Bucket List
Author: Jordan Castillo Price
Date: 2022-10-10 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; M M Romance; Mystery; Fiction; Humor; Contemporary
Description: Dixon might not be the obvious choice for the new Hand of the Penn family, but since an enchanted string marked him as Fonzo’s replacement, everyone’s on board. Especially Yuri. But with great power comes great responsibility. The new mayor’s brother is in a real pickle—but since he’s been blacklisted by the Spellcraft circuit, no one can Craft for him. When the man begs for help, even Dixon’s hands are tied. Or are they? Now that Morticia Shirque is officially part of the family, Dixon could prevail on her wisdom to find a good loophole. Unfortunately, the venerable Scrivener is working on he

Contents

1. 1 YURI
2. 2 DIXON
3. 3
4. 4 YURI
5. 5 DIXON
6. 6 YURI
7. 7 DIXON
8. 8
9. 9 YURI
10. 10 DIXON
11. 11 YURI
12. 12
13. 13 YURI
14. 14 DIXON
15. 15 YURI
16. 16 DIXON
17. About the Author
18. About This Story

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Start of Content

1

YURI

“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.

2

DIXON

You don’t realize just how many Hands there are in a circuit until you see them all rolling around in a herd of office chairs. I knew most of them. They were the parents of the kids I’d gone to school with, the guys Uncle Fonzo met for poker night, and the old men and women who showed up at the annual picnic and complained it was too hot, too cold, or too overrun with seagulls. Though if they stopped tossing hot dogs at the birds, maybe the critters wouldn’t be so persistent.

My dad noticed me checking out the crowd and said, “Don’t worry, kiddo. Some family or another will change Hands every few years, but Morticia’s big announcement will be the only thing anyone remembers about tonight.”

I nervously straightened my bluish-purple tie—or was it the purplish blue? Hard to tell in this lighting.

Dad took me by the shoulders, turned me to face him, knocked my hands out of the way and straightened the tie himself. It was just like school portrait day, minus the painful home haircut. “Listen to me, Dixon Penn. We’re all behind you. Even if the kee-poo hadn’t done the picking, you’re clearly the man for the job. Just get out your quill, follow Morticia’s instructions during the ceremony, and don’t overthink it.”

I was about to wonder aloud if anyone had successfully avoided overthinking something simply by telling themselves not to when Yuri rejoined us, hugging Tuesday against his chest. But before I could get all misty-eyed about how profoundly butch he manages to look while he’s cradling the baby’s head in his cupped hand, Morticia Shirque hobbled over and held out her arms for her great-great-granddaughter. Yuri would never refuse such a request, though given the way he was grimacing, he clearly wished he could.

I look at it this way: at least Morticia hasn’t dropped her yet.

And Tuesday was especially fond of her Nana. Or maybe she just liked sucking on the old woman’s long, gray braid. Either way, she was content to go along for the ride as Morticia took her position at the forefront of the gathered Hands and said, “Now, we may begin.”

A few dozen office chairs squeaked and creaked as everyone’s attention perked up, then fell silent as a stillness stole over the room.

“As you all know, with the birth of Tuesday Shirque Penn, the two families have become one. This is a cause for great celebration. I had little hope of seeing my line expand by even one, let alone many. The Penns have long been one of the most reliably aboveboard families of Pinyin Bay, and I could not be more pleased with this turn of events.”

“Hmph.” Yuri said. Or grunted. Or harrumphed. I wasn’t sure what he found hmph-able in that statement, though when I followed his gaze, I saw it was lingering on Fortunate Jones. (Or Un-Fortunate, as my cousin always called her, owing to her rather peculiar fashion sense.)

“Normally, such a joining would make me the Hand of the combined family, but overseeing a family is a lot of work—and so is running a circuit. I’ve decided to Split the Hand. Henceforth, the Head is not part of any one Pinyin Bay family, but the entire circuit. And the Hand of the Shirque-Penn family shall now be…Dixon Penn.”

You don’t really appreciate how alarming the murmur of a crowd might be until it follows the announcement of your own name. Was it an appreciative murmur? A surprised murmur? A critical murmur? Hard to say with three dozen voices all murmuring at once.

Ultimately, though, one voice did rise up above the crowd—and that was Effie Blotter’s. Not because the old woman was outraged, but because she’d never quite figured out how to change the battery in her hearing aid. And her only comment was, “Huh? Who’s Vixen?”

Morticia, however, was sure in her convictions—and I’d wager she’d withstood her share of murmurs through the decades. Paying the Hands no particular heed, she passed off the baby to Vano and turned toward me. In a loud, ringing voice, she said,

“With no Hand, there is no family.

“From this day on, the guidance falls to thee.

“In this circuit, all agree—

“As the ink dries, so it shall henceforth be.

It rhymed.

The words washed over me leaving tingles all over in their wake. Morticia fished out a pendant from the neck of her blouse—a tiny glass vial of ink. She unstoppered the vial, managing to keep every last drop of ink exactly where it belonged, and held it out toward me.

“This ink has been in Pinyin Bay since the circuit was founded, carefully topped up and tended. It is now your turn to dip your quill and take your place among the other Hands.”

I was so focused on not spilling it—bad enough I was the guy who’d failed his Quilling Ceremony—that it didn’t occur to me there was nothing to write on. Not until my father stepped up with a broad smile on his face, presented his hand to me palm up, and said, “I accept thee as my Hand.”

When I turned to Morticia for guidance, she gave me a solemn nod. “Write your name, young man, and seal the bargain.”

As a writing implement, a feather quill is temperamental at best. On a writing surface that’s too rough, the ink splatters. Too smooth, it stays trapped in the pen. With all its hills and valleys, ridges and whorls, I expected the skin of my father’s palm to at least wick my signature into a few creative (but unintended) flourishes. But when I gave over to that old familiar tingle, the line flowed from the pen like mimosas at a fancy Sunday brunch, and my name appeared on my father’s palm as perfectly as if I’d written it on the finest hot-pressed cotton rag paper.

Next in line was my mother—a tough customer, if ever there was one. But before she submitted to my name, she grabbed my face with both hands, planted a loud kiss firmly on my cheek, and whispered, “Young man, I am so proud of you!”

The pecking order of a Scrivener family can be a convoluted thing, but we all inherently understood where we fell in that sequence. Because he was the eldest in the Shirque family—even at twenty-eight—Vano came next.

Vano Shirque had been my nemesis from the moment I’d spotted his bright yellow banana bike from across the playground and realized it put my used tricycle to shame. But with Tuesday in one arm, he held out his other hand showing not a care in the world, smiling the smile of a man who wanted for nothing, and accepted me as his Hand.

Sabina couldn’t help but smirk when I signed her palm—and it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d drawn on her, though it would be much less embarrassing than the permanent marker handlebar mustache incident. To be fair, seven-year-old me thought she looked pretty dashing.

And then Vano was back in line again—in a moment of panic, I imagined he needed a do-over because my ink slid right off his palm—but then he held out Tuesday’s arm while my cousin gently nudged open those impossibly small fingers (with the razor sharp baby fingernails no one adequately prepares you for.) It took a lot of concentration to sign my name on a space that small—but Meringue’s quill was a delicate thing, and with only a wisp of pressure, my signature was wrought in perfect miniature….

Only to end up smeared across Vano’s chiseled jaw a split second later. But it was the thought that counted.

My heart was full to bursting, reveling in the wonder of it all. Not just the support of my family, but the acknowledgment of my whole circuit. Years ago, after my quilling ceremony tanked, I never thought I could even aspire to be a simple Scrivener, let alone the Hand of the family. (And having something to lord over Vano Shirque was just icing on the cake!)

My mother always says, “Don’t count your biscuits till you know which ones are burned.” Mainly because she’s worried I’ll take it too hard if my hopes are dashed…and also we’ve never quite figured out how to calibrate the oven. But with the support of my whole family, right down to little Tuesday, it was really hard to keep a lid on my optimism.

When Yuri stepped up and presented his hand, I gave up all pretense of even trying. I was smiling so hard it literally hurt, while Yuri’s expression was serious. Focused. Intense. Like he’d exit the room by dodging an explosion, rappelling up a mountain of chairs and launching himself out the dingy skylight.

At my side, Morticia cleared her throat delicately and said, “Left hand, for the Seer,” and Yuri thrust his other hand toward me with such vehemence he very nearly knocked me over.

“You don’t need to prove anything to me, Yuri. You’ve always had my back—from the very moment you laid eyes on me. Even when I thought you didn’t.”

“You may already know this. Now the circuit will, too.”

A delicious tingle raced up my arm as I touched the quill to Yuri’s callused palm. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between the tingle of volshybolshy and my own excitement. In this particular case, I suspected it was a little bit of both.

The ritual wasn’t legally binding like a contract, nor was it socially binding like a marriage. The only folks who would know or care that Yuri took me as his Hand were in the Spellcrafter community.

But those were the most important witnesses of all.

Contracts can be broken and marriages can be annulled. But I’d be the Hand of the Penn family until I decided to step down—or got hit by a bus. But buses are pretty big, and besides, in Pinyin Bay, they’re never there when you need them.

While I was filled with wonder, I wasn’t the only one who was impressed. The crowd murmured again, but this time, not only did I pick out the word Seer…but I also caught a tone of distinct envy.

Although I wasn’t planning on rubbing anyone’s face in it, I did feel that the murmur of pity I’d heard back when it was clear my quill would never fall from the sky had somehow been wiped clean, and the balance was restored.

Funny thing was, everyone was so focused on Yuri’s official entry to the Penn family, no one seemed to notice my Uncle Fonzo hadn’t pledged. Not until Morticia began to speak.

“So the quill declares, and so it shall be. All further Spellcraft business will be handled for the combined family by Dixon. And now, on to more pressing matters.”

Morticia squared her stooped shoulders—as if anyone would dare challenge her—and looked out over the room.

“I’ve made a decision. It’s high time to hand over the reins. I’m ninety-nine years old, and I’m not getting any younger. Everyone presumed I was grooming Vano to take my place—and perhaps someday he will. But that day is not today. There’s a new mayor in town—one who’s nowhere near as complacent as Dunce, one who’d be happy to shut us all down, and I suspect he’d eat Vano alive. But with the joining of the families, I’ve been given a number of able successors to choose from. And I have settled on Fonzo Penn.”

The crowd may have murmured when Yuri joined the family, but with this announcement, the silence was so stark, so sudden, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room so eardrums could no longer vibrate.

If not for the distant sound of the salesman proclaiming, “Welcome to Have A Seat, where we make tushies happy!” I might have worried a wonky bit of Spellcraft had rendered me deaf.

And then a stout lady in the third row raised her hand.

No one said there’d be Q&A. I wish I’d known—I always have so many questions. But I supposed I had more access than most folks, living upstairs from the new Head and all, so I decided to do my best to save my questions for later.

Especially once another hand went up, then another, then another.

“Are they…voting?” Yuri asked my mother.

“This isn’t a democracy,” she said. “What Morticia says, goes. It’s a show of support. And a heck of a lot quicker than having Fonzo sign each and every palm.” She nudged me with her elbow. Oof. “Go ahead, Dixon, show that your uncle has the family’s support.”

“Oh. Uh, right.” I raised my hand—which caused umpteen questions to spring to mind, as well as the realization that speaking for the whole Penn family would take some getting used to.

The show of hands was unanimous, though judging by the looks on people’s faces, a few of them were only raising their hands because it would be conspicuous if they didn’t.

No doubt Uncle Fonzo would win them over in no time.

Morticia peered through her thick bifocals at the cluster of Hands on their rolling chairs, arms raised, as if committing the sight to memory…and then tossing it up on a shelf with the knicknacks and bowling trophies she’d only take down to look at once in a blue moon.

“Well, then. It’s settled.” She pulled the inkwell pendant from her neck and placed it over Uncle Fonzo’s head like he’d just won an Olympic medal.

And maybe, as bookish and sedentary as we Scriveners tended to be, this was as close as any of us would ever get.

“Let it be known that henceforth, the Head of the Pinyin Bay circuit is Fonzo Penn. So, from here on out, if anyone wants to reach me…don’t waste your breath. I haven’t had a day off in seventy-five years. It’s high time I start working on my bucket list.”

3

If I expected my first day as Hand of the family to be any different from any other day, I’d be sorely disappointed. But since my usual day is pretty fantastic, I’d hardly call it disappointing. Once breakfast was eaten, hair was primped, and our morning salutation from Meringue was heard and appreciated, it was off to my family’s shop, Practical Penn, to get the lay of the land.

Okay, mainly it was to pick up some day-old pizza from the take-and-bake place next door. But I figured I should at least put in an appearance.

We were just pulling up in front when Uncle Fonzo called me. I put it on speaker and playfully answered, “Nyello….”

But apparently he wasn’t up for our usual banter of asking me if the fridge was running, or if I had Prince Albert in a can. “Heads up, kiddo. The doorbell might be seeing some extra use today. Tomorrow too. Heck, maybe the rest of the week. But whatever you do, don’t answer.”

“All right.”

“Promise me. Whatever you think you might hear, just ignore it.”

“O…kay. No problem.”

“Because whatever it is, it doesn’t concern you. And if you try to engage, you’ll only make it worse.”

“You can stop your worrying,” Yuri said. “We are not even home.”

“Well, then! You two stay out of trouble. And if you have any pizza burning a hole in your pocket, there’s always space for it in my fridge!”

“That was weird,” I said when we hung up, ignoring the stern look Yuri gave me whenever he thought my uncle was acting suspicious. I’ll be the first to admit, Uncle Fonzo plays by his own rulebook. But when it’s said and done, don’t we all? “Anyway, let’s go scope out the pizza situation.”

Mom always gets to the office bright and early, preferring to get in a solid chunk of work without any interruptions, so I wasn’t surprised to see she was already multitasking her little heart out. What I didn’t expect was for my cousin to be there.

“What’s going on, Sabina? Did the baby wake you up early?”

“Heck, no. You’ve heard how loud my dad snores. If I can sleep through that racket vibrating through the walls, I can sleep through anything. But Vano is in the zone, babbling away, not only pointing out every last object to Tuesday, but spelling it, too… Heck, the kid can’t even focus yet, let alone spell. Why bother? But diapers don’t grow on trees—none that I’ve ever seen—and the two of them seem happy, so I figured I should just catch up on some Spellcraft.”

Good thing. Now that Drew Draws was pitching in, we had more Seens than you can shake a stick at—or a quill. And I sure as heck didn’t want to start reporting to a desk job every morning!

“So,” I ventured. “Is there any Hand business that requires my attention?”

My mother didn’t even bother to look up from her Rolodex. “Nope. All good.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Because if there were some sort of Handy decision to be made, I’m totally up for it. The pizza place doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes, after all. No sense in letting that time go to waste.”

Sabina put down her quill with a huff. “Dixon, exactly how many duties do you think the Hand even has? It’s just an honorary title. When springtime rolls around, you’ll need to stuff twenty bucks in every congratulations card, show up at all the Quilling Ceremonies, and grab some punch before someone spikes it.”

She had me there. I was a bit of a lightweight.

“Other than that, just follow my Dad’s lead—he won’t steer you wrong.”

Yuri made a strange noise. Probably allergies.

Mom said, “I can only imagine how excited you are to be the new Hand, but there just isn’t a lot of day-to-day work involved. You might be disappointed now, but mark my words: a man too hungry for work will never see the bottom of his own plate.”

True, I did have a lot going on already, between the babysitting, the cockatoo singalongs and the occasional Uncrafting. But even if my title was mostly ceremonial, I was still eager to take it out for a spin.

“Quilling season is a long ways off,” I said. “I suppose a wedding could happen anytime, though I don’t know any Scrivener couples weird enough to get married—sorry, Mom—so what does that leave me?”

Sabina looked up from her Crafting. “Didn’t there used to be some kind of ceremony where they throw Scriveners off the pier?”

Mom shook her head. “If they get caught spooking a horse in public on a full moon. And thankfully the Equestrian Society of Strangeberg stays on their side of the bay. Our traditions are full of ridiculous covenants like that—obsolete rules that are only on the books because it’s easier to just ignore them than to strike them from the record.”

I gave Yuri’s muscular bicep an excited squeeze. “Ooh! There must be all kinds of funny statutes and bylaws I could exploit now that I’m the Hand. And I’ll bet the punishments are just as funny as the crimes! I could make someone walk backwards all day. Or dress up in their mother’s clothes. Or express all their wishes with interpretive dance.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “The pier. That’s about it.”

Geez. For a creative people, we sure phoned it in when it came to punishments. Though phones probably didn’t exist yet when these covenants were put on the books. Or if they did, they were those old-timey phones like Thomas Edison used to have.

Mom said, “Forget about the covenants. If you’re all gung-ho about punishing someone, you’ve traveled among the Handless too long. Scriveners are not disciplinarians. You know we prefer to live and let live. So if you’re looking for some archaic punishment to exploit, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Now there’s a funny expression. I’ve never seen a dog barking up a tree—though I have seen a cockatoo imitate a dog from up in the rafters. Maybe whoever coined that particular turn of phrase was actually a bird lover….

“Great chat,” my cousin said. “But is anyone gonna open the shop? The guy with his face pressed up against the front window is really starting to creep me out.”

I unlocked the front door and ushered the customer inside. “Welcome to Practical Penn—where we….” Make tushies happy? Yikes. Coming up with a slogan on the spot was harder than you’d think. I would have to apologize to the chair guy when I crossed paths with him again. “Where we, erm…do Spellcraft!”

Luckily, the customer was so happy to be there that he didn’t notice my slogan might have needed a few edits. “And you’re available to write up one of your spell thingies for me?”

“We certainly are. Just step this way and the office manager will take wonderful care of you.”

While I congratulated myself on referring to my mother so professionally as our “office manager” rather than “Mom,” I did my best to fade into the background while she handled the intake. Mom was great with customers—firm, decisive, and always sure to manage their expectations. Spellcraft might bring you a bit of extra luck, after all, but it wouldn’t win a lottery.

Not unless that lottery was rigged.

While my mother got started on the paperwork, I checked out the customer. I’d never go so far as to say Handless all look the same to me, but they do blend together in my mind a lot more than Scriveners—at least the blond ones. This man was about my age and a few pounds overweight. Very blond, from his hair to his eyebrows to his scruffy little beard, and his eyes were the color of the water left behind when Yuri’s been painting a seascape.

“Have you ever had a Crafting before?” Mom asked the man.

“Yes—once—a long time ago.”

“From this shop?”

“No, a little place in Scrivener Village with a big neon feather in the window.”

“Just so we’re clear—curses are forbidden.”

“What? I would never—”

“Also, we’re not able to Craft anything that refers to another person, either by name or by inference.”

“That’s fine! This is only about me! Me and my dumb—”

“And you understand that Craftings are for recreational purposes only?”

“Anything you need me to sign, I’ll sign. I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve lost something—something important—and everyone knows Spellcraft is better than a metal detector at finding lost things.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Why, I even lost my favorite spatula once—”

“Your name?” Mom interrupted. Must’ve been pretty eager to take the man’s order.

“Otto.” He mopped his brow. “Otto Hotti.”

Yuri, who’d been in watch-and-listen mode all this time, chimed in, “Like Mayor Hotti?”

“That’s right—Herschel’s my twin brother!”

My eyes went to the front window, where a photo of the new mayor glared at us from a bus shelter across the street. An Orderly Era for Pinyin Bay, the poster read, with an oversized mayoral signature below. His handwriting was neat enough, I supposed, if excessively pointy.

But more importantly, now that Otto mentioned the whole twin thing, I totally saw the resemblance. It goes to show, some Handless really are impossible to tell apart.

Mom took down his info, then said, “Let me just check our schedule,” and started clicking around on the ancient desktop lurking there on the counter. I had no idea that thing even ran—heck, it still took floppy disks. And I’d never once seen my mother use it. But she took one look at whatever she’d pulled up, and said, “Sorry, we’re booked solid.”

Otto wrung his hands. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you’ll have a cancellation. You can put me on a waiting list—”

“No can do. Now, if you don’t mind, we really are very busy.”

Otto’s pale blue eyes went watery as his blond eyebrows screwed up in distress. “But this is important!”

“Then maybe you should start looking for whatever it is you’ve lost.”

“You think I haven’t tried? It’s nowhere—vanished. Poof. Gone. And if I can’t find it, my name is mud. Please, you’ve gotta help me. I’ve been turned away by every Spellcraft shop in town. Even the places advertising all over the city, from the billboard on the highway to the coupons on the back of the grocery store receipts. How is it possible that no one’s got a spot in their schedule?”

The poor guy seemed so desperate, how could Mom possibly turn him away?

If she couldn’t help him, I decided, then I would. But as I opened my mouth to offer, my mother snagged me by the elbow and pointed out something tacked to the face of the monitor. It was a note that appeared to have been there approximately forever. The paper was creased and dog-eared, and the cellophane tape had gone orange with age. The ink had faded to purple—or was it a mimeograph?

I peered at the tiny print. It was a bunch of names labeled Christmas Card List, and there, in the middle, was the name Otto Hotti.

Which was weird. Not because his name was on there, but because Scriveners don’t celebrate Christmas.

“Break room.” Mom said. “Now.”

The Practical Penn break room is a cozy haven filled with furniture my uncle picked up at an abandoned storage locker auction. Everything may be upholstered in pink velour, but it’s pretty darned comfy. Currently, the only person in said break room was Rufus Clahd, Practical Penn’s official Seer. He stood peering into the microwave, eyes squinted beneath his oversized, bushy eyebrows, watching with rapt attention as his breakfast went round and round the little carousel.

“Did you forget to send him a Christmas card?” I asked. “No one could really blame you, what with all the hubbub every December. And the fact that we’re not actually believers.”

“He’s not on a Christmas card list, Dixon—he’s No-Touchee.”

“Is that Italian, or…?”

“There’s a pact among all the families that No-Touchee Handless are completely off-limits. We don’t take it lightly. I’ve only added one person to that list over the course of my whole career. And that nasty old nun really had it coming to her.”

“But he seems like an okay guy—and he’s really beside himself over whatever it is he’s lost. Besides, it’s not like anyone really pays attention to an old piece of paper.”

As if to prove my point, Rufus Clahd paused on his way out the door—directly under a sign that read NO FOOD OUTSIDE THE BREAK ROOM. In his hand was a soggy piece of microwaved pizza on a flimsy paper plate with the grease already wicking through it.

“Oil is known to make a very fetching watercolor resist,” he said. And since his Seens always worked—despite the fact that they never resembled much of anything in particular—neither my mother nor I were about to argue.

Once Rufus slipped back into his office with his forbidden pizza, my mother planted her hands on her hips and said, “I don’t care how much this Hotti brother tugs at your heartstrings, Dixon. He’s No-Touchee. End of story.”

“Okay. Maybe. For most Scriveners. But what about the Hand?”

“Most Scriveners would get a slap on the wrist—on the non-writing hand, of course. But the Hand of the Family needs to set an example. Not only would this harebrained idea of Scribing for this man bring shame to the family, but any Hand who went against a covenant and defied the entire circuit wouldn’t be Hand much longer.”

“Defy is such a strong word.”

“You sound just like your uncle! But you listen to me, Dixon Penn. If you stick your neck out for this Handless person, you’ll be sorry. If you forfeit the Hand, know who’ll replace you? Vano Shirque.”

Okay. That was a lot worse than being thrown off the pier.

I trailed along as Mom swept back out to the front counter. She fixed the poor man waiting there with a very stern look and said, “I’ve double-checked our schedule and we simply can’t fit you in.”

“But I’ll pay double! Triple! Whatever it takes!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hotti. There’s nothing we can do.”

Otto’s pale blue eyes filled with tears and his scruffy chin trembled. I reminded myself to stay the course. I was the Hand, which meant that now I’d be called upon to make some tough decisions. And no matter how sorry I might feel for the guy, I couldn’t let my personal feelings get in the way of what was best for my family.

I was filled with firm resolve…at least until he threw his hands in the air and wailed, “Then it’s settled—When Colonel’s Kernels Popcorn Shop has its grand reopening, I’ll go down in history as the poor schlub who lost the Pinyin Bay Perch!”

4

YURI

Back in the truck, Dixon pondered our next move. “There must be some way for me to get around this No-Touchee thing. Otherwise my mother wouldn’t have played the Vano card so early on in my Handship.”

“Spellcraft is pretty full of loopholes,” I allowed. “No doubt your uncle can find one.”

“His new position seems even more precarious than mine—you saw how snitty some of those Scriveners looked when they raised their hands—so I’d better leave him with plausible deniability. But we do know someone with no figs to give—someone who’s been navigating loopholes for the last seventy-five years!”

As we headed over to Shirque Mansion, we debated whether or not to pick up a coffee cake on the way to soften up the old woman and predispose her to our cause. But since her great-grandson could bake circles around even the best bakery in Pinyin Bay, we saved ourselves the bother.

We found Vano in the pantry wearing Tuesday in her sling. Were the onions unlucky? Or had I just allowed the superstitions of a backwards woman to pollute my thinking? Either way, Tuesday would outgrow the sack soon enough.

“Oh, hey guys,” Vano said. “I was explaining to Tuesday that a single strand of spaghetti is called a spaghetto.”

“Pretty sure SpaghettiOs are round,” Dixon muttered, though not very loudly, since he was there to beg a favor.

Vano took no notice. “Semolina. S-E-M-O….”

“Where can we find Morticia?” Dixon butted in. “I’ve got some very official Hand business I’d like to run past her.”

“Like she said—Nana’s been working on her bucket list.”

“Huh. I thought that’s just something people said when they wanted everyone to stop pestering them.”

Everyone…or just Dixon.

Vano shook his head. “Not Nana, she stopped beating around the bush fifty years ago. When she made that announcement, she meant it.” He walked us over to the refrigerator, a great, hulking beast of avocado green, and nodded toward a long slip of paper stuck to the door.

Dixon pointed at the magnet holding the slip in place. It was shaped like a fish, with Pinyin Bay Perch lettered clumsily across the belly. Clearly it was just any fish, possibly a flounder, and the name had been added later…though it did prove his point. Pinyin Bay was very attached to its mascot.

The handwriting on the list was old-fashioned, classically proportioned, and exceedingly precise. By contrast, the words written on the list were anything but regular.

Dine and dash

Toss a dollar into a volcano

Touch a mummy

Dye hair blue

And those were just the beginning. There were at least a hundred items on the list. No wonder Morticia had been so eager to get started.

“Wow,” Dixon said. “I’d figured she would want to squeeze a ripe melon or knit a doily.”

“Nana can’t abide a doily—she says they’re for old ladies. But the melon thing is on there. Specifically, breaking into the 4H tent at the county fair and squishing the prizewinning cantaloupe.”

“Talk about ambitious. There aren’t any volcanoes in Pinyin Bay that I know of—ditto, mummies—so which one d’you suppose she’s doing now?”

Vano jiggled Tuesday against his shoulder as she made an impossibly small and adorable chirping sound. “Nana didn’t say, but she did have me drop her off at the Boardwalk when I drove Sabina to work.”

We took our leave and headed toward the beach, and as we did, Dixon was uncharacteristically quiet. “Second thoughts?” I asked.

“Vano does seem a lot less overwhelmed by parenthood than anyone expected. If anything, he’s the only one who’s not frazzled. That whole unflappable charm of his would get him pretty far as the Hand. What if Mom is right, and I’m better off leaving this whole No-Touchee thing untouched?”

“Your mother is a wise woman. If it were up to me, I would listen to her and simply walk away. But you would not be able to live with yourself if we did not find some loophole to help this man—even though I’m sure there’s a good reason he ended up on the list to begin with.”

Dixon stroked the scruff of my beard with his thumb and lavished me with a look of utter tenderness. “I knew I could count you, Yuri. Let’s go find Morticia.”

It was the height of summer and Pinyin Bay tourism was as brisk as it could hope to be…meaning, a small group of senior citizens in matching T-shirts was lining up for the Barge of the Bay tour while a child flying a kite was dragged down the beach by a sudden gust of wind.

“Maybe she’s by the sunglasses hut trying on a new look,” Dixon suggested. “Or maybe she’s learning how to fry the corn dogs. I’ve always admired the way they manage to do it without charring the sticks. Ooh, maybe she’s trailing the wolverine!”

I have explained many times that a wolverine has never been sighted in Pinyin Bay—which did no good, since Dixon declared that only showed the fence was doing its job. Not only did I know it was no use to argue this point with him, but I was busy searching for Morticia. Dixon’s father had bequeathed me a set of binoculars from his basement “stash,” and while only one of the lenses was functional, it was still better than the naked eye.

I scanned the boardwalk, then realized that the old woman would be nowhere near as easy to pin down as we had hoped, since she was currently at the other end of the dock….

At the top of the Ferris wheel.

We jogged over to the Boardwalk’s only carnival ride. The bright yellow structure did not seem all that big or impressive—until you wished to speak to someone at the top. Not only was the wheel stopped, but the operator was nowhere to be seen. A few people milled around next to the ride, mostly to avail themselves of the shadow it cast while they consumed their ice cream sandwiches and popsicles. But one of them had her eye on the top of the wheel while she scribbled furiously on a notepad.

“Charlotte!” Dixon called out happily, greeting the top reporter for the Pinyin Bay Journal. “Fancy meeting you here.” Actually, the two had initially met on the Barge of the Bay, so I didn’t see why it would be much of a surprise to see one another on the boardwalk.

The reporter was a Handless woman in her twenties with a perpetual line etched between her brows from a lifetime of pensive deliberation. But despite the scowl, she brightened when she saw Dixon. Not only did he delight in her conspiracy theories, he embellished them with his own dramatic flair.

Dixon craned his neck to look at Charlotte’s notepad, which she angled away from him as if he was trying to copy her homework. Undaunted, he said, “I hadn’t realized a stuck Ferris wheel qualified as news.”

“Actually, it probably would, since nothing really happens in Pinyin Bay…nothing that They want you to know about, anyhow.” Her eyes darted, scanning to see if she’d been overheard. But the only passerby close enough to hear us was a plump child losing a battle with a melting fudgesicle. “But the wheel isn’t stuck. It’s just been conveniently abandoned by the operator. The old woman up there is going for a world record.”

Dixon shielded his eyes and peered up at the top. “How exciting! What’s the longest anyone’s ever been on a Ferris wheel?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“She will die of exposure by then,” I said.

Charlotte did not disagree. “Good thing that’s not the record she’s trying to set. She figured she’d go for one that was a little more obscure, since according to her, she hasn’t got time to piddle around.”

In the space between our words, a small sound carried on the wind off the bay. Thin plinks and plucks. The sound of a ukulele.

“Smoke on the Water?” Dixon guessed.

“No idea,” Charlotte said. “The record is for the continuous playing of a musical instrument on an amusement park ride. Nothing says she has to play it well. Just that she can’t stop for another four hours, twenty-eight minutes if she wants to get on the books.”

“Say, Morticia?” Dixon called up. “I was just wondering if you could let me run something by you—hello?”

“She can’t hear you,” Charlotte told him. “The top of the Ferris wheel is one of the most private spots in all of Pinyin Bay. You can’t hear a thing besides the wind whistling through the girders and the sound of the surf.”

“So, that’s it,” Dixon said as Charlotte circled around the ride to snap pictures of Morticia for her news article. “We can’t ask Morticia—not right now, anyhow—and we can’t afford to piddle around either. With every passing minute, that costume could be another mile away from Pinyin Bay…though only if they took the Interstate and were going really slow in the right lane….”

Clearly, he was about to try and convince me to Craft. “If you cannot find a loophole, you must forget about this costume,” I told him. “To Craft for Otto Hotti, you would be going against your community and putting your family’s status at risk.”

“Y’know, Yuri, you’re absolutely right.” Good. Then it was settled. But before I could be too pleased with my own powers of persuasion, Dixon said, “If we can’t Craft for Otto, then we’ll just have to find the costume the old-fashioned way!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “And how would that be?”

“No clue. Say…wait a minute!” He snapped his fingers. “That’s it—we look for clues!”

5

DIXON

Lucky for us we’d seen the Pinyin Bay Perch with our own eyes just last night at Have a Seat. No doubt there’d be all kinds of clues there just ripe for the picking.

We headed over to the store and pulled over where we’d last seen the Perch by the parking lot entrance. “What would a CSI team do?” I wondered aloud. “Take plastic plaster casts of the footprints? I’ll bet we could find some plaster in my father’s stash….”

Yuri frowned. “And it would be one solid lump. What would we do with it anyway? Go around fitting it to the bottoms of people’s feet to see if it matched?”

“That does sound awfully tedious. Okay, what else?”

Yuri pondered the trampled grass, where a few cigarette butts and a gum wrapper lay. “If what we see on the ground cannot help us—” he looked up. Overhead, a security camera watched from the top of a light pole. “Then perhaps what we see from the sky will.”

We headed into the store, which was a lot emptier than it had been yesterday. Scriveners will tend to fill a place out, that’s for sure. Without their running commentary and exploratory sitting, Have a Seat felt absolutely deserted.

Perfect! I’d hate to interrupt anyone’s business by asking a favor while they were handling customers—but since there were no customers around to handle….

“Hello?” I called. “Helloooo—”

Yuri paused at the head of the longest aisle and squinted across the vastness of the building with one of his trademark action hero poses. “There, at the back of the shop. Is that…a tent?”

Intrigued by the notion of a chair-tent (or would that be a tent-chair?) I followed Yuri’s gaze. “Even better, Yuri. It’s a blanket fort!”

A mountain of neatly stacked barstools towered in the distance. At the top, a crocheted afghan was spread between two tall wingback chairs. We hurried over and craned our necks to get a better look. I could just make out the tip of a shoe peeking out from beneath the blanket. “Hello?” I called up. “Chair guy, is that you?”

“My name is Barney,” he said. “And go away.”

Yuri eyed the bottom of the barstool pyramid as if he was planning his aim for a stiff kick. “I can think of a sure way to get him down,” he murmured.

Such a kidder. I told Barney, “If we left, there’d be no one here to admire your fort!”

The corner of the afghan lifted and the salesman poked his head out. Everything on the Handless man was sagging, from his frowning face to his schleppy suit. The only thing uplifting about him was his hair, which was standing out in all directions, filled with static from the synthetic yarn. “You were with that group last night, weren’t you? Well, thanks a lot for getting my hopes up, then leaving me high and dry.”

Normally it feels pretty good to be thanked, but not in this case. “What happened?”

Barney’s voice answered from behind the afghan. “Everyone told me Pinyin Bay was too small to support a dedicated chair store. But did I listen? Nooo. In fact, all their discouragement just made me eager to prove the naysayers wrong. And when all those customers came flooding through the doors last night, I was finally vindicated! So I did what any smart business owner would do.”

Uh-oh. “What’s that?”

“I ordered more stock—and ended up not selling a single chair! Now I’ve got a truckload of fancy office chairs on the way, with no place to put them and no hope of making good on the invoice.”

If we bought a few, it might boost his morale. I considered the mountain of barstools. Given that they were taller than our card table, they’d make for some creative sitting. Though maybe if we sawed down the legs…or figured out a way to raise the table. No, that was a lot of trouble, and frankly, our home projects had a pesky habit of going undone until one of us forgot about it and the other one snuck it out to the lawn on garbage day. (Where it then ended up on its way to my father’s stash in the trunk of the Monte Carlo—so really, it was a win-win.)

Anyway, unless I wanted my dad to break his neck trying out a barstool with one sawed-off leg, we’d be better off finding another way to help. I tugged Yuri aside—not that Barney could hear us unless we were hollering—and said, “What this place needs is an influx of customers. And what better way to attract them than—?”

“We cannot Craft for this man.”

“Don’t tell me he’s another No-Touchee! And how would you know, Yuri, just from a single glance at that mimeographed list? Have you developed a photographic memory you’ve failed to tell me about? And if so—thinking back to last night, did I really pick the best tie for the lighting?”

“Whether or not Barney is on that list, if we Craft for him with the intention of helping Otto, as far as the volshebstvo is concerned, we are Crafting for Otto.”

Dang it. I liked loopholes a lot better when they were working in our favor. “Now what?”

“We go to the office and take the footage. It’s not as though Barney will stop us.”

Even if he tried, there’d be a lot of precarious climbing involved. But Barney looked so pathetic in that blanket fort all alone, I couldn’t just leave him to his moping. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called up, “Clearly you’re very busy, Mr. Barney, but I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

A pause. And then, “All right. I’m listening.”

“You give us access to CCTV footage from the parking lot…and I help you brainstorm a new slogan for your store!”

The afghan fluttered as Barney let out a heavy sigh.

“You can never go wrong with a rhyme.” Hopefully tapping into my Spellcraft knowledge and experience without actually Crafting wouldn’t tangle us up in a loophole. “What rhymes with chair? Care? Stair? Ooh, I know. You can try the animal route. Chairs for Bears. Okay, maybe not, but you see where I’m going—”

“Chairs with Flair,” Yuri muttered.

“Good try.” I patted his beefy arm. “But don’t be discouraged. Rhyming in your second language is bound to be tough. And as charming as a rhyme might be, maybe it’s a teensy bit to obvious for this particular slogan. I know—how about a good pun?”

The afghan fluttered again, which I took as a sign of agreement.

“Chair today, gone tomorrow? All’s chair in love and war? Ooh, I know: Does a chair sit in the woods? That’s a two-fer!”

“Chair enough,” Yuri said.

“That’s the spirit,” I told him. “You’re bound to get the hang of it someday. Maybe what we need is some alliteration.” While my father was known for his terrible dad-jokes, his Craftings were big on alliteration. He called it the double-barrel effect, and it was just as useful with slogans and titles—Practical Penn being a prime example. “Perfectly Perfect Perches. Seemly Seats for Savvy Sitters. Bodacious Benches Beneath your Bottom.”

“Charming Chairs,” Yuri said.

“Enough,” Barney called down. “All the slogans in the world won’t help me if there’s no one around to hear them. My website has zero traffic, and advertising is too expensive in Pinyin Bay thanks to all the Spellcrafters driving up the prices.”

Yikes. Good thing I hadn’t offered him a Crafting. “There must be something we can do.”

“Word of mouth is the best advertising out there—but even with all that foot traffic yesterday, I didn’t get a single referral.”

No big surprise. Scriveners tend to socialize mainly with other Scriveners. And since we’re a pretty thrifty bunch….

“He needs a Handless audience,” I whispered to Yuri. “Though how you create buzz among the Handless is a bit of a mystery to me.”

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Are you not friends with the top investigative reporter in the city?”

Eureka! All I’d need to do was drop a hint that there was some chair-related conspiracy going on and Charlotte would give Have a Seat all kinds of free press. “Don’t worry, Barney, I can get your store featured in the Pinyin Bay Journal at no cost whatsoever!”

The afghan fluttered open and Barney poked his head out yet again…but this time, looking somewhat hopeful. “Gosh, you’d do that? For me?”

“Absolutely.” I whipped out my phone and thumbed in the message, Why do chairs have four legs instead of five? Economy? Tradition? Or is there a deeper reason THEY don’t want you do know about? I’ll bet Barney at Have a Seat would have a theory about that! “Done and done. A representative from the PBJ will be here soon…though I recommend you have a roll of aluminum foil on hand. Just in case.”

It took our new friend a while to climb down from stool mountain—those things really could have benefitted from an extra leg! But once he had both feet firmly on the ground, he was more than happy to play back that footage. It just goes to show that with ingenuity and persistence—

“Back up the tape!” Yuri demanded.

On the monitor, the Pinyin Bay Perch lingered at the parking lot entrance, leaning heavily on the big arrow he was supposed to be holding. He’d been in that position so long, I would have sworn the playback was stuck, if not for the scraggly bush beside him nodding limply in the breeze. Then he snapped to attention, nodded, and hurried behind the bush.

“Fast forward,” Yuri said—so butch—and Barney complied. The bush gave a few shakes as the time stamp rushed ahead ten minutes, and then there was a blur. “Stop!”

A man emerged from the bushes smoking a cigarette.

“Whaddaya know?” Barney said. “That’s the guy from the costume. I recall specifically that he insisted on using the staff toilet to change into it.”

“You let him?” I asked.

“Well, sure. Who can refuse the Pinyin Bay Perch?”

“That’s it?” Yuri said. “The guy? No name, no contact information—he could be anyone.”

“Any smoker,” I amended, though that really didn’t narrow it down all that much. We couldn’t exactly lie in wait for him to run out of smokes. There were only two of us, and you could buy cigarettes all over town.

Barney scratched his head. “Were you looking for the Pinyin Bay Perch or the guy inside? Because he was in his street clothes when he left…but he wasn’t carrying the costume.”

I was on my feet, eager to discover where he’d ditched the costume, when Yuri snagged me by the back of my jacket and said, “Wait—there’s more.”

As we three gathered around the tiny monitor, the Pinyin Bay Perch emerged from the scraggly bush, looked around with a big sweep of its plushy head, and waddled offscreen.

Which begged the question—who was inside that costume?

6

YURI

Dixon has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and when we watched the Pinyin Bay Perch wander offscreen, a look of such profound disappointment stole over him, I felt my heart seize up.

“Then that’s it,” he said, forcing a brave smile. “We were just down by those bushes, and other than the footprints in the dirt and the camera on the light post, there was nothing to see.”

I stood up from one of the many chairs in the room, forcefully enough that it rolled off to the side on its caster wheels. “Hold on. We have looked high, and we have looked low. But we have not looked in the middle.”

Barney bid us good luck as we hastened back out to the parking lot. The footprints were as we had left them—plus a few more that were likely Dixon’s and mine—and the clouds overhead had thinned. Low and high, nothing to see. But in the middle….

The bush was nondescript, with neither berries nor thorns nor any memorable feature at all. The branches had been trimmed on the side facing the driveway but allowed to grow wild on the opposite side, leaving it shaped like a deflating beach ball. It was perhaps three meters high and half again as wide. And other than an old bird’s nest and a tattered plastic bag, there was nothing much to see.

Nothing aside from a single, perfect flower.

It beckoned from the far side of the bush, a delicate pink blossom just at shoulder level. Dixon’s eyes went wide as he approached the flower and his mouth made a small “o” of wonder. “I’ve never seen a bush put out just a single flower,” he whispered, though there was no one there to hear him but me. “That’s gotta be some kind of sign.”

Scriveners see signs and portents in everything, from the way the water swirls down the drain to the color of a burnt potato chip. I have never put much stock in this superstition. It is my experience that when the volshebstvo bends reality to its liking, it prefers to do so without any warning.

But had I not met a Scrivener who took this superstition to an entirely new level?

I plucked the flower from the bush and handed it to Dixon. “Plastic.”

“So much for the sign,” Dixon said with a sigh.

Filled with resolve, I said, “This might not be an omen, but it is a clue. Someone at the meeting was covered in plastic flowers—a Scrivener woman named Fortunate Jones.”

Dixon brightened. “And I know just where to find her! Let’s go!”

The Jones family lived on the border between Scrivener Village and the carpet remnant outlet. The house was tall and narrow, decidedly Victorian, with a spindly wrought iron fence and a green-shingled roof that had been repaired in a color that did not quite match.

Dixon took stock of the home. “I went to school with one of Fortunate’s daughters, Serendipity. She always had the strangest lunches—once it was nothing but a jar of olives, and another time it was a baggie of tepid soup—not because her mom couldn’t cook, but because she followed an elaborate ritual for deciding the day’s luckiest food. So it’s quite possible you’ll see something unusual at the Jones house.”

“Like the spoons hanging from the porch rafters?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just an ugly wind chime. But whatever you do, don’t open an umbrella in the house.”

“I do not own an umbrella.”

“Then we’re golden!” Dixon traipsed up the steps and reached for the doorbell…only to pull his hand away at the last second. Where most Americans would hang a No Solicitation sign, the Joneses had posted a list.

No Knocking with Bare Knuckles

Ring Doorbell no fewer than three times (but no more than eleven, odd numbers only)

If You Must Shout, face the South

And finally, at the very bottom, No Solicitations

“That’s weird,” Dixon said.

“Indeed.”

“Most Scriveners love door-to-door salesmen—they tend to buy a lot of Spellcraft.” He re-read the list, rang the doorbell five times, turned toward the sidewalk and called out, “Hello-o, anybody home? It’s Dixon Penn…Hand of the Penn family!”

Totally unnecessary. Of course they knew who he was. But I would be lying if I claimed that I, too, did not feel a surge of pride over the announcement.

High above us, a third-floor window snapped open and a familiar flower-studded head poked out. “Dixon? As I live and breathe—you simply could not have picked a better time to show up! Lady Luck is surely smiling on us today. But don’t just stand there on the porch like a Handless passerby. Come around to the patio door like a proper Scrivener!”

“Your uncle never instructs anyone to come around the back,” I said.

“Probably because he’s worried they’ll notice the rental wheelbarrow he never got around to returning to the hardware store. Then again, Fortunate is a lot more scrupulous about following Scrivener traditions. Even the really obscure ones…that no one else ever actually practiced.”

We circled the building to a yard wild with flowers and herbs. The back porch was covered in clay pots filled with thriving plants. A perfectly normal sight…until I took note of the symbols and numbers chalked onto the pots. An addition of a few stars and the number 13 made the oregano seem mystical, even vaguely sinister—despite the fact that the take-and-bake shop next to Practical Penn reeked of the stuff so heavily, we could hardly even smell it anymore.

Dixon took no notice of the flowerpots. This was his world—these were his people. And if he had nothing to fear, then neither did I. Though in my pocket, my hand may have curled into the sign of the horns to keep the witch from siphoning off what little luck I naturally possessed.

“Come in, boys, come in,” Fortunate called from inside the house. “I’m so eager to finally get a chance to chat!”

Dixon slid open the patio door, which led to a narrow sunroom filled with even more plants—tall and spiky, squat and leafy, and even the occasional cactus poking its bristled head above the competing foliage.

Beyond the jungle of herbs, the kitchen beckoned—a narrow, old-fashioned room with high cupboards and a checkerboard tiled floor. Fortunate stood at the opposite side, resplendent in her dress of rags, smiling broadly. “Be sure you only step on the black tiles,” she said. “The white tiles are only good on Wednesdays.”

Dixon froze in the doorway with one foot hovering over a while tile, then dodged one tile to the right. “Okay—got it!”

“And I certainly hope you’re not wearing matching socks.”

Dixon’s brow furrowed. “Because—?”

“They’re only good on an even-numbered day. But no worries, the two of you can trade a sock. Frankly, I’ve always thought the power of an equal exchange adds a certain oomph to the intention.”

Dixon glanced back over his shoulder at me with a grimace, standing there one-legged on a single black tile like a wobbly flamingo.

“Let us just get this over with,” I said, removing my shoe.

As we traded one sock each and laced our shoes back up, Fortunate gave an eloquent sigh. “It’s such a shame these traditions are falling out of favor lately. The Handless educational system is sorely lacking—all their focus on useless subjects like geography and science. They don’t even teach cursive anymore. We barely have time to teach our own children to write, let alone memorize the most auspicious combinations for any given day.”

Dixon set a foot down carefully on another black tile. “Maybe that just leaves more luck floating around for everyone. After all, we’re lucky enough to be having this little chat right now.”

Fortunate nodded knowingly. “I found it curious that the family chose you as the Hand—but now I’m beginning to see why.”

“Anyway, I was wondering—”

“And speaking of family—be careful now, don’t disturb those grains of rice in front of the fridge—I was hoping you could give me some insight into your Uncle Fonzo.”

I glanced down at the spilled rice. We might not disturb it, but given the occasional dark grain (that was not actually a grain), rodents were. Though maybe leaving it to the mice was the whole point.

Dixon stepped gingerly over the rice. “I, er…uh, sure.”

“Come along, then, no need to shout across the kitchen like a bunch of Handless.”

Fortunate gestured us into the lounge and Dixon crept forward on the black tiles. I followed, whispering, “Get the Perch from her so we can be on our way.”

“I can’t be rude,” Dixon whispered back. “I’m the Hand of the family now, so whatever I do reflects on us all. Don’t worry. I’ll just make a few reassurances and before we know it, she’ll be eager to return the Pinyin Bay Perch. Win-win!”

The lounge was normal, other than the fact that all the furniture was facing the walls…but at least we were allowed to walk on the entire floor. “I simply can’t tell you how eager I’ve been to have this chance to really connect,” Fortunate said. “The Joneses and the Penns would make very powerful allies. Not that we have any enemies among the circuit, mind you. But some relationships are more lucrative than others. Though obviously you know all about that, thanks to your adorable little cousin and her bouncing bundle of joy—and her lucky acquisition of such a well-regarded paramour.”

I would counter that Vano was the lucky one. Before Sabina, his life had been filled with tragedy. But I did not care to waste breath arguing the finer points when we could be getting our hands on the Perch—and getting out of there.

“I’m sure the Joneses are a delightful family,” Dixon said. “I’ve always thought Serendipity had very solid handwriting.”

“Too bad that girl is as stubborn as they come. No respect whatsoever for tradition. In fact, she moved in with an artist commune in Sarasota and started doing pottery.” She spat twice over her right shoulder. “Pottery.”

I scanned the floor for dried spittle, but thanks to the busy patterns on the threadbare Oriental carpet, couldn’t quite tell whether I was standing in anything regrettable or not. Good thing we weren’t forced to remove our shoes. Though the afternoon was still young.

“You know what they say,” Dixon replied with forced cheer. “Pottery is as pottery does.”

“Who says that?” Fortunate countered.

“Anyway, the reason we stopped by—”

Before Dixon could get the words out, over on the sideboard, a kitchen timer shaped like an egg went off with a plasticky chime. “Hold on,” Fortunate said. “The sun is exactly halfway toward its zenith.” And with that, she began hurrying around the room, opening one set of curtains and closing another. I pondered whether I could get away with simply knocking her down and searching the house for the costume myself. Too bad word travels through the circuit so quickly—and besides, who knew what I might step in?

The woman whisked shut a final set of curtains, spun around dramatically with a clatter of plastic flowers, and said, “Now we can finally get down to business! Tell me all about your Uncle Fonzo.”

“Um. Well. Let’s see. About five foot eight. Two brown eyes. A persistent nose-whistle, though you really only hear it when the overhead light isn’t buzzing—”

“I’m fully aware of what your uncle looks like—though the nose whistle information might come in handy. What I need to know is what sort of gift I should give him.”

“Oh! Well, that’s easy. Uncle Fonzo loves all kinds of gifts. In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find something he didn’t like. One time a passing driver tossed a half-eaten banana out the car window (this was before the Take A Banana, Leave a Banana Stand) and it landed right in my uncle’s arms. It must’ve really hit the spot—he was raving about that half-a-banana for weeks. Anything that’s free is bound to tickle his fancy. So, what’s the occasion?”

“I’ll be pitching woo, of course.”

I was unfamiliar with this phrase—and so was Dixon, judging by the fact that he mouthed the words pitching woo back to her with a puzzled look on his face.

“Explain,” I said curtly.

“Fonzo Penn is the head of the circuit—and he’s currently unattached. Naturally, every Spellcrafter worth her salt will be trying to gain his favor…by whatever means necessary.”

Dixon’s eyebrows hitched up toward his hairline. “But aren’t you married to Serendipity’s father?”

“Of course not. What kind of weirdo do you think I am?”

“But you’re both named Jones.”

“No relation. Though Auspice might be distant cousins with one of the Strangeberg Joneses, or he might not. Conflicting stories about his father’s parentage.”

Dixon pointedly glanced at a pair of men’s shoes beside the door. “But you’re still a couple, right?”

“Irrelevant. Auspice is as invested in this family’s success as I am. I’m sure he and Fonzo can come to some sort of agreement. The question is, which would Fonzo prefer—a bouquet of ragweed? Or a boiled egg?”

Dixon squinted. “That’s it? Out of everything else in the world…those are the only two choices?”

“Given the year, the latitude and the wind speed—of course I wouldn’t dream of gifting the man with anything less.”

Dixon shrugged helplessly. “The egg?”

“I suppose that makes sense, given the nose whistle situation. Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Dixon. I won’t soon forget it.”

“Great! Glad I could help!” Dixon said. My feet were already itching to stride out that door and into some semblance of normalcy when he added, “Now if you wouldn’t mind returning the Pinyin Bay Perch costume to its rightful owner, we should be all set.”

Hoping to move things along, I said, “In Russia, it is considered bad luck to keep a rented costume for more than a single day.”

Fortunate’s eyes went wide. “Oh dear—the clock is ticking.” She hurried over to the staircase and called up, “Auspice? Auspice, get down here, it’s urgent!”

I expected Fortunate’s partner to be clad in a patchwork of obscure fetishes and charms, so I was baffled when a dashing Scrivener man slid down the banister. He was smartly dressed, fit and handsome, with a pencil mustache that lent him a rakish charm. How that witch woman in her rags and plastic flowers had ensnared someone so normal, I could not begin to guess.

“I am at your beck and call,” he declared as he captured Fortunate’s hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Though as the word beck is a shortened form of beckoned—and as I, in fact, could not descry your lovely hand from my whereabouts abovestairs, I suppose the phrase is only partially apt.”

“Auspice has an encyclopedic knowledge of the dictionary!” Fortunate declared proudly.

“A veritable wealth of vocabulary,” he added. “Most people use the word veritable incorrectly, of course, to precede a metaphor. But the root word is verite, or truth. And in my case, as a Scrivener, words are my direct income. Thus, my vocabulary is truly my livelihood.”

Well, at least now I knew how they had ended up together.

With an absent stroke of his cheek, Fortunate told him, “Cancel our plans and bring me that fish suit. We need to get it out of the house immediately.”

Finally, after all the searching—and the litany of superstitious nonsense we had been forced to endure—we could finally get our hands on the Pinyin Bay Perch and set things right.

Or so I thought…until Auspice smiled sheepishly and said, “About that costume….”

7

DIXON

“Ladin Silver?” Yuri said…in the same tone he uses when he tells Meringue to stop picking at his shoelaces.

Auspice Jones shrugged expressively and said, “The moon was waxing and I found myself positioned on the odd side of the street. Not to mention the fact that I was clad in my lucky purple thong—on the inside of my clothes, obviously…I’m not a weirdo. Luck should have been my helpmate.” He sighed. “Maybe she was—a superlative hand was literally in my grasp, after all—but then she conveyed herself to Ladin and he evinced four of a kind.”

“Hold on,” I said. “You lost the Pinyin Bay Perch in a poker game?”

“To Ladin Silver,” Yuri repeated…in that very same tone.

“Can you blame me for trying? It was the last hand of the night and we were all in—and the pot was up to eighty-four smackeroos, plus a gift certificate for Happy Jacks and a bright red scooter—so of course I went all in.” He sighed an eloquent sigh. “And that’s how I failed to retain the Pinyin Bay Perch.”

Fortunate petted his shoulder (a little too intimately for my comfort) and said, “Your purple thong hasn’t steered you wrong, my darling. It was lucky you got that costume out of the house when you did!”

I started backing toward the door. “Great! All’s well that ends well. We’ll just get out of your…uh…hair.”

I wasn’t quite sure they even heard me anymore, given that the petting had turned into more of a fondle and the two of them were now devouring each other with their eyes. Good thing they hadn’t yet managed to pursue whatever “plans” of theirs involved the Pinyin Bay Perch costume. I cringed to think of how the ragged plush would fare in the subsequent dry cleaning it would require.

We piled into the truck and peeled away from the curb, shuddering both from the failing suspension and the thought of where that purple thong might end up. Yuri said, “Why is Fortunate pitching woo at your uncle when she is clearly smitten with the man she already has?”

“I guess it’s a really big deal to be the Head—especially if you’re as approachable as my Uncle. And, word to the wise…no one actually calls it pitching woo anymore, though it is awfully fun to say. Anyhow, we’ll need to warn Uncle Fonzo, just as soon as we get that costume.”

Which turned out to be easier said than done.

Ladin had been squatting at the old Pinyin Inn ever since Colonel’s Kernels, the popcorn shop downstairs from his apartment, went kablooey—and now that the building was remodeled, no Scrivener would be willing to pay that kind of rent. But when we stopped by the defunct hotel, there was nothing to be found but a dog-eared gossip magazine and a random shopping cart.

“Now what?” I asked Yuri as we pawed through the hotel office. “Should we try the phone book?”

Yuri blew a cloud of dust off the top of the book and said, “It was printed in 1993.”

“Dang it.” I checked my phone. “He’s not on Friendlike—and he doesn’t seem to have left a forwarding address just lying around for us to find, either.”

“But he is the Hand of the Silver family, is he not? If so, the Head would know where to find him.”

“Pretty sure my uncle was just saying that Ladin is scarcer than a month of Sundays—probably because Ladin owes him five dollars and a coupon for a half-price oil change.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Fonzo. He would not have absorbed all the knowledge of the Head in the short span of time since his appointment last night. I was referring to Morticia.” He checked his watch. “And she should be down from that Ferris wheel by now.”

“Good idea! And since Morticia is technically family, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to help—if she’s not woozy with sunstroke, anyhow.”

Turned out, Morticia had indeed completed her Ferris wheel adventure and crossed it off her bucket list—and as far as we knew, she’d escaped the dreaded sunstroke. Unfortunately, she’d already moved on to the next item on the list: a sensory deprivation floatation tank. “I had no idea we even had these in Pinyin Bay,” I told Yuri as we pulled up to the shop. “Maybe we should try it!”

Yuri blanched. “And be sealed in a dark cask of tepid fluids in which a stranger has been steeping?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

As shops go, Floater Registration was nothing at all like Practical Penn. The walls were white, the lights were dim, and the floors were softly carpeted. But the difference was not just aesthetic—this place didn’t sell anything you could put in your pocket. It sold the smell of lavender and chlorine, and the sound of hushed voices. It sold the faint echo of splashing water. It sold the experience of nothingness.

Ten steps into the shop and I was already itching to break into the half-remembered theme song of a Saturday morning cartoon just to break up the bland monotony. I turned to Yuri and saw he was no more comfortable than I was, judging by the way his eyebrows were all wadded up and his mouth was set into a fierce line.

The front desk was a broad expanse of countertop with nothing on it but a few potted succulents and a slender notebook computer that could fit in my messenger bag with room enough to spare for a cockatoo. A curtain separated the waiting room from the rest of the shop, and as I raised a hand to start playing bongos on the scrupulously empty counter (because what else could one do if there was no service bell?) a young woman came scurrying out from behind the curtain. She was pink-haired and tattooed, though due to the Floater Registration lab coat she wore, she did come off as strangely official. Even though she couldn’t have been a day over nineteen.

“Welcome to Floater Registration,” she said, “and tanks for coming.”

Sheesh—the sellers of Pinyin Bay really needed to work on their slogans. But while I’d really love to help out, I had to find that perch suit. “Actually, we’re not here to float.”

“That’s a relief. Our one tank has been rented out for the rest of the day.”

Uh oh. “And would that renter be Morticia Shirque?”

“If she’s a scary old lady that looks like a fairy tale witch—then yes!”

I scanned the expansive lobby. “You’d think a big place like this would have more than one tank.”

“Oh, we’ve got a whole pile of ’em.” The girl parted the curtain and motioned for us to follow her through. She led us into a vast, dimly-lit room filled with pod-shaped plastic vats big enough to hold a person, but only one of them was hooked up to a mass of hoses and tubes. “The boss bought the things cheap from some mayonnaise factory going out of business. But until we get more customers, it doesn’t pay to keep them all filled and heated.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “But shouldn’t we be whispering?”

“Nah, you can’t hear anything but the swishing of the water from inside the tank. Say, since you’re here, would you mind watching the tank for two seconds? I’ve had to pee for like the last half an hour.”

I cut my eyes to the tank. “What would I be watching for, exactly?”

“I dunno. Rocking, knocking, anything that looks like someone’s drowning in there.”

“Hold on—you can drown in these?”

“Don’t worry, that hardly ever happens,” she called out, dashing off awkwardly with her thighs pressed together…and leaving Yuri and me alone with a room full of empty mayonnaise vats.

And one tank containing the most venerable Spellcrafter in Pinyin Bay.

I cocked my head to consider the big plastic tank. There was a serial number stamped into one side, a this-way-up arrow pointing sideways, and a bunch of assorted hinges and valves. “Maybe we should let some water out, just to be safe.”

Yuri scowled at the vat. “I would not go against Morticia’s wishes. Besides, I suspect she will not die until she is truly ready.”

He massaged the back of his neck gingerly, then scowled even harder. And then I felt it, too. A subtle frisson dancing across the fine hairs on the backs of my fingers.

The ceiling was held up by utilitarian metal posts set a few yards apart. And on the post beside Morticia’s tank, a small sign was (ahem) posted.

Notice: This facility meets all required statutes and codes.

A typical sign…if not for the Spellcraft rolling off it.

The lettering was so accurate it looked more like a printed font, but I recognized the penmanship immediately as belonging to none other than the former Head of my circuit. The Seen behind it was especially clever. It looked like nothing more than a decorative pulled paper with tiny flecks of linen. And two of those flecks, I realized, made up the colon punctuation in the notice. In other words, that colon wasn’t part of the sentence. So if you took it out, the Scribing actually read, Notice this facility meets all required statutes and codes. It wasn’t meant to reassure the customers. It assured that whoever inspected places like this would find the shop to their liking.

Morticia might be pushing a hundred, but she was still as sharp as Tuesday’s fingernails. Surely, if anyone could help us, even in a non-Spellcraft capacity, it was her.

I was reveling in the sheer ingenuity of the Crafting when the single operational vat began to slosh. “Maybe she’s just shifting position,” I said nervously.

And then the sloshing turned into more of a rocking. Yuri and I exchanged a quick look, then set upon the old mayonnaise vat, opening anything we could find that would unlock, unlatch, or unscrew.

Turned out, there was just one main hook that did the trick, but how could we have known? If it was that important, the peeing girl should have mentioned it before she waddled off. With a great gouting, spraying, sloshing spectacle, the clamshell top sprang open. And like Botticelli’s painting, The Birth of Venus, a ninety-nine year old Morticia Shirque burst forth in all her resplendent, naked glory.

While Yuri backpedaled (doing that horn-thing with his hand), I grabbed a nearby robe and threw it over Morticia’s shoulders.

Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and she was shaking like an extremely wrinkled leaf. She looked around blankly, all traces of her normal shrewd assessment erased. This was what had become of the woman crafty enough to Scribe a spell that made this dubious place pass inspection? I had little hope she’d even remember her own name…let alone where we could find Ladin Silver.

“Morticia?” I said anxiously. “Are you okay?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath…let it out slowly…and said, “Whoa. That was some trip.”

Evidently, Morticia had found whatever she’d been looking for in the soupy water of the mayonnaise vat. Too bad she was so blissed out that any questions we asked her were just met by a cryptic riddle or a knowing chuckle. Anyway, it was a good thing Yuri and I were there to drop her off at the mansion. Who knows where she would have ended up if we let her behind the wheel?

Once Morticia was safely tucked in bed—and once we played a rousing game of peek-a-boo with Tuesday—we decided there was nothing more we could do until Morticia slept off her float and headed back home.

“So tonight’s a bust,” I sighed. “At least I can say I got to drive the Rolls Royce from the floatation tank place to the mansion. Still, it’s a real shame we couldn’t recover that perch!”

Yuri pulled up in front of the house, where Uncle Fonzo was bent over the bushes by the porch. “Maybe all is not lost. Your uncle has been the Head for less than a day—but he knows how Ladin thinks. Maybe if we tell him that oil change coupon is about to expire, he’ll put some effort into remembering where the man might be.”

To say Uncle Fonzo looked frazzled was putting it mildly. His slicked-back hair with its deep widow’s peak—usually quite dashing—was littered with small twigs, and his white perma-press shirt was buttoned wrong. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Did you lose the drain stopper again?”

He shook his head wearily. “I wish. At least drain stoppers don’t go bad. No, when I walked out the door this morning to borrow the neighbor’s newspaper, something went crunch—and I discovered someone had left a boiled egg on the doormat. Do you know how hard it is to get boiled egg out of all those little bristles?”

“That’s weird—uh, not the egg part, strangely enough, but the fact that you found it earlier this morning. Because Fortunate Jones only just decided to give you one a couple of hours ago.”

My uncle groaned. “Not her, too! I’ve found five eggs so far…not to mention a big bundle of ragweed. And as long as I’m single, these crazy gifts will just keep coming.”

Uh oh. “What about getting back together with Dr. Slaughter? She seemed nice.”

“Glenda’s a wonderful gal, don’t get me wrong. But she was always pestering me to go get a physical, and whatever other voodoo those Handless believe in. Not to mention the way she insisted on rearranging the kitchen cupboards whenever she stopped by. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to find my pepper mill in the last place I left it, not hidden behind the paprika.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt to have your pick of the dating pool,” I said. “Right, Yuri?”

Yuri glanced up with a scattering of eggshell fragments on the sidewalk around his feet. Through a mouthful of boiled egg, he said, “That is the worst possible scenario. One can guarantee that if the women were not interested before Fonzo was Head, they are only seeking favors now.”

“Your pessimistic grown man friend is right, Dixon. And as much as I might find it helpful that their motivations were crystal clear, I guess I’m just a romantic at heart.”

A thorough search of the front yard, back yard and alleyways revealed three more eggs and a rather creative ragweed arrangement in an old mayonnaise jar. Whoever came up with that idea really deserved bonus points for hitting both superstitions at once.

Uncle Fonzo pitched the ragweed into the bushes, and we headed inside to put the eggs in the fridge. Though when we dropped one and determined that not all of them were actually boiled, the eggs eventually ended up in the bushes, too.

We were discussing what goes into a good deviled egg (and thinking maybe we’d been a bit hasty in disposing of those woo-pitchings) when I realized there was a message on Uncle Fonzo’s answering machine. Good thing I decided to figure out where Dr. Slaughter had last relocated the paprika, otherwise I never would’ve been over by the landline that only the Handless telemarketers ever try.

I hit the button and a few automated-sounding beeps played. Robocall—even better. While it’s doubtful there are actual robots involved—you know the kind, with a big, square body made from a cardboard box and arms covered in bendy silver ductwork—it’s fun to imagine them on the other end of the receiver anyhow.

A glitchy recording then announced, “This call is originating from the Pinyin Bay Jail,” and the exuberant squabbling between Yuri and my uncle over how coarse one should grind pepper immediately ceased.

Another series of clicks, and then a vaguely familiar male voice said, “Fonzo? Is that you? Fonzo? Hello?”

Yuri muttered, “I told you nobody finds your outgoing message funny.”

Those schticks that make it seem like the recipient just picked up and can’t hear you? They’ve always held a certain charm for me—especially since they’re a lot harder to do on a cell phone, since the robot lady inside tends to announce that you haven’t picked up. But now I could see the potential disadvantage as the man on the other end of the landline grew more and more upset.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’ve only got one shot at this, so here goes. There’s been a minor misunderstanding…and I’m asking you to come bail me out.”

So familiar. But which of uncle Fonzo’s pals would be calling from jail? Wait, nope, that didn’t narrow it down in the least.

“Fonzo? Hello? Darn it, say something!”

It was on the tip of my tongue…actually, no, that expression didn’t work, since it was more like the tip of my ear. But people didn’t really say that, did they? Maybe they should.

Still, recognition was eluding me. Fortunately, the voice blustered on. “Come to think of it, Fonzo, I’m not asking as a friend. Bail me out ASAP. That’s a formal petition to you as the Pinyin Bay Head…”

So familiar.

“From the Hand of the Silver family.”

8

I snapped my fingers. “Ladin Silver! No wonder he sounded so familiar. And funnily enough, we were coming to ask about how to find him. What luck!”

Yuri narrowed his eyes and said, “Do not be so sure. We may know where he is now, but he will not help us until we bail him out of jail.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been arrested,” I admitted. “What is bail, exactly, and how much can we expect to cough up?”

Uncle Fonzo—always knowledgeable on a wide variety of topics—said, “Bail is the chunk of change you pay as an assurance that you’ll return for your court date if they cut you loose. If you don’t turn up when they expect you to, the money is forfeit. How much they bilk you for depends on a bunch of things—the severity of the crime, if it’s a repeat offense, and whether or not you’re a flight risk. As much as I’d love to help out Ladin Silver, I’m not obligated to spend money I simply don’t have. And what with the new baby and all, not to mention him being on a first-name basis with the courthouse….” He shrugged. “You might be looking at five figures. Unfortunately, Ladin’s on his own.”

Five figures? Yuri and I would be lucky to scrape together three—and that was only because we’d found a twenty-dollar bill that managed to slide behind the refrigerator. I’ll bet whoever said we should just get a full-sized fridge instead of relying on a pair of stacked dorm fridges never thought of that! According to Yuri, whenever I broke out the dust mop, they were heavy enough as it was, thank you very much.

Still, maybe Ladin would appreciate us stopping by, whether or not we could actually afford the bail. I personally would certainly never regret seeing a friendly face!

While anyone doing serious time would be incarcerated in the county detention center on the rocky bluffs west of the power plant, people picked up for minor offenses could be found in the holding cells at the back of City Hall. I actually toured the place once in Handless high school—some sort of “scared straight” program—but the only person in the cell was an old man who’d held up a newsstand with a water pistol, all to avoid paying for some dirty magazines. And he seemed happy enough to be napping on the padded bench, judging by the way his loud snores set the cell bars vibrating like a tuning fork.

Bright and early the next morning…well, more like earlyish, depending on which time zone you were in. Okay, maybe it was closer to noon. What can I say? Meringue can be pretty distracting.

Anyhow, once we were done watching a new dance she’d choreographed to the jingle of a passing ice cream truck, we hurried over to the back entryway of City Hall, and found the information desk empty. “Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”

Yuri said, “You will have to bribe someone just to ask about the bail.”

I wasn’t so sure…but if that did turn out to be the case, maybe we could actually afford it. But as I tallied up my singles and wondered how acceptable small bills would be, an interior door opened and a very old man hobbled out.

I brightened. “Say, didn’t you used to work for Mayor Dunce? I figured once he…erm…left office, you might retire.”

The clerk waved a wrinkly hand in a vague gesture and said, “There’s only so many game shows a man can stand to watch! Besides, I get a kick out of hearing the excuses these bozos make when they get caught. Do you know how many shoplifters claim they “found” random items just lying on the street?”

Yuri always says I’m too generous about giving people the benefit of the doubt. And yet, it’s always possible the shop clerks were pitching woo by strewing random objects around town. But before I could ask whether any of these objects were eggs, Yuri said, “How much to bail out Ladin Silver?”

“That guy’s in and out of here so much, we might as well just give him a key. Let’s take a look and see how annoyed with him the judge was this time.” With a great heave, he hauled a giant ledger out from under the desk and dropped it on the counter so hard the floor shook. “It’ll be just a moment while I find his entry.”

He adjusted his eyeglasses, cracked open the book and began to scan, following his wizened finger down the page. When he got to the bottom, he licked his thumb, turned the page, and started again at the top.

Yuri sniffed in that way he does when he doesn’t want someone to catch him sighing. “Is it not somewhere on the last page?”

The old clerk cut a look over the rim of his glasses, then dragged his finger back up to the top and started again. “Mayor Dunce was never a fan of those newfangled record-keeping notions. So until Mayor Hotti’s team digitizes the courthouse records, then the answer is, no. But don’t worry. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two for me to retrieve that information. Three, tops.”

Yuri crossed his arms and muttered, “It would be faster to slip a spoon through the bars and wait for him to dig himself out. Despite the size that hole would need to be.”

“Don’t worry,” I whispered, “time flies when you’re snooping around City Hall.” I raised my voice and told the clerk, “Just give us a holler when you find it. We’ll be over here perusing the snack machines and enjoying this very dated artwork.”

The old man gave us a distracted nod, then dragged his finger up to the top of the page and started searching it yet again.

I was about to regale Yuri with the tale of my father’s side hustle as a police lineup decoy—apparently everyone always picked him, whether or not he looked anything like the actual criminal, so they had to let him go after just a week—when Yuri ran his fingertips along the cool marble wall and said, “The volshebstvo is quiet here.”

“Then maybe we should Craft a way out for Ladin while we’re waiting. After all, we only said we wouldn’t craft for the new mayor’s brother. But we didn’t say anything about Ladin.”

Yuri frowned. “This sounds like a dangerous idea.”

“How so? You’re just an artist working on a little watercolor sketch. And I’m just a calligrapher brushing up on my lettering. Who can prove otherwise? Besides, City Hall is a huge building. Chances of running into anyone who’d give us any trouble are slim to none—”

Yuri sank back against the wall like an operative in a spy thriller, then tugged me back beside him with a handful of my jacket. “Someone is coming,” he hissed. “And it sounds like—”

“Herschel…what good is being mayor if you can’t help out your own brother?”

As Yuri and I sank back among the very civic carvings and pediments and columns, two men rounded the corner. Same height, same weight, same blond hair. Same features, even. But that’s where the similarities ended. (To be fair, though, as similarities go, those were quite a few.)

Herschel Hotti, the newly elected mayor, was well put together and immaculately pressed, clean-shaven and spotless. Meanwhile, his twin brother Otto looked like he’d slept in his khakis, and his polo shirt was inside out.

“All I’m asking is for a little amber alert,” Otto was saying. “How hard could that be?”

Herschel narrowed his eyes. “The system is designed to locate kidnapped children…and you want me to use it to find a fish costume?”

“Great idea, right? I’ll bet it goes viral. And you’d better believe that the next amber alert you put out will have more eyeballs on it than ever!”

The new mayor had been striding importantly down the hall, but he stopped mid-stride and scrubbed at his face. “Don’t you get it? Not only would it be an insult to every family who’s ever had a legitimate need…but it would start my term on the worst possible foot, showing favoritism to my own family instead of upholding the law.”

“Please? Just this once? Help me out and I’ll never ask you to get me out of another fix.”

“That’s what you said after you sold the tires off dad’s car and claimed they just rolled away. And you dropped grandma’s dentures down the garbage disposal. And painted the dog green.”

“Harley liked being green and we all knew it. If you really cared about me, Herschel, you’d do me a solid.”

“And if you really cared about me, you wouldn’t put me in a position to throw away everything I stand for just to help you out of another one of your scrapes.”

I figured it was the sort of impasse they’d never muddle through, when Herschel’s eyes went shrewd, and he added, “Plus, if we announce to the whole city that the Pinyin Bay Perch is missing, everyone will know you lost it.”

Otto’s shoulders slumped. “You’ve got a point. I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”

9

YURI

The mayor and his brother parted ways, leaving Dixon and me alone. Dixon let out a slow breath, then turned his big, sad expression to me. It never fails to surprise me, the breadth and depth of emotion he conveys in a simple look. I do not know how eyes which can sparkle with mischief and delight are also capable of such profound sympathy and sadness.

“Did you hear that, Yuri? Otto’s in a real pickle and even his own brother won’t help him out.”

What I heard was that Otto had a history of doing such things, and Herschel had to be sensible enough for the both of them. But simply disagreeing with Dixon was unlikely to help him see the other side of the story. Not when Otto thought so much like a Spellcrafter, it was a wonder an enchanted quill had never fallen from the sky into his hands.

Herschel, on the other hand, was notoriously tough with Spellcrafters—utterly exacting in the way he expected them to adhere to every last rule and statute.

Once the echoing footsteps of the Hotti brothers faded, we sneaked back to the information desk. The elderly clerk was now eating a sandwich, with a scattering of crumbs on the countertop and a dribble of mustard on his tie. “I guess it’s your lucky day. I’ve never seen a bond so low. Makes you wonder why Mr. Silver is still sitting there when his bail is only twenty bucks. Maybe he was just waiting till lunch was served.” He waved his sandwich and crumbs flew. “You just can’t beat a good pastrami.”

“It must be our lucky day!” Dixon enthused. “See, Yuri, I told you dusting under the fridges would be totally worth it. Say, what other sorts of sandwiches do they serve around here?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s a turkey club. A ham and cheese on marble rye. And when the kitchen is feeling adventurous, a chipotle chicken wrap.”

“Wow—so many good lunch meats! But what about egg salad?”

While Dixon and his new friend discussed various sandwiches, I leaned over the books…only to see pepper from the edge of the pastrami had scattered over the open page. The entry beside Ladin Silver’s name was clearly two thousand dollars, not twenty. But a grain of pepper—the exact size of a decimal point—had landed in just the right spot to knock nineteen hundred and eighty dollars off the bail…which made it very affordable.

As long as that pepper didn’t go anywhere.

Meanwhile, Dixon was saying, “—and, of course, egg salad can also be served on a bed of lettuce. Isn’t that funny, how it’s called a bed? It’s not like we have a couch of tomatoes, or an asparagus chair. Though maybe we should—the internal rhyme structure is certainly intriguing—”

“Pay the bail,” I barked, and both men jumped. I modulated my voice and added, “Since when is one sandwich ever enough for Ladin Silver? Have him released before he cleans them out of pastrami.”

Dixon patted down his jacket. It took three pattings from top to bottom and back again, but eventually he found our twenty rolled up tight behind his pocket square. I figured we were home free when I noticed the old clerk’s expression had gone strange as he stared down at the ledger. Did he notice the pepper? Could he even see that far through those thick lenses? As far as I could tell, he wasn’t even looking at the figure. In fact, I wasn’t sure he was looking anywhere at all. His eyelids fluttered and his mouth dropped open, and he sucked in a sudden breath. “Ah…ah….ah….”

A sneeze was coming. And not just any sneeze, but the epic sort of sneeze that would send every last dust mote, crumb and pepper fleck flying.

Before I could think better of it, I threw myself over the countertop and pressed my forefinger beneath his nose like a finger-shaped mustache, staunching the sneeze. His rheumy eyes snapped open, and I wondered if I had just landed myself a spot in Ladin Silver’s cell for assaulting a City Hall clerk. Thinking fast, I said, “Everyone knows it is bad luck to sneeze in an open book.”

The old man processed what I said, then nodded, taking my forefinger up and down with the motion. “Makes total sense.”

“Wow, Yuri,” Dixon said. “You’re just full of interesting Russian precautions lately.” And with that, he handed over the twenty, I retrieved my finger, and the old clerk marked the bail as paid and closed the ledger.

We then headed out to meet Ladin Silver in the parking lot and discover what happened to the Perch suit once and for all.

Ladin seemed none the worse for wear from his time in jail—in fact, I saw half a pastrami sandwich tucked into his pocket for later. But he did seem fairly grateful for his release. “So, Fonzo came through for me after all! I’ll have to take back what I said about his appointment proving Morticia went senile in her old age.”

As leery as I might be of Fonzo Penn, he was family now. And to insult him was to insult me. “Just be sure you pay him back. How did you end up in jail, anyhow?”

“It was all a big misunderstanding,” the fat man claimed. “Just a friendly hand of poker among a bunch of colleagues. Things got a little heated, competition was stiff, and we might have gotten a li-i-ttle bit carried away throwing stuff in the pot.”

“And someone turned you in for cheating at poker?” Dixon asked.

“Turned me in?” he said, affronted. “My dear boy, no Spellcrafter would dream of such a thing. In fact, my reputation would never recover if word got around that I wasn’t cheating. I had a jack stuffed up my sleeve, hoping to get a full house, but Auspice Jones dealt me a deuce and I ended up with four of a kind instead!”

Dixon said, “But I don’t get it, if you won fair and square, how did the cops get involved?”

“Turned out Godfrey Blotter threw something in the pot he didn’t technically own: his mother’s mobility scooter. Quite the fine piece of machinery! Candy apple red with a shiny chrome bumper, a basket in front, and a top running speed of five miles per hour. Though for some reason I couldn’t seem to get it going past four.” He dusted a few crumbs from the shelf of his belly. “Must’ve been driving on an incline.”

“Forget about scooter,” I said in annoyance. “Give us the Pinyin Bay Perch and we will be on our way.”

“No can do. Don’t have it.”

Of course he didn’t.

“What did you do with the costume?” Dixon asked.

“I’ll tell you—just as soon as you get that scooter back to its rightful owner. My poker buddies might not dream of pressing charges against each other, but I can’t say the same for Effie Blotter. Never met a woman so eager to throw the book at a person. If you ask me, she’s awfully litigious for a Spellcrafter. I blame all those trashy courtroom dramas she watches on daytime TV.”

I tried my best menacing look on the man, but it was no use. He took no more notice of me than a hippopotamus does an egret on its back.

“No fair,” Dixon said. “We bailed you out.”

“A kindness which I will certainly give proper recompense…just as soon as Effie drops her charges and the court returns my bail.” He plucked a coffee-stained receipt from his pocket, jotted something on the back with a ballpoint pen, and handed the slip to Dixon.

I.O.U. Bale

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, “the afternoon special at Happy Jack’s won’t eat itself.” And without so much as an utterance of thanks, he climbed into a nearby taxicab and drove off.

Dixon waved goodbye with the receipt, wondering aloud, “Well, if you were a scooter, where would you be?”

“At MallMart?”

“Let’s hope not! Finding a particular scooter at MallMart would be harder than picking my dad out of a police lineup…or would that be finding a petty criminal among a roomful of my dad? Anyhoo, maybe we can narrow it down. If it were a case of Ladin abandoning the scooter, it could be anywhere—as far as its battery could take it, anyhow. But Ladin got caught red-handed…or red-tushied, as the case may be. So…” he snapped his fingers. “The scooter must be in impound!”

The Pinyin Bay impound lot consisted of a flimsy chainlink fence with a single bored policeman sitting in a tiny shed of a booth at the entrance. We pulled up, I rolled down the driver-side window, and Dixon leaned across me to say, “Hello, officer…uh, Sir. Your honor.”

A sigh forced its way through my nose. While it was always good to steer clear of policemen, the cops of Pinyin Bay were not corrupt like they were in Russia. Bribing them was a subtler thing, but they could be bought with deference. Though I supposed Dixon dealt in that currency easily enough.

Still, this was just a man doing a job. A man like any other. A perfectly ordinary—

He turned toward us and revealed his face was two colors, deeply tanned on one side (the side facing the shed window) and pale on the other.

My sigh stuttered out as Dixon froze, tensing all over. My hand on the steering wheel curled into the sign of the koza as I considered throwing the truck into reverse and leaving all these crazy Scriveners to their own devices. But then Dixon recovered and put on his best charming smile. “We’re here to see about unimpounding a scooter!”

The officer looked toward the lot, turning the pale half of his face in our direction. I shuddered. “If you were looking for a station wagon, you could take your pick. Especially if you didn’t care whether or not they actually started. But no scooters.”

“Are you sure?” Dixon prompted. “Maybe it came in while someone else was on duty. Late night, early morning—whenever it is that old men play poker and drive off with their spoils. A candy apple red scooter with a shiny chrome bumper and basket on the front.”

“Oh, you mean the Blotter vehicle off the east end of the Boardwalk? Its recovery is right here on my to-do list, though I doubt I’ll get to it today. How can I, with random people showing up unannounced at random times with all their random questions?”

While it was clear from his tan line that he had absolutely no intention of leaving his booth anyhow, I had no wish to argue. Not when I could save us whatever fees they would have charged for its release and recover that scooter myself.

10

DIXON

I’m always up for a visit to the boardwalk, even two visits in two days. The food is fried, the air is crisp, and the screams of the seagulls are oddly soothing. But we were on a mission to get that scooter, and we didn’t have time to enjoy all the sights, sounds and smells.

I squeezed my fingers nervously through the crook of Yuri’s elbow as we rounded the rigged ski-ball machines and said, “I hope the scooter is still there. What if someone else made off with it?”

“With a scooter?”

“Well, sure. According to Ladin, it was a pretty sweet ride. I’ll bet it was hard to resist. In fact, I’ll bet it could be anywhere by…now.”

Pinyin Beach stretched before us in all its shell-riddled glory. And standing there proudly in the center of it all was a candy apple red scooter. Not only did it have a shiny chrome bumper and a basket on the front, but there were glittery silver streamers sparkling from the handlebars.

Yuri flexed his biceps to give my fingers a squeeze. “There, you see? I have never put much stock in luck, but wherever you are concerned, things do seem to have a way of working themselves out in the end.”

True. Though it was always a relief when they did so in a timely manner. All those years when I thought I was un-Quillable weren’t exactly a walk in the park—or even a walk down a somewhat dilapidated boardwalk.

We hurried down to the beach, crunching over random litter and broken shells, and made our way to the scooter. “No wonder Ladin could not get it up to speed,” Yuri said with disgust. He pointed to a pair of deep ruts the wheels had left in the sand. “He is so fat he literally drove it into the ground.”

“His loss is our gain,” I said. “All we need to do is pry it out.”

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Ladin’s prodigious weight had pressed the scooter down deep, with such force that the sand practically set around the wheels like concrete. “We must pry it out,” Yuri said. “Find me a lever.”

Funny how there’s never a good lever just lying around when you need one. I combed the beach up and down and only came up with a piece of driftwood, a broken kazoo, and an old golf club. I trooped back up the beach with my meager finds, dumped them at Yuri’s feet, and said, “Slim pickings, but I can always run back to my parents’ house and grab something from the stash.”

“There is no time.”

“How come? The cop with the bizarre tan didn’t seem like he was in any particular hurry.”

“Not because of him. The tide is coming in! I have been watching the shoreline and even in the short amount of time you were gone, the water has crept closer by several meters.”

It’s always been a mystery why a bay so far inland was capable of producing such a notable tide—no doubt the Handless had their theories. And while I was never quite sure how long a meter might be, I could tell by the tone of Yuri’s voice that whatever distance the water had moved, it was a matter of great concern. “I’ve got an idea—what if we use the scooter’s own wheels to our advantage? We’ll just turn on the engine and give it a rev, and before you know it, sand will be flying and the scooter will dig itself out.”

Yuri cut his eyes to the shoreline.

“I won’t let it roll into the bay,” I said.

He slid his gaze to me.

“I promise,” I assured him.

“I agree to this only because the water has moved in several centimeters since this discussion began.”

I had no clue how far that might be, either…but I figured I should just take the win. “Okay, Yuri, here’s the plan. You grab hold of the right handlebar while I hang onto the left, and if the scooter does start moving, we steer it away from the water.”

He answered with a single, curt nod. “Then let us begin.”

Was this how it felt, to be the Hand? To be the leader—the decision-maker—and have the rest of the family back you up? Don’t get me wrong, I could always count on my family’s support. But while I may be great at spinning out ideas, I’d never had the final say. It was a little bit scary, I must admit. But it also made me all warm and fuzzy to be the one in charge. Now everyone would see that while my plans might be a teensy bit unconventional, there was definitely a method to my—

“How do you turn it on?” Yuri asked.

I looked down at the controls—a cryptic series of gauges and dials. They’d been labeled, once. But lettering had flaked off, leaving nothing but the occasional scattered finial or serif. I tried a button randomly. Then another. Then looked for a key, found nothing blatantly key-like, and threw my hands in the air. “I’ve got no idea how to start this thing!”

“Then find someone who does,” Yuri said, snatching up the golf club. He began hacking at the sand with deft, forceful strokes. But the beach was packed tight, and even with his impressive muscles straining, he hardly made a dent. “And hurry. The tide is coming in fast!”

I hopped into the truck and was about to head for Happy Jack’s, but their all-you-can-eat matinee only lasted until the stale pancakes ran out—a policy they probably put in place after Ladin discovered the special. And if he wasn’t still there, I’d have no idea where to go next.

But Ladin wasn’t the only one who knew how to start that scooter.

It took some coaxing, but eventually I managed to convince Effie Blotter to come back with me to the beach. Hoisting her into the cab of the pickup was another story. Luckily she was happy enough to ride in the back. Soon we were cruising back to the beach just as quickly as I could manage without Effie rolling away. We peeled up next to the boardwalk, and I plucked her from the truck bed and dragged her toward the beach, ignoring her entreaties to play just one round of ski-ball. It had taken some doing to get her all the way here, but I’d done it.

“And we’ll have you reunited with your scooter in no time,” I said. “Just as soon as you tell us how to start…it.”

We rounded the corner only to find Yuri standing ankle-deep in water…staring out forlornly over the bay as the candy apple red scooter floated off into the distance.

“It’s the big red button,” Effie said loudly. “You’ve gotta push real hard. It sticks.”

“Actually, I was just thinking,” I said—pretty naturally, if I do say so myself. “Are you really a scooter person at heart?”

“What? Speak up?”

I repeated the question with some additional volume, plus a scooterish gesture. “Are you really a scooter person?”

“How else would I get to bingo without my scooter? I’ve got my bunions to consider. Not to mention my lumbago.”

“Well then, how about a nice walker?” I suggested. “They’re so much more portable. Plus you can put some cute tennis balls on the feet.”

“Walkers are for old ladies,” she bellowed. “Besides, I could never abide tennis. All that back and forth makes my neck hurt.”

“Okay…well…how about a pony? Everyone loves ponies.”

“Clearly you’ve never been bitten by a horse. They’re all teeth. Plus they poop everywhere.”

So did Meringue, though I’d wager the horse poop cleanup was probably a bit more involved. I looked over to Yuri for inspiration. As the water rose to his calves, he gave me a helpless shrug.

Clearly, I was out of my depth. While my family might be behind me as the Hand, I felt too young, too inexperienced, to deal with the Spellcraft community at large. Maybe I could outmaneuver people my own age, but Scriveners eligible for a senior discount had been around the block a few times—probably in a scooter—and I was at a loss as to how to handle them.

I was wondering exactly how many Uncraftings it would take to earn enough for a new scooter when Yuri called out, “Look,” and pointed upward.

The summer sun was high and the sky was filled with big, puffy clouds. They were the perfect sort of clouds to play Name That Shape. Though Yuri tended to see some kind of Russian gremlin in all of them, so I don’t generally suggest we play unless one of them is clearly a bunny.

But there were no bunnies up in the sky—no gremlins either, as far as I could tell. Yuri wasn’t pointing at the clouds, I realized, but at a hot air balloon floating majestically across the far side of the bay.

You know how balloons are usually done up in cheerful candy colors? Checks and stripes and rainbows? Whoever painted this balloon clearly hadn’t seen the memo. The balloon was black. The basket was black. And the whole thing was painted with pointy-looking red and orange flames, emblazoned with the words HOT STUFF.

I had no idea hot air balloons could be threatening. But I suppose if Russian gremlins can emerge from the bunny clouds, anything is possible.

“Would you look at that?” Effie hollered. “It’s Morticia Shirque.”

Effie’s feet might be covered in bunions and her hearing wasn’t so hot, but I’ll be darned, she was right! A figure stood at the side of the basket, arms splayed wide, long blue hair flowing like a banner in the breeze. The look on Morticia’s face was pure bliss. And as I recognized the former Head of my circuit, the wind shifted just so to carry her voice, and I heard her exclaim, “I’m king of the world!”

Forget about Hand. Morticia was my age when she became Head. And stodgy old Scriveners were no doubt even weirder back in those days. Was enthusiasm catchy? It might very well be! Filled with renewed purpose, I jabbed my finger skyward and asked Effie, “Do you think Morticia Shirque would ride around on a scooter?”

Effie frowned. “She doesn’t need to. She’s got that shiny gold Rolls Royce.”

Undeterred, I said, “Morticia’s gotta be at least twenty years older than you.”

“More like thirty!” Effie snapped, affronted.

“If you say so,” I said in a tone that conveyed that I totally thought she was fibbing. “All I know is that I’ve never seen her on a scooter. But, if you’re so attached to that old-lady conveyance….”

“Of course not! I was getting tired of that thing anyhow. Not only does the button stick, but it only went five miles an hour. I haven’t got time to poke around Scrivener Village like some kind of bright red turtle. Obviously, what I need is a motorcycle!”

“That’s the spirit,” I said gamely. “And all you’ll need is a down payment.” Chances were, any sort of financing plan she’d work out would outlive her. “Too bad the scooter’s not insured. That would give you a nice chunk of change.”

“But it is!”

I gawked at her in amazement. “No one I know would ever dream of getting insurance! My mother says it’s like betting on something to go wrong.”

“Couldn’t agree more. But years ago, I Scribed for a Handless insurance agent and found him a loophole that got him out of paying for pretty much anything—and free policies were part of my perks. So as unsavory as it might be, that scooter’s insured out the yin-yang.”

Hopefully the agent’s loophole didn’t extend to Effie. “Then it’s settled. You wouldn’t want bad blood between the Blotters and the Silvers, especially not over a big misunderstanding. Tell the cops you just forgot you parked it on the beach, report it to your Handless insurance as an accident—then go pick out your new motorcycle!”

“Hot dang! That’s just what I’m gonna do!”

While Yuri trudged back to the shore to join us, Effie and I waved at Morticia as the balloon drifted toward the horizon. Maybe the clouds in the background were gremlins, or maybe they were bunnies. But either way, I felt a relieved lightness in my chest, like maybe I did have what it took to be the Hand of the family after all.

At least until I realized Effie was now looking at me over the rims of her bifocals…and her look was filled with cool assessment. “I’ll drop the charges on Silver,” she said, “under one condition.”

Uh oh. “You know what they say, it’s so much better to drop charges than to charge…droppage….” How did my mother make this saying-thing look so darned easy?

I supposed it didn’t matter. Effie wasn’t listening. She was too busy rooting around in her big naugahyde purse. Would she force me to do a Crafting? An Uncrafting? Or—I shuddered—maybe even a curse? I was steeled for all of the above, so it took me a second to realize that what she pulled out of her handbag wasn’t Spellcraft at all…but a photo of a stocky middle-aged Scrivener woman with a mole on her cheek and a big lipstick smile.

Effie stuffed it into my hand and said, “You tell your uncle my daughter Sophie is a very good cook! Why, she even knows how to make a soufflé.”

“Will do!” I said brightly, and motioned for Yuri to skedaddle before Effie came up with any more conditions.

“How will she get home?” Yuri asked as we gunned it away from the beach.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll think of something. In the meanwhile, let’s go find Ladin and dig up that Perch!”

11

YURI

We had spent so long convincing the Blotter woman to drop her charges, I held no hope whatsoever that Ladin Silver would still be at Happy Jack’s by the time we were done. But his stint in jail must have left the restaurant with extra stale pancakes to get rid of. By the time we got there, Ladin was just swabbing the last traces of syrup from his plate.

“I knew I could count on you boys to make things right,” he said grandly as he patted his belly. “As for the Perch—what can I say, I was feeling nostalgic. Did you know I played the Perch at all the Pinyin Bay Pelican home games from 1990 to 1992? The majority of them were rained out, but still. You have to admit, it was quite a track record. I’m not so sure this is the original Perch—either that, or someone subjected this costume to a shrink-ray. Anyhow, since I could no longer wear it myself, I traded it to someone who’d take it off my hands for a few hot leads: Venus Monger.”

With that, Ladin heaved himself up from the booth and waddled out the door. While the server scowled at her twenty-five-cent tip, Dixon said to me, “Can’t say I know exactly where Venus Monger can be found—frankly, I spend more time avoiding her, since she’s always trying to sell me things I don’t need. But didn’t that baby outfit she gave Tuesday have her phone number on it?”

“I believe so.”

“Great! Let’s head back to the mansion and have a look.”

While we could have just called, I did not object. The smell of maple syrup was making my stomach rumble. And Vano is a very good cook—probably better than Sophie Blotter.

We pulled into the gravel drive at the mansion behind a square white mail truck. Dixon exclaimed, “How ’bout that—Aunt Rose is here! Sabina said her mom was absolutely ga-ga over the baby—didja see what I did with that pun? Why can’t I think that quick when I’m trying to coin a saying? Even so, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my aunt.”

“I did not know she was still in Pinyin Bay.”

“I think that’s by design. After she left Uncle Fonzo, she changed her route to avoid the shop. And the house. And Scrivener Village. Frankly, I have no idea where she even delivers anymore. Maybe the folks down at the Boardwalk send out enough postcards to keep her busy.”

I am not sure what expectations I had of Sabina’s mother. I knew she was originally Handless. I knew she’d put up with Fonzo for many years…until she didn’t. And I knew she’d sought greener pastures with Ladin Silver, who could apparently sell rocks to a quarry. But beyond that, very little was said of Rose, and I never asked.

But when I finally laid eyes on the woman, I realized what I had been expecting. Blonde. Chesty. In a word…a bimbo.

And then I saw how wrong I’d been. Maybe it was the mail carrier uniform—or maybe the fact that I was always finding unexpected depths in this family who’d adopted me. Yes, she was blonde. And yes, she was chesty. But there was a sweetness to her that shone through like an inner light.

We found Rose visiting Sabina and Tuesday in one of the many sitting rooms—this one with an exotic Victorian jungle theme, all lush green tapestry and bamboo furniture, only slightly faded and just a bit dusty. Sabina was striding back and forth, jiggling a fussing baby in her arms, complaining, “I don’t know what the heck this kid’s so miffed about. She’s not the one stuck in a nursing bra!”

Rose held out her arms. “Little Tuesday’s just eager to see her Gam Gam!” She plucked the wriggling baby from Sabina’s grasp and cradled the child gently against her shoulder. “There ya go, little one. Don’t worry, everything will be okay. Y’know how I know?” She lowered her voice dramatically. “Because you’re magic.”

If my grandmother had ever told me anything of the sort, it would have been accompanied by the sign of the koza.

Rose stroked the baby’s head. “In fact, I happen to know a story about a magic girl just like you. Now, let me see. How does it go?”

The family had always claimed Rose was none too bright, but I sensed that her question was only for dramatic effect. A plate of lemon bars was beckoning from the sideboard. And while Dixon’s hand hovered mere inches from the neat stack of treats with their glossy yellow sheen and their delicate dusting of powdered sugar, Rose’s voice was so enchanting, he paused in his grabbing to listen to her instead.

“Oh yeah, now I remember. Once there was a little girl who had a magic feather—a feather that could write! And everything she wrote with this magic feather came true. But one day the feather was nowhere to be found, and the girl was so sad. She looked high and low. Over and under. In and around—but no feather! The girl was very upset…until a little birdie landed on her shoulder and whispered a secret in her ear. And the secret was this: the magic wasn’t in the feather. It was in that little girl all along!”

“Mo-o-m,” Sabina said, “don’t go confusing the baby. The magic was obviously in the quill.”

Rose’s lips curved into a secret smile. “If you say so, Beanie Bean.”

Whether it was Rose’s voice, her style of jiggling, or just the fact that Tuesday had worn herself out, the baby stopped whimpering with a wet snuffle. But Sabina was content to let her mother keep the baby while she crammed a lemon bar into her mouth. Once she swallowed, she said, “If you guys were looking for dinner, you’re out of luck. Vano’s out playing chauffeur to Morticia. So it’s cold pizza here tonight, same as your place.”

“Actually,” Dixon said, “we were hoping you still had that onesie with Venus Monger’s phone number on it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering that timeshare.”

I did not know if helping to recover the Pinyin Bay Perch, even without Crafting, would violate the No-Touchee rule. But because Sabina is notoriously bad at keeping a secret, I said, “The less you know about it, the better.”

Given that she hears this all the time, she accepted the explanation with a shrug. “I’m sure that dumb outfit’s around here somewhere. Lemme take a look.”

The silence, when Sabina left the room, was awkward, to say the least. Dixon rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Rose looked up at the crown molding. The baby blew a spit bubble. And then, all at once, Rose said, “Good to see you again,” to Dixon, while he said, “You’re looking great, Aunt Rose.”

They both gave a stilted, awkward laugh, then Rose forged ahead. “I take it this is your grown man friend? I’ve heard so much about you! And it sounds like the Uncrafting business is going great.”

Dixon was impressed. “I had no idea you kept up with these things.”

“Well, I still get my hair done in the same salon as Mimsie King. And you know how she loves to gossip.”

Scriveners are a curious people. They have their own ways and traditions, all of which they keep firmly to themselves. But on the rare occasion an outsider is deemed part of the clan, that person is accepted with open arms.

It was easy enough to question this tendency as it applied to me. After all, I regarded good fortune with suspicion, and was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. But evidently, Rose was still an honorary member—whether or not she was currently dating a Spellcrafter.

“I found the onesie,” Sabina announced as she stomped back into the parlor. “And I think it should probably fit Tuesday by now. It’ll be fun to watch her barf all over the advertisement.”

“Let us get the number first,” I said, and keyed it into my phone. While I had no desire to talk to the Monger woman, better me than Dixon. Last time they crossed paths, he ended up with a subscription to an ice fishing magazine—as if he would even consider baiting a hook. Luckily we are always in need of something to line Meringue’s cage.

But when I tried to connect, steeling myself against the inevitable tirade of sales pitches, all I got was a recorded message that the number was no longer in service. “Figures,” Sabina said. “Whenever you don’t want to deal with Venus, she’s harder to get rid of than the gum on the bottom of your shoe. But try to find her, and suddenly she’s nowhere at all.”

Dixon said, “I’ll bet Morticia knows how to find her.” But when Sabina called Vano to ask, there was nothing but static and wind on the other end of the line.

“There’s only one place in Pinyin Bay the phones do that,” Rose said. “And that’s the South Bay Bluffs.”

And so we said our goodbyes, boxed up a few lemon bars for later, and headed over to the outermost tip of the bay. As we made our way up the precarious road that switchbacked up the steep incline, engine groaning, Dixon said, “It’s been a few years since I saw Aunt Rose. I did run into her once at the yogurt kiosk after my Quilling Ceremony failed—which was funny. Not because of my Quilling Ceremony…that was pretty much the low point of my life. But because it was the middle of winter, and the door was frosted shut, and everyone was joking that they should sell frozen yogurt instead.” Dixon sighed. “I still remember what she said. Whether or not you have a quill, you’re no less a Spellcrafter.”

I considered this, and eventually said, “Sometimes it takes an outsider to see what is truly going on.”

We rounded a stand of pine trees and saw the familiar shape of the Rolls Royce, with both its gold paint job and its rusted rear panel aglow in warm hues of the lowering summer sun. Morticia was well aware of every Spellcraft matter in her community, and I was sure that within moments, we would know exactly where Venus could be found.

It did not occur to me to question the sign that read, Pinyin Zipline Adventures until we rounded the trees and found Vano standing at the edge of the bluff, waving at a familiar figure with a thick blue braid blowing along behind as it receded into the distance, gliding in its harness across the bay toward Strangeberg.

12

It really was rather poetic, the way Mortica ziplined off into the setting sun. Unfortunately, poetry wasn’t about to put us in touch with Venus Monger.

Vano said, “I’ve never tried to track down Venus myself—usually, she’s the one who finds me.”

“That’s it!” I said. “We’ll just take you somewhere public, post about it on Friendlike, and I’ll bet Venus shows up before your Nana even untangles herself from the harness!”

Vano said, “That might’ve worked a year ago—but there’s been nothing but peace and quiet on the proposition front now that Tuesday’s here.”

Yuri settled his hand on my shoulder in that way he does when he’s about to impart some tough love. Although maybe he just wanted something to lean on. “Dixon….”

No, darn it. That tone of voice had tough love written all over it.

“We have chased that costume from one end of Pinyin Bay to the other—”

“Maybe so, Yuri, but this isn’t just about the Perch anymore. It’s about helping out a guy who’s got nowhere else to turn. And finding a good loophole. And preserving a piece of Pinyin Bay history.”

“Is that all?” he asked with surprising gentleness.

I toed the rocky ground and sighed. “And it’s about everyone thinking you’re a loser just because things didn’t quite go your way. When I look at Otto, I can’t help but see a little bit of myself.”

Before I knew what was happening, Yuri had grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around to face him. It was a perfect action hero moment, us at the top of the bluff, surrounded by the bay, with the setting sun picking out the golden highlights in his flashing hazel eyes.

Although, when he dragged me up against his big, buff chest and pressed his lips to mine, I realized that maybe we weren’t living an action flick after all, but the world’s most epic romance.

Even after all this time, Yuri still manages to take my breath away—whether it’s with the sweeping allure of his brushwork or the majestic strength of his ever-so-sexy scowl. But he’s not only creative, and imposing, and a really good kisser. He’s loyal. And he believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.

“You are not, nor have you ever been, a loser.”

Ask anyone who’s seen me living in an attic and rocking a WheelMeal visor and they might tell you different. But thanks to the help of a few key people—Sabina, Yuri, and especially Meringue, who totally qualifies as a person…a small, feathery, particularly loud person—I eventually found myself exactly where I wanted to be. Even if that place was still, technically, the attic.

Filled with a burgeoning confidence, I screwed on my thinking cap tight and set my mind to finding a solution to our problem. “Okay. Maybe Vano isn’t a Scrivener lady-magnet anymore. But Uncle Fonzo sure is!” I waggled my eyebrows at Yuri. “Now it’s just a matter of taking him somewhere public enough to attract said ladies’ attention.”

“No one but tourists would brave the boardwalk this late,” Vano said. “It’s prime seagull hour.”

Yuri said, “And if we lure more Scriveners to the chair store, we will put that man out of business by the end of the week. Not that I care. I just don’t want you to lose any sleep over it.”

Uh huh, you keep telling yourself that. “There’s gotta be something to do around here,” I said. “Where’s an intrusive piece of advertising when you need one?”

We scoped out the bluff and found nothing but a few scattered safety waivers for the zipline adventure—the sort of things that no one ever really reads. No flyers. No billboards. No nothing. I was about to suggest we pack it in and call it a day when I waved away a mosquito and something in my jacket crinkled.

I pulled out the I.O.U. Ladin Silver had given me back at City Hall—a receipt from Happy Jack’s for three senior specials. Chances were slim that there’d been two other people with him at the time. And probably he’d polished off anything the adjacent tables couldn’t finish, too. It wasn’t Ladin’s eating habits I was interested in, though…but the string of local ads on the back of the receipt.

Three different Spellcraft ads—Barney was right, we really did buy up a lot of advertising. Snow tires, buy two get one free. Ten percent off an ice cream cone, good only on the third Wednesday of every month. And a coupon for a half-priced juggling class—a class that just so happened to be meeting tonight!

Filled with eager anticipation, I whipped out my phone, called up the Friendlike app, and wrote, “Can’t wait to check out this juggling class with my very eligible Uncle Fonzo!” I launched a picture of the ad into the ethers, and then I waited for the thumbs-ups to start pouring in. And waited. And waited.

And waited.

Just as my eager smile started to pain me around the edges, Vano said, “Why don’t I share it?”

A casual flick of his thumb. Nothing at first. But eventually, there was a ding, followed quickly by another. Soon, a flurry of dings was lighting up my phone, and I was well pleased with myself for thinking of such an ingenious plan. “It just goes to show, Yuri, that where there’s a class, there’s a, uh…. Dang it! Anyhoo, I guess our work is done!”

Yuri frowned. “Shouldn’t we grab your uncle and get over to the class?”

“Oh! Right! Let’s go!”

Uncle Fonzo is not what you’d call a lifelong learner. He’d left high school just as soon as the truant officer stopped pestering him—though really, with all that boring Handless history and emphasis on blocky printing, who could blame him? “Best decision I ever made,” he always said. Though, to be fair, he also said that about the warehouse club membership he hardly ever uses. But when we told him that not only were we paying for the class, but there’d also be free beer, he came along without a fuss.

The workshop was being held under a picnic shelter at Pinyin Park. While the facilities left something to be desired—unless you were a big fan of pit toilets, that is—there was ample room for the class to expand.

And expand, it did.

At first, there was just a trio of nerdy Handless guys in fedoras waiting for the workshop to begin. I’ve got nothing against fedoras, per se, but some folks definitely carry them off better than others. And, frankly, if the group had instituted a one-fedora-per-outing rule, maybe they wouldn’t have looked like bad extras from a low-budget mob flick.

Uncle Fonzo climbed out of the truck and looked around. “Where’s the beer?”

“I’m sure it’s on its way.” I gestured vaguely toward the park entrance where a set of headlights flickered through the trees. “Maybe it’s in that car.”

“Which one?”

Before I could formulate a convincing story about a sudden beer shortage in Pinyin Bay, the headlights multiplied into a whole string of lights as a veritable motorcade made its way up to the picnic shelter. I told myself not to get my hopes up, since those cars could very well be filled with even more nerdy guys in fedoras. But when the first car door opened and a dark-haired, dark-eyed person of the female persuasion climbed out, I knew our Friendlike post had done its trick.

Soon, the shelter was bustling with Scrivener ladies—old and young, short and tall, fat and thin. And while not all of them might be technically single, their partners wouldn’t dream of letting them pass up the golden opportunity of landing the Head of the Pinyin Bay circuit.

The tall guy in the navy fedora swallowed so hard his adam’s apple bounced like a ping pong ball. “What’s with all the ladies?” he said. “Did we come on the wrong night?”

“Why do you ask?” I wondered.

“Women never come to these things! In fact, there’s only one nerd girl in all of Pinyin Bay—and she’s off cosplaying with Stanley.”

“I hate Stan,” White Fedora muttered.

Plaid Fedora nodded sagely. “Agreed.”

If ever there was a trio who could use a little Crafting! But before I could foist off any Practical Penn business cards on the fedora’d gentlemen, a final car pulled up and everyone took notice.

Even if it hadn’t slotted itself into the spot marked Reserved for Instructor, we all would have known it belonged to a juggling master. While the car itself was an unassuming hatchback, it was decorated all over with brightly colored foam balls that bobbed in the breeze. A bold vehicle choice if ever there was one, and not for the faint of heart. Whoever was willing to drive something like that must have one heck of a personality. Grand. Assertive. Loud.

When the man stepped out of the car and said, “Is this the wrong night?” I almost didn’t recognize him…not until a set of headlights hit him just so, and lit up his face like greasepaint.

“Crouch the mime!” I called over, waving vigorously.

He shielded his eyes from the glare as he tried to pick me out from the throng. “Bob. My name is Bob.”

I elbowed Yuri. “Look, it’s Crouch.”

Yuri shuddered. “No one said anything about mime.”

Unfortunately, we didn’t really get a chance to give Crouch the greeting he deserved, as a crowd of new students eager to make a good impression on Uncle Fonzo surged between us. There were Scrivener ladies juggling flaming torches. And Scrivener ladies juggling swords. And Scrivener ladies juggling flaming swords. Or…at least, they were trying. Mainly they were just dropping things all over the place, since the lesson hadn’t even started yet. The swords were made of plastic and the flames kept sputtering out—good thing, because those plastic swords really stunk when they burned—so no one got hurt. Unless you count the woman who took an elbow to the ribs…and that may have been intentional. The crowd had gathered around my uncle, juggling and elbowing, elbowing and juggling, jockeying for position in a tornado of flailing limbs, with Uncle Fonzo cringing in the center at the eye of the storm.

“Where did all these flaming swords come from?” Crouch asked helplessly. “We’re supposed to be practicing with foam balls.”

I’ll say this about Scriveners—we sure do come prepared! I was all wrapped up in the spectacle when Yuri slipped an arm around my shoulder and said, “Over there, by the picnic tables. Isn’t that Venus Monger?”

Sure enough, there she was, earrings swinging and bangles clanging, just at the other side of the crowd. Given how pushy Venus has a reputation for being, I was surprised she hadn’t worked herself up a little closer to my uncle. But then I realized she’d pulled a display of colorful plastic lighters from her massive handbag and was selling them to the hopeful jugglers for five bucks a pop.

Not so lucky for her—but definitely lucky for us.

We edged our way around the mob as I pawed through my pockets, hoping to find a stray fiver. Venus wasn’t the sort to give away something for nothing, so we’d need to buy a lighter before she even gave us the time of day. But by the time we got to her, the last lighter had been whisked away, held high by a triumphant Scrivener woman eager to set something aflame and catch my uncle’s eye. Good thing. Pretty sure I spent my last five on a strawberry milkshake on our way to the chair store.

“Well,” she said imperiously, “if it isn’t the new Hand of the Penn family and his grown man friend. Just make sure you don’t get too big for your britches, kiddo. Being the Hand might sound good on paper, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty, there’s always some potluck or another you’ll be obligated to attend.”

“That does sound pretty delightful—but actually, we have a proposition for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m listening.”

“What would it take to get you to part with the Pinyin Bay Perch?”

“Seriously?” Venus threw her arms wide, bracelets bangling. “Now you ask me? Unbelievable. I just sold the darned thing!”

13

YURI

Venus Monger could not have had the costume in her possession for long, and even I was beginning to think we had some chance of recovering it. Dixon brightened. “Fantastic! All we need to do is catch up with the new owner. Who did you sell it to?”

“Why should I tell you?” Venus said loftily.

She was doubtlessly angling for a finder’s fee, but when I squared my shoulders and said, “You should tell him because it costs you nothing, and it would be foolish to refuse the Hand of such an important Pinyin Bay family,” she relented.

“Honestly, I have no idea who bought that mangy old fish suit. I sold it through Anonymous Auctions Inc, so it was totally untraceable. I wouldn’t recommend bidding on their merchandise, since most everything they sell fell off the back of a truck—either that, or it was stolen. But when you need to make room in your inventory, it’s a quick way to unload something with no questions asked.”

Venus dredged up a stray lighter from the bottom of her handbag and hurried off to find another buyer. Dixon, meanwhile, offered me a smile. Not a smile of eagerness or anticipation or pride, but a brave and painful smile that poorly hid the fact that he wanted nothing more than to shed a manly tear. “Well, that’s it then, Yuri. The city’s most beloved mascot is gone, and Otto Hotti will henceforth be known as the guy who lost the Pinyin Bay Perch—and I’m the Spellcrafter who couldn’t lift a finger to help him.”

Dixon is an idealist. I have known this about him from the beginning. But his eagerness to help Otto recover the Pinyin Bay Perch went much deeper than the simple desire to be helpful. When Dixon looked at Otto, he saw something of himself. More accurately, he saw himself at his lowest point, as the object of a very personal and public humiliation. As an object of pity. As a failure.

I elbowed a stout Scrivener woman out the way before she could slip between us and drew Dixon away from the churning crowd. We slipped off to a quaint bench surrounded by bushes, an isolated spot where fireflies were beginning to take flight, peppering the dusk with the fairy-like glow of their winking lights. (I did my best not to imagine how the light was catalyzed in the insects’ guts and just enjoy the view.)

I sat on the bench and drew him down beside me, and took his sad face in both hands. Pressing our foreheads together, I said, “Your empathy is a gift, but it is also a burden. This man is nothing to you, a Handless you have met only once, and yet you feel his distress as acutely as if it was your own. His plight is not yours, and the responsibility to help him is not yours, either. Whatever he did that caused the Spellcraft community to shun him, it must have been serious to get him on this list. Actions have consequences. And it is not for you to—”

Dixon pressed his mouth impulsively to mine. The kiss was brief, but heated. His lips fit against mine so perfectly, I could not even imagine kissing anyone else. And when he pulled back, his eyes were practically as aglow as the bobbing insects filling the air around us. “Yuri—you always know just what to say!”

I will admit, I was expecting more of an argument. Perhaps Dixon saw that his position as Hand was simply too much to risk for a stranger, no matter how sad his story might be. “Then it is settled.”

“Absolutely. Once we fix whatever problem put Otto on the No-Touchee list to begin with, then we can Craft for him!”

“That was not what I—”

“The question is, where do we begin?”

I quelled a sigh and considered that perhaps I should consider myself lucky that during the course of Otto Hotti’s lifetime, there had only been one Head. “If there is a record of his transgression, it would be at Shirque Mansion.”

Dixon hugged himself eagerly. “Our luck is beginning to turn, Yuri, I can feel it. Let’s go!”

As we drove off to begin our search, Dixon turned to peer out the back window at the picnic shelter. “Are you sure we shouldn’t have waited for Uncle Fonzo?”

“One of those women will be glad to drop him off.” And with so many Scriveners knowing we’d left him there, he could hardly be accused of favoritism toward his favorite (only) nephew.

If there’s one thing you can count on a Scrivener to do, it’s put their agreements in writing—if only so they each get a chance to show off their signatures. There must have been some record of Otto Hotti’s No-Touchee proclamation. It was just a matter of finding it in seventy-five years’ worth of paperwork.

At Shirque Mansion, we found Sabina, Rose, and most importantly, Vano playing peek-a-boo with Tuesday—who lay on her back on the kitchen table, waving her arms and blowing bubbles at the ornate ceiling fan. “Where is Morticia?” I demanded.

“Beats me,” Vano said. “She was pretty cryptic about her next stop when she dropped me off after the zipline.”

Dixon turned to the “Bucket List” on the refrigerator door. “Maybe we can use this to figure out where she might have gone. Let’s see what else we’ve got here. Spelunking. Yodeling contest. Threesome. Say, I didn’t know Morticia played golf.”

Vano blinked. “She doesn’t. Look, Dixon, sorry to burst your bubble, but Nana’s not crossing off her items until she’s done, and she’s not doing them in any particular order—so the one she’s working on right now is anyone’s guess.”

Through a mouthful of the last lemon bar, Dixon said, “Then I guess we’ll need to find that paperwork ourselves.”

If Dixon had been hoping for an argument, he was surely disappointed, as Vano simply shrugged and went back to making faces at the baby. If that document was anywhere, it would be here, as Fonzo hadn’t quite yet figured out how to move all the circuit’s records, not to mention where to put them all. Nonetheless, I had my doubts as to whether we could find a single item in the sea of paperwork without the old woman’s help.

Shirque Mansion never fails to make my skin crawl. It is old and dusty and filled with statues always staring at you through their blank plaster eyes. Morticia’s office was twice as dusty as the rest—though thankfully it was free of statues, since she hated them just as much as I did. But despite the comforting lack of statuary, there was a daunting number of records in that room to go through. As I took in the depth and breadth of what we were up against—a literal tonne of paper—I could see that even with Morticia’s guidance, finding one specific sheet would be difficult.

Without her, impossible.

Dixon tugged my sleeve, and I found him looking up at me with eyes bright with hope. “We’ve got this,” he said. “I believe in us.”

And so, our search began.

We looked everywhere a paper might be: folders and filing cabinets, bankers’ boxes and drawers. And we found many things, from an advertisement for faster internet to a hundred-year-old list of recommended farriers and wheelwrights. But we could not find any documents pertaining to Handless, let alone a record of why any would be banned from Spellcraft for life.

While, certainly, I would continue searching as long as it took, it was the wee hours of the morning now, and Dixon was swaying on his feet. As gently as I could, I said, “You must consider the possibility that this record you seek does not actually exist. Spellcrafters have an elaborate social structure with many customs and traditions—but only in regard to one another. Handless are customers. Nothing more. And it’s possible that the name on the list is the only remaining record of Otto’s transgression, whatever it might have been.”

Dixon’s eyebrows screwed up in that way they do when he’s about to regretfully agree—but then they froze, bunched together in puzzlement…and hitched up toward his hairline. “I think you’re onto something, Yuri! We’ve been going about this all wrong. There may be no record of a No-Touchee for Otto Hotti…but that’s because it’s filed under the name of the Spellcrafter who invoked it!”

Both of us turned our eyes to the ponderous credenza lurking behind Mortcia’s desk, where a row of stately binders stood on end like dusty soldiers. The covers were bound with dark green leather with the corners clad in brass. The spine of each binder was gilded with the name of a Scrivener family from Pinyin Bay.

At once, we both reached for the binder marked Penn. And when our hands brushed on the spine, a tingle of the volshebstvo played across my knuckles. There was not much in the binder. A Polaroid photo of Practical Penn clipped to Fonzo’s original petition to open the shop. A marriage announcement for Dixon’s parents torn from the newspaper—with a question mark inked precisely in ballpoint beside it. A photo of a young woman in a postal uniform with Mother of Sabina Penn and a birthdate inked on the back. And a copy of the work order Florica created to keep me on the books, and in the country.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dixon said wistfully, closing the creaking leather binder, “this is all very cool. But if there’s no record of the No-Touchee my Mom laid on someone, then maybe we’re barking up the wrong…tree.”

As the heavy cover dropped shut, an index card shot out, circled in the air, and landed at his feet. He picked it up and read:

Sister Mary Margaret Agnes Grace

- Distributed religious propaganda in the shop

- Intimidated our customers
- Tore up a customer’s Crafting
- Threatened to pray for my son

“Wow. You know it’s serious when Mom breaks out the bullet points.” Dixon turned over the index card and glanced at a photo stapled to the back. The nun stood in her modern habit, smiling behind a parochial school class in a classroom decorated with colorful construction paper flowers. Her head had been circled —as if there were any doubt which one she might be. And the circle itself looked hasty, which was a testament to how upset Dixon’s mother must have been, as she is usually methodical to a fault.

It sounded as if the No-Touchee was not even technically necessary, as there was little chance of this nun trying to commission a Crafting for herself. But as far as Florica Penn was concerned, the worst thing you could do was threaten her family. Even if Handless laws had been broken (which, in all likelihood, was not the case) she would never have considered a restraining order. Perhaps this No-Touchee request was her only option.

“Our family’s binder is pretty sparse,” Dixon said. “But look at that one—it’s bursting at the seams!”

I blew off a thick cloud of dust to reveal the name Blotter gilded on the spine. “Apparently, the woman is not just litigious in the Handless world.” I opened the binder to reveal numerous complaints, against Handless, against Spellcrafters, and in one instance, against the city itself. It took hours to sift through the pile. Each complaint was accompanied by a bundle of “evidence,” from yellowed newspaper clippings to photographs to angry rants written on paper napkins. On top of the stack was a small yellow sticky note in Morticia Shirque’s writing: To whoever succeeds me…good luck with this coo-coo clock!

We sifted through all the papers. A few moratoriums had been approved by Morticia. Most of them had not. But even when we got to the end of this stack, we came up empty-handed for Otto. “There are at least thirty more binders,” Dixon groaned, “and I can barely keep my eyes open. Maybe we should cut our losses and go to plan B…and do what we should have done to begin with.”

“Forget the whole thing?” I guessed.

“Craft for Otto!”

When Dixon sets his mind on something, either he grows bored with it five minutes later, or he latches onto it and sticks there more stubbornly than a burr on a pair of wool trousers. Given how long we’d been trying to solve this dilemma, I could tell already where he landed on this matter. “You would risk sacrificing everything you have worked for—and deprive your family of its rightful Hand—all to help this man you hardly know? You may sympathize with him, but ask yourself, is it really worth the cost?”

“True—it is a huge risk. But if we don’t help Otto, no one else will.”

Dixon would not be able to Craft for Otto here and now unless I provided a Seen. And the way my left arm was tingling, as though I’d fallen asleep on it and woken with a start, I was not sure if I could refuse Dixon’s request.

Clearly, the Hand was more than just a figurehead. And if Dixon commanded me to paint, I would not be able to rest until I complied. The volshebstvo is a force that will outlive us all, and it would only be a matter of time before it wore me down. As little as I wished to paint this Seen, I decided I might as well do so when we had at least some small chance of success. But as I gave over to the impulse and reached for my small tin paintbox, I realized my left hand was not drawn to my pocket at all, but rather, to the credenza.

Where the first binder which caught my eye was marked…Jones.

My hand curled into the sign of the horns—but it did not cease to tingle. Probably because there are two types of magic in the world: superstition, and volshebstvo. And only one of them is real.

I plucked the binder from the row and it fell open with a leathery creak. It was neither as empty as the Penn binder nor as full as the Blotters’. There were petitions for several shops, as though many businesses had been started and abandoned, and a formal declaration that the family was not, in fact, related to the Strangeberg Joneses…though it certainly appeared in one of the old photos as though the families had intermingled at some point, given the lingering look Fortunate’s mother was exchanging with her neighbor from across the bay.

All very interesting. But I cared only for one thing. Among all this paperwork was the form we wanted—the application in which a No-Touchee was brought against one Otto Hotti.

His crime?

In elaborate Scrivener penmanship (decorated with several stray cartouches that contained a number of enigmatic symbols) the application claimed the customer refused to pay for his Crafting.

“That seems awfully…straightforward and normal,” said Dixon.

Indeed.

But where the volshebstvo is concerned, I have learned not to take anything at face value.

14

DIXON

Bright and early the next morning—for real, this time—Yuri and I waited eagerly for some sign that Uncle Fonzo was stirring downstairs. We needed to ask for a favor, and he didn’t take too kindly to being woken up early. Sound really travels in our wonky old house. When you turned off the shower and the water was done gluggling down the drain, sometimes you could catch snatches of conversation threading up through the plumbing. Either the pipes somehow amplify the sound, or my cousin’s voice just tends to carry. But it was as good a place as any to listen for my uncle’s clock radio and determine it was safe to head downstairs.

I was trying to discern whether it was a snore I’d just heard or a random creak of the foundation when Yuri called out, “He just turned the tap.”

Never thought it would be so useful that our kitchens performed a strange duet whenever the water pressure changed. Just goes to show, kitchens that sing together, uh…never mind.

Anticipation fluttered in my belly as I pulled together all the paperwork I’d need to make my case for Otto Hotti. The conversation we’d overheard at City Hall was fresh in my mind, when the new mayor refused to help his own flesh and blood. But Uncle Fonzo would never be so tough with me. And while I didn’t want his first official act as Head to show favoritism toward his own family, could I really deprive him of such an easy win-win? Once Otto paid for his Crafting, things were sure to work out for everyone involved.

By the time I traipsed through the kitchen door, I was positive that not only would my uncle be thrilled to help me out in the matter of the Un-No-Touchee, but he’d in fact see it as me doing him a favor. But as I was imagining all the glorious accolades and effusive thanks I’d surely receive for my keen investigation skills and dogged determination, it took me a moment to register that the figure at the kitchen sink was not, in fact, my uncle.

Yes, that figure might be wearing his pajama top. But Uncle Fonzo didn’t have long blonde hair…and his calves were not nearly so shapely.

It then occurred to me that we’d left Uncle Fonzo drowning in a sea of clamoring women eager to hook up with the new Head of the Pinyin Bay circuit…and that we really should have established some kind of signal for when privacy was necessary. Though if we did, no doubt we’d all forget about removing them and every last doorknob would end up with a sock or necktie hanging off.

I was so startled to find a woman other than Sabina in that kitchen, I’d lost my hold on the door. That door has two speeds: completely stuck, or getting away from you and banging into the wall. And as I stood there gawking, it hit the wall hard enough to deepen the dent in the plaster.

The woman at the sink jumped—though, admittedly, no higher than me—and then whirled around pressing her hand to her ample bosom.

“Dixon!” she said brightly.

“Aunt Rose??”

The tips of my aunt’s ears went adorably pink, but she seemed determined to act as if there was nothing remarkable whatsoever about her half-dressed early-morning presence in Uncle Fonzo’s kitchen. “That door always had a tendency to get away from me, too. Should I put on some extra coffee? Or have you had your half cup?”

“Coffee would be great,” I said, and turned to tug Yuri through the door. Of the three of us, he was definitely the least comfortable with whatever we’d stumbled into…or possibly just the least able to plow through the discomfort. “And Yuri can actually handle a whole cup himself without getting hyper. In fact, sometimes I even let him finish mine. Did you know paintbrush water can look an awful lot like coffee? I sure won’t make that mistake again. Though if you look hard enough, paintbrush water isn’t necessarily brown….”

More words strived to burst forth, as if I might wash away my awkwardness on a stream of chatter. But Aunt Rose knew me, I realized, really knew me, in a way very few people did. She knew I loved dolphins, for instance, though the blowhole freaked me out. She knew I had no particular desire to ride on a train, though I thought the word caboose was hilarious. And she knew what I looked like when a Handless boy broke my heart by banning all Scrivener kids from his treehouse.

Once my babbling petered out, she regarded me with the patient kindness I remembered so well from my childhood and said, “Last night I spotted your uncle running away from some sort of bizarre juggling riot on my way back from my visit with Tuesday. Good thing we crossed paths when we did.”

“What luck,” I said softly.

“Poor thing was all covered in grab-marks—though he seemed too traumatized to explain what everybody was trying to juggle.”

Yuri made a “hmph” sound but refrained from further comment as Uncle Fonzo shuffled into the room in a droopy tank top and PJ bottoms. Aunt Rose was not wrong about the grab marks. In fact, they were turning some interesting shades of purple and green that rivaled Yuri’s paintbrush water. But I had the sneaking suspicion that a few of those grab marks had been acquired after the whole jugging fiasco.

“I thought I heard voices,” he said, just a touch too loud. “Rose, you remember how I said we fixed up the attic now that Dixon’s home again.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Your aunt was just helping me troubleshoot a mail-related issue, what with the way our bills are always going missing.”

“Now, Fonzo,” Aunt Rose admonished with a smile. “We’re all adults here. There’s no need to spin a tall tale.”

My uncle made a “hmph” sound not unlike Yuri’s—but seemed happy enough to drop the subject.

Yuri availed himself of the gap in the conversation in that forceful way he does by saying, “We are not here for coffee—er, yes, I will take a cup, thank you. However, the reason we came downstairs was not to visit, but to settle a Spellcraft disagreement.”

We brought forth all of our masterfully gathered evidence about the unpaid Crafting and presented it to my uncle. “I’ve never heard of a No-Touchee being reversed,” he said. “And for some reason, I haven’t been able to find Morticia at any of her usual haunts lately to tap her for advice. It’s probably best not to rock the boat.”

“But Uncle Fonzo,” I pleaded. “The Pinyin Bay Perch.”

He rubbed absently at a grab-mark on his elbow. “This circuit has been under the same leadership for longer than most of us have been alive. Morticia had a certain way of doing things, and her methods became traditions. And if there’s one thing a Scrivener always respects, it’s tradition.”

Aunt Rose had been humming to herself as she washed out mugs in the kitchen sink. It didn’t seem that she’d even been paying our discussion any attention at all…until she said, “I thought the thing Spellcrafters always respected was commerce. And settling a debt for this family, especially after all these years, is bound to make someone look good.” She shrugged easily. “But what do I know?”

For someone with a reputation for not being the sharpest rock in the box, my aunt sure did make a good point.

Luckily, Mom hadn’t shredded Otto’s intake form just yet, so we were able to get hold of him to say a last-minute opening just came up…so long as he had the cash on hand to pay for a Crafting. He assured me that he did, though time was running short, and we’d have to meet at the popcorn shop. The Joneses considered popcorn to be very lucky due to the way it expanded, so they eagerly agreed to come. Everything was falling into place. Once the old Crafting was paid for—once the No-Touchee was lifted—I could Craft to find the Perch and we’d all leave happy. Win-win…win.

Colonel’s Kernels occupied the street level of a crumbling walk-up tenement in Scrivener Village that made our converted attic look like the Taj Mahal. After the big blow-out, most folks might have just knocked the whole thing down and started fresh. Since portions of the building’s frame were all that was holding the neighboring buildings up—and since those neighbors were Spellcrafters—the owner opted to repair and renovate instead. Not very well, mind you. But the old place still stood.

We reached the shop with just a few minutes to spare. The street was blocked off with a bunch of rickety sawhorses, all the more imposing owing to the stray nails sticking through. A small crowd lingered in the street while a pair of employees in corncob-decorated smocks pulled a yellow ribbon lettered Grand Reopening taut across the shiny new (though crookedly hung) front door. A giant set of ceremonial scissors rested against the building’s cracked foundation—I adored oversized office supplies!—and the Pinyin Bay Community Marching Band stood nearby in a neat row, ready to deploy. Either that or they were all hiding from the sun in their wool uniforms by the shade of a nearby telephone pole.

“You go find the Joneses,” I told Yuri, “I’ll grab Otto, and we’ll meet up behind the store.”

Yuri scowled, pressing his lips into a grim line, then silently melted into the crowd and was gone.

And he claims he’s not a real-life action hero!

I was anxiously scanning the passersby for the man we’d come to see when someone yoinked me into a narrow gap between the buildings. Not quite sure if that was actually meant to be an alleyway, but it seemed stable enough. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw the one who’d grabbed me was none other than Otto Hotti…and he was wrapped from head to toe in duct tape. “Did you lose your belt?” I asked.

“Of course not! Erm, not that that’s never happened to me. But isn’t it obvious?” He put a misshapen foil-covered box over his head. “I’m the new and improved Pinyin Bay Perch!”

I backed up a step, made a square with my fingers and peered through it. “O…kay. Sure. I can see it. If I squint just right.” That was a bald-faced lie—but this perch ruse would come to an end soon enough. “Let’s just put a pin in the mach II version for the moment and see about getting you the real McCoy.”

He lost his grip on a roll of duct tape he’d been struggling with and it wobbled away. “What a relief! Just tell me what I need to do!”

“Actually, it’s about that Crafting you ordered years ago.”

“The one to find my lucky hat?”

“You have a lucky hat?” I asked. “I hope it’s not a fedora.”

“Not at all. While a brimmed hat does look pretty good on me, there should only be so many fedoras in a room, and I’d hate to be the guy to tip that number.”

“So true.”

“It’s actually a beret. Though I suppose if it had been a fedora, it never would’ve ended up underneath the fridge.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, sensing that I’d better handle the matter of his non-payment with some finesse. “Though it turns out there’s a longstanding balance due on that particular Crafting. So, if you’ll just settle up with the original Scrivener, we can get you all squared away. But we’d better hurry. They’ve already broken out the giant scissors.”

We squeezed through to the back of the building—pretty sure that wasn’t an alley, just a really big crack—just as Yuri rounded the corner with Fortunate and Auspice Jones. Fortunate’s fabric scraps fluttered in the wind as she strode along like some kind of patchwork yeti, while Auspice cut a dashing figure in a pinstriped suit, with his skinny mustache fastidiously groomed.

Fortunate held a pair of barbecue tongs out in front of her. And in those tongs was a small bundle of paper. A bundle which doubtlessly contained a Crafting.

“We are eager to put this regrettable business behind us,” Fortunate announced.

And luckily, so was Otto! When it comes right down to it, maybe most conflicts truly are just misunderstandings. Given how concerned Otto had been about the misunderstanding, I was sure he’d be eager to apologize and set things right.

But instead, he cocked his head and asked, “Who are these people?”

Uh oh. I got the sinking sense that the payment was not going to go as smoothly as I’d hoped.

“Surely you remember the Joneses,” I said helpfully.

Otto slipped a hand beneath the makeshift perch mask and scratched his head. “Are they from the costume shop?”

Fortunate reeled back with a gasp while Auspice squared his shoulders and prepared to defend his lady’s honor. “First this cad withholds remuneration—and now he insults us?”

Otto’s confusion morphed into utter bafflement. “I would never insult a Spellcrafter, or shortchange one, either—seriously, that’s just begging for a run of bad luck. And if there was some mixup about the fee, I’m happy to make up the difference. But I’ve never seen these folks before in my life.”

And if he had…I kinda think he’d remember.

“Clearly, this man is lying to cover his own shame.” Fortunate waved her tongs imperiously. “I have the proof right here.”

Otto spread his arms in surrender—at least as far as the duct tape would allow. “What possible reason would I have to make any of this up?”

This meeting was not going the way I’d planned. At all. “Please, folks. Allow me, as a completely neutral party, to intervene.” With great delicacy, I pinched the bundle of papers between thumb and forefinger and wriggled it free from the tongs. I slipped inside the back of the popcorn shop—wow, I’d be smelling fake butter for a week—and carefully unfolded the documents.

You don’t realize how loud a half dozen commercial popcorn poppers might be until you’re standing in the midst of them all popping away.

The Crafting, still active, thrummed faintly with power. Over an artistic Seen of swirling blue watercolor strokes, it read:

I’m not a
loser

Yuri, looking over my shoulder, said, “He does not want to admit his desperation, so he denies having this made to begin with.”

“I’ll admit, if it were my Crafting, I’d be none too proud for it to come to light, either. Maybe we just need to remind him of why he ordered it to begin with.” I opened up the intake form with a snap and read the request.

No matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to remember where I put things. I’m continually locking myself out, and misplacing important paperwork, and forgetting where I park the car. If only I could stop losing everything, I’m sure my life would turn around.

Yuri said, “I thought the word loser was just a figure of speech. Not a word that referred to a person who lost things.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard it used that way. But if anyone will trot out an obscure usage, it’s Auspice.”

Something just wasn’t adding up. I puzzled over the intake form and realized the signature at the bottom looked awfully familiar.

Not because it matched the one Otto had filled out at Practical Penn, either.

Instead, it matched the signature on the bus shelter across the street. The mayor’s signature.

I spun around and waved the form at Yuri with a dramatic flourish, fully intending to break out a dramatic exclamation like, “Gadzooks!” or “Eureka!” or “Kiss my grits!” when a single, sputtering kernel of popcorn leapt from a nearby kettle and landed directly on the page. I gave it a shake, hoping to dislodge it before the grease wicked into the paper—and the entire thing burst into flame like it was printed on magician’s flash paper. I let go with a yelp and the flaming form fluttered to the floor, where Yuri proceeded to treat it to a vigorous stomping. “Wait,” I called out, “we need that!”

But as I did, a bored guy in a corncob apron yelled, “Fire in the hole,” and blasted Yuri’s foot with a fire extinguisher, burying it in foam.

I fell to my knees and gingerly plucked the paper from the floor. The popcorn guy blew a wad of foam from the tip of the nozzle and said, “That’s just how the last blowup started—can’t be too careful,” as the cheap copy paper disintegrated in my hands.

15

YURI

Dixon looked up in dismay, dark eyes glistening with the threat of tears. I clapped him firmly on the shoulder and said, “We don’t need that paperwork. The mayor knows what he did.”

“Maybe so…but it’s not Herschel we need to convince. If this whole thing comes to light, from here on out, poor Otto will think his brother considers him to be a loser. He’ll be scarred for life.”

“We will explain—”

He shook his head helplessly. “No, the damage will be done.”

“That is not your problem. If things were reversed and you had broken one of his Handless laws, the mayor would have no mercy for you. He went behind his brother’s back, and now he can pay the price.”

Dixon looked down at the Crafting that somehow managed to be so simple, yet so daft. “Who’s to say the Crafting shouldn’t suffer the same fate as the paperwork?”

If ever a piece of Spellcraft deserved to be destroyed, it was this one. And yet…. “How do we know which man the volshebstvo has touched—the brother who ordered the crafting, or the brother he impersonated?” Destroying the Crafting might set the spell—and, frankly, Otto needed all the help he could get. But what if the Spellcraft was working for Herschel instead?

What if it was the reason he’d won that election without even being on the ballot?

More than that…what if setting the spell would ensure he never lost another vote?

So we could not get rid of the ridiculous thing. And if it chose to come to light, no amount of concealment would keep it hidden.

Exposing the Crafting would result in the biggest scandal in Pinyin Bay history. Scriveners already felt the laws were too stringent. If it were known a Crafting could change the course of an election, the scrutiny would be unbearable. And that was if Spellcraft shops were allowed to stay in business at all.

Then that was it. Three choices—destroy it, hide it, expose it—all of them bad. But the only one that didn’t end up with me being deported was the one that could very well ensure Herschel Hotti followed in Mayor Dunce’s footsteps and ruled over Pinyin Bay for so many consecutive terms that everyone eventually lost count. “You are right,” I told Dixon. “Set the spell.”

Dixon was poised to tear the thing in two…until he thought better of it, cocked his head, and gave it another look. Before I could urge him to do what clearly had to be done, though, shouts sounded from behind the closed door.

“What are you doing?” Otto cried, to which Fortunate shot back, “You leave me no choice!”

Dixon stood and gave me a reassuring squeeze on the biceps. And another for good measure. “Go see what’s going on,” he told me. “I got this.”

“What are you going to do?”

Dixon cut his eyes to the door, where voices outside were starting to turn hysterical. “Trust me, Yuri.”

“But—”

“Not just as your grown man friend, but as the Hand. I got this.”

It went against my very nature to trust anyone. Even him.

I knew Dixon better than I have ever known any other person. I knew he was impulsive. I knew he was flighty. And I knew he had a tendency to go off on any tangent which presented itself.

And yet, I also knew he was persistent and brave, and in the right circumstances, surprisingly wise. I took just a moment to brush my fingertips along the curve of his jaw, allowing his stubble to play across the pads of my fingers, tingling like the volshebstvo. I could have begged him, in that moment, to destroy the Crafting. But instead, I only leaned in and brushed the ghost of a kiss across the knowing smile on his lips.

I turned and shoved my way through the alley door, only to find Otto cowering in his duct tape and the Jones woman waving two pieces of lumber.

“Not the stick!” Otto wailed.

I grabbed one of the boards from her and said, “Are you out of your mind—beating the mayor’s brother?”

“Beating?” she said. “Who said anything about beating? I was giving him the X.”

“Cross of wood, never good,” Otto stammered as he cringed back against a dumpster.

I immediately dropped the board—making the sign of the koza as it fell from my grasp. “You cannot curse him, either.”

Auspice said, “The man deserves no less. He’s cleaving to his exhortation of never having met. And yet we have clear evidence of his previous interactions.”

Thanks to the fire extinguisher…not anymore.

“I’ve never met either of you,” Otto insisted. “I swear!”

Both Auspice and Fortunate spat over their shoulders. “He’s a liar,” Fortunate said. “Obviously, it was him.”

“Actually,” Dixon said as he burst dramatically through the back door, “it was not Otto you were dealing with at all—but his long-lost twin!”

Otto cocked his head. “But I’ve always known exactly where Herschel is. We talk on the phone every day.”

Dixon kicked the side of his foot for silence and hissed, “Not now.” He smiled more forcibly and brandished the piece of Spellcraft he was supposed to have destroyed. “I have right here the Crafting he ordered in your name. So, clearly, the onus of payment does not fall on Otto Hotti, since he was not the one to commission the project.”

Fortunate and her pedantic partner clearly wanted to balk at this revelation, so I added, “It is very bad luck in Russia to demand payment from the wrong twin.”

Fortunate conferred with Auspice, then shrugged and said, “Sounds legit.”

Finally! After chasing that ridiculous Perch from one end of town to the other, something was about to go our way.

Until Otto said, “But I don’t get it—what would Herschel craft that he’d need to pose as me?”

I steeled myself for the huge reveal: I am not a loser. Though I saw no trepidation on Dixon’s face. Only satisfaction.

Otto took the Crafting from him and read out loud. “I am notably closer to my brother.”

“Odd,” said Auspice. “I don’t recall Scribing that.”

I fixed him with a hard look. “Quiet.”

Otto, meanwhile, was turning the Crafting this way and that, admiring the small slip of paper. “Aww—how sweet! That’s so Herschel. If he wanted to see more of me, he could’ve just said so—but he didn’t want to make me feel bad. Funny, the ink looks a little wet in places. How long ago did you say this was made?”

“Moisture is sign of good Spellcraft,” I said with authority.

“Just be careful not to smear it,” Dixon added. “Now that it’s found its rightful owner, I”m sure it’ll dry in no time.”

Despite the fact that he had not ordered the Crafting, Otto insisted on paying for it anyway, since he’d recently found several twenty-dollar bills in the lint trap of his dryer. “Guess I should clean that thing out more often!”

With that, he shook the Recrafted spell a few times, then tucked it safely away—where he would probably misplace it before the day was up…but at least he’d hold onto his good relationship with his brother.

He was all smiles, until the blats of a tuba player warming up and the absent clatter of cymbals reached our ears. “Oh no, that’s the marching band. It sounds like they’re getting started—and the Pinyin Bay Perch is supposed to lead them in!” He looked around frantically, but the crooked alley suddenly felt more like a maze, with the sound coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “I’m all turned around. Which way is out?”

Each of the three Scriveners—Dixon, Auspice and Fortunate—pointed in a different direction. And while I doubted straight up was the best way to go, I too was unsure which way would take us to the parade, and which would end up at the opposite end of Scrivener Village. But there was one route I knew for certain would lead to the front of the building. “Come,” I said sharply. “We must go through.”

Like everything in Scrivener Village, the inside of the popcorn shop was built in a random and disconcerting way. The renovation had offered an opportunity to rebuild in a more stable manner—an opportunity which had been entirely squandered. We snaked through a warren of strange rooms, each smelling of a different popcorn. Cheese and chilis, caramel and fake butter. Finally we made it through to the showroom, where great bins of multicolored popcorn awaited the buying public—though several pieces had stuck to Otto’s duct tape costume, drawn by the static electricity created by the friction of his running.

We spilled out into the street, plunging through the yellow ribbon as though we were running a footrace. One of the employees outside rolled his eyes and said to another, “I told you this would happen,” and the two of them set about restringing more ribbon across the doorway before the mayor arrived.

A crowd of onlookers had gathered—probably hoping for free popcorn. Among them was a sour-faced man who pointed to Otto and said, “Look, over there! What in the heck is that supposed to be?”

Perhaps we should have spent less time getting Otto’s Crafting reversed, and more time making him look like a perch. Even if we dropped what we were doing and Crafted on the spot (which we would never do with so many Handless looking on) it was simply too late. The volshebstvo might be clever, but it could not turn back time. The Perch was long gone, auctioned off to an anonymous bidder, and there was nothing left to do but endure Otto’s humiliation with him.

But before shame could wash over us, a small child squeezed through the front of the crowd and called out, “It’s Popcorn Man!” A flock of children descended on Otto, plucking off the popcorn. Hopefully they would be more gentle with him than the juggling women were with Fonzo. Or at least their small, weak child-fingers would not leave quite as deep of a mark.

“Poor Otto,” Dixon said with a sigh. “The best he can hope for now is for the kids to finish with him before the seagulls take notice…though they are starting to circle.”

A few crooked blocks away, a fanfare sounded, followed by the sharp rap of a snare drum. And then, mostly in tune, the band surged into a rousing march. The sound still echoed confusingly through the tall tenement buildings and narrow streets, but it was definitely coming closer. Though if the city’s mascot was not leading them…who was?

The crowd turned toward a spindly building leaning oddly on the corner just as the cymbals crashed. The marching band rounded the turn, headed up by none other than the Pinyin Bay Perch…the real one.

As the crowd looked on, the band marched sweatily down the block in stiff woolen uniforms and tall caps topped with blue and white plumes. Led by the Perch, they began plodding out the beat of the song “My Sharona.” The timing was erratic, as the Perch wove from side to side, waving the baton too randomly for the band to precisely follow. Was it drunk? Suffocating? Or simply inexperienced?

I supposed we would never know…as a loud crash to one side interrupted the song before it even reached the first refrain. Seagulls scattered—people too. Sawhorses were launched three stories into the air, and the crowd flattened themselves against the buildings to cower under the safety of the business’s awnings.

A large box-truck sat cockeyed, one wheel up on the curb. Its back doors swung open to disgorge its cargo: several dozen office chairs. They rolled on their casters down the sloping Scrivener Village lane as though they had been choreographed. In fact, their formation was much more cohesive than the band’s.

Barney the chair guy tumbled from the cab of the truck, demanding, “Who just parks a car like that in the middle of the street?” And at the front of the bumper, with a trail of black rubber where the tires had been dragged sideways, was a gold Rolls Royce. Its side panel was slightly dented, and a scattering of rust had shaken off. But its owner, Morticia, was nowhere to be seen.

It was in the midst of the pandemonium that the new mayor finally showed his face. Herschel Hotti was fastidiously groomed and immaculately pressed, everything starched to such a crisp crease it was a wonder the man could even walk. He strode up to the newly-ribboned popcorn shop door and said, “Is this a popcorn shop opening or a chair parade? I don’t recall signing more than one permit.”

His brother hurried over, pressing the theatrically oversized scissors into his hand, and said, “Chillax, Herschel, once you cut the ribbon, the crowd will disburse before you know it.”

Herschel scowled.

Otto added, “I love you, man.”

Herschel eyed his brother dubiously, but did not mention the duct tape. He must have sensed the explanation would take longer than it was worth.

The new mayor brandished the scissors, and in a calm, clear voice, said, “It is my great pleasure to celebrate the grand reopening of Colonel’s Kernels. It’s not just a shop. It’s a Pinyin Bay tradition.” He snipped the ribbon firmly and it fluttered apart in two pieces to only a scattering of halfhearted applause. Were people too traumatized by the flying sawhorses to respond? (I’d thought anyone who frequented Scrivener Village would be more resilient.) Or were they ruing the fact that they’d chosen this man to succeed Mayor Dunce?

A scan of the crowd revealed…it was neither. Most of them were too busy testing out the wayward chairs to pay any heed to the ribbon cutting.

“That’s a really fine-looking chair.”

“Say, I read about these in the Pinyin Bay Journal!”

“Did you see how smoothly it rolled?”

“This seat is really comfy.”

Barney hovered at the edge of the crowd, marveling at the stacks of cash people were brandishing in hopes of leaving with a chair. As he raked in the dollars, he said, “And there’s more where those came from! Come check out Have a Seat—where we make tushies happy!”

As we watched the people roll away on their new chairs, Dixon slipped his fingers through the crook of my elbow, gave my biceps a squeeze (and then another, for good measure) and sighed contentedly. His dark eyes were sparkling, and his smile was the smile of a man who had always believed things would somehow work out in the end. “Y’know, my mother always says, Mind your own bees-wax and you won’t get stung. But I like to think that if you’re able to help people out, you’ve got to at least try.”

While I might have agreed with Florica, Dixon was not only my Hand, but my vozljublennyj…my beloved. If he insisted on “helping” people, then I would not go against him.

And why would I? Before I met him, my life was nothing but hardship, skulking in the shadows.

I would do anything it took to keep basking in the sunshine of his smile.

16

DIXON

So, which bucket list item was it, exactly, that compelled ninety-nine-year-old Morticia Shirque to don a perch suit at the ribbon-cutting ceremony and wander through Scrivener Village? Was it March in a Parade? Go Incognito? Or Cause a Riot? Since she was still gallivanting around in pursuit of her various, ah…pursuits…no one was quite able to pin her down and ask.

We may never know—but all’s well that ends well. Not one of my mother’s particular sayings, but apt nonetheless. Especially as it turned out Uncle Fonzo didn’t need much convincing to rescind Otto Hotti’s No-Touchee status after all.

Once the Joneses were paid in full, they immediately petitioned him to have the decree struck from the list. “I’m not in the business of making enemies,” my uncle had declared grandly. “If that’s what those weirdos want, that’s exactly what I’ll give ’em!”

These days, the office of the Hand was scattered between Shirque Mansion, the trunk of the Buick, and my uncle’s linen closet. Seventy-five years of records take up a surprising amount of space. And while my uncle insisted that everything would fit just fine in his closet once he implemented the right system, that system was proving to be pretty darned elusive.

We were spread out in the billiards room at Shirque Mansion, trying to locate the current family binders among dozens of other binders that had come to light once the reshuffling began. While the pool table technically still worked, the pockets that caught the balls were a leather mesh that had rotted away decades ago. Since no one liked chasing the balls around whenever they sunk one, it had been a while since any of us challenged anyone else to a game.

The pool table did make a wonderful desk, though, with the red felt stopping everything from sliding. Plus, there were plenty of comfortable chairs all around, and a thick tufted wool carpet which, after more than a hundred years gracing the floor of the mansion, hardly shed at all.

Maybe the binder would be easier to find if any of us were looking for it particularly hard. But for now, it was enough to just settle into this new and extended family we’d become. And I wasn’t just talking about the addition of Vano and Morticia Shirque…or even little Tuesday.

The rest of us were paging through creaky leather binders filled with old-timey photographs of Scriveners of yore. Meanwhile, Uncle Fonzo and Aunt Rose perched together on a cushy window seat with their new granddaughter on her back between them, waving her little arms. Or possibly pooping. Heck, maybe she was multitasking and doing both simultaneously. No doubt she was a brilliant and talented little human being—since she was a part of the most illustrious Scrivener family in Pinyin Bay.

They say it’s not over till the fat lady sings—my mother has always taken umbrage at that statement—but in this case, we didn’t have closure until the fat man strode through the door, brushing the crumbs of a slightly burnt focaccia from the shelf of his belly. The rest of us had told Vano the bread would be perfectly good if we just scraped off the black part, but he’d insisted on tossing it and starting over again. Though why Ladin Silver had gone through the trash on his way in was anyone’s guess. Not to mention….

“What’s going on?” Uncle Fonzo demanded. “You just walk in without knocking?”

Yuri shot me a look that said, “Well…we always do.” But being family had its perks.

Ladin was unperturbed. “I tried all four doorbells and no one answered.” Oh—so that’s what all those weird dinging sounds were. “Besides, I thought you wouldn’t mind, as I’ve come to make good on the bail.”

Maybe not, but the tenor of the room had shifted the moment Ladin waltzed through the door. My uncle—so eager moments ago to lead the circuit without stepping on anyone’s toes—had surged to his feet. He was all puffed up and ready for an argument…or at least a stern talking-to.

And then I realized he’d positioned himself directly between Ladin and Aunt Rose.

The relationship between Ladin and my aunt had only lasted a couple of years, and they’d split back when I was still struggling through high school gym class. Even so…if dormant affections were capable of being rekindled, Uncle Fonzo wasn’t taking any chances.

But it was pretty clear he had nothing to worry about. Aunt Rose spared Ladin half a glance, and said, “And did you bring that five-spot you owe me?”

“I’m fairly certain I paid you back,” Ladin said—unconvincingly at that.

“You paid me the five you borrowed at the gas station, but not the five from when we ran into each other at Happy Jack’s.”

Ladin harrumphed. “No one mentioned anything about a syrup surcharge.” He pulled a sad, crumpled five from the pocket of his straining suitcoat and attempted to hand it to Aunt Rose. Though when Uncle Fonzo didn’t move, Ladin gave it to him with a shrug and allowed him to pass it along. “And now for the matter of the bail.”

I expected another sweaty bill—we all did—so it took me a moment to register what was going on when, instead, Ladin pulled a fat roll of money from his pocket. “Let’s see. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty….”

He counted out no fewer than one hundred bills before taking his leave…and leaving everyone in the billiards room entirely flabbergasted. Uncle Fonzo turned to Yuri and me, eyes wide. “You never said you scraped up two grand to bail him out. Where on earth did you find it?”

“We didn’t,” I said, confused. “We only paid twenty.”

Yuri added, “It was a loophole in the records.”

“Great job, kids. I knew I could count on the Hand of the Penn family (and, of course, his grown man friend) to come through.” Uncle Fonzo peeled off a twenty and handed it over to me. It was slightly damp, but I didn’t complain, though Yuri may have sighed through his nose. My uncle then turned to Aunt Rose, smiling broadly. “Whaddaya say I finally make good on that Atlantic City vacation we always dreamed about?”

“Fonzo…” Aunt Rose protested…not very hard, I noted. “We were just kids when we talked about that trip.”

“So? If Morticia can cross things off her bucket list, why can’t we?”

I’ll admit, with all those women flinging themselves at my uncle, I’d had some trepidations about which one would ultimately end up snaring him. Seeing the two of them seize their second chance at romance made me feel all gooshy inside. Speaking of which…we figured we should head home before Tuesday’s diaper needed another change.

Yuri and I settled in at our kitchen card table and its mismatched seats, hacking crumbly, oily, luscious pieces of the still-warm half a focaccia Vano had insisted on sending home with us. As Meringue picked up the crumbs with her funny four-toed feet and placed them delicately on her black tongue, chortling all the while, I reached across the table and gave Yuri’s hand a squeeze.

“Well, Yuri, it’s been a wild ride finding out what everyone’s got on their bucket list. But what about you?”

Yuri was quiet for such a long moment, I thought maybe he’d been so captivated by Meringue’s adorableness that he hadn’t even heard me. But when he squeezed my hand in return and looked me hard in the eye, his expression was so tender it made my breath catch. “I have no need for novelty, as you never fail to surprise me. I have no wish to perform stunts, since everything we do together is an adventure. And I have no desire to travel…because I have finally found my home.”

While I may have a reputation for getting in the last word (as well as the first, the second, and several in between) I had nothing to add to that statement—other than to seal it with a kiss…as I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Don’t miss the next Spellcraftian adventure, Comic Sans, starring Dixon, Yuri and the whole gang!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JORDAN CASTILLO PRICE does not consider herself to be superstitious, though she wouldn’t go out of her way to walk under a ladder or step on a crack.

She has found that steaming a hard cooked egg makes it easy to peel. Also using a spoon if it’s being stubborn.

Connect with Jordan:

Facebook - https://bit.ly/jcp-facebook-profile

Twitter - https://twitter.com/jordancprice

Bookbub - https://www.bookbub.com/profile/jordan-castillo-price

Blog - http://jordancastilloprice.com

And explore her other stories at http://jcpbooks.com

ABOUT THIS STORY

THE ONLY TWINS I’ve known very well were a fraternal male/female pair in my high school. The girl was quiet and ate lunch at my table with the other art and theater kids, while her brother hung out with the more popular kids and wanted nothing to do with us.

Years later, in my twenties, when I was doing a lot of temp work in various downtown Chicago offices, I met a guy who was named either Leroy or Leon. As hard as I tried, I could never seem to figure out which. I was positive I’d heard people calling him by either name. Turned out Leroy and Leon were identical twins and they both worked there. Some identical twins don’t look 100% alike, but these two definitely did. Sometimes I could figure out which was which and then remind myself with a mnemonic device, like Leon has green on. But unless Leon wore green every day, I’d have a 50% chance of getting his name wrong.

I’m a little baffled that Aunt Rose took this long to show up in the series, but I must admit, her character won my heart in this story. It seemed logical that with Tuesday around, it would be weird if she didn’t get involved with the Penn family again. I really enjoyed her take on Scrivener dynamics, and getting to show that Handless (or formerly-Handless) aren’t nearly as incompatible with Spellcrafters as they might sometimes believe.

And I also have to say I really got a kick out of making up weird traditions like the pitching woo ragweed and eggs!