Calliope was crouched in one of the nice chairs in the front room, like a gargoyle. She was wearing a red and gold skirt — either satin, silk or one of those nice new synthetics — with two fluffy white petticoats and a gauzy, puffed, black-and-grey bodice. Her lacy black high-heeled shoes (with buttons) were perched on the threadbare cushion under her.

She had a hat pinned to her coiled hairstyle with a sprig of iridescent black feathers surmounting the shiny fabric. Two slinky black gloves lay across her knee, waiting to be pulled all the way up to her elbows.

Her makeup was tasteful, understated and impeccable, as if painted on in watercolour with a fine brush. She looked like an irritable porcelain doll.

Mordecai half expected her to take off and fly around the room, shrieking. A fury instead of a muse. “Uh, can I…?” he began, raising a hand.

“Oh my gods, what happened?” Hyacinth said, at the bottom of the stairs behind her. “Milo!” she answered herself. “Did Milo do this to you?”

Calliope wheeled and stood up on the chair, “People are going to be taking pictures of me, I look lovely, and I don’t have any time to change so shut up!” she declared.

Hyacinth staggered and sat down on the stairs, a hand to her chest.

“It’s beautiful, Calliope,” Mordecai said. He offered her a hand down from the chair. “Very nice for the pictures. I was just wondering if there was anything you needed before you go?”

“I need competent partners who have some idea how a real-life art show they’re running themselves is supposed to go, instead of just having a couple pictures put up in somebody else’s space! I need my goddamned ex-boyfriend to grow a goddamned spine and for goddamned Katya to stop hitting on him because he’s obviously not interested but instead of telling her he keeps complaining to me! And I need goddamned Teagan to get hit by a goddamned train!”

She darted a finger at the door to Room 201 and her expression screwed into a snarl.

“And I need my current boyfriend to get done refurbishing himself so we can get going instead of… of knitting himself a whole new outfit out of the goddamned curtains like… like Scarlett O’Hara! Because these goddamned shoes hurt!” She stamped both feet on the cushion. She had not bothered to come down from the chair.

“Ah, then I’ll just check on him,” Mordecai said. He bowed and edged around her, well out of striking distance. He stepped over Hyacinth on the stairs.

Mordecai was as comfortable as it was safe to be (not very) in handling stressed-out women anticipating an important event. They tended to manage themselves quite well once the bullets started flying, but before that, an incautious man was liable to get his head shot off for putting a single toe out of line.

Half a toe, Mordecai thought, glancing over his shoulder. Half. He tapped on the door to Room 201. Lacking an immediate response, and with Calliope glaring at him from the chair, he bowed in her direction again to excuse himself, and peeked into the room.

Milo was leaning over, having a silent, animated conversation with the mirror, as he perfected the shine on his perfectly-straight dark red hair with about a gallon of magic-based spray conditioner. There was a faint purple haze in the air which smelled of various essential oils, the friendliest gas attack Mordecai had ever been party to. Regardless, he fanned a hand in front of his face to clear the air and gave a light cough before announcing himself, “Excuse me, Milo. I…”

Milo turned and staggered, catching himself against the dresser with both hands. He did not quite jump on top of it, but he seemed to be reserving the option — just in case the person asking after him was a mouse, or upsetting in some other way.

Mordecai took a step backwards himself. Milo’s suit was oddly outdated, perhaps ten years older than the cut of Mordecai’s own, which had gone out of style right about when the Beatles broke up. The jacket was long in the back and fitted, black with wide satiny stripes. The mismatched pants were comically baggy, even worse than how they’d been worn at the time. The shirt was white with a fussy little collar, worn with a bold greyscale geometric knit vest and a black-and-white polka dot tie.

“Is it a costume party?” the red man asked, blinking.

Milo shook his head. He made a sign which Mordecai had never seen before: right index finger held upright and swatted down by a closed left palm, with just enough space between the fingers so the right index slipped through and remained upright.

“Sorry, I don’t know that one, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to make Calliope translate right now. I hope to the gods you’re supposed to look like that.”

Milo nodded. He indicated his silly outfit, made a small, sheepish smile and signed: [C]RIMINAL.

“You let Calliope dress you?”

Milo nodded.

“For gods’ sakes why?”

Milo signed: SAD >> SHOP >> HAPPY

“‘Sad-shop-happy’? Give me a hint. Is that a noun or a verb in the middle?”

Milo blew out a long sigh. His dumb fake dad couldn’t even read a simple linear progression. He tried again: SHOP [GO] … ONE [LIST] SAD [STATE] TWO SHOP [GO] THREE HAPPY [STATE] [END LIST] VOILÁ «the result» … SAD SHOP [SHOE DRESS GO SHOP] HAPPY … [C]RIMINAL HAPPY [STATE HAPPY] SHOP [GO] GOGGLES-PERSON «a doctor» [H]GOGGLES-PERSON «a doctor like hyacinth» SHOP [GO SHOP] «shopping is a doctor like hyacinth» HELLO [MEAN/MAD] «are you paying attention?» BAKA

“Milo, are you trying to say ‘retail therapy’?”

Milo nodded and bapped Mordecai lightly on the forehead. «there, was that so hard?»

Mordecai brushed him away with a frown. “That’s very condescending of you — I mean, to her — and it did not make her ‘happy.’” He signed it like Milo did, with no smile and a tag — and evident sarcasm.

Milo frowned too. She was happy for a little bit — days ago. She liked dressing him up. But he didn’t want to waste more time trying to explain it to Mordecai.

“…Get down there and be supportive, and don’t be mad or hurt if she yells at you. But if you can’t manage that last part, at least don’t show it, okay?”

Milo lifted one finger for a moment’s pause and snatched a very smart and similarly dated pork pie hat off the dresser. He popped it on and tilted it sideways with a delicate gesture Mordecai found surreally familiar. Frowning, Milo seemed to decide he didn’t like the angle and straightened the hat, then tipped and straightened it one more time.

“Milo!” said Mordecai

He dropped the hat. After he’d picked it up and put it on again, he tipped it backwards and signed, BAKA, at Mordecai in passing.

Mordecai touched the heel of his palm to his forehead in acid imitation, BAKA “…yourself, Milo.”

Milo walked to the railing, spread his arms and spun around like a fashion model.

Mordecai winced and waited for Calliope to gun them both down like gangsters in the street.

Below them, Calliope laughed and applauded. “Oh, babe, that’s great!”

Milo held up a finger, then he straightened the hat like he had in the mirror a moment before. He made the sign which Mordecai didn’t know, a hand failing to flatten a finger.

Calliope laughed and made the sign herself, while speaking, “Yeah, Buster Keaton! Sexy Buster Keaton!”

Milo turned aside and hid a blush behind his hand.

“Buster Keaton!” cried Mordecai. Now he placed the fussy way of adjusting the hat. “Where on earth did you two dig up Buster Keaton?”

“He’s not dead yet, Em,” Calliope said, glaring.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I meant ‘find.’ ‘Encounter.’ Where did you see him?”

“At La Stella, they show old stuff,” Calliope said. “It was a double feature. Steamboat Bill Jr. and The General. The train General, not Glorie. That dumb critic in the paper said Milo was trying to be Buster Keaton in the zombie play. Milo wanted to know who that was.”

Milo beamed and signed a double thumbs up. He really did ‘wannabe’ Buster Keaton now. Buster Keaton was cool!

“Then he decided he does wanna be Buster Keaton, ’cos he’s a cool guy,” Calliope said.

Milo’s bright smile melted into a broader but more subtle expression of contentment, more like being offered a spot by a warm fire instead of a pony ride. Aw, I love Calliope. He signed it for her, abbreviated: IUL.

She signed it back. “So when we dressed each other up, I dressed him like that. I like Toulouse Lautrec girls, so he dressed me like one of those. Then if I have to get dressed up like I don’t like, it’s better because I’m being a character, and it’s not as scary for him because he’s being one too.”

Hyacinth considered this, still sitting on the stairs but somewhat more composed. “Well, I guess it’s all right if it’s consensual. And temporary. Carry on.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Calliope snapped. Milo faltered on the stairs. Calliope motioned him downwards, but gently, “Come on, babe. We gotta get going.” Once he was in reach, she threaded her arm around him and pulled. “We open at seven, you guys,” she told the others. “Don’t be fashionably late or I’m gonna lose it, okay?”

Mordecai swept in front of Hyacinth and put his hand over her smart mouth, “We wouldn’t dream of it, dear. Are we meeting your parents or will they be with you?”

“I don’t want to deal with them yet and they know not to mess with me when I’m busy. It’s like when Melpomene bit Dad. They’ll have fun with me after Thalia’s off the phone. Tomorrow. I mean, I’m gonna be freaked out the whole time because we’ve gotta make our money back, but there’s not much I can do about it after tonight. They’ll distract me. Like shopping. I told them you’d meet them in front.”

She sighed and put a hand to her head. “If they’re not there at seven, my dad screwed something up. Give ‘em fifteen and call the Guillory Park Hotel West for me. Do you need me to write down their number?”

“No-no, dear. I’m absolutely positive they’re in the phone book. We’ll be on time and we’ll be competent.”

“Don’t forget Lucy. And she doesn’t have to dress up if she doesn’t want, she’s a darn baby.”

“Certainly not.”

“Okay.” She tightened her arm around Milo and began to walk with him to the door.

Hyacinth raised a finger and called, “They did straighten out the thing with the caterer and they will be serving real food for dinner, right, Calliope? Not like…” She was going to say “toothpick sandwiches” but Calliope turned with a snarl before she could get it out.

“Yes! Of course it’s real food! Chris wouldn’t hire a bunch of performance artists with fake food! …Unless they seemed intimidating.” She growled and clutched both hands against her elaborate hairstyle. “Look, if one more thing goes wrong I am going to go mental, so don’t jinx it, Cin!”

Milo put an arm around her, over her arm, and squeezed. Perhaps he made a few signs, with one hand, but it was hard to see.

She gave a weak laugh and shook her head. “No.” She signed at him, but Mordecai couldn’t make that out either and Hyacinth wasn’t looking. “Maybe for a second. I thought you didn’t like it and you were trying to throw something else together. But you and Ann were just practising that hat thing in the mirror, huh?”

He nodded.

She spoke while signing, “You wanted it perfect for me?”

He nodded and signed: IUL.

She smiled. She said it and signed it, “I love you too.”

They walked out together, holding hands. Milo nudged the door closed with his shoe behind them. Mordecai kept his hand over Hyacinth’s mouth until they were gone, to prevent any further complications.

“Why is she pissed off at everyone but him, huh?” Hyacinth muttered, pointing. “He’s the one she was stuck waiting around for.”

Mordecai was regarding the closed door contemplatively. “Diane told me something once. I thought she was full of crap, but now…”

“Was it something relevant?” Hyacinth said acidly.

“I’ll get to it if you’re patient with me. She said there’s one simple trick that kills a woman’s pain faster than a drink of laudanum, but she was too smart for it so I shouldn’t get any ideas.”

“A mind-blowing orgasm,” Hyacinth deadpanned.

“‘Let her hold her husband’s hand.’” He scolded her with disbelief, “How is it you think a woman could be too smart for an orgasm, of all things?”

She snickered and shrugged. “Not me. Maybe she was trying to spare your feelings.”

He turned away. “I’m going to find Erik and start getting ready to go now. If you can fish your mind out of the gutter, I recommend you find Barnaby and do the same. Then, if I have the time, I’m going to take a cab uptown to the Guillory Park Hotel West and make absolutely sure Stephen Marigold Otis hasn’t burned it to the ground, and try to get him to Calliope’s art show on time anyway somehow if he has.”

“You ought to send the General and save the cab fare,” Hyacinth said.

Mordecai began to smile.

◈◈◈

The red gentleman tapped on the door to Room 202 and spoke temptingly. “Pardon me? Brigadier General Glorious D’Iver? I have a task I am too incompetent to perform…?” It was like shaking a box of treats for a cat.

The door popped open. “What is it this time?”

He stared. “My gods, what have you done to the baby?” He’d never seen that dress before. It had pink lace ruffles. What kind of maniac would design an outfit with three petticoats and pink lace ruffles for a toddler?

…Okay, apart from Milo.

“I have neatened it,” said the General.

Lucy pulled the bowed headband down from her hair and began to chew on it. “Ah!” she protested, as it was levitated out of her hands and replaced on top of her head.

“It is automatic, Miss Otis,” said the General. “We can do this until you get tired of experimenting with it.”

“Poo,” the baby replied, frowning.

The General did not react. The child would also get tired of swearing eventually, if only everyone else would stop smiling and laughing like it was cute.

Mordecai reacted, but not with a smile. “Uh, ah, General D’Iver… Calliope has put me, a stupid person, in charge of wrangling her equally stupid and weird family from the Guillory Park Hotel West, uptown, to the gallery in time, and I, obviously,” he put a hand to his chest and bowed, “will ruin her whole art show for her if left to my own devices. You’re familiar with her tendency to trust others uncritically!”

Now he smiled. “But I have a teeny-tiny fragment of intellect rattling around in my head which suggests I ought to delegate this matter to an actual trustworthy person. Such that Calliope will be unimpeded in her latest attempt to support her tiny family and represent the interests of all single — and near-single — working mothers against the sexist art establishment! Why don’t you let me take care of the baby? Hyacinth will at least prevent me from ruining a baby.”

“Why don’t you talk properly?” said the General.

He spread his hands, as if indicating a sideshow attraction, “I’m a drug-user!”

“Indeed. I will leave Lucy with Hyacinth.” She brushed past him.

“Okay! That works too!” He signed her a double thumbs up.

“Do you think you can remember where I’ve gone and why long enough to find my daughter and let her know I will meet her at the gallery?”

He executed a double take, staring into the room behind her. “She’s not with you? Where is she?”

“I asked her to amuse herself with Erik. She is of little help in neatening a baby.”

“I have under three hours to get Erik to a real-life adult art show in SoHo and Maggie is ‘amusing’ herself with him?”

“Yes.”

Mordecai blew past her, taking the stairs two at a time. “Give the damn baby to Hyacinth!”

Left alone in the front room, as other people departed on emergency matters, Hyacinth examined the pink lace baby.

“Boo!” Lucy replied, grinning. She learned that response for shocked faces on Mischief Night.

“Oh, hell, no,” Hyacinth said.

“Heh naw!”

“Can you say ‘butch,’ Lucy?”

“Buh!”

“Yeah.” Hyacinth turned and tucked the baby under her arm. “Let’s see if we can get you to look it.”

◈◈◈

After a hopeful check of the front porch, the least-messy outdoor area suitable for fun, Mordecai hooked through the alley to check out the back stairs. As he was rounding the corner of the house, a half dozen glowing purple tentacles blossomed from an unseen source like an enormous orchid, blotting out the sky. The figure of a green boy in short brown pants and wool stockings was discernible, riding the topmost coil with both hands waving and a maniacal grin.

Mordecai opened his mouth and broke into a run at the same time, neither knowing nor caring how his disapproval was going to arrange itself into human language: “Magnificent D’Iver, you put that thing back where it came from or so help me…”

He staggered to a halt, scraping both shoes in the gritty snow, as he beheld both Maggie and Erik standing on the stairs, Erik with both hands clamped over his mouth and Maggie with her arms over her head, conducting the illusion allegretto. One massive tentacle gave a friendly little wave, then the whole scene winked out like a blown light bulb.

“Wh…” Mordecai managed.

“I heard you coming,” Maggie replied.

Erik couldn’t hold it anymore. He sputtered a raspberry against his clasped hands and then doubled over laughing.

“This is not how you treat a fragile human being who has been through a war!” Mordecai cried. “I have enough trauma!”

“It’s called exposure therapy,” Maggie said.

“That is not exposure therapy! I never want to catch you improvising mental health care in my or anyone else’s direction ever again! Are you doing anything back here besides devising cruel pranks for the elderly?”

“We were just eatin’ candy,” Erik said. He rubbed his mouth with a hand.

Mordecai looked him up and down. “So that’s that awful dye they put in everything grape flavoured and not purple lip gloss?”

Erik snickered and shrugged.

Mordecai took him by the arm. “I don’t care about anything you got on your clothes, you’re not wearing those anyway. You haven’t got gum in your hair or anything?”

Erik shook his head.

“All right, let’s wash your face. Even Calliope had to dress up for this and we’re going to help her by not complaining and dragging our feet about looking nice, right?”

Erik nodded.

“Okay. We’re pretending to be civilized no matter what happens, and people are going to be taking pictures, so we might end up in the paper. Let’s see you smile and look personable.”

Erik clasped his hands endearingly and beamed.

Mordecai recoiled. “Erik, your teeth are purple!”

Erik frowned and rubbed his mouth again. “I look punk rock.”

Maggie snickered and he half-smiled.

“If Calliope doesn’t get to look punk rock tonight, then you don’t either!” Mordecai began to drag him inside. “We are going to brush!”

“I ate a whole bag of cherry zings, don’t you care about me?” Maggie grinned redly.

“No! Your mother might, but she’s off wrangling Calliope’s weird family. As far as I’m concerned, nobody defames a whole culture when little white girls look weird in the paper!” He let the door slam between them.

Maggie snorted and regarded her brown hands. “‘Little white girls,’ gimme a freakin’ break.” After a moment’s consideration, she opened the door and went inside to brush.

◈◈◈

It took about a half-hour to comb and de-purple Erik. Mordecai left off the vest, tie, stockings and other details for the moment and asked the boy to please amuse himself quietly with crayons in the kitchen. “And don’t spoil your dinner. Calliope and her friends put a lot of work and money into whatever it is we’re supposed to be eating, so you’re going to eat it and like it, correct?”

“What if it’s snails?” Erik said.

“Snails are not that bad, they are mainly a conveyance for garlic butter, but if there’s something you absolutely can’t stand the taste or texture of, just give me a nudge and I’ll fix it. Don’t be rude.”

Erik nodded.

Mordecai did too. “Thank you, dear one. Now I need to get ready. Hyacinth…” He had detected Hyacinth in the corner, trying to conceal a half-naked baby in a pair of tiny goggles. “I respect that the dress was a bit much, but please put something on Lucy, it is cold outside. And lose the goggles.”

“She needs the goggles,” said Hyacinth.

“No she doesn’t, what are you thinking of? Don’t do metalworking in the middle of Calliope’s show, this is not about you tonight.”

Hyacinth squirmed. “Well, the thing is, that stupid headband with the pink bow wouldn’t leave Lu alone, so I cut it up with scissors and threw it in the trash.”

Mordecai sighed. “If she needs an accessory that badly, I’m sure Calliope…”

“No, she has two of ‘em now.” Hyacinth picked up the baby goggles, revealing a crown of ragged pink fabric stained with orange juice and coffee grounds.

“Boo!” Lucy replied with a wave.

◈◈◈

“Maggie, where are you? We need countermagic right now!”

Maggie popped her head out of Room 202 with her white fairy dress half on and her hair all poofy and ragged. Mordecai was in the middle of the front room with the baby. “What did you do?”

He held Lucy up. “I didn’t do it!”

Maggie pulled up her dress straps and stomped down the stairs. “Is there somebody in this house so dumb they’d glue garbage to a baby on purpose — Don’t answer that.” She put a hand on Lucy’s head. “Show me.” The glowing arrangement of magic was neat as a pin, with almost no blinking vulnerabilities to exploit. “My mom?!” Maggie cried.

“It wasn’t garbage when she glued it there. Can you get it off without hurting Lucy?”

She winced and shrugged. “I guess I can try.”

“Don’t ‘try’ the not-hurting-Lucy part, be absolutely positive about that. If nothing else, we can take her to the gallery with garbage on her head and your mom can clean her up there.”

Maggie nodded and accepted the baby. “That’s if she doesn’t get held up with Calliope’s weird family, Uncle Mordecai. So maybe you better look for a hat, just in case, okay?”

He sighed. “Damn it, I’m still not dressed…” He cupped a hand to his mouth and called into the kitchen, “Erik, drop the crayons and find me a baby hat! Please!”

“I’m all fancy! Make Auntie Hyacinth do it!”

“I still have to feed Barnaby and get yelled at!” her voice replied. “Then I gotta meet the babysitter and explain Room 101!” She ducked through the kitchen doorway, holding a tray with its dinner. She rapped on the door. “Hello? Mister or miss abomination? I hope like hell you’re not married with baby abominations…” The door popped open and she went in.

Mordecai tried to peek in after her, but the handle wouldn’t turn. He knocked too. “And brush your…” The door popped open. He stuck his head inside, continuing in a slightly lower voice, “Brush your…”

◈◈◈

“…hair.” He blinked. They were all standing in the front room, except Barnaby, and it was dark outside.

Mordecai had a chunky green stain dribbling down his shirt and Lucy still had a garbage crown. “What the hell?” he said. “Is this soup?” He glanced around. “What time is it? Does anybody know what time it is?”

“The sitter isn’t here yet, so it’s before five-thirty,” Hyacinth deduced. There was a knock at the back door. “Ah. Check that. It is five-thirty. Pardon me. I’ll go yell ‘it’s open.’”

“We have to be at the bus stop in a half hour!” Mordecai cried. He kicked the door to Room 101. “Damn you, whatever you are! Did you have to do this now? Maggie, fix the baby. Erik, come on!” He grabbed Erik and hustled into Room 102.

“I still have to do my hair!” Maggie said.

“Then do that too!” said Mordecai’s voice, muffled.

Maggie regarded Lucy. “All right, baby. It’s magic time.”

◈◈◈

Barnaby did not respond when someone engaged his stairs from below. He was busy. But when Hyacinth started talking to him, he pushed his papers away with a sigh. “Just leave it and go, Alice, this is…”

“I’m sure the nature of reality is very distracting,” she said gently. “But the nature of your dinner is cold, and I’m not going to be here to warm it up. I’m trying to warn you so you don’t get blindsided by what’s happening right now, okay? I’m leaving you with a stranger for a few hours, then Mordecai’s going to come home with the kids and you can yell at him.” She shook her head. “Unless he gets drunk or something, but I doubt it. He’s too freaked out trying to keep everything perfect for Calliope.”

Barnaby shuffled his papers, searching for a clue. “What are we doing now? What year is it?”

“Screw the year, you never get it from the year. Calliope is having an art show…”

He was still engaged with the papers. “Which one?”

Hyacinth winced. “The… first one? I guess? There’s a cuckoo clock in it…?”

He was nodding, but she wasn’t sure if he was just trying to get her to go away.

“Anyway, Room 101 stole something like an hour of our prep time, so I can’t warm up your dinner again, but if you want, I can have your babysitter do it.”

Now he banged on the desk and stood up. “Damn it. I am almost positive I am in my mid-to-late seventies and in any case I am obviously older than you. I do not require a babysitter!”

She planted both hands on her hips. “I thought you’d prefer it to ‘nurse’ or ‘attendant’ and I remember how you and David treated the servants, so that’s out. At the very least, you must admit I am doing you a favour by having someone in to look after the house, you keep trying to destroy the place because of the wallpaper and you don’t give a damn about Room 101. I have hired the nicest person I could find at the Dove Cot’s standard hourly fee and believe me…”

He staggered back with a hand on his chest. “A prostitute? You’ve hired a prostitute to babysit me?”

She covered her smile with a hand. “Yes.”

He damn near shoved her down the stairs. “Oh my gods, get out of here! I’ve got to get dressed!”

◈◈◈

Adrian was sitting in one of the nice chairs with a cup of coffee that someone had found the time to make for him — either that or he just made it himself while he was being ignored. He stood up. “Is he all right, Miss Hyacinth?”

She grinned. “Yep. He doesn’t mind about dinner, but give him a minute. He’d like to say hi.”

Mordecai blew past her on the stairs, carrying an unhappy baby in a kitty hat. “We don’t have a minute! Maggie, have you fixed your hair?”

“Mordecai, I love Calliope very much, but I wouldn’t miss what’s about to happen for the world. If you have to go, then go. I’ll catch up.”

He wasn’t listening. He rapped on the bathroom door. “Maggie…? Your hair…?”

She sidled out and presented herself in the middle of the hallway, indicating her hair with both hands and a smile. It was pulled up in a sleek, tasteful bun with a glittery white clip, but it was still bright bubblegum pink.

Adrian applauded, “Oh, that looks really cool! How long did it take you to get it like that?”

“The pink?” Maggie said, looking down at him. “About two seconds. The part where it’s not sticking straight out in every direction and smoking, that took all of the last twenty minutes.”

Mordecai removed Lucy’s much-hated kitty hat, revealing a similar style to the one Maggie had just described, with a coil of green smoke which slipped out from under the hat. “What about Lucy? Can you fix Lucy with that stuff?”

Maggie held up Milo’s hair-straightening arsenal, one bottle in each hand. She rattled the mixers in each bottle, like cocking a set of pistols. “Sure! Let’s go!”

Mordecai held Lucy away. “Read the labels, Magnificent! Babies have delicate skin and hair!”

“‘All ages and ethnic hair,’” Maggie read from one label. She rolled her eyes. “Aaaand… ‘Ages three and up.’ Crap.”

“Give me that one, maybe we can at least get rid of the smoke.”

Maggie was still staring at the label on the other bottle, so Mordecai just took it from her. “This might be a tiny little bit carcinogenic here,” she said. “Just a little bit cancer-y.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Mordecai said. “So is sunlight and bacon.” He shielded Lucy’s eyes against him and gave her hair a tiny squirt, before smoothing it down with a hand.

“But I didn’t just inhale half a can of bacon…”

Mordecai examined the baby. “Nope, still smoking, we’re stuck with it.” He took the hat out of his pocket and Lucy shrieked at him. He sighed and stuffed it back in. “All right, but if the General can’t fix you, I have to put it back on before we go see Mama, little one. You’re a distraction.”

“No!” Lucy replied, followed by another shriek.

 Erik scurried up the stairs. “I’ll take her! C’mon, Coconut!”

Barnaby swept down from the attic, almost in tandem. Perhaps he had been waiting for it; he liked contrast. “Pardon me, my dear. I just wanted to look my best. Now, which…”

He stared down into the front room, which was empty of all but Adrian and coffee. “No!” he shrieked, much like Lucy refusing the kitty hat.

Adrian jumped back and spilled some coffee down his hand.

Barnaby turned on Hyacinth. “Is this a prank?”

She grinned at him. “Unintentionally, but it’s still funny as hell.”

“Where have you hidden the real one?”

“Adrian is the real one, Tania and Elizabeth know you, they’re over here every magic season and they’ve told stories. Ade is new.”

“I don’t like the way you’ve just said that, Miss Hyacinth,” Ade put in.

“Hon, I’m paying you to drink coffee and put your feet up,” she told him. “Unless Barnaby tries to rip up the house again, but I really don’t think he will.”

Adrian lifted a single finger, “Now, you don’t mean that lit…”

Hyacinth levelled her gaze at Barnaby, “Mr. Mellon will just be looking after the house for a few hours and I’m sure Mr. Graham will take his humiliation and his cold dinner back upstairs and lose himself in his paperwork, won’t he?”

“Wouldn’t you like a coffee, Mr. Graham?” Adrian said hopefully.

Barnaby had both hands wrapped around the upstairs railing, fingers pressed pale. “Nooo,” he replied, very small.

“What about the person in 101?” He had turned and was already lifting a hand to knock on the door.

Mordecai screamed at him, “LEAVE THAT THING ALONE, IT EATS TIME ITSELF AND WE DON’T HAVE ENOUGH!” and Adrian dropped his coffee on the floor. Everyone upstairs was frozen in various positions of horror, as if he’d almost broken a crystal vase — barring Mr. Graham, who just looked disgusted.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian said weakly. He did not add “that I ever agreed to this,” but perhaps it was implied.

“Go,” Mordecai said. He nudged Maggie aside, as if directing her away from a mild but potentially deadly conflagration, then he took Erik by both shoulders and did likewise. “Just go. Grab your coats and just go. If we don’t get on that bus, we are going to be thirty minutes late with no explanation and Calliope will flip out in front of the press and that’s all they’ll report and she’ll never make her money back, so just go, damn it. Hyacinth, I don’t even care about your hair, we can hide you in a closet, just go!”

“Um, should I, um…?” Ade asked Hyacinth in passing, indicating the coffee.

Mordecai was shoving her out the front door without even letting her go back for her purse. “Just leave it, hon! I’ll get it when I…”

The door clicked shut behind them, the latch failed to engage and it sat crookedly in the frame, half-open like a shocked mouth. He could still hear them arguing outside (“Then I will pay for everything myself!” a voice howled) but it faded.

“I ruined these poor shoes,” Adrian muttered. He tried to pick one up to clean it — maybe run it under a tap, he didn’t know. “Uh… Is there a reason these are glued down?”

“Mr. Mellon?” Barnaby said tightly.

“Yes, Mr. Graham?”

“The only reason you are not lying dead under a bridge, beaten to a pulp and with literal chunks of you missing, surrounded by graffitied slurs on your identity, is that you have failed to win a silly enough hat at a carnival. I can only assume your circumstances are this rosy because Cousin Violet feels sorry for you. I, however, do not feel sorry for you. I have only enough energy and attention span to feel sorry for me.

“If you remain in this house attempting to ‘look after’ me this evening, I will not hesitate to make your life as miserable as I possibly can. And I can see you thinking to yourself,” he made his voice higher and worked his hand like a puppet, “‘Oh, he’s a frail old man, he can’t hurt me.’” He slammed the hand back on the banister, “That is the voice of Satan! I will wound you emotionally, Mr. Mellon. I know things! Give me the motivation and I will tell you the exact date and time you will die! Alone! In the rain!”

“Did… Did you just threaten me with a hate crime?” Adrian said.

 Barnaby smiled sweetly. “Does it disturb you to think so?”

Adrian began edging towards the kitchen, eyes on the old man at the railing.

“No-no-no, I don’t mean to give you the impression that I am merely unstable, Mr. Mellon. There is motive to my madness; I just want you to leave. I am not going to interfere with you if your intention is to leave, I assure you.

“Although,” he lifted his index finger, “if you or any of your adoptive mothers at the Dove Cot should get it into your heads to come back, I will walk right past you without stopping and burn your home of ill-repute to the ground. I fear I’ve become a bit too flowery, so let me rephrase that: if I see you, or any of your associates again, I am threatening to burn down your whorehouse. Oddly enough, it will be a hate crime, but nothing personal, because I hate everyone. Do you have that Mr. Mellon?”

He nodded stiffly.

Barnaby happily clasped his hands. “Ah, splendid. You may flee.”

Adrian had just made his way past the kitchen doorway. He turned and ran.

“Oh! I should add that I’m positive Alice will pay you everything she’s promised once I’ve…”

The door slammed.

Barnaby shrugged theatrically. “Ah well, no matter. What is it with mollies these days, David? They have no spines. Aren’t they bitchy anymore? They used to be bitchy. Do you suppose they even vogue? …Or perhaps they haven’t started yet. Well, you know what I mean.” He sighed. “Oh, you’re dead, you can’t hear me.” He frowned with eyes narrowed and checked behind him. “I hope. You’re not hiding, are you? You are actually… not here?”

It was too quiet all of a sudden. Creepy.

“I’m just winding her up, David. I won’t really hurt her. She irritates me. You know that. And she’s so wind-uppable. I’m not trying to hurt her. I warned her not to eat the salmon puffs.” He trailed away. “Well, I’m sure I did at some point. She’ll remember. She’s a smart girl. …Just in case you’re hiding around here to screw with me.”

He clapped his hands, too loud, startling himself. But he mastered it bravely. “I shall deface the accursed wallpaper to amuse myself, and I’m sure she’ll be grudgingly amused by it when she returns. You can stay dead or do whatever you want. It’ll be fine.”