Chapter 25

Quinn stood in the shower after his morning run, relaxing, letting random thoughts ping him. Hot showers, it occurred to him that of all the luxuries he had being back in the world—hot showers should be right at the top of the list. In Afghanistan, they were few and far between. In the Murk, there were none. There were ponds and lakes in there— breathtaking limpid spring-fed pools that tempted the seventeen-year-old boy on the run—utterly exhausted from days and weeks of fights with whatever predators the troll women had arranged to ambush him. The problem was that like everything else in the Murk; the ponds were deadly, prime hunting grounds for selkies and other swamp carnivores. He’d been caught, dragged down and drowned several times until he had learned to keep his distance—no matter the temptation. Over time, he’d learned, like he had learned all the lessons the troll women taught him—the hard way.

After a breakfast at the Blue Bird Cafe, which was a bit weird because his entrance was greeted with stares and whisperings, Quinn decided to walk to his appointment. The judge’s office was on the north side of town—the side of town that had once hosted a bunch of psychics, palm readers and astrologers. It now featured three square blocks crammed with upscale crafter shops. Emory’s Crafter community was obviously still going strong, the artisans taking full advantage of the Opari’s magic to enhance their talents.

Emory was famous for its unique (and expensive) shops—shops with exotic items you would expect to see in Santa Fe or Flagstaff but not in a back-water town in Washington State. He walked past a shop that featured handmade soaps and perfumes, he’d worked there for a couple of weeks when he was a kid. Next door was a cobbler’s shop owned by Mr. Knuth that featured bespoke boots and shoes. He saw three art galleries that were new. Two featured paintings, the third pottery and sculptures. Mr. Omar’s Rugs and Tapestries was still the same. The Scriber twins’ distinctive hand-woven basket store had expanded.

Everybody up and down the street was no doubt getting set for one of their busiest weeks of the year.

His first stop was at Marigold’s Coffees, Teas and Baked Goods. He opened the door and was immediately met by a mélange of wonderful homey smells. When he was a boy, this shop was his favorite place in all the world.

“Good morning,” A cheerful voice called out from the back. “Just a second and I’ll be right with you.”

“Oh, Sweet Mother of All, Lachlan Joseph Quinn, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Marigold Hope said with a smile of delight as she walked up to the front carrying a platter of fresh baked scones and muffins.

Cayden MacLeish had firm ideas on how a young boy ought to be educated. Public school was not on his list. When Quinn came to live with him, he created a curriculum of his own devising that was really a series of mini apprenticeships.

Mistress Marigold Hope had been one of his tutors. She was Gus’ mother, a big woman with a comfortable lived-in kind of face, kind eyes and a warm smile. She gave him the same mischievous grin that she had given to him when as a wide eyed nine-year-old, he had shyly mumbled a hello when Mr. MacLeish brought him to her place to learn how to cook and bake. He had abruptly found himself swept up in a huge hug so warm that all he could do was stand there and leak tears like a baby. Instead of commenting, she had just smiled and led him back to her kitchen to help her and his new friend Gus decide which of her cupcakes tasted best.

Mistress Marigold was a Master-Crafter—a baking genius. Young brides drove up from Seattle and Tacoma to beg her to create their wedding cakes. In the beginning, his job had been washing pots and pans for her while standing on a bench so he could reach the sink. Over the years, despite her patience and try as he might. He was never able to match the perfection of her creations, the subtle nuances of genius, that made them special opposed to the merely okay the stuff he baked. The same was true for most of his attempts to match his other Crafter-mentors. The only work he did that approached master level was when he worked with wood under the hyper-critical eye of old Finn.

“Lachlan, it’s so nice to see you,” she gave him a stern look. “You look a little better than when you came back from that awful war, but you’re still way too thin.”

“Well, my cooking has never been up to yours. I’m heading over to the Judge’s office and I was hoping to get a cup of your coffee.”

“I roasted some beans just this morning. It’s way better than that Starbucks crap you drink.” Mistress Marigold wasn’t too fond of Starbucks. “Would you like a taste of my newest cupcake? I call it Chocolate Sin. Pull up a chair and talk to me while I get things ready for the day’s business.”

Quinn grinned, “Well, I guess I could take a minute and give you an honest opinion about your latest creation.” He grabbed a chair at the table close to the counter so they could chat while she worked. She was a whirlwind, as always. Her shop was spotless although you couldn’t tell it from her actions. She was constantly wiping counters down, making minute adjustments to displays, chattering as she worked. He was suddenly struck by how much he’d missed by living in Seattle.

Quinn took a bite and closed his eyes as the unbelievably rich flavor exploded in his mouth. He took a sip of coffee, grinned at her, and said the thing he always said when he tried a new one of her creations:

“I like these ones best of all.”

She gave him a delighted laugh, then turned serious.

“I heard what you did for little Julie. I was so proud of you, Lachlan. I was just telling Jane how you always seemed to be the guy who’s there to take care of things whenever there’s an emergency. I sure hope you’re finally here to stay.”

Quinn didn’t want to say he was leaving as soon as he could, so he just nodded and sipped his coffee.

“And I heard that you give a great floor show too,” she grinned. “According to Jane, you were the subject of conversation down at the Blue Bird this morning. They were all appreciative about what lurked underneath all those baggy clothes you always wear.”

“So that was why everybody was staring at me at breakfast this morning. Mrs. Edna is a gossiper. You can tell her I said so too. You’d think folks had more interesting things to talk about than me.”

“Not really,” she grinned. Then she abruptly changed the subject. “Before you go up to the Judge’s office. There are some things you need to know.”

“What things?” At last, maybe he could get an idea of what was going on here.

She pointed to the north of town. “Up there just south of the Three Fingers Mountain is the Opari Wilderness. You know all about that place, as I recall, you disappeared into it the summer you turned sixteen or seventeen and came back different.”

Quinn wondered if she had any idea of how “different” he was.

“Somewhere in the middle of the Opari there is a Thinning between two maybe three different planes of reality. The magic that seeps through that Thinning is the magic that powers us.

She stopped and looked at him, he guessed to make sure he was paying attention.

“I do know that,” he said.

“Bear with me. The Opari Wilderness is a bone of contention between four or five different groups—The Sabina and O’Neal Covens here in town, the Shifter-Kin both north and south of us, the two Sidhe Clans on the other side of the Thinning and probably The Three down in Oldtown. Since the old man disappeared, the temptation has been mounting for either the Covens and the Kin to copper their bets and take it over. That possibility no doubt makes the Fae Folk nervous. It’s like a powder keg waiting to be lit. We crafters are scared.”

“Okay, I get that. What do you all want?”

“You know us, we don’t want much, we just want some stability to do our work. We don’t need constant stress.”

“A month ago, the Covens lit the fuse. They declared the old Cayden dead. They had to call you in for the will reading—even though for some reason you scare the heck out of them. Quinn, they plan to use you somehow—I just don’t know how.”

She abruptly changed the subject.

“I’m still looking for your people you know. Getting close, I think.”

Mistress Marigold was determined to find out who “his people” were. Quinn didn’t care much. Anybody who could leave their newborn baby in a dumpster outside of Ivar’s Acres of Clams didn’t seem to be people that he needed to meet. But he could refuse her nothing, so like always, he pretended he was interested.

“I think we’ve got a breakthrough; I’ve heard from a woman down in Oldtown who might have some information.

“Great, sorry, I’ve got to get over to the Judge’s office.” Quinn gave her a kiss and a hug.

Marigold blessed him as she always did, with a warm hand to his cheek.

“Love you. May the Mother of All keep and protect you, my precious boy.”

She smiled at him and hugged him once more. Then shook a mock finger at him.

“And by the way young Lachlan, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times if you expect to bake quality cakes you have to use quality ingredients. That cheesecake of yours was ruined by cheap cheese. Shame on you.”

Quinn hung his head in contrition. Quinn wondered if she knew how much that scolding meant to him. He decided she did.

“I’m gonna get that big tattle tale, Gus.” He mock grumped. “Love you, Aunt Mari.”

His grin disappeared as he walked out into the world again.

Quinn ran into Henry outside the Judge’s office.

“Well, hello Henry, fancy meeting you here.”

“Howdy, Lachlan. Since I head up the Crafter Council, the Judge thought I better be here to bear witness.”

He held the door and they walked in.

“Hey Linda,” Henry said to the very pretty, very pregnant twenty-something blond receptionist.

“Hi Uncle Henry, They’re in the big meeting room.”

“Thanks honey. Say hi to Jeff for me, will you. Tell him I expect to see him at our poker night on Saturday.”

“Yeah, maybe he’ll win for once,” she laughed. “I’m the one who has to listen to him complain about you sharks. Then on the rare times he does win he wants to buy something stupid like a new fly rod instead of something practical like a purse or new pair of shoes for me.”

She looked at Quinn. “Who does handsome belong to?”

“Oh sorry. Linda meet Lachlan Quinn. He is the long-awaited guest of honor. Lachlan, this is my favorite niece, Linda Shelton.”

“Glad to meet you, Ma’am,” Quinn said and shook her hand.

“Seriously? You did not just call me ma’am. All those hours getting made up wasted. I’m crushed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Quinn grinned at her. “Now that I think about it, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Except for the whole baby mama thing,” she laughed and patted her stomach, “You’re too easy. Go right on in.”

As they walked in, Quinn wasn’t surprised to see Mandy, sitting primly at the end of the big white oak conference table that dominated the room. She had a notebook in front of her.

“Good morning, Mandy. Long time no see,” he said.

Her big blue eyes gave him a scornful, dismissive glance.

Friendly.

Judge,” Henry said, “this here is Mr. Lachlan Quinn, the guest of honor, Lachlan meet Judge Morgan Caine. I guess you know Mandy.”

The Judge looked like she’d be way more comfortable on the back of a horse than in a courtroom. An attractive dark-haired woman in her late forties, she wore a bright white silky looking blouse and blue jeans with some fancy cowboy boots. She had smart snapping brown eyes set in a sun-tanned face.

Impressive woman. Quinn thought. A woman who didn’t suffer fools.

“It’s about time you got here, Mr. Quinn. May I call you Lachlan? We don’t stand on ceremony much here.”

Quinn nodded and shook her hand. “Sure. Glad to meet you, ma’am.”

“Why don’t you take a seat there? Can we get you a cup of coffee or water? We’re waiting for several others to join us. We’re going to be here for a while.”

“Sure, water would be great.”

“Mandy, would you get Lachlan a bottle of water please. Henry some tea?”

Mandy nodded to the Judge and marched out, with stiff shoulders, disapproval rolling off her with every step.

She’s probably trying to figure out where the judge stores the rat poison.

She came back in with Henry’s tea and slid a bottle of water over to Quinn.

Quinn grinned at her and ostentatiously checked to make sure it was still sealed.

“You are not one bit funny, Lachlan Quinn.”

“You’re just grouchy because you didn’t get a kiss when we were driving into town.”

Her teeth ground together.

His revenge complete, Quinn turned his attention back to the Judge.

“Sorry I’m late.” Charming swept into the room with another woman.

“Charming, you remember Lachlan Quinn from Seattle,” Henry said.

“Yes, I remember him well.” She gave him a cool look. “We spoke recently.”

She took a seat next to Mandy.

Quinn nodded to her.

“Temperance Ashwell, you are well come,” the Judge said formally.

Temperance was a tall woman with big brown eyes and steel gray hair. Despite her age, Quinn thought she was in her seventies. She was built like a gymnast and moved like flowing water. Her eyes moved to everybody in the room. Assessing risk, Quinn thought, probably a habit she did automatically. A warrior-witch like Katie. She gave him a faint smile and sat down next to him. All the better to keep an eye on me, he thought. For some reason, he liked her immediately.

“So,” she said, “we get to meet the hero the town’s talking about over at the Blue Bird? You even made the Seattle papers. You will be happy to know that the little girl you ministered to is doing fine.”

“I’d be happier if your sister guardians had the woman who cast the spell in hand. And I’m no hero.” Quinn hated that word with a passion. “I just slapped a bandage on her.”

“You’re right, certainly not a hero,” Mandy said. “It’s your fault she was hurt in the first place.”

“Be silent, girl,” Temperance said coldly. “Althea is far too lenient on you and your sisters. We will have words about your interference in long laid plans.”

Mandy gave her a mulish look but didn’t respond.

Next to arrive was a man and woman in their middle forties. They came into the room like they were royalty, self-importance oozing out of every pore. The woman’s silver hair was done up in a bouffant. She wore a multicolored summery cotton dress with a strand of pearls around her neck.

Jesus, the fifties called, and they want Beaver Cleaver’s mom back.

Then he saw her cold eyes and grim lips.

Or maybe not.