"Suuugar," Dean Martin sang out, low and lazy and sweet. "Sugar, we got company."
He cocked his green head and watched the procession come up the drive, counting.
"Eight more comin' our way, sugar." Dean stretched one wing across the eaves and snapped it back. "And these ain't cats."
Inside, the old house had settled into its small early-morning quiet. The cats from last night were curled on every available surface in a hush that was as close to peaceful as more than ahundred frightened cats could come. The fire in the parlor grate had burned down to a low cherry glow. The registration book lay closed on the desk.
Lazlo Varga stood staring past the book, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. He studied the great slab of dark wood, plain as a butcher's block, with a single narrow slit cut into its top. The slit had been worn so smooth at its edges that it gleamed. Lazlo laid one finger gently along it and felt the soft hum of old magic. He'd watched intently in the wee hours of the night as the pages documenting each familiar arrival had folded themselves, lifted, and slid into the slit with a small soft whisper. His thumb found the small rabbit's foot in his coat pocket and began to work it slowly. His lips moved without sound, as he turned and walked out of the parlor at his leisure.
The front hall of FACTS & FIBS was long and dim and lined on either side with small dark cabinets and the framed portraits of a hundred years of Hadwins. Lazlo moved down it without hurry. He paused once to admire a portrait of Edgar's grandfather, then moved on.
At the far end of the hall, set in the wall between the linen press and the back stairs, was a small, paneled door with a brass plate where a knob ought to be. It was barricaded with at least twenty locks. He counted, brass and iron and one that was certainly silver. There were small rune marks along the lintel and the doorframe that seemed to lift a hairsbreadth off the wood, as though they had noticed him and would prefer he not look any harder. Lazlo smiled.
This door was much more than a marvel. There was a low embered glow of layered magic all around it. A great deal of layered magic. Layered, Lazlo guessed, by more than one practitioner, over more than one century. His thumb worked the rabbit's foot, again.
"Shh, shh, my friend," Lazlo murmured, very softly. "Shh. We are only looking."
A door swung at the far end of the hall.
Edgar came out of the kitchen with a fresh mug of coffee. The hall boards creaked under his slow tread as he made for the front door. He stopped when he saw Lazlo.
"Mornin', friend." Edgar's drawl was warm and entirely unsurprised. "You're up with the birds."
"I am a creature of habit." Lazlo had already turned crossing back along the hall, and he met Edgar in the middle of the corridor with an easy smile. "I rise when the dark goes thin. I always have."
"My granddaddy was the same. Never could lay in." Edgar gestured with the mug. "There's a fresh pot on the stove, if you take it. Rhoda's already up."
"In a moment, perhaps." Lazlo's hand came out of his pocket, empty. He laid it on Edgar's shoulder. "I believe your bird is announcing more visitors."
"He is." Edgar tilted his head, listening. "Sounds like we need to interfere."
"Then by all means."
They walked together down the hall toward the front door.
The front door of FACTS & FIBS had three brass bells hanging on a strap inside the frame, and they began to jangle gently as the boots of the procession reached the porch. Rhoda came out of the kitchen and Honey was already on the stairs in her sweater, pulling her curls into a clip.
"Morning, Mom," Honey said.
"Morning, sweetheart." Rhoda did not slow. "Stay just inside the door for me. We don't want to overwhelm them."
"On it."
In the front hall, the three of them, Rhoda, Edgar, and Lazlo, fell into a small triangle. Rhoda at point. Edgar one shoulder'swidth to her left and one step back. Lazlo at her right hand, the easy old-friend's place. Roam braced himself just behind Honey.
Rhoda took one breath and opened the door. The cold air came in first. Eight figures stood waiting in a loose half-circle near the top of the steps. The Irishwoman in green velvet was in the front, her chin up, her boots set. The man with the small round spectacles stood a respectful distance behind her, his leather case at his feet, his hands folded. Behind them, the rest of the coach had clustered in. Rhoda stepped out onto the porch. Edgar and Lazlo moved with her.
"Good morning." She let the door fall most of the way closed behind her. "I'm Rhoda Hadwin. This is my husband Edgar, and our dear friend Lazlo Varga. You've come for your familiars."
"We have," said the Irishwoman, with the air of a woman who was prepared to take her cat home at any cost.
Rhoda's voice was warm and slow. "I know what you've travelled. I know what you've lost. I'm going to tell you the truth now, so you can decide what to do with it." She let one beat hang. "Your familiars are here, warm and as safe as they can be. We are taking care of them. We have been taking care of them since the first one set paw on my lawn yesterday evening, and we will go on taking care of them until they are safely home with you. You have my word."
"What we do not have yet," Rhoda said, "is news. We do not know why this happened. We do not know how. We are working on it, every one of us under this roof. But I will not give you a guess and call it an answer, and I will not let you stand on my porch or inside when the work that will get your familiars home needs to be done."
A witch began to push forward. "But…"
"I would like you, please," Rhoda held up her hand, "to go down into the town. The Boozy Cauldron is open. The Conjure House will feed you. The town will look after you while we lookafter your cats, and I will send word the moment we have news. Any news. Even bad news. I will send word."
