“I’m going to plead my case in person.” She frowns at her phone and mumbles, “Or spell him if I have to.”
“You’d do that to your own father?”
She shrugs. “Well, I haven’t yet—He’s moving again!” She leans forward and raps on the Plexiglas screen between us and the driver. “Here is fine!”
The driver lets us out at the corner. Penny knocks her gem on his credit card reader and says, “Fair enough!”
“Do you ever pay for cab rides?” I ask her, as the taxi drives away.
She’s scanning the street. “I only take cabs when it’s an emergency.”
“So, that’s a no…”
“There he is!” She starts waving.
There’s a small, gray-haired white man crossing the street ahead of us. I guess Penelope did say she was biracial. Her mom’s Indian, I think.
“Dad!” she calls.
The man looks up. He gets across the street and waits for us.
“Penny,” he says. “Your mother’s been calling you.”
“Dad … I need your help.”
We end up at a coffee shop, and Penelope’s dad buys us scones with jam.
（The scones over here are more like biscuits. They sell them everywhere, and it’s perfectly acceptable to order them at any time of day. They give you a cup of butter and sometimes your own little bottle of jam. I really don’t think English people realize how great it is to live here. The sandwiches alone are on another level. ）
Mr. Bunce is rubbing his eyes. He’s got a tired face. Up close, his hair is more blond than gray. “Penny … you know I can’t keep secrets from your mother.”
“I’m just asking you not to mention this,” she says. “I’m not asking you to lie about it.”
“That sounds like a lie of omission,” I point out. “People hate those just as much.”
She goggles her eyes at me. “Shepard. ”
Mr. Bunce is looking at me. One side of his mouth is quirked down, but it still seems like he’s smiling. “You’re the American, huh? Martin Bunce.”
“Shepard,” I say, holding out my hand.
He takes it. “Whereabout in America?”
“Omaha,” I say. “Nebraska.”
“I know where that is. I’ve done some work in Ohio.”
“Nebraska is a lot like Ohio. Similar vibe.”
“Well, let’s have a look at them,” he says, gesturing at my jacket.
I look around the coffee shop. Penelope rolls her eyes and holds out a fist — “There’s nothing to see here!” I take off my jacket.
“May I?” Mr. Bunce asks.
I nod, holding out an arm.
He takes it gently in both hands. “Look at that, that’s beautiful…” He twists my arm a bit, so he can see the whole thing. “Huh … Mitali said this was a curse. This isn’t a curse.” He looks up at my face. “It’s a handfasting.”
“Dad”—Penelope looks shocked—“I didn’t know you could read Demon!”
“I can’t.” He traces his hand along one of the swirls. “But I can tell from the patterns. You see these same patterns in a lot of ancient marriage rituals.”
“Dad studies marriage and family magic,” she tells me.
“It’s a hobby,” he says.
“We’ve had the contract translated,” she says.
“Have you?” He looks up from my arm.
Penelope elbows me. “Show him.”
I reach back into my jacket and get out the papers.
Mr. Bunce puts on his reading glasses and takes a look. “So you found someone who could translate a Demonic ritual … Do I want to know who?”
“Nope,” she says.
Her dad lowers his eyebrows. “Penelope,” he says, like he’s constantly having to lecture her for this sort of thing. Then his eyes get big, and he looks up at me. “Shepard— this is the summoning ritual you used?”
I nod. “We had that translated, too.”
“So you … proposed to a demon?”
“Unintentionally, sir.”
Mr. Bunce turns back to the ritual and shakes his head. “Nicks and Slick, what a predicament…” I must look miserable, because he pats my hand and says, “Well. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You couldn’t have known what you were getting into.”
“Well, he did know he was summoning a demon…” Penelope says.