“Say, Yuri—which tie do you prefer? The purplish blue one…or the bluish purple?”
Dixon stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to our bedroom door with both ties in hand. Perhaps they had started out the same color, though one had spent more time in a shop window being bleached by the sun. While I knew much about color (one was deep periwinkle, the other faded plum) I was the last person to help anyone decide on a purple tie. I owned only three ties, myself—drab things I’d chosen to avoid drawing attention. Besides, Dixon would look just as handsome in either.
And just as nervous.
I didn’t blame him. Tonight, the Hand of every Scrivener family in the Pinyin Bay circuit might think they were attending just another dull meeting—but instead, they would witness Morticia Shirque appointing the successor she’d chosen as Head: Fonzo Penn. But while Fonzo might be the primary focus of attention, the Penn family would also “Change Hands” as he transferred his old position to Dixon.
I despise the limelight, and personally, I would have shrugged off the responsibility to someone else by now. But Dixon was not only born and raised in this Spellcraft tradition…he was chosen. He felt it was his duty to accept the position of the Hand.
Even if it was the prospect of it left him agonizing over two nearly identical purple ties.
“The plum complements the brown in your eyes,” I said firmly. I have found this tone is a great comfort to him when his thoughts are racing and his stomach is filled with butterflies. But I did need to add, “The one on the right,” to avoid any confusion. “Your right.”
Once Dixon’s hair was re-primped, his eyebrows smoothed down and his purple tie tied, there was nothing more to do but make our way to the ceremony…though he was so beside himself with nerves, he missed directing me to the proper turn-offs on three separate occasions. And given the size of Pinyin Bay, there were only so many turn-offs to miss.
Eventually, I pulled down the service road we had doubled back to. There was nothing there but an elaborate drainage ditch on one side and a furniture store called Have A Seat on the other. I did a three-point turn at the entrance to the cracked asphalt parking lot to retrace my steps yet again, when Dixon said, “Where ya going, Yuri? We’re here.”
I hit the brakes, turned to Dixon, and narrowed my eyes.
“Look,” he said brightly. “The welcome wagon.”
At the edge of the drive, the Pinyin Bay Perch emerged from behind a ragged bush, holding a sign shaped like an arrow. I knew the mascot from Precious Greetings—or, more accurately, the costume—but I had no quarrel with it. The furry, striped pelt looked as if it had been laundered recently, though it was growing a bit threadbare in patches, and the tips of the red fins were beginning to fray.
“Okay, there’s not actually a wagon involved in a welcome wagon,” Dixon allowed. “Just one of those quaint American expressions you love so much.”
“I do?”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if he were on a wagon? Or maybe pulling a wagon behind him. Ooh, I know, he could be doing a handstand in the wagon while someone else pulled him—especially if that someone was a miniature horse. Either way, it would be a real sight to see. The Pinyin Bay Perch is such an important part of the city’s history, it’s practically an institution.”
If any city would place undue value on a tattered costume, it would be Pinyin Bay. “But why the furniture store?”
“It’s bad luck to induct the Head on a property with ties to any one Scrivener family, so as not to show any favoritism—and this place is totally Handless.”
I squinted harder.
“Besides, there’ll be plenty of places to sit.”
We coasted past the Pinyin Bay Perch, who waved listlessly. Dixon waved back. As we rolled into the parking lot, I spotted Fonzo’s Buick and pulled up beside it. I said, “I suppose I should be grateful we weren’t on the bandstand in the park, where pieces of airplane rain from the sky.”
“That only happened twice. And it only killed someone once—so, statistically speaking, it’ll probably be free from airplane parts for at least a few more months.”
The automatic doors whisked open to a drab, low hangar of a building, filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of chairs. Collections of chairs were gathered into conversational groupings like flocks of seagulls squabbling on the beach. They had been matched not by style or function, but rather, color. In the hands of the right designer, it might have come off as edgy, even artistic. But here, in this plain bunker of a showroom, it simply looked strange.
As soon as we cleared the threshold, a pale Handless man in a rumpled suit rushed over and said, “Welcome to Have A Seat, where we make tushies happy!”
Dixon said, “Is that your official slogan, or…?”
“We are just looking,” I snapped—a necessary response in America, I have discovered, where salespeople will descend on you like a swarm of persistent sandflies if you do not refuse to be cowed into buying something you can’t afford.
But instead of backing off, the salesman simply deflated. “I don’t get it,” he complained. “This is the most foot traffic we’ve had in...well, forever. But not a single sale.”
Probably because Scriveners are so notoriously cheap. They would rather truss together a chair with splints and packing tape than spend their money on a new piece of furniture.
“Don’t worry,” Dixon said. “Your slogan might need work, but word of mouth is invaluable. Just let your shoppers browse to their hearts’ content, and no doubt they’ll tell all their friends about what a relaxing shopping experience they had in your store.”
For a shop full of chairs, it was anything but relaxing. But at least Dixon’s reassurance encouraged the anxious salesman to retreat.
Not only were chairs huddled in crowded, color-coded groups, but they were crammed on shelves ten feet tall, forming a maze. Chairs on their sides. Chairs upside down. Chairs disassembled, reassembled, and nested together like great stacks of paper cups in a break room. We wended our way up and down the aisles until we caught the sound of some familiar voices.
Lucky for us, when Sabina complains, she does so loudly.
“How long is this dumb thing gonna take? We can’t stay out all night, ya know. We’ve gotta put the baby to bed.”
We turned the corner on a precarious stack of barstools and found Fonzo checking his watch. “It’s barely six.” He gestured at Vano, who was jiggling Tuesday in a sling that I suspect was meant for groceries, given the onions and potatoes printed on the fabric…but it seemed to fit the baby well enough. “And your kid could sleep through a tornado. Unlike you, at that age. Your mother and I used to drive you up and down the block for hours on end just to get you to stop crying.”
“That explains the console scar on my forehead. Would it have killed you to use a car seat?”
“Adversity breeds character. Anyhow, you don’t see a new Head every day. It’s history in action. Morticia Shirque has been in charge of this circuit since my father was a twinkle in your great-granddad’s eye.”
“Dad—ew!”
At Sabina’s side, the baby began to fuss. Tuesday was not generally a demanding child, but given the chemical smell of fake leather coming off the store’s goods, I couldn’t blame her for being uncomfortable. Vano brightened when he spotted Dixon and me.
“Just in time,” he murmured. “Tuesday is always thrilled to see her favorite uncles.”
While I am not so sure an infant of her age even registers the fact that Dixon and I are anything more than a couple of fake leather chairs, I felt a bit of pride welling up inside over this statement nonetheless.
Vano unlooped the sling from his neck and headed toward Dixon with the baby, but Dixon waved him in my direction. “I’d love to hold her—but I can’t afford to have another spit-up incident just now, not when I’m about to go in front of all these people.”
“Gotcha.” Vano veered my way with the potato-and-onion printed bundle. It had looked manageable enough hanging around his neck, but as he passed the baby to me, I suddenly felt ill-prepared to accept such a delicate burden. Every time I held the baby, thoughts of inadequacy raced through my mind. What if I dropped her? What if I held her too tight? Maybe Sabina’s encounter with the Buick’s console had bred character, but I had no desire to be the one who squashed the next generation.
But as Tuesday regarded me with her huge brown eyes, blew a spit bubble, and began to coo, a sense of elation mingled with my fear. Though practically frozen stiff, I managed to hug her to my chest with just the right amount of force.
The baby wriggled and flashed her tiny gums in a broad smile. According to the internet, infants cannot truly smile until they are at least six weeks old, and Tuesday had not even been with us for quite a month. But we’d all known there was something special about this baby….
Or, in this case, especially stinky.
“Whoops, I could’ve sworn she was done pooping.” Vano held out his hands to take the baby back.
“And there’s not even a changing station in the restroom,” Sabina complained. I was not about to be bested by a dirty diaper. “I will handle this. We have a spare diaper in the truck.”
Frankly, the desire to prove my mettle was not my only motivation. As I wove through the aisles, I gently cupped Tuesday to my chest and whispered, “I envy your ability to carry on as if this were just another trip to the chair store. Tonight, your Uncle Dixon will receive a great honor. (Okay, your grandfather, too.) Seeing the Hands of all the families in one place, I am confident the volshebstvo has chosen well. Among all those tired old Scriveners, Dixon is sure to shine.”
Holding the baby never failed to make me self-conscious, but changing the baby was another matter. I have always found solace in making myself useful. In the open door of the truck with a blanket spread over the bench seat, I swapped out the diaper with quiet efficiency, holding my breath to escape the worst of the stink.
Once I fastened the new diaper in place, I finally found the words to express what was worrying me. “Hopefully Dixon does not shine too much. He has seen the world, but these other Scriveners have been in Pinyin Bay their whole lives. Their only ambitions are for a good hand of poker and enough paying customers to keep the lights on. What if they find Dixon too exuberant? Too colorful? Too…Dixon?”
Tuesday gave this worry a moment of consideration, then replied with a thoughtful bubble of spit.
Since that was probably all the input she would have on the matter, I decided we should head back in. The salesman tried to accost me when I re-entered, but a firm look from me froze him in his tracks. I threaded up and down the aisles, annoyed with the fact that the stacks upon stacks of chairs all looked the same. Somewhere in the distance, Sabina found something else to complain about, and I was able to follow her voice and make my way toward the gathering….
Only to turn a corner and find myself in a dead end of floor-to-ceiling chair piles. And while I might be able to create an exit with a well-placed shove, I refused to be the cause of a scar on the baby’s head that would rival the console-shaped mark on Sabina’s temple.
I heard Morticia’s strident voice cutting through the dull murmur of the gathered Hands. “All right, everyone, let’s take our places and get started. I don’t want to be here all night. Things to do—and I’m not getting any younger.” It came from perhaps two aisles away, and yet I could not tell which way would lead me to the gathering, and which would loop back to the customer service desk.
Had I passed that particular stack of barstools on my way in, or was this another, nearly identical stack? I tried to get my bearings, and of course neither Sabina nor Morticia was speaking now—and all I could hear was the muted drone of many hushed voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
If I did topple that wall of chairs, I could always claim it was an accident. But since Dixon might very well be quietly fretting on the other side, I could not risk it. I found myself in another dead end—or was it the same one from before?—and whirled around to find a solitary figure blocking my way out.
It was a middle-aged Scrivener woman. Tall. Gaunt. And dressed as if she’d blundered into the custom upholstery display and snagged a bunch of fabric on her way past. Her black hair was long and elaborately curled, threaded through all around her head with flowers. Plastic flowers, at that, judging by the colors. Vibrant primaries. Neon pink. Sparkling purple. A veritable rainbow of plastic blossoms which was so heavy, it practically clattered when she gave me a nod.
“So…that’s the new great-great grandchild? Lady Luck truly smiled on Morticia to provide the family with a girl.”
While most cultures prefer male children, Scriveners are eager for girls. Not only will they someday provide more offspring to add to the family, but a lucky one might win the heart of a Seer.
Yet another way in which Dixon managed to break the mold.
The woman took a step closer, peering at Tuesday through mascara-clotted lashes. The layers of her strange outfit swished as she walked, and the plastic flowers bobbed in her hair. But as ridiculous as she might have appeared, her eyes were shrewd.
“Potatoes,” she said.
Shrewd…or crazy.
And then I realized she was talking about the shopping bag in which Tuesday was wrapped.
“Potatoes are very auspicious. They’re a symbol of prosperity. Cut up a potato and plant the eyes, and you’ll find yourself overrun with potatoes when the season is through. Onions, though, are another story. What other vegetable will cause even a grown man to cry?”
“Superstition,” I said bluntly—even as I was itching to make the sign of the koza and ward her away. “The baby fits inside. That is all that matters.”
“Interesting. I would think if anyone would understand the importance of symbols, it would be a Seer.”
“You know who I am,” I said.
“Indeed, I knew it the moment I heard your accent, since a new Seer is always big news for a circuit. I am Fortunate.” To make my acquaintance, I thought she meant—Americans are always claiming such ridiculous things. But then she said, “Fortunate Jones, Hand of the Pinyin Bay Jones family, no relation to the Strangeberg Joneses. A good many Scrivener forebears claimed the name Jones on Ellis Island—probably to escape some debts. Pity. No doubt surnames from the Old Country would have so much more panache.”
I wondered which country she was referring to, since Scrivener populations have cropped up all over the world, from Austria to Zimbabwe.
I did not ask. And the woman kept talking. “You’d be better off swaddling the child in a MallMart bag.” She rifled through her outfit and pulled a streamer of blue fabric from among the swatches, waggling it under my nose. “Blue is a lucky color, inviting wealth as broad as the sky and as deep as the ocean. Those bags might be a bit itchy, mind you, but you can’t beat the price, since they give them out free on the first Friday of every month. But you know all about color. Don’t you, Seer?”
Enough to know periwinkle was no different from a dusty plum as far as most people were concerned.
Fortunate looked me over, assessing me from the top of my shorn head to the tips of my worn shoes. “I know you’re rather attached to the Penn boy, but the Jones Family would be willing to offer you a very lucrative contract.”
“Are you mad?” I blurted out.
“Just pragmatic. Everyone knows the Penns don’t exactly rake in the big bucks—hardly enough to support you, Rufus Clahd, and that exuberant Boardwalk fellow. And while Dixon’s little Uncrafting hobby might be...interesting…it leaves him with no use for a Seer.”
“The Penns are not just my employers. They are my family.”
Her gaze grew even more cunning. “Are they? The girl secured Vano—quite a catch—by having his first child. But unless Seers possess certain talents I don’t know about….”
“We should rejoin the group,” I told Fortunate firmly, since the conversation was veering into territory I had no desire to explore.
