19
Anomalous Artifacts
I woke up wishing Talia was there.
As I stumbled from bed to let Jasper out, I inspected the feeling, turning it around in my mind like some anomalous artifact I’d stumbled across by accident, analyzing it from every perplexing angle. I wasn’t one to long for company in my own space; quiet mornings in my own bed, with a book in hand and the ambient noise of Jasper’s whistling snores, tended to be my happy place.
But this morning I felt listless, even a little sad. Worse than that, it was almost like I missed her. Even replaying some of last night’s choicer moments didn’t help put me in a better mood.
I was still ruminating as I stepped out into the chilly morning, in schlumpy sweatpants with a cardigan slung over my shoulders to ward off the cold. I had no Gauntlet-related plans today, so I was hoping to catch up on work email after I scrounged up breakfast at the main house. Outside, the day was overcast, all heaped-up drifts of leaden cloud. Mist clung to the garden in little clumps, wreathing damply around my ankles as I stepped onto the pavers. I’d missed it last night in the dark, swept up by Talia and the magic in the air, but my mother had apparently found the time to decorate. Dad would have missed the spooky season altogether if it weren’t for the tourists and Samhain Eve itself to tip him off, but my mom caught the bug hard each year. Crooked tombstones protruded from between her flowers like an infestation—“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!,” “Here Lies Beryl E. Dedd”—and there were jack-o’-lanterns everywhere, along with a blood-spattered ghoul clawing itself out of the ground between the rose bushes. She’d even looped fake spiderweb all over the garden, whole yards of it, and the sequined dewdrops caught in its strands glittered with incongruous prettiness.
“What do you think, darling? Have I done the season justice this year?”
I looked up to see my mother on the ancient porch swing on the back deck, snug in a cozy bathrobe and fleece slippers, a mug of something steaming in her hand. It was almost eleven, but my mom was a big fan of stretching her mornings as far as they could go.
Smiling, I picked my way between the perky morning glories and swaying stargazers to the porch, settling beside her to the whining protest of the springs. Fortunately for everyone involved, I didn’t detect any awkwardness in her smile as she scooted over to make room; she must not have heard anything untoward last night.
Thank the goddess for small mercies.
“I think it’s safe to say you’ve outdone yourself,” I assured her. “That ghoul guy? Outstanding work.”
“Thank you,” she said, with real satisfaction. “Macabre little bugger, isn’t he?”
“Totally grotesque,” I agreed. “I wish I had half your gift with this type of stuff. If I’d made him, he’d be less living nightmare, more sad stick figure.”
For all my witchy blood, unlike my mother and Delilah, I couldn’t craft my way out of a literal paper bag. And my poor mom, who’d borne witness to countless pasta elbow and papier-maché disasters over the years, was well aware of my tragic limitations.
“I don’t know,” she mused, eyeing me askance. “There’s a certain innate horror to the idea of anything you might contrive to make by hand.”
I laughed, my teeth chattering as the wind picked up. She glanced over, immediately all maternal concern. “Are you chilly, love? Would you like a cup of something warm?”
“I would,” I said, starting to rise. “But I can just get it myself—”
“No, no, you stay put,” she said firmly, pressing me back down. “Let me get it for you. Please. I wanted a refill anyway. Tea or cappuccino?”
I settled back down, stifling a multilayered sigh. I couldn’t deny her the extra mothering after how long it’d been since she’d last had a chance to do it. But it made me feel like three different kinds of asshole to let her cater to me like this.
“A cappuccino sounds amazing,” I relented, wrapping my arms around myself. “Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, we were sipping side by side, watching a pair of inquisitive crows that had come to roost on the ghoul’s scraggy head.
“How are you feeling about arbitrating again tomorrow?” she asked me, cupping both hands around her mug. “Ready for another go?”
“I am a little nervous, after last time,” I admitted. “Feels like anything could happen.”
“I would be, too, in your shoes, I’m sure.” She flicked me a meaningful glance from the corner of her eye. “And have you lot cooked up anything dastardly-yet-not-quite-prohibited this time around? Not that you’ve any obligation to clue me in, of course. But it would be rather nice to know what your father and I might expect.”