Chapter 3
Open House
Cauldron Falls woke slow. Mist curled up off the falls into the square, where ancient ginkgos had dropped another inch of leaves on the cobblestones overnight.
At the top of the lane, Murphy O'Reilly had already shouldered the heavy oak door of The Boozy Cauldron open and propped it with the brass cauldron-foot that lived there for that purpose.
He stepped out onto the stoop with his broom in one fist and his apron strings half-tied, took a breath of the cold air and let it out.
"Aye, that's the stuff," Murphy said to no one. "That's a proper bit of October."
His broom moved by itself, in lazy sweeping circles around his feet, gathering last night's leaves into a neat brown pile. Murphy went on hooking his apron, watching the square.
Not far away, Colin Scott unlocked Spellbinders Bookstore & Library and pushed the door inward with his hip. He set his coffee on the counter and stepped back out to bring the morning paper in from where the wind had pushed it under the boot-scraper.
Colin straightened and squinted toward the south end of the square.
A coach had just rumbled in. It was not a coach he recognized.
It was rickety in the way of every long-haul magical conveyance, with wheels at slightly the wrong angle and paintwork blistered.
The driver was a witch in a wool cap pulled to her eyebrows.
She unlatched the side door with a flick of her hand and stepped down onto the cobbles, and the passengers began to trickle out behind her.
There were perhaps eight of them. Colin lost count when one of them dropped a hatbox.
"Excuse me." A man in a tweed cape adjusted his small round spectacles and looked around the square as though it were a slightly cluttered library. "Could you assure me, please we are in Cauldron Falls, correct?"
"You are, sir," Colin said.
"Ah. Thank you." The man's shoulders relaxed.
A woman shoved past him. She was short, square, red-cheeked, and wore a green velvet cloak that had clearly travelled. She had a face built for fury and was currently using it.
"Where is the cat house?" she demanded. "The one with the cats. Up the hill. Which hill."
Murphy looked up from his broom. "That'd be FACTS & FIBS, lass.
" He pointed up the rise with the bristle end of his broom.
"Top o' the hill. The old Victorian. Ye'll see the cats from a quarter mile out, I imagine.
" Then he leaned both hands on the broom and gave her and the half-circle of bewildered travellers behind her a steady look.
"But I'll say this for the lot of ye, since ye'll not hear it from anyone else.
" His voice didn't rise. It didn't have to.
"There's a great fierce ruckus on with the familiars.
Aye, we know it. The whole town knows it.
And Rhoda and Edgar Hadwin been up half the night and will be up half the next one, like as not, tryin' to make sense of it.
Ye'll do yerselves and yer cats no favours by stormin' in on the only folk in the world who might sort this out. Best let the masters do their work."
The Irishwoman harrumphed, "Then mind yer broom, sir, and I'll mind me cat." She rotated on her heel and began to march up the hill.
Murphy watched her go. "Aye," he said. "Good luck to Rhoda, then."
The man with the spectacles watched her go with a small mild expression. He turned back to Colin, and his gaze settled, for a polite moment, on the painted lettering of the shop window behind him.
"Spellbinders," he read, and his face warmed. "A very fine establishment, sir, from what little I can see of it. I shall look forward to a proper visit once we have all of this," he gestured vaguely up the hill, "bother sorted out."
He set off after the Irishwoman at a much more reasonable pace. The rest of the coach followed in their wake and by the time they reached the bend in the road, they were marching almost in unison.
"Ye know," Murphy said. "I think we'd best be making a lot more coffee."
"And tea," Colin said. "Lots more tea."
Up the hill, on the wraparound porch of FACTS & FIBS, an emerald parrot lifted his head from where the wisteria had grown in thick around the eaves.
"Suuugar," Dean Martin sang out, low and lazy and sweet. "Sugar, we got company."
He cocked his green head and watched the procession come up the drive, counting.
"Eight more comin' our way, sugar." Dean stretched one wing across the eaves and snapped it back. "And these ain't cats."
Inside, the old house had settled into its small early-morning quiet.
The cats from last night were curled on every available surface in a hush that was as close to peaceful as more than a hundred frightened cats could come.
The fire in the parlor grate had burned down to a low cherry glow.
The registration book lay closed on the desk.
Lazlo Varga stood staring past the book, his hands clasped lightly behind his back.
He studied the great slab of dark wood, plain as a butcher's block, with a single narrow slit cut into its top.
The slit had been worn so smooth at its edges that it gleamed.
Lazlo laid one finger gently along it and felt the soft hum of old magic.
He'd watched intently in the wee hours of the night as the pages documenting each familiar arrival had folded themselves, lifted, and slid into the slit with a small soft whisper.
His thumb found the small rabbit's foot in his coat pocket and began to work it slowly.
His lips moved without sound, as he turned and walked out of the parlor at his leisure.
The front hall of FACTS & FIBS was long and dim and lined on either side with small dark cabinets and the framed portraits of a hundred years of Hadwins. Lazlo moved down it without hurry. He paused once to admire a portrait of Edgar's grandfather, then moved on.
At the far end of the hall, set in the wall between the linen press and the back stairs, was a small, paneled door with a brass plate where a knob ought to be.
It was barricaded with at least twenty locks.
He counted, brass and iron and one that was certainly silver.
There were small rune marks along the lintel and the doorframe that seemed to lift a hairsbreadth off the wood, as though they had noticed him and would prefer he not look any harder. Lazlo smiled.
This door was much more than a marvel. There was a low embered glow of layered magic all around it. A great deal of layered magic. Layered, Lazlo guessed, by more than one practitioner, over more than one century. His thumb worked the rabbit's foot, again.
"Shh, shh, my friend," Lazlo murmured, very softly. "Shh. We are only looking."
A door swung at the far end of the hall.
Edgar came out of the kitchen with a fresh mug of coffee. The hall boards creaked under his slow tread as he made for the front door. He stopped when he saw Lazlo.
"Mornin', friend." Edgar's drawl was warm and entirely unsurprised. "You're up with the birds."
"I am a creature of habit." Lazlo had already turned crossing back along the hall, and he met Edgar in the middle of the corridor with an easy smile. "I rise when the dark goes thin. I always have."
"My granddaddy was the same. Never could lay in." Edgar gestured with the mug. "There's a fresh pot on the stove, if you take it. Rhoda's already up."
"In a moment, perhaps." Lazlo's hand came out of his pocket, empty. He laid it on Edgar's shoulder. "I believe your bird is announcing more visitors."
"He is." Edgar tilted his head, listening. "Sounds like we need to interfere."
"Then by all means."
They walked together down the hall toward the front door.
The front door of FACTS & FIBS had three brass bells hanging on a strap inside the frame, and they began to jangle gently as the boots of the procession reached the porch. Rhoda came out of the kitchen and Honey was already on the stairs in her sweater, pulling her curls into a clip.
"Morning, Mom," Honey said.
"Morning, sweetheart." Rhoda did not slow. "Stay just inside the door for me. We don't want to overwhelm them."
"On it."
In the front hall, the three of them, Rhoda, Edgar, and Lazlo, fell into a small triangle. Rhoda at point. Edgar one shoulder's width to her left and one step back. Lazlo at her right hand, the easy old-friend's place. Roam braced himself just behind Honey.
Rhoda took one breath and opened the door.
The cold air came in first. Eight figures stood waiting in a loose half-circle near the top of the steps.
The Irishwoman in green velvet was in the front, her chin up, her boots set.
The man with the small round spectacles stood a respectful distance behind her, his leather case at his feet, his hands folded.
Behind them, the rest of the coach had clustered in.
Rhoda stepped out onto the porch. Edgar and Lazlo moved with her.
"Good morning." She let the door fall most of the way closed behind her. "I'm Rhoda Hadwin. This is my husband Edgar, and our dear friend Lazlo Varga. You've come for your familiars."
"We have," said the Irishwoman, with the air of a woman who was prepared to take her cat home at any cost.
Rhoda's voice was warm and slow. "I know what you've travelled.
I know what you've lost. I'm going to tell you the truth now, so you can decide what to do with it.
" She let one beat hang. "Your familiars are here, warm and as safe as they can be.
We are taking care of them. We have been taking care of them since the first one set paw on my lawn yesterday evening, and we will go on taking care of them until they are safely home with you. You have my word."