Chapter 4
Four
-GRAYSON-
My sneezes haven’t caused problems over the last three hours. And I still wonder if it was all real, but the gin is here. And the bottle of Valium. I kept staring at them while I put my groceries away.
Another alcohol and sedative cocktail may be a good idea. It is evening after all.
I go to the kitchen, reach for the pill bottle, then decide I shouldn’t. If I don’t give in, it’s like none of it happened.
“Grayson.” It’s her.
There’s a speeding rhythm in my breath. I’m trembling. I don’t turn around.
My phone is charging in my bedroom. Perhaps I should run off to read Milo’s text again. The one I haven’t responded to. The one I’ve read at least ten times.
As if running away to another room will help me avoid her.
“Grayson.”
If I look at her, it proves she’s real.
“Grayson, avoiding me won’t make me go away.”
I turn slowly. She’s in a short dress with a wild paisley print, and a long purple coat. And she’s holding a white box tied with a lavender ribbon in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other. But she’s not drunk. Well, not yet, anyway.
“The gift is for you,” Penelope says.
She steps forward but I step back.
“Graaaaay-son.” She sounds cutesy. “Please open your present.”
I move with caution and feebly reach for the gift. Penelope shoves the box into my chest, forcing me to clasp it.
“Open it.” She’s getting impatient.
I pull at the ribbon, letting it fall on the carpet, then open the box. It’s clothing of some sort, lying on crimpled paper.
“Don’t just stare at it, Grayson.”
I take it out. It’s beautiful.
She reaches for me, expecting me to take her hand. “Put it on in your bedroom,” she says in a gentle tone.
I rush to my room as if leaving her behind will make her go away. But the present I’m holding is just more proof she is real.
I hold the gift up to my body and stare at myself through my mirrored wardrobe doors. This deep blue vest with small gold stars and crescent moons is truly exquisite.
“I made that for you.” Penelope is behind me, talking to my reflection. “Put it on.”
I do, then run my hand down it. It feels silky. “I love this,” I say. “Thank you.”
“The ladies in my knitting circle—”
“You knit?”
She’s slightly affronted.
“I didn’t mean to judge, Penelope, but how do you concentrate when...?”
She eyes the champagne in her hand. “When I drink so much?”
I turn and face her. “Sorry. You don’t seem like a knitter. A conjurer of fabulous fashion, yes...” I run my hand down the vest again. “But a knitter?” Penelope’s saddened. “You’re way too cool for that.”
She smiles. Nice save, I think to himself. But I’m also wondering why I’ve calmed. My breath is normal. And as I feel my chest, my heart is no longer racing.
“You didn’t do some sort of spell on me, did you, Penelope?”
She smirks. “What do you think I did?”
I have no idea.
“Yes, Grayson. You are relaxed.” She chuckles like a naughty toddler.
“It’s a spell I’ve mastered when a guy is.
..” She makes a ring with her pointer and thumb, then pokes the hole with the pointer of her other hand.
“...too excited.” She winks. “And before you think it, Grayson, I’m not planning to seduce you. ”
I don’t know how to respond. And I wonder why she didn’t use that spell on her earlier visit.
“As I was saying...” She points at my vest. “The head of my knitting circle thought I should create the whole outfit. Pointy hat. Cape. Long robe. But Petra said the design should be more twenty-first century.”
“Petra?”
“She’s a friend. And a knitter.”
I smile, then turn my body from side to side. The material catches the light in a way which changes its colour. Deep blue becomes cobalt blue, depending on which angle I face.
“I have something else for you.” She reaches into a pocket of her coat and pulls out a small sterling silver case. There’s a dragon etched on its lid but it’s not a medieval design. It’s a mesh of art deco and decorative Japanese art.
When it’s placed in my hand, I can’t help feeling special. No one spoils me like this, and after Milo flirted with me only a few hours ago, I believe there’s a shift in the matrix.
“Are you going to open it, Grayson?”
I click the latch. There’s a silver stick inside which looks like it extends like an antenna on an old transistor radio. It also has a crystal that sparkles at its base.
“It won’t bite,” Penelope says.
I place the case on my bed, then take out the present. It sparks as I lengthen it. “It’s a wand.”
“Of course it’s a wand. Did you think I brought you an elaborate toothpick? Now think of something you want and wave it.”
I do. Nothing appears.
“Grayson, concentrate.”
I close my eyes this time and carefully picture a shepherd’s pie. I wave the wand. A harmonious sound, like a collection of wind chimes all reverberating at once, fills the room.
“Oh dear,” Penelope says.
I open my eyes. The bed is made entirely of mashed potato, as if it has been carefully shaped by a patient sculptor and, somewhere, busy curators are designing a room cold enough for it to stay in shape.
Penelope snaps her fingers and a luxurious king-sized pillow-top mattress on top of a sturdy wooden frame appears. A far cry from my old double bed with a wonky spring. I’m relieved her counter spell worked so well. But she is a cottage witch so bespoke furniture must be in her repertoire.
“Try again,” she says.
I wave the wand, imagining that pie again. Besides the musical sound, nothing happens. I slump, disappointed.
“Hold on,” says Penelope. She sniffs. “Something is cooking.”
It smells like bacon. Wrong ingredient for this pie. We head to the kitchen.
I open the oven door and shriek. There’s a crisp human face stretched over the surface of the pie dish.
“That must be a shepherd.” Penelope covers her mouth as if she’s about to barf, then places her champagne down to snap her fingers. “You have to be careful what you wish for, Grayson.”
There’s a new odour. The correct scent for a shepherd’s pie. I’m hesitant about checking the food. I spot a full bottle of bubbly, an empty champagne flute, and a small white pill next to the toaster.
“Champers and pie,” Penelope says. “The perfect dinner.”
“I’m sure any meal with champagne is the perfect dinner in your world.”
She eyes me slyly.
“Penelope, you put a calming spell on me, so I don’t need Valium. But I need to know, why didn’t you use that spell when you first introduced yourself?”
“You’ve seen my track record with magic, Grayson. Right now, I’m relatively sober, so I have more of a success rate.”
“Are you sure the pie is beef?” I’m still wary. “I don’t want to eat...”
“Grayson, trust me.” She snaps her fingers and conjures a green salad. “I like to devour flesh but not in that way.” She winks.
I chuckle, then grab plates and cutlery while those gelatinous eyes and that slightly blackened nose still haunt me.
Penelope positions the bottle of champagne in the centre of the table. I grab the salad. She brings the pie over on a thick cutting board—something else I didn’t own until this moment. And this time, the pastry is topped with creamy mashed potato, as it should be.
I sniff the chunk on my fork. It smells like beef. But I’m still cautious.
“Go on,” Penelope says. She chomps, looking culinarily satisfied.
“And you’re certain it’s not a people pie?”
She licks her lips. “Certain.”
Let’s face it. She wouldn’t be eating it if it was.
I cautiously taste. It’s delicious. There are hints of caramelised onion and a touch of chilli in the filling, and the creamy potato has herbs sprinkled on top. But I’m not sure what these herbs are.
Will I be able to conjure up cuisine like this, once I’m trained?
Penelope is scoffing this down like it’s her last meal, while I’m chewing smaller portions as that baked face continually comes to mind. But I’m being the perfect host, showing I’m enjoying the pie she conjured, while constantly refilling her glass.
“Why do you keep topping up my champagne?” she asks.
“Because your glass is always empty.”
She gives me a disapproving look. “I don’t have a drinking problem,” she says, even though she’s started swaying in her seat.
“No. You have a problem with sobriety.”
“And you have a problem making friends.”
Ouch. I make a mental note to be careful what I say when she’s drunk.
“Tell me about your knitting circle,” I say, changing the subject.
Penelope almost eats another mouthful of pie but pauses with the fork near her lips. “Petra is the one I’m closest to. She doesn’t mind me when I’m tipsy.” The meaty chunk falls from her fork back on to her plate. She doesn’t notice. “And Doris is a darling. She’s so whimsical.”
“Whimsical? How?”
“Ouch.” Penelope poked her tongue with her fork. “How did that happen?”
I try not to laugh. “How is Doris whimsical?”
“She’d turn her life into a musical if she could. Singing about her husband as she adds a third arm to a cable-knit jumper.”
“People have three arms where you’re from?”
“No. She often makes mistakes because she doesn’t concentrate.”
“Why don’t you just conjure up your knitwear?”
“Grayson, we’ll lose our motor skills if we conjure up everything. Remember that. Your wand will be handy, but you’ll get bored if you obtain everything through magic.” She digs her fork into the pie, making sure there’s a huge portion on its prongs. “Now, why don’t you have friends?”
I ease back in my chair, no longer irked by Penelope referring to my loneliness. She asked with concern.
“You’re a good-looking guy,” she continues. “Pleasing nature. Loveable.”
“Loveable? This is only the second time we’ve met. Why do you think I’m loveable?”
“You were assigned to me ages ago. I’ve been watching you.”
“Oh yes. That’s right. You told me.”
“But you hide in your flat addicted to streaming services. That won’t get you laid.”
“What’s getting laid got to do with having friends?”