to look like a whole different person. A girl person, which had to be extra hard. But Ann took her upstairs to 201 where the makeup was, and she hadn’t been up there since before Milo asked her to marry him and when she got in there, there was a sheet over the flowers on the wall and… and that part wasn’t okay.
Did he do this? (She knew he did it. Ann didn’t have any reason to cover up the flowers. She only said it like that because… because she was upset about it.) You don’t do this! You don’t ever do this! Not like they’re dead! Not like they’re dead! Ann, help me take it off… Make him help me! (He’d put it on there with magic, and she was afraid to just pull it down and maybe rip the paper.)
Ann and Milo helped her take down the sheet, and Ann apologized for both of them. Under the sheet, Milo’s weird flowers he did with the chalk pastels were still okay and definitely not dead, and eventually Ann helped her do the makeup.
But Milo might be letting her eat cereal with him when he didn’t really like it because he was sorry and he wanted her to be okay.
She was… sort of eating cereal with him because she wanted him to know she was okay. About getting punched in the face and the flowers with the sheet over them.
And she liked it. Except the part about not being totally sure he liked it. Ann hadn’t said anything about it, but Ann took practically forever to tell her she was starving Milo before, so you couldn’t always trust her to speak up about Milo and food. Maybe food wasn’t as important as not giving Milo drugs because Ann could eat for him.
They were done with this morning’s round of cereal. Milo collected both bowls and put them in the sink. The sink didn’t really work, not as a sink with water, but they still did dishes near it. Like it was some kind of religious object that needed offerings.
She waited until he put down the bowls because sometimes he dropped stuff, “Hey, babe, are you gonna be home tonight before Ann’s show?”
Milo nodded, then he lifted one finger for, Give me a minute, took out one of his cards and drew on the back.
He should’ve used the kitchen pad, Calliope thought. Now he’s down one and he’s not even on the bus yet.
He showed her a sketch of a clock face with the hours from three to six shaded in.
“Early dinner, then?” she asked him.
He nodded.
“I’ll tell Em. Or do you just wanna eat canned pasta?”
He waggled a hand and shrugged.
“Okay. Do you wanna come teach Lucy how to work the record player when you get back?”
He dropped his pencil and it rolled under the table. He was already nodding before he ducked down to get it.
She smiled at him. They hadn’t done records since before Milo asked her to marry him too. “Thanks, babe. Oh, hey, happy Valentine’s Day.”
He nodded. A lot.
◈◈◈
Barnaby did not appear to be in his room. Hyacinth approached cautiously, bearing a plate of breakfast and a glass of orange juice like a sword and a shield. “Barnaby?” She looked up, as if he might’ve wedged himself against the ceiling. A seventy-six-year-old ninja.
They never look up in the movies, she thought, frowning. And that’s always where it is, whatever it is. Or behind them in the medicine cabinet mirror… She turned slowly and regarded the attic stairs.
Barnaby spoke up from what was now, due to the fact that she had just turned around, behind her instead, “Leave it on the desk and get out.” He was just barely visible, peering out from the shadow of a stack of boxes.
“Are you looking for something?” she said.
“Yes. Shelter. Get out.”
“You are aware that we’re not having the war or the siege at the moment, aren’t you?” she asked conversationally.
“Don’t screw with me, Alice,” he said, emerging. “It’s the fourteenth today, and you know what that is!”
“Twelve bis… bis?” Hyacinth hazarded. Was fourteen now unlucky as well? She was aware he wasn’t fond of four, or thirteen. Had he gotten them mixed up?
“In February, we might as well call it that!” he snapped. “Like the Scottish Play or Robin Goodfellow. But I seriously doubt it will have any effect. February fourteenth is a pink-frosted party with glitter and David doing something completely mental to get attention, like jumping out of a cake…” He lifted a finger to declaim, “And that’s just to start! It’s like a competition with him. He’s pissed off St. Valentine got his own holiday first. He wants to be Valentine and Cupid and Aphrodite all at once!”
“Barnaby, he’s dead,” said Hyacinth.
Barnaby’s finger wilted and he slumped. “Oh, thank gods.” He looked up at her, “Do you swear?”
“We killed him ourselves, didn’t we?”
“And he’s not coming back?”
“…To the best of my knowledge, no.”
Barnaby sat down in his desk chair with a relieved smile. “Ah. Then what’s for breakfast?”
“Pancakes.” She set down the plate.
“Didn’t we just have pancakes? For breakfast and lunch?”
“That was Tiw’s Day.”
“This household is badly written,” he said.
“Badly written?”
“Oh, written, managed, curated, filed in little boxes, it’s all the same.” He waved a hand and picked up the fork. “These damned pancakes are shaped like little hearts.”
“I think Mordecai was trying to be funny,” Hyacinth said. Erik and Maggie had laughed, at least.
Barnaby glared at the pancakes and did not eat.
Hyacinth sighed. “Barnaby, would you like to come downstairs and make absolutely certain we are not having a pink frosted glitter party with an insane man in a cake?”
He pushed back from his desk and stood, “If only momentarily, yes.”
◈◈◈
It was warmer in the kitchen, so everyone who happened to be not doing lessons on the non-bank holiday was in there.
“… St. Valentine isn’t even anything to do with falling in love,” Mordecai was saying. “It’s just to sell chocolate and greeting cards.”
Calliope paused in the middle of a sip of chocolate milk and toasted Hyacinth. “Hi, Cin! Calcium in, calcium out!” She had Lucy cradled against her breast with the other arm. “Hi, Barnaby!”
Barnaby hid behind Hyacinth. “Should she really be doing that in public, Alice?”
“She is not in public,” Hyacinth said. “She is in her home with friends, all of whom have a very loose grasp of morality, including you. But if you don’t think you can eat pancakes in here without your head exploding, you can go back upstairs.”
“There is a bruise on her cheek,” Barnaby muttered. “Is Circus Peanut here?”
“No, you’ve missed him entirely.”
“Damn. I was hoping to catch you destroying the world in fire.”
“It was a flood.”
“Well, you thought about fire, didn’t you?” He sat down.
“I don’t think it’s a scam or anything,” Calliope said. “I just think it’s mean. If you have someone, you’re happy already, and if you don’t then you don’t need reminding. It’s like this old festival they used to have in Italica. They’d herd all the guys with no girlfriends into the town square and throw things at them.”
“What about the ladies with no boyfriends?” Erik asked. The violin case was open on the kitchen table but he was currently engaged in cutting out paper hearts, which Calliope had shown him how to do by folding the paper in half. Lucy did not mind him playing violin — to the contrary, she liked to watch and opinionate — but she wouldn’t settle down and eat if he kept it up.
“I dunno, I guess they didn’t write that part down,” Calliope said. “A lot of ancient history isn’t really bothered about women. I guess they could do whatever they wanted when nobody was looking.”
“Somehow I doubt it,” Hyacinth said. She put pancakes, now cold, in front of Barnaby and sat down herself. “You know, these don’t look anything like real hearts.” She picked up one of Erik’s creations.
“I’m practising,” Erik said sourly. He could get both sides the same by folding the paper, but sometimes the round bits on top were too far apart. It made him feel broken.
He saw how he ought to be doing it, that was the frustrating part, he just couldn’t get his fingers to evenly carry out the roundiness. Hester Carthage of the Hearth was trying to talk to him about child development and fine motor skills, and that was even more annoying.
“Sorry, kiddo,” Hyacinth said. “I mean human hearts. They’re a little like chicken hearts, but those are much thinner.”
“Chicken hearts mean ‘I love you’?” Erik said, considering them.
“Organ meat is fairly inexpensive for a token of affection,” Mordecai offered from the kitchen sink. He was drying pancake dishes. “Not that it’s any more relevant than St. Valentine.”
“Oh, they’re seed pods,” Calliope said. She picked up one of Erik’s hearts and unfolded it upside-down. “There used to be a plant… It was a contraceptive, so they put it on brothel tokens and stuff.”
“Did it work?” asked Hyacinth.
Calliope snickered. “I guess so. It’s been extinct a long time from people eating it. Nobody ever thinks to bring back a plant, even a cute one…”
Erik paused with scissors in hand. “Uncle, is it okay if I cut out contraceptives at the kitchen table?”
“Given that there is a huge bowl of them under the kitchen sink, I haven’t a leg to stand on if I want to say no.” said Mordecai. “Just please give it a few more years before you ask me if you can use them.”
“Your Auntie Hyacinth is in charge of the contraceptive charms,” she broke in. “And the rule is ‘if you need one, take one.’”
“Thank you, Auntie Hyacinth. Erik is eight,” Mordecai said acidly.
“I see kids giving these to people,” Erik said, as regarding the paper hearts. He looked up with a perplexed and sickened expression. “And their… parents.”
“Meanings evolve,” Barnaby said. “Constantly. Most people do not know their classical history as well as Calliope, so they give out little paper brothel tokens with the intention of being cute. One must always read for context. There may be a situation where even a chicken heart means ‘I love you,’ or a human one.”
Calliope set her chocolate milk glass down with a thud, “‘Ere is the ‘eart of your mortal enemy.” She had adopted a passable Iliodarian accent. “I tore it out of ‘is chest with my bare ‘ands and put it in this ‘atbox for you, my love. Feliz Valentine’s.”
Barnaby raised one brow. “Indeed.” He focused on the damp jelly-glass, which had left a ring on the tabletop. Ice? What the hell do we need ice for, you stupid object? He shuddered. Iced milk was disgusting.
“I suppose you’re acquainted with the real Valentine, Mordecai?” Hyacinth said. “Not the one who wears dresses and screams,” she added in Barnaby’s direction. (He failed to suppress a smile.)
“Not personally,” said Mordecai. He dried his hands on the dishtowel and sat down. Hyacinth could get Barnaby’s dishes, that was her job. “But I did know a man with no eyes and perfect vision.” He got half of the table with that. Calliope was grinning, she seemed impervious to shock, and Barnaby just folded his arms and sat back expectantly.
“…And now you are going to explain that and tell us what the hell it has to do with Valentine’s Day,” said Hyacinth.
“St. Valentine can’t give back real things,” Erik offered her. “Or, he doesn’t. It’s hard to tell with gods.”
“Tangible things, Erik,” Mordecai said. “Things you can pick up and hold. Intangible things are still real, like the ability to see.”
“But he can’t help me find my shoes,” Erik said.
“Aw, darn. I could use a god like that,” Calliope said. She lifted a bare foot.
“…And we can’t be certain the Invisible calling himself St. Valentine has anything to do with the historical figure,” Mordecai went on. “It’s the same problem with the ones who say they can talk to the dead. The Invisibles know things. For starters, they know everything you have in your head as soon as you let them in.” He brushed Erik’s hair back gently. “If they want to lie to you, it’s easy. They can say whatever they want. We can only judge them by what they do.”
“And the one calling himself St. Valentine makes eyeless people see?” said Hyacinth.
“Only if they were able to see at some point before. Lost things, but not tangible things. Mr. Nussbaum had to wear sunglasses all the time so he didn’t scare the hell out of people — excuse me, Calliope.”
“Maybe he could bring back someone who stopped loving you,” Calliope said. She scooted back from the table and put Lucy in her lap to get the bubbles up. “Maybe that’s why he’s got a holiday with contraceptives in it.”
“We don’t screw around with gods that change who people are,” Erik said gravely.
“This is true, but we also try not to say ‘screw’ that way if we can help it, dear one,” Mordecai said.
“I’m sorry, Calliope and Coconut,” Erik said. He was pretty sure this was a Lucy-and-Calliope-specific way of being polite. Hyacinth sure didn’t care, and his uncle didn’t usually — he was the one who said that about gods in the first place.
Calliope picked up Lucy and danced her gently in her lap. “Lucy says, ‘But, Em, I need my big brother to teach me swears!’” Lucy giggled and grinned toothlessly.
“Your Auntie Hyacinth will do it if Erik slacks off,” said Hyacinth.
Mordecai cleared his throat and leaned in with a smile, “Grandma Hyacinth.”
Barnaby lit up like a Yule tree and removed an uneaten chunk of pancake from his mouth with the fork. “Great grandmother!” he declared. “Your poor, ancient, barren, virginal Great-Great Grandmother Hyacinth!”
“Burn in hell eternally, Mordecai,” Hyacinth muttered aside.
He smiled sweetly at her. “Oh, Grandma. Apologize.”
“And your Grandfather Mordecai!” Barnaby said.
Mordecai wasn’t even drinking anything and he choked.
“What the hell does that make you, then?” said Hyacinth.
“Dead,” Barnaby replied. He resumed eating his pancakes. “One hopes.”
“Couldn’t even give me the satisfaction of saying it myself,” said Hyacinth.
“Anyway, I very much doubt St. Valentine would bring back a person!” Mordecai said desperately. He sat back and tried to compose himself. “As you were saying, Calliope. Maybe… maybe if someone had lost the ability to love, he could do something about that.”
Erik, who had been smiling, made serious again, “But you… don’t just… mess… people… around… without… asking.”
Mordecai sighed. “Well, we don’t, dear one. And we don’t call gods who do. Because we’re trying to be good. But some gods have a very different idea of ‘good,’ or they just don’t care, and they do things on their own.”
“Didn’t… Auntie Enora get… mad and say she’d… change you?” Erik said, frowning. It was something about Milo, but he wasn’t supposed to remember that part.
“Well…”
(I will make you a better person, but it had come out of Erik’s mouth — with a narrow, hateful expression that was not his own.)
Mordecai flinched and put a hand to his head, then lowered it gingerly back to the table, as if he’d had a brief muscle spasm. “I guess I should say… We don’t ask gods to do that. But… sometimes you weigh your options and do something risky. Auntie Enora hardly ever alters people and she’s very good at helping them, so, yes, sometimes we call her. Sometimes.”
“Ga!” Lucy added.
“She’s going to say ‘Grandma!’” said Barnaby. “I know it! Come on. Insult your Aunt Alice, annoying-and-otherwise-useless baby…”
“Barnaby, the annoying, useless baby is four months old,” Hyacinth said.
“Well, she is going to say ‘Grandma’ eventually,” Barnaby replied.
“A-ga-ga-ga!” Lucy said.
“‘I just love attention,’” Calliope translated for her, smiling. “‘Boy, howdy, I don’t even care!’” She put the baby against her shoulder, stood up and stepped gently but matter-of-factly on the Lu-ambulator’s metal nose to wake it up. Lucy went in the seat, and Calliope buckled the little harness for Mordecai’s peace of mind. “So who’s your Valentine who wears dresses and screams, Cin?”
Hyacinth shuddered. “He is definitely not my Valentine. Was,” she corrected herself.
“He taught Hyacinth metalworking,” Mordecai said.
“He had a gold nose and he punched a nun,” Erik added.
“And he made Barnaby’s life miserable,” said Barnaby. He rose and bowed once in Calliope’s direction. “That is more than enough David for my tastes.”
“Oh. David,” Calliope said. She closed her mouth.
“You may name your next child after him if you must,” Barnaby plowed on, oblivious, “but I assure you he was nothing like your grandfather — even when viewed through the rosiest of glasses. Hyacinth, are you certain you have enough ice?”
She blinked at him. “What, for the pink frosted glitter party?”
He darted his finger at her in a paroxysm of paranoia, “Damn it, I knew there was going to be a party!” He clutched both hands in his hair and cried out to the ceiling, “It was all an elaborate ruse!”
“Pardon me, the parking meter of Barnaby’s sanity has expired,” Hyacinth said mildly. She took him by the arm and attempted to drag him out of the kitchen.
“The boy was making decorations the whole time!”
The other occupants of the kitchen remained respectfully and somewhat bemusedly quiet until Hyacinth and Barnaby scuffled themselves to a less-audible distance.
“Do you think St. Valentine could do something for him?” Erik said.
Mordecai slowly shook his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know enough about him, but I wouldn’t like you to try, dear one.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know enough about him.” He sighed. “I’ve never seen him, I don’t know what he wants or how hard it is to hold him or how much it hurts… And you’re little and you’re learning and I don’t want to experiment with you.”
“Isn’t there a book we could check?” Erik said. “With gods in it?”
“No, not one with calling gods in it.”
“Why?”
“Because that would be an incredibly dangerous book to have.” Mordecai regarded Erik’s creased and concerned expression with a cringe. …And now they are talking to him about it and that is not information he needs to know. He cleared his throat, “Calliope, if you don’t mind my asking, why would a man who wears dresses and screams be anything like your grandfather?”
“Huh? Oh, Ojichan likes us to call him Raquel,” Calliope said. She tapped the wall to get the Lu-ambulator out of the way. A huge pink spider crawling past her with her daughter in tow didn’t even warrant a pause. “He wears dresses too. He put Mom through school working in a molly house, that’s like a gay bar, but a long time ago. He gets excited about stuff.” She shrugged. “Kinda like Ann. But he doesn’t mind being called a boy or a girl… Maybe it’s because he’s only trying to be one person.”
Erik’s frown faded and became a grin as the image of a city on fire with a lot of people screaming was replaced by an exotic-looking young man in a dress and auburn wig, leaning on a bar top and trying to get guys to buy him drinks.
It’s mainly the drinks, he thought. You have to give money to people if you want a room or you want to get “married” (He had an idea it wasn’t really married, just for a little while. He saw a man in a dated suit with a waistcoat and tails, and a man in a corset with stockings and garters and no pants kissing in front of a “preacher,” whom they had just paid.) but it’s mostly just a safe place to be weird and they make their money on drinks. You’re supposed to “push” the drinks.
Mordecai’s mouth dropped open. He was not getting quite the same context for “molly house” as Erik, but he had certainly heard of them. “Calliope,” he said. “At this point, I must admit, in my mind your family has been built up to absolutely mythic proportions and I can’t understand why I never read about them in school.”
“Marigold-Muse Law was in the papers for a little,” Calliope said apologetically.
“Ah.” Mordecai sat back and nodded, then sat forward and stared. “Wait, what?”
“Did I forget to tell you Mom has a law firm?”
Erik could not say anything. Cousin Violet, you don’t have to tell me, he thought, but if you made Calliope just for us, thank you.
Violet peeked out of the pantry and tipped him a little salute, but that might mean anything.
◈◈◈
Erik was able to get Maggie out of the bedroom for a lesson on the historical significance of molly houses — with lots of diversions because Calliope was the teacher. Then Lucy and Calliope needed a nap, and Erik couldn’t come up with any more excuses for Maggie to play with him.
He departed with Uncle Mordecai and the violin. They could play for young lovers with low funds and no judgment who might’ve decided to stroll through MacArthur Park, pick up a little money and be back in time to make dinner. Mordecai could then deposit Erik safely at home before going out to make more money downtown in the dark.
When Calliope got up, she was uncharacteristically concerned about the time and annoyed that nobody but Milo seemed to bother keeping a watch. “Doesn’t anyone know if it’s three? He said he’d be home.”
Erik was home by then, and he volunteered to run down to Strawberry Square and consult the hybrid gaslamp/clock thing that was sometimes functional. He made it home through the back door with what he assumed had to be record speed (just like the Silver Streak!) and announced, “It’s three…! Uh…” He considered Calliope’s pinched expression and rolled the hands back an hour, “Two-forty-five.”
An hour after that, the sun was starting to go down and not even messing around with the laws of time and space could convince Calliope that Milo was going to come home.
“He has to get to the club for Ann’s show,” Hyacinth said. “Something must’ve come up.” She could easily picture Milo standing at the bus stop and allowing several buses to blow past him because there were too many people on them. Or maybe somebody started talking to him and he hid in a public toilet for a couple hours.
“I guess,” Calliope said, but only grudgingly. She assisted Lucy in playing with her stuffed lizard for only a few minutes more before leaving her in the dining room with Erik and Hyacinth and trudging into the kitchen. Mordecai was putting the finishing touches on dinner, because she had asked him to start it early. You know, because Milo.
“Why are people so damn difficult?” she demanded of him. “Why don’t they ever just tell you what they need? Why do they make you guess? Why did I have to figure it out how you don’t like people helping you and Glorie doesn’t like to say she has friends? Why didn’t you guys just hand me a list when I came in the front door?” She plunked down at the table and put her face in her hands.
Mordecai made a cursory effort to dust the flour off himself and abandoned the chicken pie. It didn’t need a little heart-shaped pastry cutout on top, anyway. He was just being silly. “Calliope… I am very sorry I hurt you that way and I’ve been trying not to do it again, but is that what you want to talk about?”
“He’s hiding from me again,” she muttered, looking down. “He doesn’t like me eating cereal at him and I pushed him too much, but he doesn’t want to tell me so he just takes off and hides.” She tipped back her head with a heavy sigh that suggested it weighed a million pounds. “I know he can’t talk, but he could still tell me.”
It wasn’t necessarily that Milo was hiding from her again, Ann did have a show, Mordecai knew, and it wasn’t like they had a phone or that he could have called them if they did, but Calliope knew all that too. “It must be very frustrating dealing with him sometimes,” Mordecai said finally.
“Of course it is!” she snapped. “But I can’t tell him that, now, can I? I can’t tell him I’m getting tired and mad about it and I need him to help, because he freaks out and runs off and hides. He gets everything out of proportion!” she decided, framing the tabletop with her fingers. “You know? Like he drew the salt shaker so it takes up half the page and there’s no room for the sugar bowl. He doesn’t hear me when I say good things, and he hears bad things too much. I have to be patient, and I have to be careful all the time… Not just about him, about everyone, because I screw up a lot.”
She scowled and put her head in her hands. “Because people have secret gears inside you can’t see.”
“It… It’s hard to tell some things,” Mordecai said.
He sat down at the table so he could get a better look at her expression. He was treading on thin ice, poking a bruised place with a finger.
He glanced at the bruise on her cheek and winced.
“And there are some things that just don’t want saying,” he admitted. “I know people say you should always be honest but they’re either lying or dumb. Feelings especially are hard, and things we feel strongly about. Feelings are real things and it’s okay to have them, but it’s not always okay to tell them — or let them be in charge of what you’re saying.
“Telling someone we…” He wavered back and forth on the word. “…like that we’re mad and disappointed is something you have to be very careful about. And that is very, very hard, because sometimes you just want to pick them up and shake them and say, ‘Stop making it so hard for me to like you!’”
Calliope sat up. “You don’t ever want to do that to Erik, do you, Em?”
“Very rarely, but I won’t say not ever,” he replied. “But I was thinking more about women I’ve known.”
“Cin?”
“Cin and Diane and this lady I was married to for a little while.”
“You were for-real married?” Calliope said. “Not for taxes?”
“Not for taxes, but I wasn’t very good at it. Or at not letting my emotions drive my mouth. I’m a little better at it now, but you’ve seen how I get sometimes.”
“Was she really pretty?” Calliope asked, smiling.
“On the outside,” said Mordecai. He lifted a hand. “But let’s not sit here and sketch Cathy and me arguing, please.” She had already picked up a pencil and a sharpener from somewhere. She must’ve had them in pockets. “I only brought it up for comparison. I think you’re still mad about not being able to talk to Milo about how it’s frustrating sometimes.”
She put down the pencil and rolled it back and forth on the table while she spoke, “Yeah, but I wouldn’t like to hurt him on purpose like you do. Sometimes,” she added, catching the pencil. “I just keep doing it on accident and then I have to back up and start all over again.”
“I think… I do think Milo is capable of learning,” he said. “Even about things like this which are hard for him. I’ve known him for longer, and he’s a lot better than he was… He’s faster with you, Calliope.”
He put up both hands, “And I know… I know calling this ‘fast’ does not fill one with confidence in Milo’s intelligence, but he is better with you. He’s trying, like you’re trying. There is probably a lot he wishes he could say, and a lot he wishes he knew — but he doesn’t want to hurt you any more than you want to hurt him. Sometimes he freaks out and hides, but when the world doesn’t end he does notice, and he adds that to his data set. And Ann certainly notices, and she’s trying to help him too.”
Calliope snickered. “She yells at him sometimes, I can tell. He usually doesn’t freak out when she yells… Unless it’s, like, ‘That’s not safe!’” She pressed both hands to her face and shook the whole upper part of her body. Then she sighed. “I don’t know if he’ll ever like me like he likes Ann.”
“Gods willing, one day he may trust you like he trusts Ann,” Mordecai said. “But I don’t think he’ll like you the same way… I’m not sure,” he slowed down and said it carefully, “you would want him to like you the same way as Ann. Would you?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said weakly.
“It’s okay.” He smiled at her and put his hand on her hand. “You don’t have to know. But if you ever want some help talking to him, or if you need someone safe to yell at, there’s me… and there’s Hyacinth, but she doesn’t give as good advice.” He frowned. “Would you like me to stick around tonight? After dinner?”
Calliope smiled. “No, I’d like you to go out again and make money playing that syrupy ‘Up Where We Belong’ song from that movie a million more times. I think that’s way more fun.”
“Oh, gods, Calliope, sometimes you really are vicious,” Mordecai said. Erik had been humming the damn thing all the way home. He liked it.
She got up and examined the pie. “It’s not mean I asked you to come back and make dinner, is it?” She shut her eyes. “Especially since he’s not even home.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I had to drop Erik off anyway, and it’s cheaper to eat real food here. Now I know Hyacinth isn’t going to put the sugar bowl in front of him and say ‘Knock yourself out, kiddo.’”
She smiled again. “Is this supposed to be a human heart, Em?” She touched the pastry cutout on top with a fingertip.
“Well… sort of. I was trying.” He shrugged sheepishly. “For Valentine’s. I thought it might annoy Hyacinth.”
“Like, her face’ll get all squinchy and she’ll be like,” Calliope squinched up her face and made her voice as Hyacinth-like as possible, “‘Just what kind of a pie is this, Mordecai?’”
He laughed. “Ideally, yes. Oh, darn it.” Now he poked at the pie crust. “I should’ve used organ meat. Livers or kidneys or something. It would’ve been so much more suspicious.”
“I can help you with the heart part if you want,” Calliope said. “I’ve got sculpture stuff, I’ve just been hiding it ’cos of the metal.”
“I would appreciate it, Calliope,” he said. “But… Do you still want to talk? I mean, about Milo.”
“I don’t think about Milo,” she said uncomfortably. “I don’t think yet. I’m still thinking about it, I’m just less mad now I yelled at you instead. You’ll be home before he is, right?”
“Yes. Ann works indoors and she doesn’t have to worry about people throwing up in her violin case.”
“Cool.” She wet her fingers in the water bucket and smoothed out a section of ventricle for him. “Tell me about that lady you were married to, why don’t you? For Valentine’s. Or is she like Cin’s David-she-doesn’t-like-to-talk-about?” She said it like one name, like Mordecai said ‘Erik-with-the-sense-of-humour’ sometimes.
He smiled sickly and shook his head. “No, my dear. All I know about Cathy is desperately ordinary. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather hear ‘Up Where We Belong’ ten or fifteen times in a row, instead?”
“Oh, you can do that too, if you want.”
Calliope was in much better form for dinner. Hyacinth decidedly less so. She opened the trash can to look for evidence and then she asked anyway, scowling at the very realistic three-dimensional representation of a human heart on top of the crust: “Just what kind of a pie is this, Mordecai?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Hyacinth,” he replied.
◈◈◈
After a dinner of weird pie and most of a day spent talking Barnaby out of hysterics (“I was just teasing you! You wanted to know if we had enough ice! What the hell did you think we wanted the ice for?”) Hyacinth was in no mood for frantic knocking on her bedroom door in the small hours. Also, it was cold. It rarely snowed outside of January and December, but she could hear it raining. The air was damp.
She was already removing the socks from her hands to do a touch-know when she opened the door on Calliope and Mordecai.
“It’s my fault because of the record player,” Calliope said miserably. “I never should’ve said about the record player.”
“Milo’s still not home.” said Mordecai. He was already turning for the stairs. “Sit with her, Hyacinth. I’m going to go look for him.” He assumed he was going to find a broken pile of Milo somewhere between here and the Black Orchid, possibly with gay slurs painted on him, but he wasn’t sure if he hoped it or not.
Behind him, Calliope wrapped both arms around Hyacinth and burst into tears.
