“Shut up,” I said. But on the inside, I seized the memory of their embrace, the one that held me together as I reflected the magic of the Arcade, and wrapped it around me like a warm blanket to stop the chill crawling over my arms. A chill that had nothing to do with the season.
And just like that, the scent of star fruit faded away as if I’d only imagined it.
“Why don’t you guys come up?” Daniel said.
“Hm?” I said, barely coming back to the present in time to register what Daniel had said. “Oh.” I glanced up, toward Prospero’s window. No—Daniel’swindow. The change was too bizarre. “Sure,” I said.
We walked back to Daniel’s building.
Outside, there was still a gap in the hedge where Berron had pulled up a shrub and used it to restrain Jessica when we ran off with the stolen Mirror. Poor Mirror. So beautiful, now smashed into a million pieces. Not knowing what else to do, Poppy and I had swept them up and put them in a box in a closet for safekeeping, along with the empty frame.
We squeezed into the too-small elevator together, only to have Berron lunge for the doors and slip out just before they closed. “Be right back,” he called.
The door slid shut, and our body heat made the air temperature rise even as the elevator did. I exhaled when the doors opened and we stepped into the cooler, darker hallway.
Daniel led the way to his door, wielding a key before turning the handle and letting the door swing wide. “Come on in.”
We stepped inside. I shrugged off my jacket, removed my scarf, and tossed both over the back of the nearest couch. I did a pretty good job of looking nonchalant, I think, even though being in Prospero’s apartment still gave me the heebie-jeebies. Too many memories tinted red.
“It smells like someone’s grandma lives here,” I said.
“Dried flowers and a candy bowl,” Daniel said, helpfully pointing to the relevant items. “I’ll open a window.” He unlatched one and pushed the sash upward. It slid into place with a creak.
Cold autumn air poured in. Prospero’s apartment had always seemed hermetically sealed, like a time capsule—the Victorian dollhouse decor didn’t help—but by opening a window, the modern world blew inside. “You gonna keep all this stuff?”
“Why not?” Daniel said.
“It’s not exactly your style,” I replied, thinking of his high-rise condo, sleek with glass and metal.
“Neither was drinking blood, Zelda, but we all have to adapt.”
Berron burst through the unlocked door carrying an uprooted plant. Dirt rained down on the oriental carpet as he brandished the shrub. “I’m back!” His gaze swept the room and landed on a probably priceless porcelain Chinese urn decorated with painted goldfish. He dropped the shrub into the urn, poked at its drooping leaves and frowned, then cracked his knuckles.
Green and gold magic enveloped the plant. Healthy new growth doubled the length of the branches, and spring green leaves unfurled. Tiny flower buds appeared, grew, then burst open with pink petals and a fresh, delicate scent. “Ta-da!” Berron said, gesturing to the rosebush. “Housewarming present.”
I moved closer to examine the roses, and found an old book sitting next to the pot. I picked up the book and read the title aloud: “‘Manners for Men.’” Then I flipped a few pages. “Published in 1897. Oh, listen to this: ‘Woman’s Ideal Man.’ This ought to be good.”
“Pray continue,” Berron said, throwing himself down on one of the sofas.
I cleared my throat. “‘I suppose there was never yet a woman who had not somewhere set up on a pedestal in her brain an ideal of manhood. He is by no means immutable, this paragon. On the contrary, he changes very often.’”
“See?” Daniel interrupted. “‘Changes very often.’”
“Be quiet, I’m not done reading. ‘Like every other woman, I have my ideal of manhood. The difficulty is to describe it. First of all, he must be a gentleman’—”
“Simplicity itself.” Berron lounged more comfortably and aimed a smirk at Daniel.
I read on. “‘Gentleness and moral strength combined must be the salient characteristics of the gentleman… He must be thoughtful for others, kind to women and children and all helpless things, tender-hearted to the old and the poor and the unhappy, but never foolishly weak in giving where gifts do harm instead of good—his brain must be as fine as his heart, in fact.”
“Ah, so much for Daniel, then,” Berron said.
Daniel heaved a long-suffering sigh but didn’t rise to the bait.
“‘There are few such men,’” I continued, “‘but they do exist. I know one or two. Reliable as rocks, judicious in every action, dependable in trifles as well as the large affairs of life, full of mercy and kindness to others, affectionate and well-loved in their homes, their lives are pure and kindly.’” I closed the book with a snap and dropped it back on the table.
Daniel and Berron traded a dubious expression. “‘Pure and kindly’?” Daniel said.
“That might be going a littletoofar,” Berron agreed.
