Page 24 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“How many times do I have to tell you, my father won’t pass on his estate unless I marry—”

“Fine,” she said, draining the glass. “But the butcher’s moving in here. I want to fuck in my own bed.” On her way out, she paused, leaning against the doorframe. “So, your perfumed letters finally worked. Good for you, Waldey. I mean it.”

“Cologne!” he sputtered. “They weren’t perfumed. They were… cologned.”

His face remained hot and flushed throughout his packing. Before he left, he lay on his bed one last time, ruminating that the sheets would likely be stiff with butcher emissions if he ever ventured back. Satisfied to take his leave, and having re-dressed himself sufficiently, he hoisted a suitcase in each hand (repressing the ghoulish lengthening of his limbs that felt like a withheld cough), and danced his way down the staircase. “Goodbye Madeline, dear,” he called, before slamming the door on his too-long foot and shouting.

On his hopping return to the Beadle manor, the only witnesses were pedestrians, his fellow witches likely being clustered in parliament gossiping over his death. That, at least, brought him some amusement, so that he was chuckling as he shouldered his way through Beadle’s door and threw down his luggage. Even more relief came from the shifting of his shape; if Beadle employed housekeepers, he had yet to see them, and besides, anyone who attended a witch must at all times expect the uncanny and horrific.

Waldemar’s good humor drained as he found a note waiting in the lounge. “I suppose it is a Monday,” he muttered. “Typically, I’d be making my way there, as well. Say…”

Retaking his human form proved to be an almost literal pain. He wanted to relax, and to perhaps catch a couple of the pigeons he’d passed on the way to Beadle’s, to give his jaw some thing to work on. Nevertheless, he intruded into Beadle’s bedroom and groped at his hair and features in the mirror, muttering incantations, until everything was in order.

It was an hour’s walk to parliament; Beadle’s manor was well-positioned. The rise of the towers soon greeted him, their copper rooftops oxidized turquoise with age. The clock set into the central tower told him precisely where they’d be assembled; Waldemar had a sharp memory, and never needed to consult a schedule twice. He entered with a small stream of tourists into the central hall. Mutters escaped them in a flurry: remarks on the carpeting, and the gargantuan oil paintings, and how the lamps accentuated the richness of the wood, and how oh, do you suppose that’s one of them, do you suppose that’s a real witch?

Waldemar simpered for the crowd, dipping his head at the prettiest of the women, and finding his vanity rewarded when she flushed and covered her mouth. Vibrating with the pleasure of it all, he ducked beneath a red cord, to enter a spell-locked door. He could’ve taken a back channel and avoided this; most did. But doing so would’ve put him in private proximity to those who thought him dead, and he wanted his re-entrance to be rather public.

The House of Commons, when he finally entered, was full of witches. He’d arrived during the statements portion, where brief speeches could be made on matters of national or regional importance. Waldemar’s death, no doubt, qualified.

Rows of seats, upholstered in emerald, faced a carpet of the same color. This led to a clerk’s table, and a stand spelled for voice projection.

Waldemar walked the carpet with his chin high. Gasps and exclamations followed his progress. He allowed this to wash over him while keeping his face wiped clean of enjoyment, only stopping once, in front of a shock-whitened Pietro Angeli.

Pietro leaned forward, his pristine teeth exposed by his gaping. “Pemberton! I’d heard terrible things. I’m glad they aren’t true.”

“No, they are.” Waldemar smirked, and continued his walk. He bypassed the clerk’s desk, ignoring the stare of the small, bald man, and stepped up before the plinth (allowing the man currently in position to retreat with bulging eyes). “Forgive my unscheduled interruption. You know who I am. And you know of the fate that befell me last night. Yes—” He raised his voice over the growing murmur. “Waldemar Pemberton was killed. Murdered, by one of our own, and consumed by the ghoul assigned to the task.” With this, he let his shape slip. Only briefly, as the thin limbs of a ghoul fitted his suit unflatteringly, but long enough to make the point clear. As the mutters rose to shouts, he adjusted his sleeves, and continued. “As a result of these… circumstances, I possess knowledge of the witch who commanded the creature. Pietro Angeli is responsible for my murder.” He raised an arm and pointed (noting with annoyance his sharpened claw of a nail) to where the white-toothed man sat whimpering in shock. Before his fellows could move to detain him, Pietro Angeli pulled an amulet from his breast pocket and snapped it, releasing a swarm of runes that cloaked his form. Being a superior wielder of illusion, Waldemar had no trouble following Angeli’s progress out of the room, but many of his fellow witches could only shout in consternation.

In the midst of this, Waldemar hopped down from the plinth, shouldering his way through the witches who’d vacated their seats, until he found Lambert. “Shall we walk?” he said, interlocking their elbows.

Nobody prevented their exit through the great double-doors. Several witches milled in the hall outside, but – as one homed in on Pietro’s trail, illuminating his footsteps with a spell – they hurried off.

Waldemar didn’t stop, leading Lambert at a casual pace around a corner, into the Hall of Contemplation. Curtained booths lined one side, where men might sit and agonize over the direction of their vote on various bills. Arched windows dominated the other wall, with stained-glass portraits of former ministers. Waldemar slowed briefly in each patch of sunlight, luxuriating in their warmth. For a time, the only sounds were the clicking of their heels.

“Why?” said Lambert, finally.

“What would you get from our legal system – a noose? That’s far too light. Now, you’ll never have the relief of confessing and clearing your conscience. This will hang over you, rotting you, until—”

Seizing Waldemar by the shoulders, Lambert walked him, forcefully, toward a booth of contemplation. “As always, Pemberton, you’re almost correct. The guilt might have caused some real distress, if I’d killed anyone else. But for your murder? I doubt I’ll ever feel a thing.”

“Is that right?” Waldemar allowed himself to be shoved inside, his teeth lengthening as he grinned.

Lambert followed him in, already loosening his cravat. “That’s right.”

Minutes passed. A passing pair of parliamentary witches, having heard the rustles and banging, paused before the booth. They exchanged an uneasy look. One leaned in to peer behind the curtain and then shot back, grabbing his companion’s arm and marching them away. “Good heavens,” he squeaked, on a delay. “He appears to be open-mouth kissing that ghoul.”

Many months later, when Waldemar’s father passed, it was discovered that ghouls cannot legally inherit a witch’s estate. To everyone’s surprise – most of all his own – Waldemar Pemberton did not care. The only one who took exception was Lambert Beadle, who found it financially damaging to be constantly replacing bedsheets and chaise longues torn up by claws (though the shouting matches this inspired always terminated in a manner that they found mutually beneficial).

As for Pietro Angeli, he fled the country and picked up a lovely tan. All in all, it was admitted to be one of the more positive murders to have been committed that year.

THE BROCADE PRINCE

By

A. Y. CHAO

Anight breeze danced in the tranquil courtyards of Lord Yang’s sprawling family mansion. It tickled the grass and whispered to the trees. One of the windows on the upper floor of Wild Apple Court was ajar; the breeze slipped through to the darkened room beyond and rippled the silk curtains, rattled the paintings, ruffling everything it touched – apart from the figure standing in shadow. Clad in a robe the colour of midnight, long hair tied in a topknot, a carved leather mask dangling from her fingers, Yang Feifei kept watch by her window, waiting for the clouds to roll in.

By day the courtyards were a cacophony of colour and activity. Servants hurried here and there through the covered walkways, govern ment officials sought her father’s wisdom on state matters and his company for games of Go. Her father’s concubine, Chi Hsiao Niang, was renowned for embodying the four womanly virtues in speech, manner, countenance and conduct; noble ladies sought her counsel on domestic issues and her company for strolls along the courtyard’s zigzag bridges, to admire koi and lotus flowers. But as soon as the first geng drum announced dusk and the closure of the city gates, the courtyards emptied of visitors, and the great doors of the Yang family mansion were bolted shut.