The Price Guide to the Occult(9)
The dogs met Nor at the fence. Antiquity flung her giant front paws over the top of the gate and cast a disparaging look at Nor through a thick gray forelock. The little dog poked his nose at her through the lower slats of the fence. Quite the contrast of the larger dog, Bijou, as he called himself, was a happy little thing who always dreamed of sunshine and fireplaces. It made sense. Antiquity had been alive for going on nine generations now, but Bijou could still be considered a puppy and was about as ordinary as they came. Not that Nor would ever suggest such a thing.
Nor coaxed Antiquity down from the gate and followed the two dogs onto a path of river rocks that led to the Tower. In the light of the setting sun, the stones glowed like the embers of a dying bonfire.
The path spanned the length of the few acres of Rona’s original one hundred and eighty that they still held in the Blackburn name and connected the Tower with the little white dance studio that sat at the very edge of the property.
Visiting Apothia in her studio had been a favorite pastime of Nor’s as a small child. She’d browsed through closets filled with traditional silk cheongsams and several tutus, salvaged from Apothia’s days dancing with the San Francisco Ballet. Some afternoons, they had sat together on the porch in wicker chairs too frail to withstand Judd’s size and drank tea from a tea set hand-painted with cherry blossoms too delicate for Judd’s rough grasp. For hours, Nor would ramble on in the way that neglected children do, soaking up all the attention and eating countless tiny chocolates wrapped in brightly colored wrappings until she was so full of both she could burst.
Once inside the Tower, Nor found a kettle sitting in the kitchen’s great copper sink, water spilling over the sides. She turned off the faucet, careful not to look at the blank space on the wall over the sink.
A large assortment of knives — all different sizes for different purposes — had once hung there. Each knife was so sharp you could slice your hand without feeling a thing. The only proof of injury would have been the red blossom blooming fast in your palm. It had been over a year since Apothia had locked up the knives. Though Nor insisted the precaution was no longer necessary, locked up was where they remained.
Apothia was exactly where Nor had thought she’d find her, leaning over a wok on the stove, the heat from the steam creating a rosy glow in her papery cheeks. With her short gray hair styled into a puffy pompadour, it was hard to accept that Apothia Wu was almost seventy years old. She still had the poise of the dancer she had been years ago; Nor almost expected to look down and see a pair of pointe shoes on her feet.
Nor took a peek inside the wok and breathed in the aroma of a bubbling hot pot. Judging by the amount of red and green chilies and Szechuan peppercorns amid the tofu and ginger on the cutting board, it was going to be a spicy one. Nor’s eyes watered just thinking about it.
Apothia swatted Nor away from the stove. “You shouldn’t have gone running in this rainstorm,” Apothia scolded her. “You look pale.”
“You always say that,” Nor murmured. It could be ninety degrees outside and Apothia would still claim that Nor looked pale, as if it were Nor’s fault that she had a complexion that stubbornly remained a light fawn color even in the middle of the summer.
Nor’s great-grandmother Astrid had constructed the Tower around the remains of Rona’s original cedar house, which meant as Nor passed through the kitchen, her feet padded along the same places Rona’s once had. Nor imagined she could still hear her great skirts sweeping the floors as she walked. She wouldn’t have been surprised if, on turning her head, she found herself staring into that eerie violet glass eye.
Judd sat at the dining room table with Antiquity now curled at her colossal feet. She had her back turned to Nor, and for a moment, Nor watched the smoke from her rosewood pipe wind its wispy way up toward the ceiling and then fade away entirely.
Though Judd was a healer, one didn’t ask Judd to cure a broken heart or a bout of winter malaise; her specialty was physical pain. Some pain did not want to be healed; it had to be convinced, compelled, coerced into submission. Some pain gathered on Judd’s hands, clinging to her fingers like sticky threads of spiderweb silk. Some pain was drawn out as shards of ice that shattered when removed. Some pain was made of heavy, dense pebbles that filled Judd’s massive hands; still other pain blistered her palms, with red seeping wounds that Apothia covered with bandages and thick salve. It was a grueling Burden. And though it was true that few people knew how Judd healed, for those she helped, it was simply enough that she did.
Like most everyone who had come into contact with the Giantess, Nor loved and feared her grandmother. She was mountainous and intimidating, but there was a kindness in her scowl, a gentleness in those large hands.
Judd turned, and the chair beneath her groaned. Her long silver hair, loosely plaited, was wrapped around her head like a crown. It was the work of Apothia’s quick fingers; Judd’s were much too large for such deftness and too damaged, mangled by thick scar tissue running from thumb to forefinger, the result of so many healings. Tonight those hands were holding a copy of Fern’s book, The Price Guide to the Occult. Judd tossed the book onto the table with a loud smack as Nor sank into the chair across from her.
“When did you find out?” Nor asked.
“Just today,” Apothia answered for Judd, coming in to set a little cast-iron pot in front of Nor. She furiously rubbed Nor’s wet and unruly hair with a towel until Nor swatted her away.