Page 81 of The Discount Damsel

As the sorcerer clearly debated whether or not to let her in, she entertained herself by flicking the knocker on the beak. The brass contraption was a funny little thing, shaped like an owl with a pineapple for a belly. It was meant to convey both a sense of welcome (the pineapple) and of the wise, scholarly conversation one would find within (the owl). To Penelope, the knocker most accurately described the owner of the study—a complete nutjob.

“Enter,” came a male voice from within, and the door swung inward of its own accord.

The study was a mirror image of the tower workroom if everything hadn’t been shoved to the perimeter. Books, orreries, star charts, a crystal ball that only ever showed the bottom of a seabed, an abalone-framed mirror, the twin halves of an amethyst geode as tall as she was, the bust sculptures of famous sorcerers long since passed that now served as coat hooks bearing hat, scarf, and earmuffs—the usual. The sorcerer’s staff stuck out of the umbrella stand by the hearth, the glow of its white crystal luminous but faint. Sleeping.

There was a path through the warren of stuff, Penelope knew, for she had trod it many times and insisted (threatened) the sorcerer to keep it clear at all times. A merry fire licked against the logs in the nearby hearth but didn’t consume them, and a wind twirled the curtains at the open windows but didn’t affect the temperature of the room one whit. It was an enjoyable seventy-two degrees at all times, day or night, regardless of season.

Such was the power of the sorcerer who sat with his feet propped up on his desk and his chair rocked back and balancing on its rear legs. The posture spoke to the youthful exuberance and daring that still coursed through his veins even though crow’s feet tracked deeply at the corners of his eyes and his hair had gone completely white. It still fell thickly to his shoulders, swept back and curling against the collar of his blue robe.

He’d been in the middle of poking and prodding a Tianzi puzzle box (to no avail) when the griffin rider entered. “Penelope,” Excelsior exclaimed, as if he hadn’t known all along who had abused his door with the pineapple owl just moments before.

As the door shut behind her, once again by its own volition, she removed her gloves, finger by finger. Muscle memory guided her through the chaotic clutter. “You, husband, are a very cruel man.”

Excelsior abandoned the unopened puzzle box onto his desk and dropped his chair back onto all fours. “Such a lovely way to greet the love of your life after spending twenty-four hours apart. You wound me, my dear.”

The griffin rider, who to everyone outside this room, with only two exceptions, was known only by her maiden name, Miss Penelope Shrewsbury, tossed her gloves down on the desk beside the puzzle box. “Good. Because that is how I feel every time I fly away from your apprentice.”

Excelsior steepled his fingers under his chin. “Having a bad go of it, is he?”

Penelope removed her riding hat and set it down by the gloves. With it removed from her head, so was the enchantment, and her ears resumed their natural tipped appearance. Her white-blonde hair, the only hint to her true age, tumbled down from its tidy roll at the base of her neck. Her husband’s eyes flicked to watch the hair slide like silk over the tight riding jacket down to her waist; his fingers twitched with longing, but she stayed just out of reach.

“A word from you would go a long way,” the elven griffin rider said.

“I don’t call that tower ‘The Crucible’ for nothing, my dear,” he told her waist. “If I help him in any way other than I already have, he will never shed that curse.”

“Isn’t there something you can do? Hasn’t the boy suffered enough?” She loosened her belt and slowly undulated her hips to slide it free where it could thud against the floor.

“There are eighty ways to rid himself of that curse available in that tower—counted them myself,” he told her hips.

“With that many, how hard does he have to search? Please tell me it’s not like Ostara of ’97 where you hid the colored eggs so well that none of the children could find them and they had to use bloodhounds.” Penelope undid the buttons of her riding jacket one by one, letting them pop free from the tension of the tight fit.

“They were ossuary pixies, actually,” he told her bust. “Tooth fairies, in the vernacular. They could smell the calcium in the eggshells from leagues away.” His gaze never wavered from the sliver of silk chemise that peeked through the riding jacket. “And to answer your question, that depends. Has Bradley given up that ridiculous obsession with potions and finally left the library?”

“Yes, and no.”

“Well, that’s his problem. While there are many hints in the library, there is only one true path there. Two, if you include the attic.”

“I think he’s cracking.” With her hands on her hips, Penelope arched her back in a stretch, fully aware that the silk chemise would lift and reveal a swath of flat midriff.

Her husband’s eyes dutifully ogled, his lower jaw going slack. She almost had him right where she wanted him.

“His bathroom was a wreck, he’s growing out his hair, he placed a ridiculously large order for rice paper with the cook⁠—”

“Why?” he asked her navel. “Is Lung Shang getting homesick?”

“He just really enjoys spring rolls, apparently. And he mis-shelved eight books. One is even missing.”

“What book?”

“Small Magicks.”

Excelsior’s gaze took on a faraway look, a soft smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. “Ah, so the boy hasn’t lost his sense of wonder. If he has the perception I think he does, that’ll eventually set him on the path of the Tianzi Twist Treasure Hunt. Or the false path of Infernal Dealings. Oh, I do hope it’s the treasure hunt. I need to update my board!”

The sorcerer jumped to his feet and leapt over a stack of books on the floor as nimbly as a gazelle. His blue robe flapped madly as he wove between pedestals and paintings leaning against those pedestals (as the walls were already full and he hadn’t gotten to securing them to the ceiling yet) to the blackboard. Listed there were all eighty methods of counter-curses and the odds of Bradley choosing that particular path. He updated two of them and decided to go a step further and draw a heart in pink chalk next to the few that were his personal favorites, specifically the Tianzi Twist Treasure Hunt and the Rock Dove Restoration. While all eighty would test his mettle and ingenuity, these two would test his character most cruelly, something Excelsior was far more invested in than Bradley’s power.

After wiping the chalk from his fingers with a cloth, he returned to his desk, sat, and lifted an expectant expression to his wife. Her face was a mixture of disbelief, bemusement, and irritation. “You may continue your report and your seduction.” He eagerly inched his chair closer to where she stood. “I’m ready.”

She snorted and folded her arms over her chest. Leaned against the desk and crossed her legs at the ankle. Penelope fixed him with a glacial glare, though she wasn’t nearly as vexed with him as she was angry with herself. She knew she’d been a little obvious, but he’d never proven immune to her charms before. Was this what it was like after a hundred years of marriage? Was she losing her touch? Her allure? Even if she was, he’d done the unforgivable and pointed it out. Which meant no carnal congress whatsoever until he apologized. This was all business.