“You’re too late,” Dairine said. “The French toast is history.”
“Knew I could count on you,” Nita said.
At the table, the centipede pointed a couple of spare eyes at the Christmas tree. “You done with that?” the centipede said.
“Yes,” the tree said, and pushed the pink magazine over to the centipede.
“Thanks,” said the centipede. It tore the cover off the magazine, examined it with a connoisseur’s eye, and started to eat it.
“Morning, everybody,” Nita said as she headed through the dining room and around the corner into the kitchen, where her father was. “You all sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” said the Christmas tree and the centipede.
“Adequately,” said the slim blond guy, nodding graciously to Nita as she passed.
In the kitchen, Nita’s tall, blocky, silver-haired dad was standing in front of the open fridge in sweatpants and a T-shirt, considering the contents. Nita went to him and hugged him. “Morning, Daddy.”
“Morning, sweetie.” He hugged her back, one-armed. “Didn’t think I’d see you so early.”
“I’m surprised too,” Nita said. “Didn’t think I’d get over the lag so fast. Tom and Carl are coming over in a while. Oh, and Kit.”
“That’s fine.”
Nita rummaged in the cupboard over the counter by the stove to find herself a mug, then put the kettle on the burner for tea. She put one hand on the kettle and said to the water inside it, in the Speech, “You wouldn’t mind boiling for me, would you?”
There was a soft rush of response as the water inside the kettle heated up very abruptly. Nita took her hand off in a hurry. It took only about five seconds for the kettle to start whistling with steam.
Nita stood there and breathed hard for a moment, feeling as if she’d just run a couple of flights of stairs. No wizardry was without its price, even one so small as making water boil: one way or another, you paid for the energy.
“You’re getting impatient in your old age,” her father said, reaching into one of the canisters on the other side of the refrigerator and handing Nita a tea bag.
“Yup,” Nita said as she dropped the tea bag into the mug and poured boiling water on it.
She smiled. Her father seemed to have become surprisingly blasé in a very short time about wizardry in general—but Nita and Dairine had between them put their parents through a fair amount of wizardly business in the past couple of years, and the adults’ coping skills had improved in a hurry once they’d come to grips with the idea that the magic in the house wasn’t going to go away.
“It’s almost nine,” her dad said. “I should get ready to go, honey.”
“Okay,” Nita said as her dad headed through the dining room and toward the back of the house.
She wandered back into the dining room with her tea and pulled one of the spare chairs over from the wall, pushing it down to the far end of the table between Sker’ret and where Dairine had been sitting. The centipede—Nita smiled at herself.
“Where’d these come from?” Nita said to Dairine as she came back in.
“Carmela brought them,” Dairine said. “They’re sure not
The Christmas tree—
“That’s just because you’re a sucker for Day-Glo, Filif,” Dairine said. “You’ll get over it.”
Nita somehow wasn’t so sure about that. “And as for you, Sker’ret,” she said to the Rirhait, “you’re a one-being recycling center.”
“There’s a pile of Dad’s old
“Oh, substance isn’t everything,” Sker’ret said. “Sometimes a little junk food’s just what you need.”