“Some sort of centre for ancient languages?”
“It does not, no.”
“Did you just walk into the first underground pub you found after you got off the plane, figuring it’d be full of ye old-ey tim-ey linguists?”
“I can see why it would seem that way.”
The tree leans a large branch on the bar in front of Shepard. “Look, you seem like a good guy…” （ Does he? Based on what?） “And if the special skill you were looking for involved making a bet or engulfing a corpse in bark, I could steer you in the right direction. But this isn’t The Da Vinci Code starring Tom Hanks. Or National Treasure starring Nicolas Cage. I can’t just point you to the back of the pub, where we keep our wizened old keeper of the sacred texts. ”
“Well, there is Old Kipper…”
The three of us turn towards the voice. There’s some sort of gnome standing on the barstool next to me. I didn’t even see him when I came in.
He’s dressed like a builder. What do gnomes build? And is he wearing doll’s clothes? Is there mass-produced gnome clothing?
“They didn’t say they needed a passport,” the tree snaps. （We could use a passport, actually; the magic on Shepard’s is temporary.） “They want some ancient treasure map translated.”
“It isn’t a map,” Shepard unnecessarily offers. “It’s a curse.”
The tree backs up. “You didn’t mention any curse.”
“We think it’s more of a treatise about curses,” I improvise.
“Is that so, Debbie,” the tree says, somehow conveying a sneer.
“Kipper’s a dab forger,” the gnome says. “But she knows a bit about languages, as well. Don’t want to go copying something you can’t read.
Could end up summoning something ugly—or, worse, too pretty.”
“We’d love to talk to Kipper,” Shepard says. “Is she here?”
“Kipper doesn’t come down here,” the tree says. “She works at the coffeehouse up the street.”
“A magickal coffeehouse?” Shepard is thrilled.
“Yeah,” the tree says. “Costa.”
There is indeed a Costa up the street. I think Shepard is disappointed by how banal it all is. I’m relieved; I could use a muffin.
When we ask for “Old Kipper,” we’re directed to the 30-something manager, a tired-looking woman with bobbed purple hair. “I’m Kipper,” she says pleasantly. “Do you need some help?”
“Hi, Kipper,” Shepard says. “Someone at the Whistling Ogre suggested we talk to you—”
“Oh,” she says, brightening up a bit, “are you here for a commission?”
“Yes!” he says. “A commission.”
“I can take my break in a few minutes. Just have a seat.”
I get my lemon muffin, and we park ourselves in the corner of the shop. “I wonder if there are magickal coffeehouses…” Shepard says. “Do magicians have their own coffeehouses?”
“We don’t need magickal coffeehouses,” I say. “We’re magickal wherever we go.”
“Yeah, but you’re so put off by Normals, I’d think you’d want a place to escape from them.”
“Magicians don’t mind Normals, in general.” I break my muffin in half and offer him some. “It’s just me who finds you off-putting.”
He takes the muffin. “So magicians make friends with Normals.”
“All the time.”
“And tell them about being magicians.”
“Never.”
“There must be exceptions.”
“There really mustn’t.” I think of Micah and his new probably-Normal girlfriend. Does she know what he really is? I always thought Micah liked me （in part, at least） because I was a good magician. We practised our spellwork together. We talked about the magickal life we were going to share.
Kipper sits down at our table, taking off her apron. “Hi again, thanks for waiting. Unfortunately I only have a few minutes before I have to go back to the register.”
“We’ll get right to it, then,” I say.
“I’m Shepard,” he says. “And this is Debbie.”
Kipper smiles at me. “That’s my mother’s name.”
I have no reply to that, so I cut to the chase: “We’re looking for someone who knows about languages, a translator.”
“Oh.” Kipper looks disappointed.