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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Meditations"  You are called upon to make a quick decision. As you are writing a letter to a client detailing the extra costs incurred by his decision to whimsically alter one of your designs, you are interrupted by the phone. "Kali Valentine," you trill into it. "Kali!" Gabriel's voice slithers into your ear. "How are you today?" "Quite excellent. And how are you and your husband doing?" "Nice. I want to thank you for last night. I assume that was you?" "What was?" "We ripped a hole in our most expensive set of sheets." You laugh. "Doing what?" "What do you think. So was that you?" "I do not contest the charge. It was a consequence of your own doings, of course." "How's that?" "You told someone that you and Daniel were trying to arrange a love match, so she tried to lend her own special sort of help. Ask your Mr. White if he felt funny after she touched him. Afterward, I decided it was you and your husband who needed a salving touch." "Well, it worked. Anyway, I've got company here, and they want to see you." Vidya pokes her head into your study. You hold up a finger to her as you ask Gabriel, "May I inquire as in regard to what?" "They want to talk about how long they're going to have to wait around before you can get them into—" "Oh yes, I see," you quickly interrupt. "Yes, I think we can expeditiously on the project," you add as you eye Vidya. "Okay, when?" "Would tonight be soon enough to send one around?" You smile at Vidya. "That would be great, boss," Gabriel says, sounding relieved. "I am so glad. One moment, please, I have a visitor in my office." You put the phone to your chest and summon Vidya over with a gesture. "Can Punthali and I go down to the park?" she asks. "It's three-thirty." "Are some of your friends down there? With their parents?" She opens her mouth to reply, then catches herself. "I don't know," she admits. "They will be, soon." "Mmm. Call someone and get them to meet you there," you instruct her. "Vidya!" you call after as she spins to run off. "Tell them to call when they—and their parent—are at the park. Then you may leave to meet them." She takes a deep breath, and clearly restrains herself from rolling her eyes. "Yes, Kali," she says, and bolts from the room. You put the phone back to your ear. "Are you still there, Gabriel? Yes, I will bring or send you one tonight." "Who do you want to us to put in?" "The one I will be sending? I think White would suit her best. No," you correct yourself. "On reflection, I think it should be you." "Me?" He sounds surprised. "Are you reluctant to leave your husband?" "Fuck you, Knotts. No, I'm just— Why not White or Liu? Or Cox?" "Because Liu would suit neither of them, and I am anxious that these impostures be perfect. So I want you and Cox here, at least initially. I think I want Cox for the other one, though, so that leaves you." Your colleague snickers. "So who gets to tear up the second-best set of bedsheets with Daniel tonight?" "Play whatever game of musical chairs you want," you retort. "So long as it's not Liu you send me this evening." "That's too bad. I think he was looking forward to going through puberty again as a girl." * * * * * You are able to use the balance of the afternoon to catch up on interior/architectural design work. By a curious coincidence (or perhaps not so much: the best only want to work with the best in the most rarified levels of Hollywood and Los Angeles) you share a client with Daniel Liang: Zakhele Zuma, one of the stars in the Crusaders Cinematic Universe, for whom you—or Kali Valentine, if you must be pedantic about it—decorated a house following its seven million dollar renovation. A charming man with a better eye than you would have credited him with. The only awkward part was that he clearly wanted to sleep with her, but she kept him at a cool remove. Your current client doesn't want to sleep with you, but Gavin Stewart, a retired health insurance CEO with a hundred million dollar nest egg, is much less than charming. The man is full of ideas for the house he is gutting and rebuilding inside its shell, which if were all implemented would cause the roof to cave in, and if half implemented would make it unlivable. And when you explain ideas of your own that contradict his, he becomes quarrelsome and abusive. Take your plans for the guest wing, for example. He asked for a design encompassing eight guest suites and a common room. You obliged with a a rhombus that arranged the suites (four on the first floor, four on the second) out an airy gallery open to the ceiling, which would contain a dining area and sitting area, and a designated kitchen. But he flew into a rage on reviewing the plans, denouncing the separate kitchen, and demanding that each suite encompass two stories with its own internal staircase, and that the staircase leading from the upper gallery to the lower floor be removed. When you pointed out that the kitchen would more efficiently serve the guests, that not all guests would appreciate having to climb stairs within their own suites, and that a lack of a common, outer staircase would complicate the staff's maintenance routines, he accused you of being spitefully dismissive of his desires. You have obliged him, and as you now review the costs associated with them—including a new service corridor to carry food from the main kitchen to the guest wing—you grimly anticipate his reaction. No, being a Stellae is not all play and prodigies. But you yourself are at least used to going through the daily grind of your impersonations. And Kali enjoys her work—even the challenge of obliging difficult clients—so you don't mind it so much when Stewart calls you up later that afternoon to spew poison about the mantlepiece you proposed for the massive fireplace in the main gallery. * * * * * But you have other work as well. So you are in the kitchen fixing homemade chicken soup—there are leftovers that need using—when the girls return. "Vidya!" you call, then stop dead when the girl, looking hot, blown, and muddy, appears in the doorway. "Great Stars!" you exclaim. "What happened to you?" "Cheryl brought her dog to the park," she explains with a wide grin, "and it started to run away, and we chased it, and we caught when it ran into a corner where there was a big mud puddle!" She giggles. "It's gonna need a bath when it gets home!" "And it isn't the only one. Out of those clothes." Her face craters. "I have to take a bath?" "You need to change. And wash your face and hands, and run a brush through your hair. I'm sending you on a short errand, and if you appear in public like that— Well, the last thing we need is child protective services coming to inquire why you look as though you were half-throttled in a mud puddle and beaten to within an inch of your life." She only giggles again. "I nearly was," she laughs as she runs off. "It was a big dog!" You have the soup packed up and have just dialed your colleagues when she returns, looking more (but not very) presentable. "Yes, Daniel," you say into the phone as you hand the plastic container to Vidya. "I heard that Gabriel was under the weather so I am sending over some chicken soup. Yes, sending. I think you will know what to do with it." You hold the phone over you breast as you explain to Vidya. "Take this along down the corridor to suite seven-fifteen. No shilly-shallying. I will be ordering us a pizza when you get back." Her eyes light up. "Find some excuse to get her into the apartment," you instruct Daniel after she has dashed off. "And another excuse for her being late when she returns. Also—" Through the phone, a doorbell rings. Vidya must have sprinted over. "Also, instruct her very carefully afterward, that I want the change undetectable, and will be watching her very closely all evening. Who will you be sending back?" "Muniz, like you asked." "Good. But emphasize to him that I want to see Vidya, not a tweenage skinsuit." "I get it. White is letting her in now. When will you send the other one?" "I'll be in contact." You hang up. And speaking of the other one ... You go in search of Punthali, and find her in the bedroom, carefully pulling on fresh clothes. "Gracious, child," you say, "did you get dirty too?" She looks puzzled. "No." "Well." You sigh and point at the muddy jeans and sweatshirt that Vidya left in the middle of the floor. "Put them in the hamper." * * * * * It is thirty minutes before Vidya returns. "Is the pizza here yet?" she gasps after bursting through the door to the study. "I said I'd not order it until you got back. I also told you no shilly-shallying." "I tried!" she insists. "I told them—" "And what was the cause of the delay?" She makes a face. "They told me they had some papers to give to you, but they couldn't find them, and then they both got telephone calls, and I almost told them I had to go back because we had pizza coming, but I thought that'd be rude—" "Enough! It sounds you did the best of a bad situation, so I'll not task you. Are those the papers they wanted to give me?" You indicate a large manila folder in her hand. "Oh. Yes." She grins as she hands it over. You open the it long enough to rifle through them. They are all blank, save the cover sheet. Scrawled in big letters, in Vidya's handwriting: Two down, one to go? Next: "Training Days" |
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