10. More Than Meets the Eye
TEN
MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE
Diversity among shapeshifters is our greatest strength. Whether one dons feathers, fur, or scales, each gentleman brings a wealth of unique talents to the table—or the treetops, should that be more to one’s liking.
The secret to fostering an atmosphere of inclusion lies in the art of respecting our differences while embracing what unites us all: the remarkable ability to shift between forms with grace and aplomb.
A true gentleman understands that every shifter, regardless of form, enriches the collective wisdom of our community. After all, variety is the spice of life, and a little variety in forms keeps things delightfully interesting.
–EXCERPT FROM THE METAMORPHIC MAN: A GENTLEMAN SHAPESHIFTER’S GUIDE TO CULTURED CONDUCT
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Hart.”
Amrita Berman’s petite size was in stark contrast to the considerable power she wielded as the North American Director of the Society.
Arthur thought her striking elegance in her prime of fifty-seven years was no less notable than it must have been in her youthful thirties.
There was nothing artificial about her beauty.
No glamors to conceal her age. This was a witch whose appearance might change over time, but whose grace would remain commanding at any age.
The Director’s dark eyes were shrewd, but not unkind, as she approached the bench where Arthur was waiting. “Call me Amrita. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a while, Arthur Hart,” she said.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Director Berman.” Arthur stood quickly and bowed his head deferentially to the powerful witch.
He’d been expecting a hard, petty bureaucrat who leaned into her mental magic.
He’d expected that he would have to prove himself today—that she would want to probe his mind and question his legal qualifications.
But Amrita’s energy was nothing like that.
Her attention washed over him like the flattering light of the golden hour.
Arthur followed her down the hallway and into a side door that led to her private office suite.
“Please have a seat.” Amrita pointed to a vintage, overstuffed chenille chair across from her desk. She crossed the room to prepare some tea. Thankfully, he knew what to expect next.
The Director would make him the tea of her choosing and serve it without asking how he liked it. Then he would accept and drink it without comment, other than to thank her. This common witch ritual was an acknowledgement of his trust and her trustworthiness.
His sensitive nose could detect notes of persimmon, rose, and clover as she meticulously dissected the leaves, twigs, and petals, crumbling the best parts into an ornate silver teapot.
It was a relief, as these were some of his favorites.
He could have been forced to imbibe wormwood and licorice root. Or poison, if she was so inclined.
A moment later, Amrita set the pot in front of him. She took her seat at the desk and reached into a drawer to retrieve a cup and saucer.
“Isn’t Will Porter joining us?” Amrita paused before reaching for a second cup. A tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows.
“Will is currently walking the grounds with your intern. He should be here shortly, but he advised us to start without him,” Arthur explained, trying to hide his annoyance with Will.
There was no reason the porter had needed to take a tour of the museum right now.
Arthur was irritated that Will might be making both of them look bad.
Amrita smiled enigmatically and clasped her hands together, resting her chin on steepled index fingers. “I certainly hope Will finds the museum as enchanting as I do. And I’m glad for the chance to chat privately with you.”
“Will thought the museum might be an ideal spot for Westabrook Enterprises to host an event in the future.” Arthur was relieved that the Director didn’t seem upset as he offered the lame excuse for Will’s absence.
Amrita rocked back in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Her lips twitched, failing to hide the hint of a smirk. “I highly doubt that would fly with Buffalo. In fact, this is probably the last place he’d want to be seen.”
Of course, the Director would know that Buffalo didn’t publicly align himself or his company with any organizations that were so open about magical beliefs.
“I’m sure you’re correct,” Arthur agreed, biting back his own smile. The charismatic witch’s charm was infectious. He could see why she’d been chosen.
“You’re familiar with the Westabrook family?
” Amrita studied Arthur as she stirred the tea.
“Your father was their groundskeeper, I believe?” Amrita wasn’t really asking.
She was establishing the facts, much as he would in a courtroom, when preparing to make a case.
She wanted to make sure they were starting on the same page.
“Yes, and Buffalo paid for my education.” Arthur spared Amrita the need to ask the next question. “He’s always been good to my family and a great supporter of the shifter community.”
“So then, you’ve also heard the story about how Buffalo swore off his own magic?”
“I have,” Arthur said. It had been a favorite cautionary tale of his father’s, usually told after one too many pints. It went like this:
On the very night his daughter was born, and his witch wife was lost forever, Buffalo Westabrook was forced to make a terrible choice. Give up his magic, or give his newborn Ordinary daughter away. No Ordinary child could be allowed to remain in a magical home.
It was a sad tale, to be sure. But what Arthur still, to this day, thought was sadder was that his own father had scoffed at Buffalo’s decision. There was no way Reginald would have given up his gifts for a “sickly, defective dud” like Maida Westabrook.
“Buffalo is a remarkable man. He sacrificed so much for his daughter.” Amrita gazed out the window, her face unreadable.
“I’m a father too.” Arthur nodded, thinking of his own daughter, knowing for certain he would make the same choice as Buffalo, if forced to choose. “I understand. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give up for my daughter, Rosie.”
“I’m sure. But it’s never that simple, is it? Many other people have also paid the price of Buffalo’s decision, including you, Mr. Hart. One cost of Maida staying with her father was you being separated from yours.” Poker faced, she turned back to stare at him, gauging his reaction.
Arthur’s heart stuttered, missing a beat and then making up for it triple time.
“What do you know about that?” he asked, his face heating. Even now, decades later, the tatty edges of this memory were still fringed with shame. How did this witch know what he’d done?
Rationally, Arthur was aware he had done nothing wrong.
He’d only been ten years old. But that didn’t change the way the memory felt.
He still blamed himself, because even as a child, Arthur had been schooled about the dangers of exposing himself to an Ordinary.
His father had delivered countless lectures on the topic.
Reginald Hart had usually paired these lectures with lengthy complaints about the hardship of being a single parent.
He’d finished with a diatribe about the burden of raising a shifter on an Ordinary estate.
Similar to any Ordinary estate, the Westabrook estate did not allow the overt use of magic.
But Buffalo’s rules were even more stringent than most. He’d banned anyone from even mentioning magic.
Even simple superstitions, like knocking on wood or throwing salt over your shoulder, were firing offenses.
“You must never, ever let anyone see what you really are when you’re here on this estate, son,” Reginald had cautioned. “I don’t know that I could do anything to help you out if you did happen to slip.”
It wasn’t difficult for Arthur to mind his father.
He spent his days at a shifter school in Primrose Court and only came home to his father’s cottage at night.
During the holidays he went to stay with friends or had a minder come to keep him company in the cottage.
But on one particular swelteringly hot midsummer day, his father failed to make arrangements.
Reggie had to bring his son to work with him.
“Go play in the garden and keep out of trouble while I tend the rose bushes,” Reggie had instructed.
Arthur had kicked a stone along the path, chasing it till it landed with a plop in a small frog pond beside a willow tree.
When he glanced up, he was startled to see a shy little girl.
She appeared to be four or five years old.
Why hadn’t his father mentioned there were other children joining their parents at work? He’d wondered whose daughter she was.
It had never occurred to him that this little girl might be Maida Westabrook, the same child from his father’s drunken tales.
The girl was spinning in circles on her rope swing beneath the willow tree.
“Want me to push you?” Arthur had offered.
The girl hadn’t said a word, but her eyes had grown wider. Then she nodded, ever so slightly.
So he’d pushed her. A gentle, tiny nudge at first, as if she might break.
He wasn’t used to playing with little girls.
Although she seemed quite sturdy, she was a pale little thing, with the oddest gray eyes and clouds of fine white-blond hair.
She could be a heron, or a llama, or an arctic fox.
He couldn’t guess what she might eventually shift into, but that wasn’t unusual.
Many kids didn’t start showing signs of shifting till well past puberty. He was just precocious.
The girl tipped her head back to look at him, and the corners of her mouth curled into a tiny smile.
He pushed her again, a little harder, and this time she pumped her legs.
“Higher!” she’d cried out breathlessly, after two more hearty shoves.