Mark Del Franco - Undone Deeds

My mother popped the lid on the cup and inhaled. “You are such a dear, Joey. Earl Grey is my favorite.”

Joe threw me a smug look over her head. “Is it? I had no idea. Great minds drink alike.”

My mother giggled. “You are so naughty. Where were you last night? I thought you might drop by.”

Joe fluttered over by the window. “I was helping some children with their lessons.”

I shook my head. “Children? Really, Joe? You were with children?”

Joe shrugged. “Everyone is someone’s child. I didn’t say how old they were.”

My mother bubbled with laughter.

“Suddenly, I remember something I didn’t miss when you moved to Ireland, Ma,” I said.

She drank her tea, the amusement fading from her eyes. “Speaking of Ireland, I’ve been trying to contact Nigel. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

I feigned nonchalance. “I haven’t seen him. We’re not on the best of terms anymore.”

She hummed. “I heard. I’m not going to interfere in whatever is going on between you, but I’d like to speak to him.”

“Why?”

“Because Nigel has insight into Maeve’s thinking. She is rushing headlong into war, and that’s never a good thing. If there’s a way to avert it, Nigel will know.”

“I don’t know, Ma. I don’t think Nigel would be interested in stopping Maeve. He’s always done her dirty work,” I said.

She gestured with her mug. “Exactly. If he’s around, she doesn’t have to do it herself. Nigel has a way of making things happen behind the scenes. We don’t need war. Maeve needs her advisor.”

I was impressed. I never talked politics with my mother. I had no idea she had that much interest. “That’s…. shrewd,” I said.

“I am not a diplomat’s wife for nothing, dear. The trick to avoiding war is to find something more enticing. Maeve might be a bit of a hothead, but she’s still a ruler. She wants something more than defeating the Consortium. If we can understand that, we might be able to end this nonsense.”

I loved the way my mother referred to war as nonsense. I might not have thought of her as a politician, but she always was sensible. Half her silliness was contrived, I knew, but now I saw her in a different light.

Another knock came at the door, and my glance shot to the clock over the kitchen sink. I groaned inwardly as I answered the door. When I opened it, Meryl kissed me, then stopped short when she saw I had company. “Oh! Am I early?” she asked.

Meryl was wearing a black bustier with a short jacket and jeans that might have been painted on. Oh, and she wore her knee-high boots with all the buckles. My mother put on her most diplomatic smile. “Not at all, dear. We were just discussing lunch.”

Meryl turned a confused smile toward me. “I didn’t realize it was a group lunch. My bad.”

“Meryl, I’d like to introduce you to Regula Grey. Mom, this is Meryl Dian,” I said.

Meryl batted her eyes in stunned silence. My mother held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Meryl shook hands, staring at me over her shoulder. “You’re his mother.”

“And your his…. ?” My mother said.

Joe swooped closer to my mother’s ear. “That’s his hootchie.”

Meryl held her hand in the air. “Connor, can you hand me the fly swatter?”

My mother smiled. “It’s okay, dear. I was someone’s hootchie once.”

“Mother!” I said.

She stood up. “I must be going. I’d love to have you for dinner, Meryl. You can meet Mr. Grey.”

“Um…. sure,” Meryl said.

“This isn’t happening to me,” I muttered.

My mother hugged me and kissed my cheek. “Get some food in you, Con. Call me later.”

“I will,” I said.

She paused on the threshold and looked at Meryl. “Oh, by the way, you look lovely, and I understand the desire not to feel constricted, but, trust me, in a pinch, a bra makes a great sling weapon.”

“I did not hear that,” I said.

Meryl tugged at the bottom of her jacket. It didn’t cover anything. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She patted my chest. “Just girl talk. See you soon.”

I closed the door behind her and turned toward Meryl. “Do not say a word,” I said.

She grinned like I’d never seen her do. “What? I liked her.”

Meryl and Joe pretended to talk to each other while I jumped in the shower. They tolerated each other at best, suspected each other’s motives at worst. Flits had a history of innocent spying, which no one liked, and Meryl had a history of strict privacy, which she made no exceptions for. Joe had a habit of annoying whomever I dated. I thought of it as hazing the new person in my social life, but my dates tended to think he was a pain in the ass. He was, but he was part of the package when someone hung out with me.

I came out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair and wondering if I had clean socks. For such an empty room, I had a hard time keeping track of stuff. I opened the top drawer of the small dresser and found Joe sleeping in my underwear. Without waking him, I managed to find two socks that looked the same color. Joe looked comfortable, so I closed the drawer again.

I overlooked Joe’s less-than-mature antics—didn’t even notice them most of the time. I grew up with him. Joe was who he was. His bad side was irritating, but at least that was the extent of it. Lots of people had bad sides that were worse, Meryl among them. She was grumpy, quick to anger, and an intellectual snob. I wouldn’t have either of them any other way because when they flew, they soared.

Across the room, Meryl stood in front of the blank canvas, intense concentration on her face. I had pulled it out of the closet and shown her the protection wards Ceridwen had placed. Meryl had stripped them off and let the scrying essence free again. I activated my body shield to keep the more intense radiations from bothering the dark mass.

The visible surface of the canvas remained white, the dried paint lumped and swirled in random directions. Meryl had slopped the paint on with her hands, evidenced by furrows with obvious finger marks. With sensing ability, though, the canvas came alive, a kaleidoscopic array of moving colored essence that separated and re-formed into shapes and images. It made my head hurt, the darkness pulse in the same way it reacted when someone was scrying.

“I did this,” Meryl said.

“Yep.”

When I first found the stone ward bowl, I asked Shay to take it for safekeeping. He had hidden it at his place, which no one but I knew. A few months earlier, I thought someone was hunting for the bowl, so I went to warn Shay that it was time to hide it somewhere else. I wanted him to move it to the abandoned squat—which he did—but that didn’t happen until after. I had taken Meryl with me to Shay’s studio that day. She was in a mindless trance, then. The next thing I knew, the stone bowl was reacting to her presence and shooting essence into her body. Meryl had grabbed at Shay’s paints and attacked the canvas as if possessed. The result was the scrying-infused artwork in the middle of my room.

Meryl held her hand close to the surface of the canvas. The essence reacted, the images sharpening into more recognizable shapes. A sword danced into view, then something like flames. “Did I say anything?”

“No.” She had painted in a trance, fueled by the energies of the stone bowl.

Meryl stepped back with her hands on her hips. “It’s my dream. I painted my dream from the trance.”

I pulled on a black T-shirt and tucked it into my jeans. The living room had no mirror, so I fumbled fingers through my hair. It’s what I would have done in the bathroom mirror anyway, to worse results. “The one you couldn’t remember?” I asked.