A Meddle of Wizards. Alexandra Rushe
Raine got to her feet and tightened the string at the waist of her cotton pajamas. She’d lost more weight. Mimsie was right—she should eat something, but she had no appetite. Averting her gaze from the broken mirror, she headed for the bedroom door.
“Careful of the glass,” Mimsie warned. “You’re barefoot.” She fluttered after Raine into the upstairs hall. “There’s chicken noodle soup in the pantry and saltine crackers.”
“Yay. I’ll have a whiskey instead.”
“You don’t drink.”
“I’ve decided to take it up.”
Raine needed a drink. A lot of drinks. First the ghost and now the medieval hunk in the mirror. She’d lost her ever-loving mind.
“But what about the glass?”
“Later, Mims. It’s not going anywhere.”
Holding on to the rail, Raine staggered down the stairs and made her way into the library with the ghost at her heels. She switched on a lamp and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of the liquor cabinet. Sloshing two fingers into a glass, she took a hefty swig, coughing and gasping as the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat.
“Don’t guzzle it. That’s good sipping whiskey.”
“For goodness sake, stop pecking.” Raine wiped her streaming eyes. “You’re worse than a broody hen.”
“I’m not pecking,” Mimsie said. “I’m trying to educate you.”
Raine took another cautious sip. “Tell me something. Why show up now? You’ve been dead for years.”
The pretty young ghost sniffed. “I didn’t just show up, Mary Raine. Been here all along. It’s not my fault you couldn’t see me.”
“I can’t get over the way you look.” Raine waved the glass at Mimsie. “You are not the Mimsie I remember.”
Mimsie smoothed the silk dress that covered her slender figure. “I was eighty-four when I died. Why go through eternity an old woman if I don’t have to? Now I’m dead, I mean to live it up.”
The doorbell rang, interrupting them before Raine could think of a response to that bit of nonsense.
“Good grief,” Raine said, lowering her glass. “Who could that be at this time of night?”
“Betcha a dollar it’s that nosy Mamie Hall. Probably saw the lights on.”
Raine groaned. Her next-door neighbor was a notorious busybody. “You’re right. What in the world am I going to tell her?”
“You don’t have to tell her anything. It’s your house. You don’t owe the old biddy an explanation.”
The bell rang again, shrill and insistent.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Raine said. “She keeps that up, she’ll break the damn thing.”
She set the glass down and hurried into the hall. She yanked the front door open. The porch was dark and empty, but the old bell in the middle of the door spun like mad, as if turned by an invisible hand. The porch lights flared on and the bell stopped ringing.
“That’s strange,” Raine murmured, squinting at the glare.
“Raine? Get back here. You need to see this.”
What now? Raine thought, closing the door. Hurrying into the library, she found Mimsie standing by the window, her slim form shining in the dim light. The ghost raised her arm and pointed to the mirror over the mantel. The glass rippled like wind-tossed water.
Raine gasped in shock as the billowing folds of the mirror parted and a man with shoulder-length auburn hair stepped out. He held a brilliant jewel in one hand and he was dressed in some sort of costume—a tattered brown cloak, a knee-length rumpled brown tunic worn over loose leggings of the same color, and scruffy brown boots. He was handsome, Raine’s stunned brain realized, but he was not the man on the ship. Oh, no. This was an entirely different apparition. She stumbled back, tripped on the hem of her pajamas, and crashed to the floor with the grace of a hippo en pointe. Ignoring her aching rump, she gaped at the stranger.
“Do you see what I see?” Raine asked Mimsie, her gaze on her brain’s latest manifestation. Boy, when she had a meltdown, she had a doozy.
“If you’re talking about the man in the funny getup, absolutely,” the ghost said. “Call the police.”
“And tell them what? ´Scuse me, officer, could you send someone over? A man just broke into my house through the library mirror? They’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”
The man gave Raine a quizzical look and said something in a strange language. He waved the jewel at her and took a tentative step closer.
“Forget the police,” Mimsie said with a hiss. “Run. I’ll create a diversion.”
Raine scrambled to her feet and backed toward the door, her gaze on the stranger. He spoke again and the jewel in his hand flared, bleaching the library walls white. Raine’s muscles went stiff and hard as rock. She froze, unable to move, pinned to the floor like a bug.
“Let her go,” Mimsie screeched.
She flew at the man, passed through him, and came out the other side, but if the intruder noticed, he gave no sign. With a despairing wail, Mimsie disappeared, leaving Raine alone with him. Closing the space between them, he lifted Raine’s arm and examined the splotch on the underside of her left wrist. She stared at him, dizzy and disoriented. His hands were strong and uncallused, and his palms were hot against her skin.
He felt awfully real for a dream. No matter, she told herself. Tomorrow morning when I wake, he’ll be gone.
The stranger regarded her, his gaze troubled. “There must be some mistake.”
English, the man had spoken English, though his accent was peculiar.
He released her and stepped back. “You are not what I expected, but you have the mark.” He stroked his chin. “Still, best to be sure.”
He waved the stone again. Raine’s petrified muscles relaxed without warning, and she crumpled to the floor.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man bowed. “I am Archimedes Brefreton, a wizard of the order prime. You may call me Brefreton, Bree, or Red—anything but Archie, which I detest. What is your name?”
Wizard? The guy was a total nutter. Correction: she was the nutter. She’d had a complete brain melt.
“There’s a good girl.” Brain Tumor Boy gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell me your name.”
Raine struggled to her feet and straightened her pajamas. This was ridiculous. She would not be controlled by a lump on her brain.
But, to her fury, the words tumbled out of their own accord.
“Mary Raine Stewart, but that’s my adopted name,” she heard herself say. “No idea who my birth parents were. They left me on the steps of Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church when I was a baby. My father’s aunt raised me after my parents died.”
She stamped her foot and glared at this latest fancy of her beleaguered brain. “Stop that. You’re making me talk and I don’t like it.”
“Then I suggest you stop fighting me and cooperate.” He looked her up and down, taking in her ashen complexion, frizzy locks, and gaunt frame. “You are unwell?”
“Wow, someone give Captain Observant a free T-shirt.”
“What ails you?”
“Ding, ding, ding. That’s the fifty-million-dollar question. The only thing the doctors know for sure is that I’m dying.”
“Dying? Inconvenient, to be sure, but hardly insurmountable.” He brandished