Milo opened his door at five in the morning and detected breakfast. Not a faint indication of breakfast that might’ve been made in the middle of the night and left out for him under a lid or a towel to be nice — loud breakfast in progress with the lights on in the kitchen. He could hear the sound of dishes clattering, and occasional snatches of singing. He grinned.
Yes! I don’t have to go to work today! We can play with Lucy and Calliope all day, and eat… Oo! And Sanaam’s home too! And we can try that thing with the headphones, maybe Calliope will like that, and all the decoys… Today is going to be fun!
Milo, it’s going to be more than Lucy and Calliope and headphones and food. There are going to be people here. I think you’d better get changed…
Oh, I will, but after breakfast. It’s not going to be people right away, Ann. We’ll have to come up with some way to sneak me down to the basement later. I hope Flo comes! He understands about me! He’d help!
Ann seemed proud of him for some reason.
…It’s nice to have friends, isn’t it, Milo?
Huh? Yeah, I guess. And family. Oh, damn, I gotta get Erik…
Erik wasn’t going to have a fun day at all, and Milo winced and knocked himself on the forehead with the heel of his palm. It’s not all about you, dummy. He ran down the stairs with his hand hooked around the banister, so he wouldn’t get hurt and distract Hyacinth. Hyacinth probably wasn’t going to have a very fun day either — more of a crazy one. He’d let her sleep as long as he could.
He gave the kitchen a wide berth; Mordecai would start trying to feed him if he saw him. Mordecai had a hard time remembering Erik during storms, but that really wasn’t his fault. Coloured people ran on magic, magic storms messed them up. And all the appliances and other stuff that ran on magic too.
The lamp was on in Room 102. Mordecai must’ve turned it on and left it like that. Milo edged past it on the floor, careful not to touch. If he tried to work it now he’d probably break it. Magic still worked for coloured people during storms, but for anybody else it was a dice roll. It might work, it might break, or it might erupt into a fountain of rainbow butterflies or do something even weirder and then break.
Erik and Mordecai’s room was sparse but comfortable. There was a table under the window, but no chairs and the beds didn’t have frames — just mattresses on the floor. There was also a threadbare Farsian rug in red and dark blue that invited playing, as did the space under the table, but Erik was tidy with his things and liked to organize. His toys were set up in a loose but functional arrangement near the wall by his bed. Above it, there was a poster from an old movie that Erik had found in a thrift store.
It had a guy on a horse. Erik still liked horses — the gods alone knew why. Milo was scared of horses after what happened to Erik.
On the wall near Mordecai’s bed and the funny sandwich drawing, there was a framed lithograph of a farmhouse and a field which Milo thought probably came with the house. He couldn’t picture Mordecai bothering with a fussy little thing like that, but if it belonged there, he’d leave it and neaten it. This was also the case for a few stray recipes that Barnaby had stuck to the walls when he tried to repaper the house. Milo figured Mordecai liked those ones, or Erik did.
Erik was learning to cook, and violin. Milo didn’t think he’d end up doing either of those things like Mordecai; Erik had his own ideas about stuff, and that was good. Erik and Mordecai were two people — although they seemed to forget that sometimes.
There were lots of crayon drawings stuck to the walls, and some on the table with the sheet music and the eye in the jelly-glass. Milo had a few, a recent birthday card and a drawing of Ann, but Erik liked to keep his artwork around where he could look at it until he got tired of it. Like Calliope! Except Calliope sold her stuff when she didn’t want it anymore, and Erik folded his up and put it in the trash.
Milo had no idea what happened to Maggie’s drawings, although he thought he recognized her style in a couple of these. He couldn’t help picturing the General critiquing her method and then setting them on fire because they weren’t good enough.
I would hang up your drawings if you gave ‘em to me, Maggie, he thought absently. Even on my nice wall with the flowers. I wouldn’t mind my room looking like this. I wonder if Lucy will let me have some when she can work crayons…?
There was a vague lump in Erik’s bed with the covers pulled over it. Milo knelt beside it and pulled them down.
Erik’s empty socket was turned against the pillow. His fine white hair was plastered to his head with sweat. His eye was winced shut, but it opened when the cold air hit him and he gasped.
Milo tried a wave. Hi. It’s just me hurting you. Okay?
Erik began to cry.
Yeah, that is so not okay, Milo thought. I’m sorry. I know. He bundled Erik in the blanket and sheet and picked him up.
Not that Erik ought to be expected to walk like this, but he shouldn’t step on the floor anyway. Milo’s all-purpose household safety spell (Version 2.0) had made the broken tile, the balding carpet and all the furniture more Lucy-friendly, at the expense of making it extremely Erik-during-magic-storms-unfriendly. Given that everything above basement level was already highly Erik-during-magic-storms-unfriendly, and even the basement wasn’t so hot, Milo didn’t think Erik minded.
Well, not more than he minded everything right now.
The sound of crying failed to garner any response from the kitchen, but the door to Room 103 popped open and Calliope peeked out. “Milo?”
He nodded at her in passing, but she was going to have to wait for him to explain. They’d told her about this before, when they were making the decoys, but he wasn’t sure she knew Mordecai cooking this early meant a storm.
Calliope wouldn’t hurt anything if she didn’t know. The paper lamps in her room were cheap. He could fix the record player, easy. The Lu-ambulator had an auto-off for magic weather — rerouted through Erik with the addition of a metaphysical switch, like he fixed the baby gates and the bumpers and the virtual doors. Lucy wouldn’t get hurt even if she took off by herself today. He was glad he fixed the house, even if he got yelled at.
And he pissed off the General, that was great.
The cot in the basement was all set, with an anti-magic blanket thrown over it to keep it from zapping Erik, and two more folded up on the floor underneath with a pillow. It took them way too long to figure out how to fix a cot for Erik — three whole storms, last year. Poor kid.
Erik couldn’t touch magic stuff during storms anymore, even his metal socket shocked him if he brushed it with a finger. He was different since he got hurt — storms used to be fun. Now they made him sick and he needed to be down here. It really sucked for the little guy, but he still tried to be nice. He said it was okay to do the thing with the headphones… But that was before.
Milo would have to wait until Erik was feeling a little better and check if that was still okay. And Seth, if Seth was okay enough to understand.
He laid Erik in the cot and piled both blankets on top of him, over his bedclothes, then put the pillow under his head. There was muffled sobbing coming from under the blankets and Erik didn’t seem to want touching, so Milo turned around and sat down on the floor beside the cot.
Calliope was standing at the top of the stairs in her T-shirt and boxers and looking down. “Babe? Is he okay?”
Milo shook his head. He rolled back to his feet and went to the worktable. There were coloured pencils and a big pad of drafting paper. He was careful not to touch the radio or the speaker box, he couldn’t use them later if he broke them now. He drew with the purple pencil, a big cloud with a lightning bolt coming out of it, and rain. He flipped it around and showed Calliope from the bottom of the stairs.
“Ohhh,” she said. She came down.
He ran up, and met her halfway. She didn’t even have socks on. He broke the stairs a while back. They patched the holes with magic. They wouldn’t break more because you didn’t have to do magic to use them, but there might be splinters. He guided her down a couple steps with his arm around her waist, before he got too nervous and picked her up like a suitcase to carry her the rest of the way.
“You’re silly,” she said, smiling. Her hair was all tangled up. She looked like that huge horsehair calligraphy brush she showed him at the art museum with the scrolls. It was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. She put her arm around his neck and pulled him down so she could plant a kiss on his cheek.
He blushed bright red and pressed his hand to his face, as if to catch the warm feeling she’d left there.
While he was doing that, she padded over towards Erik, and he had to reset his brain and dart after her. He caught her shoulder and pulled her back gently, shaking his head. He pressed a finger to his lips. He thought Erik’s head hurt, because his head kinda hurt, and he and Erik had that thing where they understood each other. Erik just couldn’t pull himself together and say, “my head hurts, be quiet,” right now.
“It really hurts him, huh?” she said softly.
Milo nodded. He didn’t want to go until Erik was okay, and he certainly didn’t want to start hauling cots out from under the stairs and being loud, but talking and touching were too much sometimes. It was like poking a bruise. He sat down next to the cot again and put a hand on top of the blankets with gentle pressure, just so Erik would know there was someone here to help.
Calliope sat down facing him and copied him, her expression grave.
Slowly, the crying stopped. A few moments later, a smothered, irritated voice said, “This is too hot!”
Milo lifted the anti-magic blankets, then did his best to sort Erik out without removing the anti-magic blankets.
Erik sat up and helped, drawing the two fire blankets around him and kicking away the bedclothes.
Calliope rolled them up and stuffed them under the cot. “Hey, Erik,” she said.
He shook his head, looking down and away. “I’m not gonna be… fun today… Calliope.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t think anyone’s ever a hundred-percent fun. It’s probably not a good idea. I mean, there are funerals. And court cases. You can have extra fun later if you want.”
He sighed and shook his head again. “Not for a long time. I’m gonna be tired.”
“Can you sleep?”
“Uh-uh.” He leaned back and put a hand to his face, not where the socket was. “Milo, can you get me something to do?”
Milo bolted. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the room and pulled up the lid of the cold box. He came back with a stick of butter and put it in Erik’s hand.
Erik’s expression twisted. He lifted the butter as if to throw it, “Not… butter, Milo! I can only do it… once and it goes… everywhere! It’s a… waste! Salt! Or sugar!”
Milo nodded, then he pointed upstairs and shook his head. He took out his watch and drew a circle with one finger, tracing the sweep of the hands. Erik, I have no idea how long it’s going to take me to get back down here with salt or sugar. It’s in the kitchen with your uncle and food.
Erik groaned and slumped forward. “Do you have a… thing to… put it in? I won’t on the… floor!”
“There’s a bunch of chamber pots under the stairs,” Calliope said.
“Oh, yuck,” Erik said.
Ann and Milo’s colour-changing coffee mug — gratefully rescued after a wacky misadventure in the Quality Control department — was on the worktable. Milo set it on the floor by the cot, and then ran upstairs to see if he could sneak some salt or sugar out of the kitchen without being fed.
Erik plunked the stick of butter into the coffee mug without bothering to unwrap it. He dipped his head and turned it aside. “Don’t tell Maggie I still do ‘abracadabra,’” he muttered.
“Okay,” Calliope said.
“It’s not everything, it’s just for the kitchen,” Erik said.
“Okay,” Calliope said.
“Okay,” Erik said. He waved a hand over the mug and said, “Abracadabra.” The stick of butter slumped slightly, as if disappointed. “That’s for frosting. Abracadabra.” The butter further relaxed into a heaped mass, pulling free of the paper. “That’s for cake batter. Abracadabra.” The butter became yellow liquid with whitish bubbles on top. “Pancake batter and sauces. Now I’m all done because I don’t know how to put it back in the stick.”
He set down the mug with a sigh. “Doing magic feels better but I’m not… good at it.”
“Looks pretty good to me,” Calliope said. “I’ll hafta grab you next time I want toast.”
Erik made a weak smile. “I can make spaghetti and chocolate cake.”
“I think spaghetti and meatballs is better, but if you make it, I’ll try it,” Calliope said.
Erik sighed again. “I love you, Calliope, but I’m probably going to get sick of how weird you are and be really mean at least once today.”
“That’s cool,” she said. “I…”
Milo appeared at the top of the stairs. In one hand, he had the sugar bowl and Erik’s eye patch — the strings were dangling and obvious. In the other hand, he had a stack of pancakes on a blue plate. There was syrup dripping off of it. He was holding a fork in his mouth. I found sugar, Erik! I…
Mordecai followed him up in short order. His sleeves were rolled up, the one with the cast by necessity, and his tie was loose. There was a dusting of flour across his nose like ladies’ face powder. He was wearing the sling with the painted flowers but he had taken the cast out of it, in order to hold the edge of a plate of apparent sausage links. In his other hand he wielded a wooden spoon with white batter clinging to the tip, like a magic wand with a star.
“Milo, come back here and taste this, it’s exactly like…” He stopped and blinked at Erik in the cot opposite the stairs. “Oh. Hi, Erik.”
Erik set his teeth in a snarl and pointed a firm finger over his uncle’s shoulder. “I don’t like you right now. You go away. You’re crazy. I don’t want food.”
“I made sausages,” Mordecai said weakly.
“Out of food?” Erik said.
“Mostly…”
Barnaby, or at least his head and one grasping hand, broke through Milo and Mordecai above the sausages. He was wearing a dusty pinstriped suit jacket, cufflinks and tie.
“Mr. Rose, I am using that sugar! Ah! Miss Otis! Good morning!” He brushed past both Milo and Mordecai and straightened the knot in his tie, then the sign dangling below it. OUT OF SERVICE had been written in slashes of dark pencil over a pasted picture of a shot machine. His trousers had horizontal creases from being folded up since last magic season. He bowed. “I am pleased to meet you while relatively sane!”
Calliope waggled a hand. “I’m about usual, Barnaby. Is that a collage?”
He followed her pointed finger and picked up the sign. “Ah, yes. It’s more of a warning, but this is my sense of humour. I am not out of service, but my third eye is. I may have a little more difficulty following your great leaps of creativity today, but I shall do my best!”
“Calliope, I made pancakes and sausages!” Mordecai cried, somewhat muffled. He held the plate aloft. Milo was edging down the stairs with the sugar bowl and the red man sidled into his place. “What are you doing in the basement? There’s food on the table!”
“Erik is being sick down here and I’m still full from the instant potato ice cream at three AM,” Calliope said, frowning.
“Erik?” said Mordecai. He regarded Erik. “Do you want pancakes?”
Erik growled and clawed both blankets over his head. “Calliope! Make… him… go… or… I’ll… puke!”
Calliope looked back and forth between them with a pained expression. This wasn’t how Erik and Mordecai were supposed to work. She got up from the cot and put herself between them. “Hey, Em? Uh… What if I come up there and guess what everything’s made out of? Is that fun for you?”
“Yay!” said Mordecai. He departed at a run. She could hear his feet going on the ceiling above.
Milo looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. Oh, good. She’s like Ann. I guess her brother Euterpe is super weird and she grew up with him, so she knows how to handle crazy…
He frowned suspiciously. So why does Ann know how to handle crazy?
Ann…?
It’s because you’re just that brilliant, Milo.
I think I’m gonna pretend I don’t notice you think you’re lying about how brilliant I am and then ignore you, Ann.
That’s probably for the best, Milo.
Erik glared at him and put out a hand. “Milo, give me the damn sugar and go away or I’ll put glitter glue in your bed and you’ll never notice until it’s too late.”
Milo gave Erik the sugar, patted his hand gently and left the eyepatch next to him on the cot. It’s okay, kiddo. I know you don’t really mean it…
Erik erupted in green flame like an enormous gas jet. “Stop invalidating my emotions, Milo!” he said, with what Milo thought was unusual — perhaps even terrifying — speed, given how angry he was.
“Mr. Rose, come away from the little boy and let him play with the sugar,” Barnaby said evenly. “We’ll just make believe it’s David down here with a band organ.”
Milo signed Erik a cautious thumbs up, backing slowly away until the heel of his shoe knocked into the stairs, then he turned and scurried up them, pulling Calliope after him.
Barnaby saluted Erik, “Courage, Camille,” and departed with another bow.
Erik sat in the cot, holding the sugar bowl, with both fire blankets bundled tightly around him. The green flame flickered, shrank, and finally went out.
“What a… dumb… idea for a… movie,” he muttered. Why didn’t they just call a god for Camille? They had time! Here, drink this. Now get married. Boom. Roll credits. Maybe the B picture has less crying.
He took the lid off the sugar bowl. “Abracadabra.”
◈◈◈
“More instant potatoes?” Calliope said gamely.
Mordecai shook his head, grinning.
“I’ll keep guessing,” she promised. She sat down at the kitchen table. Milo sat next to her with his plate of pancakes. Barnaby retrieved something that looked like a croissant from a bowl on the counter and joined them.
“Good day, sunshine!” Mordecai belted out, barely in key enough to allow him access to the pantry. Milo had graciously redone his household safety spell with better music on the invisible doors in the common areas. Only Room 201 and Room 103 were still operated by “You Are My Sunshine,” as in Version 1.0.
Calliope leaned towards Milo and spoke out of the side of her mouth, “This is some scary shit, babe. Em and Erik don’t work anymore.”
Milo shrugged and shook his head. It wasn’t really like that. They did both work… but they were working differently enough that they didn’t work very well together, that was all.
“The boy will improve once Mr. Zusman gets here,” Barnaby said. “He requires a project. The sugar which ought to be in my tea is a poor substitute for a broken human being who needs endless repair.”
He offered a nod in Mordecai’s general direction, explaining for Calliope, “Mr. Eidel already has a project, and his aberrant behaviour stems from being unable to focus on anything else. Given the broken arm, I doubt even the green delinquent with the guitar could wrest him away from the kitchen today. We shall have to put up with fancy food of indeterminate origin for the duration, I’m afraid.” He had a bite of his croissant, or whatever it was. “Alas.”
“Chris always liked to do stuff during storms too,” Calliope said. “I had to bribe him out of the studio with a chocolate bar and a sketchpad. But he never forgot he liked me. Or chocolate bars. It was still him, just different.”
“This is similar,” Barnaby said. He sipped his tea and frowned at it, then held up the cup, “Mr. Eidel, please be a dear and make this taste like hot chocolate with toasted marshmallows, I am unhappy with it.”
Mordecai clasped the teacup with an eager hand and ran off with it.
“Erik and Mordecai are not defined by their deeply unhealthy dependence upon each other,” Barnaby went on, awaiting the return of his tea with his hand extended. “However much it may seem so at times. …Thank you very much, Mr. Eidel.” He sipped. “They retain recognizable aspects of their personalities. For example, this one has constructed his rudimentary self-esteem out of orienting himself towards a lifetime of service. He is still capable of vicious sarcasm, but he is so pleased with his ability to make something out of nothing and serve it to people that he lacks the motivation. Even though I am sitting right here eating his food and insulting him — and he can hear me.”
He raised his voice without turning his head or setting down the tea, “You can hear me, can’t you, Mr. Eidel?”
“Every word, Mr. Graham!” Mordecai called over. “How’s the tea?”
“It is excellent. You are truly an emotionally stunted culinary savant.”
“Yes!” said Mordecai.
“He also remains extremely arrogant,” Barnaby said. “One must only appeal to his ego. And…”
…And Milo got up and upended his half-eaten plate of pancakes over Barnaby’s head. He squished it down like an undersized hat, let go and walked off, stepping over the invisible baby gate on his way to the front room. Syrup and fragments of fluffy golden pancake dripped down.
Barnaby’s hands came up in clawed, helpless horror. “This is my only suit!” he shrieked.
Mordecai retrieved the plate and flipped it theatrically into the washtub.
Calliope stood with an exasperated sigh, already shaking her head. “Em is Milo’s dad, Barnaby. Milo can hear you too. Didn’t you notice?”
“I don’t notice things! I’m out of service!” said Barnaby.
“You’re out of a suit, too, ’cos Milo can’t do laundry today,” Calliope said. “That’s called ‘instant karma,’ Mr. Graham.” She stepped over the baby gate and joined Milo in the front room.
◈◈◈
Calliope slipped both arms around Milo’s waist and hugged.
He stiffened and then turned around to stare at her.
She put her arms around his neck and smiled at him. “You could’ve been really mean and you just put pancakes on Barnaby’s head. I’m proud of you.”
Milo twitched a weak smile. He put a finger against the tip of her nose and pressed gently, like a button.
Barnaby just barely failed to clear the invisible baby gate, executed a magic-assisted half-somersault, and landed in a dazed pile on the dining room floor.
Calliope sighed. “Barnaby, I’m trying to have a domestic moment over here with my boyfriend who can barely talk to me. Could you go do gymnastics somewhere else?”
The elderly gentleman shambled to his feet, leaning heavily against the stained, accursed wallpaper. He scowled at the young couple who were evidently too mentally bizarre to afford him the sympathy he deserved. “I am not doing gymnastics. I am trying to negotiate this goddamn invisible obstacle course on my way to Alice’s room, so I can force her to launder my suit and then… I don’t even know! Beat it dry on a rock, I suppose!”
“You stop right there, Barnaby Marion Fayrfowel Graham,” Calliope said in a low, intense voice that Milo had only heard her use when she was dissatisfied with her artwork and about to crumple it up and throw it away — even if it was canvas stapled to a wooden frame.
Milo clapped an urgent hand to his mouth so that nobody would catch him smiling wrong. Barnaby WHAT?
Milo, you named me “Ann.”
But at least you look it!
Barnaby froze with his foot in midair and then put it back right where it had been. This woman is either shaping up to be an excellent mother or a tyrant queen, he thought.
“Cin is going to have to take care of a bunch of crazy people who can’t help themselves all day today — way more of ‘em than usual,” Calliope said. “So, no, Barnaby, we are not gonna wake her at dawn and demand she beat our laundry dry with a rock. We’re gonna put together the 217 Violena Street Players’ version of The Elves and the Shoemaker and sort everything out for her, taking occasional breaks to eat Em’s weird food and tell him how good it is, while she gets to sleep in for once. Are you reading me?”
“Calliope, I am covered in pancakes and syrup!” he cried.
“Take off the jacket and dunk your head in the washtub,” Calliope said. “Babe, I’m gonna go warn Glorie and Maggie not to be birds so they don’t get hurt. Then they can come help if they want, and Sam probably will. Can you put the rod up without bothering Erik too much?”
Milo nodded. He didn’t want her to start conjuring embarrassing middle names for him out of thin air. He wasn’t aware that he had any, so if she gave him one he’d have to keep it.
She beamed at him and signed him a thumbs up. “Awesomesauce.”
