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There were days that Lomadia deeply regretted subletting the upstairs to Nilesy. Those days usually coincided with scratches and dents on the stairs from his sodding machine parts, or with him dragging home literal bags of garbage for their ‘symbolic’ value and then losing them in the clutter until they began to smell. Lomadia was never quite sure which tat was for his magic, and which was for his art, and which was for the engineering that he claimed was more of an art than a science, but it crowded the flat like a disagreeable third flatmate, and he refused to throw away any of it, in case he needed it someday.
At least the cats were nice. They did tend to stare, but they were well-behaved and friendly, and didn’t chase the brownies or scratch up the warding runes in the doorframes. Lomadia appreciated their companionship as she worked in the tiny kitchen and the tinier potions brewery where she filled her online orders. It wasn’t that big of a flat, but it was still too big and silent for her, and she welcomed Nilesy’s company at dinner, his footsteps thudding around upstairs on a quiet day, his friendly waves as she climbed the fire escape to the rooftop garden, and the cheerful conversation as she tended the mushrooms she grew in his windowboxes.
Today was her turn to cook. There was still half a salad left over from yesterday, which only needed a little freshening up with some more lettuce and cherry tomatoes. Grating the carrots was always the most annoying part of it, and there were plenty of carrot shreds still left at the bottom. Nilesy had an oddly cheery approach to the tedious bits of cooking such as grating carrots or peeling potatoes, and while she didn’t particularly understand it, she appreciated it. She was unarguably better at cooking - had great taste in recipes, didn’t often come up with a disaster when she winged it, and was brilliant with a knife - but it was just such a chore to cook for herself, and she wouldn’t have eaten nearly as well if she didn’t have someone to eat dinner with.
The cats showed a flicker of interest as she rummaged for the can opener, stretching and purring as they got off of her scarf, Nilesy’s blueprints, and the best chair in the house. One wound around her legs - the scruffy black one with the chewed ear, which didn’t have a proper name yet, though Nilesy insisted it was The Battle Cat.
“Calm down, you,” she laughed. “It’s just diced tomatoes.” She put the can opener next to the can, petted the Battle Cat, and then had to pet its competitors before they settled down, taking positions on the scuffed linoleum where she’d have to be careful not to tread on their tails while cooking.
She double-checked the recipe on her phone, washed her hands, and chose an apron from the hooks on the kitchen door. The aprons were ostensibly individually owned, though in practice neither of them was particular about which one they used. Nilesy had tried to insist that a dirty apron was a mark of cooking prowess, but that one was quickly put to rest. Of the currently clean ones, the blue one was softer, but the purple one had nicer pockets. Lomadia checked the pockets for surprises, and found two bottlecaps. Not even a brand they drank, he must have ferried them over from elsewhere. She tossed them into the recycle bin and tied the apron strings around her waist. He had a habit of going through the recycle bin for materials anyway.
The eggplant was a lovely one, dark and glossy purple. She was always meticulous about her vegetable shopping, and this one was as perfect as it could get without being faework. The zucchinis were small and scrubby, but it was their first year on the rooftop garden, and she was prepared to be understanding about their shortcomings. Despite her best efforts with the sunlight charms, they were still out of season. She sliced off a couple bruises - there wasn’t much space for a summoning circle up in the rooftop garden, and things did get trodden on sometimes.
The bell peppers were from the co-op, and she had touched her obsidian ring to their firm green skin before buying, to make sure they didn’t have anything unwholesome spelled into them. The co-op was a reliable place, but you could never be too sure. The cats flicked their ears and retreated as she rinsed the vegetables.
Lomadia diced the eggplant with confidence and skill, tipped it off the chopping board onto a waiting plate, and generously sprinkled it with salt. It needed a lot of time to release its juice, so she put it to the side and got started on the other vegetables. The recipe wasn’t quite written in the order she’d have done things, and she mused over the edits she’d make if the recipe turned out well and she wanted to add it to her recipe file. As it was written, there would be a sudden frenzy of chopping near the end, as the onion and garlic were cooking. That wouldn’t do.
She set the bell pepper seeds aside in a clean jam jar for witchery purposes, since these ones were no good for growing. She felt almost sorry to chop up the squash; it was giving the kitchen such a lovely festive witchy air. Well, it was hardly a big smooth orange pumpkin, more of a mottled green acorn squash, but she still liked it. The vegetable piles grew on their separate plates, crowding the meager counter space and the empty burners on the stove. It was a nice big recipe, plenty for a hearty dinner and a generous breakfast tomorrow.
She dumped the peelings and scraps into the garbage and wiped down the counter, catching most of the mess, then checked the eggplant again. It was glistening with beads of juice, but it still needed some time to drain. She considered browsing Pinterest for charms, but she had just enough time to get a little proper witchery done. She set her phone alarm for fifteen minutes. They did own one of those old-fashioned wind-up egg timers, courtesy of a rummage sale, and she considered giving it a twist to justify the counter space it took up, but her phone was far more reliable, and didn’t tick annoyingly. She refused to feel guilty about not using it. She was certain that one day the egg timer would vanish in the name of art and/or magic.
Her witchery table was actually just an old-fashioned sewing machine built into a desk. Nilesy had assured her he could get the foot treadle working again, but she had a proper sewing machine for when she needed it, built this century. She had bought this one because it was much cheaper than the actual desks on Craigslist at the time, and it had drawers and extendable side flaps for a bit more workspace. It had been a labor of love to drag the heavy brass thing home and up the front steps.
The magic was hardly worth mentioning. This was the eighteenth order for travel charms in a month, and she was so bored of them. She lined up eight little Altoids tins on the edge of her table - better to mass-produce and get them out of the way so she didn’t have to dig out her supplies again tomorrow and the day after. The business was still at the dodgy stage where she wasn’t quite prepared to gamble on large amounts of inventory, but making the charms one by one was starting to become a hassle. It was a delicate balance, but she felt confident that the extra travel charms would be snapped up.
She dealt the birch leaves out like a deck of cards, two to a tin. Fallen, not plucked from the tree. A bit ragged, though, she’d have to look into a new supplier. One lucky penny per tin, and those were the real choke point when it came to making these charms; there really was no substitute for genuine luck. She only had one penny left over to put back into the carefully labeled pill bottle, and resigned herself to watching the sidewalk more carefully. She ran down the list on the laminated index card pinned to the bulletin board, putting a neat dot by each with the dry-erase marker tied to the board. Ticket stub from successful journey, check. Pigeon feather, check. Scrap of fresh crossword puzzle - damn it. The cats had been at the Sunday paper, and it was too ragged to use. She eyed Battle Cat suspiciously, and it perked up, making eye contact and purring winsomely.
“Don’t try that on me,” she said. “I know this was your work.”
Battle Cat meowed in agreement, twining itself around her legs.
“Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” she said briskly. “I’m cutting your treat rations. Treats are a reward for good behavior.”
Battle Cat nudged her hand, and Lomadia petted it. She crumpled up the torn page of newspaper and tossed it lightly, and Battle Cat raced off after it, spurring Fishbone and Mr. Cat into motion. She could use one of the weekday crosswords she’d snipped and set aside earlier, although the Sunday one really was the best. She fished the lucky penny out of the tin that got the weekday crossword, and put in a larger coin.
This was one of the ones that called for dog blood, and Lomadia grimaced. Dog blood was awful, and it just didn’t keep well, but the substitute she bought from Nano made her uneasy. It was thick and dark, like cough syrup. She carefully spooned a dose into each tin, tapping the measuring spoon on the metal rims to get all of it off, and then sealed up the jar tightly, slotting it back into its place on the shelf.
She carefully placed the sticky ring of measuring spoons on the almost-new ceramic spoon rest until she was ready to wash it, and moved on to the next ingredient. Spoon rests had struck her as a useless luxury at first, but like most specialty cooking items, they were surprisingly cheap and easy to find in secondhand shops. And it was far better to replace a bit of ceramic every nine moons than to let magic traces seep into her worktable or get onto the normal dishes. She’d had to break the occasional plate in the early days of her witchery when she couldn’t wash a sticky spell off and didn’t want to risk contaminating future magic or accidentally eating off it. She still regretted losing the lovely blue marble cheeseboard. Not that it was dangerous, of course, she never did hexes for customers, but it did make the cheese go sour, and that couldn’t be a good sign.
Lomadia worked her way down the list, neatly fitting ingredients into the tins with the ease of practice. The phone alarm began chirping at her before she was done, and she carefully marked off the dog blood on the list and made sure the pigeon feathers were properly put away before she left her worktable. The cats were entirely too interested in the bird-based parts of her witchery, and had devastated her stock before. It was rather unfortunate that nobody had come up with a use for cat fur yet, since that was the one thing she had a reliable and abundant supply of.
She checked on the eggplant, then washed the witchery off her hands carefully with a squirt of the special herb-and-salt soap and finally silenced her nagging phone alarm. Maybe she should have used the egg timer after all. The eggplant cubes were rather less appealing now, soft and wet and going brown, but she reminded herself that the point was the taste of it, not looking good in the messy middle of it.
Her cooking, not to mention her magic, never looked anything like the magazines with their big glossy photos and vague little instructional blurbs, and really her cooking, magic, and self-esteem had improved since she sworn off magazines and started following the sort of spoon-and-spell blogs with disastrous end results and wry commentary. And the magazines were rather expensive. She tipped the soft cubes into the colander and ran the tap over them.
“It’s alright,” she murmured to the eggplant, gently patting it dry with a dishrag that had started off in life as one of her t-shirts. “You can’t help that you’re an eggplant. Can’t all be golden apples, and even those will go brown if you don’t use lemon juice.” She snickered at herself and took another handful of eggplant to dry off. Really, it was a crime that nobody got to appreciate her private moments of brilliance the way she did. Except the brownies, and they better not tell anyone.
Her favorite pot was massive and cast iron, and weighed more than the cats. Nilesy called it her cauldron, and she had to admit, she kind of liked that. She wasn’t as much of a traditionalist as some, and nobody was ever going to catch her on one of those awful splintery broomsticks again, but she liked a bit of Macbeth now and then.
“Toil and trouble,” she grunted, heaving the pot out of the cupboard and emptying out the many smaller pots stored inside it. “Buggering hell.” She lifted with her knees, not her back, and got it up to the lip of the stove, easing it onto the burner. Didn’t stick and burn, didn’t dent or warp, washed up easy, but it was a bloody pain and a half to drag around. She hadn’t quite broken a sweat, but she still took a moment to breathe and push wisps of hair out of her face with the back of her hand.
She wiped the dust out of the bottom of the pot with a wet corner of the dishrag, then sloshed in a practiced amount of olive oil. The eggplant went in first, then a sprinkle of salt - to taste, the recipe said, not that she was going to pop an eggplant cube in her mouth at this point in the proceedings. She gave the pepper grinder a few firm twists, scattering coarse black grains over the eggplant. It would have been less fuss to just use a shaker of powdered black pepper, but she loved the sharp taste of freshly ground peppercorns. The black pepper disappeared into the mass of wet eggplant as she stirred it, and she added a bit more.
She adjusted the heat to medium and gave it another stir before running through the next steps. She diced the onion smoothly - not celebrity-chef fast or painstakingly neat, but a good solid middle ground that got the job done. She swept the onion off the cutting board and onto the now-empty eggplant plate with the edge of her knife, making room for the garlic. It was a solid cutting board, but not as large as she would have liked. She peeled open a few cloves of garlic, tossing the papery mess into the sink because there was now a cat on the lid of the rubbish bin. Her knife rocked against the wood, smooth and fast as she minced the garlic.
The eggplant sizzled, turning golden brown, and she pulled her attention back to it, adding a bit more oil to keep it from sticking. She stood at the stove, one hand on the spoon, stirring carefully. What were the rest of the ingredients? She thumbed through the recipe on her phone. Right, basil from the windowbox over the sink. She pinched off a few dark leaves, and the scent rose green and fragrant against the aroma of the frying eggplant. She held the leaves against her nose for a moment and breathed in happily.
The red pepper was in the spice tub - although Nilesy had offered to make a spice rack, there just wasn’t room on the kitchen counters, and they’d had to make do with clustering the little bottles in a plastic tub that ran the depth of the cabinet. Lomadia pulled out the tub, setting it on the counter, and her fingers danced over the neatly labeled caps, picking out red pepper and - honestly, Nilesy, what on earth was the mutandis doing there? She plucked it out and set it on the counter to deal with later.
She really hoped it was there by accident and not as a cooking spice. You could, in theory, use it to turn fish into another kind of meat, and he had been making noises about being tired of fish. She’d have to have a talk with him about that. Perhaps make some room in the grocery budget for tofu. She spent a minute arguing with the recipe, or rather herself, then decided to put the red pepper directly on the eggplant instead of with the onion and garlic. The eggplant could use a bit more kick. The red pepper got judiciously sprinkled in and neatly stowed back in its proper place, then she took an alarmed sniff of the air.
She hurried back to the stove with a quilted potholder and muscled the cauldron onto its side, scooping the eggplant onto a waiting plate. It was perfectly browned, maybe a little extra brown, but that never hurt anyone, and Nilesy preferred burnt things anyway. The pot went back on the burner with a dash of fresh oil, and she slid the onions in.
She prodded the onions with a spoon, waiting for them to turn clear, and browsed witchery blogs on her phone. Her stomach grumbled at the savory scent of hot olive oil and frying onions. It was the base for a lot of the soups and lentil recipes they made, and she found her mouth watering with anticipation. Ridiculous. She couldn’t just eat a spoonful of hot oil and onion.
Her eyes were drawn to their awful cactus-shaped cookie jar, and she took a chocolate chip cookie without arguing with herself over it. Couldn’t have the cook going hungry. The chocolate chip cookies were Nilesy’s recipe, deliciously buttery and soft, with oatmeal and walnuts. She took another. Lomadia ate it slowly, bookmarked a nice little keychain luck charm, and slipped the phone back into her apron pocket. The onions sizzled, translucent and fragrant. It was time to add the garlic. The minced garlic stuck to the knife as always, and she slid a careful finger along the flat of the blade to get it all off.
She stirred the garlic without paying attention to it, and surveyed her crowded domain. The plates of heaped vegetables cluttered the counters and even a couple of the burners. The remainder of the counter space was commandeered by their modest collection of kitchen tools, and their rather immodest collection of wet dishes.
Secondhand kitchen goods were rather hit-or-miss - you couldn’t get good cutlery to save your life, but odd items like the mortar and pestle were surprisingly cheap, and Lomadia was quite proud of the food processor. It was new - well, secondhand, but recent. She and Nilesy had found it together in the back of a secondhand shop, and split the very reasonable price between them.
Nilesy had forgotten their canvas totes and the store hadn’t had a bag to spare, so he’d carried the motor home in his arms while she took the plastic bowl and lid. It had come with a number of blades and attachments Nilesy was very excited about, and Lomadia had made room for those in her purse. It had worked perfectly once Nilesy replaced the toggle, and they had made pesto that night to celebrate. She almost felt she should name it, after all that effort. She definitely wasn’t going to let Nilesy name it Mr. Bladey.
She gave the food processor a proprietary pat, relishing the rolling plains of culinary opportunity it had opened up for her. It was one of their glowing successes at bargain hunting, and made up for all the times they’d come home with lovely but useless tat. She did need to remind Nilesy to be on the lookout for a dish rack, though, the wet dishes were getting out of hand.
She rinsed her hands, grabbed a fresh dish towel, and started carefully unstacking the wet, haphazard stack of metal and breakables, and swiping the towel over them. It was a dreary task, and one Nilesy usually did as she scrubbed the dishes. She transferred the pots and dishes to their proper places one by one, giving the sizzling onions and garlic a stir every time she passed them on her way to a cupboard.
The pile of wet dishes grew smaller. She lifted a pan, and almost shrieked. “Oh Nilesy, why .” She put the pan in the sink, trying to ignore that she had been holding it like a weapon to swat the unexpected intruder. “Why antlers, Nilesy,” she sighed. She gingerly picked it up between thumb and forefinger, looking for a place to put it. Certainly not on the table. Not on her witchery desk. Nilesy’s chair. Definitely.
She put the antler on the overstuffed chair with the claw marks all over it, and then put the dishes that had touched it back in the sink for another scrub. She couldn’t find a second antler, and briefly worried about where it might have gotten to. Lomadia couldn’t feel any tingle of magic in the antler, thankfully, but she still grimaced and scrubbed her hands against her jeans. Not that she’d never used a rat skull or two in her magic, but she didn’t put them with the dishes . She huffed in indignation, cleaning her hands with the herb-and-salt soap again. Couldn’t be too careful.
She dumped the plate of zucchini into the pot, stirring firmly. Wherehad he even found antlers in the middle of a city? Maybe one of those dodgy little taxidermy shops where she’d had to go to get her tongue of dog before Nano opened up that little shop with Lalna. She shuddered, the scent of dust and preservatives momentarily cutting through the scents of cooking. Witchery could be a rather dodgy art at times, and she was grateful for the clean, well-lit little shop full of animals, and the bloodless ingredients she could buy there. She’d even bought both of her brownies from Nano. Shy little things, and they couldn’t really make any inroads against Nilesy’s mess, but they did keep the pests out and the ceiling from dripping. The cats were of rather more dubious provenance, but Nilesy did vaccinate them and let Lomadia hang charms from their collars, so she tried not to worry too much.
She added the squash to the pot, churning the heavy pile of vegetables until the squash chunks were at the bottom. She was running low on clay dog tongue, actually, she’d have to put in another order. Three jars this time, she was certain she’d use them all before they went dry. Plenty of orders for charms of silence, this time of year. The holidays were coming up.
She bought in bulk when she could; he went down to the shops fairly often, but it was easier to send Nilesy in with one long list written on his forearm than to rely on him to remember things she told him on the way out the door. Despite its dryad proprietor, Nano’s shop was one of the safer ones for magical supplies, and one of the few she felt comfortable letting Nilesy buy from on her behalf. She paid back the favor by handling his dodgier purchases herself, though what he wanted with four packages of Netherwart, she couldn’t say.
She felt something furry press against her calf, and looked down to find Mr. Cat rubbing against her legs. She checked the time on her phone.
“Nonsense, it’s not your dinnertime yet.”
Encouraged by the attention, he made eye contact, opening his mouth in an almost-silent meow. She looked at the cat food dispenser by the fridge.
“And you’ve still got kibbles, you greedy thing. Absolutely not.” She nudged him away before he could pat her on the leg with a barely-sheathed paw. He made a dissatisfied noise, and Fishbone trilled, pouring himself down from a kitchen chair. The Battle Cat squeaked, lifting its head from the coil of black fur on the rubbish bin lid and watching Lomadia hopefully. Fishbone started purring, and the others took up the refrain.
Lomadia raised an eyebrow at them, and busied herself with adding the bell peppers and stacking up the empty plates, feeling the weight of eyes on her. The purring grew louder. She felt a head butt the back of her knee, and she braced her hands on the counter, trying not to laugh.
“Shameless,” she told them. “That’s completely cheap, and you should be embarrassed.”
The cat headbutted her again. She looked down into Fishbone’s soulful eyes. He rubbed his cheek on her leg, purring loudly, and she laughed. Mr. Cat put a gentle paw on her calf, meowing silently when she looked at him.
“Oh fine, you can have a little fish.” She reached down and petted both cats, and they pushed their heads into her hands. “But you can’t tell Nilesy.”
The Battle Cat came up behind her, and there was a brief spat of hissing and smacking before the cats settled their dispute and worked in unison against Lomadia, meowing and twining around her legs as she made her way towards the cabinet where they kept the tuna. She shuffled through the swirling tide of cats, careful not to step on any paws.
She worked the can opener and doled out the can of tuna in two brightly painted cat bowls and one cereal bowl. She placed the bowls a tactful distance away from each other, pushing the cats to their own bowls when they would have inspected each other’s. The noise level subsided, though at least one of them still managed to purr as they ate. While they were distracted, she opened the oversized can of diced tomatoes and poured it into the pot. Fishbone flicked an ear but didn’t look up as she put the can opener safely away.
Lomadia thumbed through the recipe, debating the basil leaves. She finally set them aside as a garnish, shaking a couple tablespoons of dried basil into the pot. She churned the vegetables and turned the heat down on the stove. The recipe suggested preheating the oven now, and she clicked her tongue at it. “Could have mentioned it earlier.”
She opened the oven to check that it was empty, then twisted the dial to preheat it. She had enough time to get the charms squared away before dinner. She gave the kitchen an assessing look. The ratatouille didn’t need to be stirred for a while. The cats had finished their fish and had lost all interest in Lomadia, strolling back to their favorite perches and cleaning their faces. Couldn’t expect a thank you, they were cats, after all. She tidied away their bowls, rinsed and recycled the cans she had opened, and neatened up the mess of cooking before dusting her hands off and going back to the witchery.
“Pigeon feather… ticket…” she murmured to herself, running her finger down the index card. “Right, tidewater sand.” She rummaged in the drawer for the vial. Just a sprinkle, then she could seal up the tins with superglue and take them up to the rootftop circle for enchanting. Then a bit of decorating, and they were ready to ship. It wasn’t part of the magic, but the customers still preferred a bit of fancy dress to make them feel like they were paying for quality witchery, and she didn’t mind a bit of mod podge and scrapbook paper.
She frowned, closing the drawer and opening another. She was always careful with it, it was too expensive to leave where the cats could bat it off the table and make off with it. The sand wasn’t in the second drawer, or the third. It wasn’t on the ingredients shelf, although a catnip mouse and two small screws were. She looked under the desk and in the wastebin. The cats circled warily, attracted by the rummaging, but keeping their distance from the swearing.
“Brownies, did you take it?” she accused the empty air. “No, you know better. It’s got my mark on it.” She threaded her fingers through her hair and tugged. “Where the bugger did it go?”
She dug through the cabinets and under the furniture in a widening radius from the area it was supposed to be in. She turned up plenty of rubbish that shouldn’t be there and plenty of rubbish that actually belonged there, but had gotten buried and forgotten in the mess. She rediscovered a hairbrush of hers and a jar of jam that had never made its way out of the shopping bag it arrived in, but couldn’t find the sand. She cursed under her breath. Maybe Nilesy had borrowed it for something? Maybe he had spilled it. Maybe he had spilled something on it, took it away to clean it, and then lost it. It had happened before. Lomadia raked her hair back out of her face, gathering it into a rough ponytail and securing it with a hairband she had found between the couch cushions, then continued the attack. She excavated more clutter, mining through the geological eras of Nilesy’s occupancy of the house until she hit the wooden bedrock of shelves and floors, but the vial of sand did not emerge.
The preheated beep of the oven stopped her from tearing the house apart. She dropped a stack of Nilesy’s engineering books on the steps and put her hairbrush back in the bathroom, muttering about renting a swarm of brownies to put the place back in order. The two brownies they did have wisely kept clear of her as she clicked the Altoids tins shut and stomped back into the kitchen. The charms would keep, but she hated to leave something half-done, and couldn’t start a new project in that tiny space without clearing up the old one.
Lomadia washed the dust and cat fur off her face and hands and slicked a wet hand over her hair to keep the wisps out of her face. She scrubbed her hands mostly dry yet again with irritated swipes of the damp towel, then glowered at the ratatouille. It didn’t even have the decency to quiver in its pot. She gave it a couple of brisk stirs, but refrained from cursing at the food. Couldn’t be too careful, being a witch and all.
She found one of her prized glass dishes and its matching rubber lid, and carefully ladled half of the vegetables into it for tomorrow. The dish was oven-safe, and it’d be easy enough for whoever got home from work first to pop it in the oven. Lomadia mused over the delightful image of walking into a warm house full of the smell of cooking and no prep mess to clean up. She added some mulled cider to the mental image, and the fluffy slippers she’d rediscovered. It was a good mental image.
She searched through the kitchen cupboards, turning up two ramekins, one of which was in with the cereal bowls by mistake. They were generously sized, and only slightly chipped. She spooned the ratatouille into them, doling out hearty portions. Lomadia weighed the portions with her eyes, then added another heaping spoonful to each. Better to have leftovers for breakfast than to leave the table hungry. She breathed in the scent of the basil leaves one more time before tearing them up and scattering them over the top. The surface was lumpy with vegetable chunks, and she smoothed it before patting the spoon in the center of the dishes, making a well.
Did they have eggs? She frowned in sudden concern, and tugged the fridge door open. It was always a gamble in this house, since they bought small cartons of cage-free eggs, and both magic and food depended on them at irregular intervals. It had been a while since eggs had been on the shopping list, though there was always a chance Nilesy had picked some up. She found one egg rolling around in the cheese drawer, and dropped it into her pocket. It clicked against her phone as she leaned forwards, exploring the mysterious depths of the fridge. There was a carton of eggs shuffled behind the pickle jars. She eyed the pickle-less jar of brine dubiously, but left it there. Nilesy drank the stuff, and she didn’t think it went off, since brine was the stuff they used to make sure pickles wouldn’t go off. Lomadia nudged the fridge door shut with a knee as she read the date printed on the rough cardboard egg carton. Still good, probably.
Lomadia fetched the solitary egg out of her apron pocket and plucked an egg out of the carton, weighing one in each hand. She couldn’t tell the difference, but suspected there might be one, if they were stored in different locations. If the egg was cooked, she didn’t want to crack it until breakfast tomorrow. Her phone was in her apron pocket, and Google, as always, was ready with answers. She raised an eyebrow, but shrugged and spun an egg on the countertop. It kept spinning after she tapped it still with a finger, the yolk inside it swirling with momentum. Raw, then. That was slightly harder to explain than a hardboiled egg in the cheese drawer, but then again the explanation always just boiled down to “Nilesy.” The other two eggs were raw as well, once she checked.
Lomadia debated googling egg freshness tests, but figured she’d be able to see the difference. Old yolks tended to sag into the puddle of whites, while fresh ones were firm and perky. She wasn’t a repository of egg folklore, and had never met a chicken, but she did know that much. She might look into charms to keep eggs fresh - if they didn’t have any side effects or change the taste of the eggs, she’d consider making a few for personal use. They were old farmhouse magic, they couldn’t be that expensive.
The brown freckled shell of the renegade egg was thick, and it took two taps to break it open against the rim of a cereal bowl. She cracked it open and slid the gooey bits out of the shell without breaking the yolk, and looked it over. Passable, she decided, fishing out a shard of shell.
It went into Nilesy’s ramekin. If he’d been enchanting eggs and putting them back in the fridge, he’d have to live with the consequences or go eggless tonight. The egg she slid into her own ramekin looked the same, and she neatly stacked the broken eggshells together before nudging the Battle Cat off the rubbish bin lid and tossing them in. The last egg went back in its carton and into the fridge. A final twist of pepper on top of each egg, more for the ritual of it than the taste, and she bunged the ramekins into the oven, setting the oven timer for twenty minutes.
Vegetable scraps still littered the kitchen counter between the appliances and jars, and there was still the garlic bread and salad to do. She sighed, leaning against the counter. A flicker of motion caught her eye - a brownie scuttling out from the ragged hole under the cabinets and dragging some carrot peel back in with it. She wasn’t sure if it intended to eat the peel, but either way, it wasn’t fair to make it do all the cleanup. That way lay stressed, sick brownies, and she was already worried about them living in this clutter.
The brownie darted out again, inspecting a scrap of papery garlic skin before taking away a wedge of squash rind. It was the bolder one, the one with the solid coat of glossy brown fur and the two missing claws. Lomadia hadn’t seen the other brownie in quite a while, actually. She hoped the cats hadn’t gotten it. The brownies were fairly large, but the cats did get ambitious sometimes, and brownies had nothing in the way of fighting ability, despite the claws. She frowned, but the Battle Cat had resumed its perch on the rubbish bin lid and was ignoring the brownie.
Lomadia stirred herself into action, displacing the Battle Cat from the bin again as she cleaned the garlic peels out of the sink and threw them away, handful by handful. It pinned its ears back, and she leaned down to pet it. “Sorry, sweetheart, but humans live here too.” It turned away from her, licking at the faintly garlicky trail of dampness on its fur. “Ooh alright, if that’s the way it is,” she laughed.
Lomadia swept a sponge across the counters, moving appliances and jars to hunt for peelings, rinds, and stray seeds hidden in the corners of the kitchen. The brownie kept pace with her, catching the scraps that fell to the floor and squirreling them away. Maybe the other brownie was sick? She didn’t know much about them, she realized, but suspected they were rather more complex than your average vacuum cleaner. She didn’t even know what gender hers were. Didn’t know what gender the cats were, come to think of it; Nilesy always named things Mister. She squinted dubiously at the brownie, and a sudden thought occurred to her.
“Please tell me you didn’t have kittens,” she told the brownie. “Cubs. Pups? You’d tell me if you did, right?” If there were kittens, she was underfeeding the brownies by a long shot. She darted a worried glance at the cream bowl in the kitchen. It was licked clean, but then again it always was. She gave them the amount Nano had suggested, and put it inside the enchanted bowl Nilesy had built to keep the cats from stealing the cream. She’d have to talk to Lalna, see if she needed to get the brownies fixed or vaccinated or something. Lomadia frowned, sponge set aside as she thumbed through brownie forums for advice. The forums were argumentative about habitats and appropriate lighting, and Lomadia felt a brief twinge of guilt at letting the brownies pick their own boltholes instead of building them heated boxes.
“Hello, Lomadia!”
Lomadia looked up from browsing egg charms on her phone, and belatedly realized she’d gotten distracted. “Hello, Nilesy,” she called, putting the phone away. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
“Smells fantastic,” said Nilesy, panting as he wheeled his bike through the front door, parking it on the collection of welcome mats they’d duct taped together for a landing strip. The wheels were dripping with slush, and Nilesy’s coat was wet. Lomadia shivered at the draft of winter air that came in with him, suddenly aware of her thin sweatshirt and the lingering dampness of her hands.
“Right, Lomadia,” said Nilesy, fumbling for the doorknob before she said a word. “Sorry.” He pulled the door closed gently. The enchanted collars and the jingle bell ward nailed above the door kept the cats from darting out, in theory, but the cats had an awful habit of slipping their collars. Lomadia might have to look into some sort of technomancy microchip thing to do that job, when they had the funds for it, and they needed to be careful about closing the door properly in the meantime. There was also really no way to magically insulate the house, which was another point in favor of not leaving the door open. No magical way to keep the slush at bay either, so Nilesy was careful to leave his boots at the door and shuffle into the fuzzy panda slippers he kept on the shoe rack. Some things - most things, really - were more easily solved with a pinch of practicality than a pound of magic.
Nilesy shucked his coat, throwing it over the bicycle, and dumped his satchel next to his chair, scratching Mr. Cat under the chin. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold, and his glasses fogged up in the heat of the house. Mr. Cat didn’t seem to mind Nilesy’s cold hands, and purred loudly, nudging his head against Nilesy for more. “You’re my good kitty,” said Nilesy tenderly, stroking his orange fur. “I missed you too.”
Lomadia couldn’t help smiling.
“Oh, you got him a toy?” Nilesy asked. “That’s so sweet of you, Lom.” He squinted at the antler over the rims of his fogged glasses as he dragged it over the cushion, teasing the cat. Mr. Cat gamely batted at it.
“Actually, you got it,” said Lomadia. “It was under the stack of dishes. I was meaning to ask you about that.”
“Oh, the antler!” exclaimed Nilesy, turning it right side up. “I was looking for that.”
“Magic or art?” asked Lomadia.
“Well, I’ve heard magic referred to as an art, so technically...” said Nilesy, flashing Lomadia a cheeky grin.
Lomadia raised an eyebrow and wordlessly pulled the dish towel from the oven handle, twirling it into a rope.
“Art, art,” laughed Nilesy, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s for a mixed media project, you’ll like it. No glue involved.”
Lomadia giggled. “That’s always good news. The fumes can’t be good for the brownies. Oh, speaking of, have you seen the other brownie recently?”
“Which one?” asked Nilesy as he unwound his scarf. “Mr. Brown or Mr. Badger?”
“Don’t put that on the chair, we have a coatrack for that. The shy one.”
“That one’s Mr. Badger,” said Nilesy. “Dunno, I never see him usually. He’s a bit skittish. Nano said he doesn’t like men’s voices, and I guess she was right, because he never comes upstairs. Didn’t even like Lalna.”
Lomadia frowned, twisting the towel between her hands. “Haven’t seen Mr. Badger in a while either. Might be sick, or - are you sure he’s a boy? He might have kittens somewhere, I don’t know.”
Nilesy beamed. “Kittens! Oh gosh, imagine that.”
“So Mr. Badger’s a girl, then?”
“No idea,” said Nilesy, “but kittens would be amazing.” He picked up Mr. Cat, cradling the plump orange tom in his arms and rocking him like a baby. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Mr. Cat? More friends.” He nuzzled the cat’s fur, and Mr. Cat started purring again, rubbing his head against Nilesy’s shoulder.
Lomadia’s lips thinned, and Nilesy met her eyes over the cat. “Don’t you worry, Lom,” he said softly, “I’ll ask Lalna about it tomorrow, see if he can come over. It’ll be okay, whatever it is. We’ll take care of it.” Nilesy offered a smile, and Lomadia couldn’t help smiling back. “I’ll pick up the place some, don’t you worry,” he said, looking around. “Sorry about the mess.”
“It is a bit of a disaster,” agreed Lomadia. “I was looking for something earlier, and things got a bit out of hand. Found your textbooks, though, they’re on the stairs.”
“Oh, thanks!” he said. “I’ll get them on my way up. You need help with dinner?”
“I could do with a clear table to put it on,” said Lomadia. “Just the garlic bread left to do.”
“No problemo,” said Nilesy, pouring Mr. Cat onto the closest kitchen chair.
Some days Lomadia didn’t even remember they had a table. It wasn’t much of one to start with, a cheap card table with a wobbly leg Nilesy had replaced with a two-by-four, and it spent more of its life as a waist-high pile of tat and magic tat than as a food surface. She was well used to eating with a plate balanced on her knees, or setting dinner on the cat-scratched wicker blanket chest. Nilesy made little exclamations of surprise as he uncovered some of his missing treasures, and stuck them in his pockets, never to be seen again. He did his own laundry, and Lomadia had decided long ago that it was none of her business if his charms were waterproof.
Lomadia applied herself to the task of making garlic butter. It was simple enough, two cloves of garlic and a pinch of salt in the mortar. The mortar and pestle were a good set, heavy and solid brass, and Nilesy had even gotten the patina and sharpied price mark off it, polishing it until it glowed. Lomadia crushed the garlic meditatively, considering the brownie problem. The brownies weren’t particularly friendly, even to her, and if Lalna didn’t have some way of coaxing Mr. Badger out of hiding, they might have to invite Nano in.
Brownies were fine - they were house faeries to begin with, and harmless. Lalna was fine - homunculus or not, he was a sweetheart. But Nano was something else entirely, and wasn’t shy about letting people know it. Lomadia wasn’t too keen on the thought of letting Nano cross her threshold. She worked hard for her threshold - burned a yule log on a cookie tray in the oven every solstice, cooked at home as often as she could, salted the windowsills and everything. Inviting a dryad into the house would be a real setback, and that dryad being a cheeky little bugger like Nano was even worse. Give her an inch and she’d tap her branches against your window all night, buckle the sidewalk in front of your door with her roots, and drop her leaves (and, gods forbid, her acorns) onto your head with the slightest breeze. Lomadia could just imagine that sly wink as Nano crossed a threshold that had been denied to her for years.
She started calculating the amount of mess that needed to be moved so Nano couldn’t get her hands on it, and whether she had enough rowan and hawthorn twigs to make bracelets to put around Nano’s wrists to keep most of the nonsense at bay. The twig supply was rather low, unfortunately. Her current bundle was starting to get old, and she was about ready to burn it for bottled smoke. Pliability was always a sticking point when it came to twined and bound charms. Rowan and hawthorn just didn’t seem to grow well in the local parks, the local shops always seemed to be out, and it was such a bother to buy online. She supposed she could try soaking the twigs overnight and enchanting them in the morning. The altar was slow to recharge, this time of year, but the travel charms could wait.
Lomadia huffed a sigh, mashing the garlic into the butter viciously, as if it was to blame for this predicament and the problem was simple enough to be solved with a fork. She’d do what she could, and do it for the brownies. Nano cared about them just as much as Lomadia did - not that they were hers, she’d paid good money for those brownies and they didn’t come with any outstanding debts tied to them, Lomadia had made sure of that. Nano was so gentle with small things, even the ugly and injured ones, and looked after them fiercely. Lomadia could trust her with the brownies. It was her delighted interest in humans that was the problem. Lomadia would just have to work harder on the hearth afterwards, build it up a bit. Maybe burn some sachets, do some repairs around the house. That seemed like the thing, especially if there were going to be newborns in the house.She did the math on whether they could afford to feed more brownies. Not more than three long term, she decided. She’d have to make a list of good homes that could use brownies.
Nilesy came up beside her to borrow the sponge. He ran his reddened hands under the faucet for a long moment, sighing happily at the warmth before shutting the faucet and squeezing the water out of the sponge. This close, she noticed he was still shivering, and he sniffled as his nose ran in the warmth of the kitchen. She flicked the electric kettle on, and he looked at her gratefully.
“Table’s nearly done, Lom. Dishes?”
“Just spoons,” she said. “And trivets - the ramekins will be hot when they come out of the oven.”
Lomadia found the leftover rolls in the breadbox, and squeezed one experimentally before piling them all into her apron. They were a bit stiff, on the way to becoming bread pudding, but that wouldn’t particularly matter once she turned them into garlic bread. They’d get eaten up in a flash. She put the cutting board on the newly-cleared table for a change of scenery, sawing the rolls into slices. Nilesy found a knife in the cutlery drawer and took a seat at the table, dipping into the garlic butter.
They fell into a rhythm, Nilesy slathering the bread with it slice by slice as Lomadia cut it, and then reassembling the rolls with the butter sticking them back together. He smeared the garlic butter on thick, and Lomadia nodded in approval. No point in half-assing garlic butter, in her opinion. They’d come out of the oven fragrant and dripping gold butter, and her mouth watered with the urge to bite into one already, raw garlic notwithstanding. She saw Nilesy looking at the rolls appreciatively too and caught his eye. They both grinned. Nilesy snagged the last slice of bread from the cutting board, smearing the last of the garlic butter onto it and assembling the final roll.
“Now the question is, which of us can be trusted alone with them long enough for the other to get the tinfoil,” Nilesy said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Don’t you dare,” said Lomadia. “If you do, that’s coming out of your share.”
She was quick getting the tinfoil, and caught Nilesy in the act of wiping the last traces of garlic butter off the plate with a finger. She wagged her finger. He grinned sheepishly and popped his finger in his mouth, sucking it clean.
“You’re the worst,” she said. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
“Aw, Lom,” he said, pulling his finger out of his mouth. “Give me credit for not licking the plate.”
“Get the mugs, you filthy barbarian,” she said, trying to keep a straight face.
Nilesy had never quite figured out how to wink, so he stuck out his tongue as he got up to deal with the tea. Lomadia was pleased to hear the faucet running as he washed his hands first. She had been a good influence on him. She wrapped the garlic bread up with a minimum of tinfoil and fuss, and carried them to the oven. Nilesy was rooting through the cabinet above the oven.
“Beep,” Lomadia said.
Nilesy moved out of the way, obligingly opening the oven door. A burst of warm air and a lovely scent wafted out, and they both breathed it in. Lomadia tossed the garlic bread into the oven, and Nilesy eased the door shut, lingering by the warmth.
“Nearly done,” she said. “You want to take a hot shower or something? I can manage the tea.”
“Nah, don’t you worry about me,” Nilesy said, “I’m nearly defrosted.”
“You sure?” she asked.
He put on a brave face. “I think I’ll survive it,” he said solemnly. “Might lose a toe, but it’s not one of my favorites.”
She snickered and pushed his chest. “We’re out of the spice tea, but I could do you a slice of ginger root.”
“Candied ginger?”
“No, that’s candy, Nilesy, it’s not for tea. Just the regular ginger root.” She opened the freezer, looking for the right ziplock. Wouldn’t do to put mandrake in the tea by mistake.
“Aw, Lomadia,” he pleaded, “I nearly lost a toe, and I can’t have candied ginger?”
“Fine, you big baby, but don’t blame me if it doesn’t steep well.” She shut the freezer door and unearthed the little plastic packet in the snack cabinet. Nilesy held out a Jingle Cats mug and she dropped three pieces into it.
“Thank you, Lom,” he said cheerfully.
“Don’t mention it,” she said around the slice of candied ginger between her teeth, wrapping a rubber band around the package. It was sweet and delightfully sharp, and her mouth tingled on the edge of pain. She breathed through her mouth, savoring the burn.
“Did you want one of the fancy teas?” Nilesy offered, with only a little bit of panic around his eyes. Nilesy lived in fear of doing something wrong to looseleaf tea. It was a magic whose mysteries he dared not delve into, even though Lomadia had taped a tea chart to the inside of a cabinet.
“Teabags are fine,” she said. “Lemongrass?”
“Lemongrass,” agreed Nilesy, fishing a slice of ginger out of his cup and chewing on it. He lined up his mug next to a dollar store mug with cartoon owls on it. Nilesy had bought it for her because he knew she loved owls. It was nowhere near as elegant as she liked, but she lovedit. It was bigger than the usual coffee mug, and fit nicely in her hands.
The kettle clicked off and Nilesy poured boiling water into both of the cups. Lomadia belatedly shucked the teabags out of their little paper sleeves and dropped one in each cup, then surrendered the cups to Nilesy again. He always spooned the honey in before the tea was done steeping. He insisted the honey dissolved faster while the water was the hottest, even though it got all over the teabag if you put it in that early. But the tea still came out the way she liked it, so she didn’t argue with his method. Though many things slipped Nilesy’s mind on a regular basis, he always remembered how Lomadia liked her tea.
Nilesy scooped another slice of ginger out of his mug before it was done steeping, wincing and blowing on the hot spoon as he took the ginger from it with his teeth. Lomadia smiled and tugged her sweatshirt sleeves down over her palms, picking up her mug and cradling the warmth.
“’s hot,” said Nilesy, puffing breaths between his teeth to cool off the ginger.
“Mmm,” agreed Lomadia.
Nilesy managed to work the ginger into his mouth with many huffs and little exclamations as Lomadia smiled behind her mug. The tea slowly darkened in the cups. Nilesy cradled his cup between his palms, wincing at the sting of the heat. He raised it to his lips, breathing in the steam.
“Don’t drink it yet,” warned Lomadia.
“I wouldn’t,” protested Nilesy.
“I’m sure,” said Lomadia.
Nilesy pressed himself against the warmth of the oven. His shoulders were starting to droop, the weariness of a long day winning out over the tension of being cold. Lomadia stood beside him, leaning against the counter.
“Nilesy?” Lomadia said quietly.
“Yes?”
“What’s happened to my tidewater sand?”
Nilesy’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. He put his mug on the counter, then held up a finger.
“Well, Lomadia, I did use it,” he said, rummaging through his pockets. “But…” The pause went on longer than he intended, as he had an absurd number of pockets on his trousers. “Ah here we go, I got you a new one.” He held out a vial of gray sand with a proud smile, leaning back against the oven and crossing his ankles.
Lomadia took it from his hand. She tipped it from side to side, and looked at the smear of dust it left on the glass.
“Nilesy, this came out of an ashtray.”
His face fell. “No.”
“I think it did.” She uncapped it and took a sniff. “Yeah. This is ashtray sand. Where’d you get this?”
“I, uh.”
“Oh, Nilesy. Please tell me you didn’t.”
“He’s a selkie, Lomadia! He knows sand!”
“He definitely does,” said Lomadia, pressing her lips together. “Did he tell you this was tidewater sand?”
“Yes!” Nilesy snatched the vial back and looked at it like it had betrayed him. Ash drifted up, and he coughed.
“Nilesy, did he literally say ‘this is tidewater sand,’ or did he imply it?”
“Well, he’s a selkie. He said he knows sand,” said Nilesy despairingly. “He said he had tidewater sand, and that he could cut me a good deal.”
Lomadia pressed her lips together. “I hope it wasn’t expensive.”
Nilesy’s face crumpled.
“Oh, Nilesy.”
“I’ll… I’ll take it back. Get him to…”
Lomadia fended off his reach for the cap, and plucked the vial out of his hand. “You’re never going to see that money again,” she said as kindly as she could. “Deal’s a deal, even if you got swindled.” She capped the vial, and tossed it in the rubbish.
Nilesy sighed, took off his glasses, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Lomadia.”
“’s alright, Nilesy. You meant well.” She washed her hands at the sink with a squirt of herb-scented soap. “Wash your hands and face, dinner’s almost done.”
“Right. Right.” He pushed himself off the counter and took his turn at the sink as she dried her hands. She offered him his mug back, and he took it, slurping tea without even removing the teabag. Lomadia dipped a finger in hers. Still too hot.
“Don’t burn your tongue off,” she said.
Nilesy bit back whatever he was going to say, eyes downcast. He gulped more scalding tea to wash down the unsaid words on his tongue, and sighed deeply, staring into the cup as if he could read the leaves through the teabag.
“Leave some taste buds for dinner,” she said, nudging his shoulder. “Made your favorite.”
He met her eyes. “Ratatouille?” he said hopefully.
She nodded, and his face lit up. The smile was still a bit crooked, but it straightened out as she smiled back.
“Aw Lom, you shouldn’t have.” He nudged her back.
“Just trying a new recipe, this one’s got squash in it. We’re having the garlic bread with it. And - oh bother, can you wash the tomatoes, I’ll do the lettuce.”
“No problem,” he said, setting aside the tea and rolling up his sleeves. “I’m a tomato-washing machine, just watch and wonder.”
There were days when she regretted subletting to Nilesy. But they were few and far between, and this wasn’t one of them.