Meagan couldn't slam the phone down to disconnect, because it was a cell phone, which was the whole problem with cell phones. She had to settle for flinging it across the room. (Fortunately, it landed on the recliner.) Stupid jerk. It wasn't enough that he didn't give her the job—he had to make an Irish joke while he wasn't giving it to her. Meagan promised herself that she would murder the next person she heard making an Irish joke, no matter who it was.
She needed a drink. She'd never asked to be Irish. Maybe she should change her name? Meagan Flaherty was an open invitation to the humor impaired. On her way to the liquor cabinet, she glanced in the mirror and winced. Perhaps if she dyed her hair black? Except she'd still have freckles. She sighed and grabbed the bottle of Jameson's.
It didn't take much of the Jameson’s to reduce her to a puddle of resentment. Bigots everywhere—why did everybody look down on the Irish? She'd have gotten that job if she wasn't Irish. Not fair. She didn't know or care anything about Ireland. She'd never been there—even her grandparents had never been there. Her entire Irish legacy was her great-grandmother's box of 'Irish luck', which she hadn't even looked at since she was twelve when grandma died. Mom had nearly thrown it out then, but. . . Mom had always been a little sentimental about the old country. Meagan snorted. She wasn't sentimental. To hell with the old country—she was getting rid of the box.
It took some finding, because it was inside another box, underneath her old college textbooks, still unpacked from when she'd moved into the apartment three years ago.
Once she had it on the coffee table, she began to wonder. It wasn't an ordinary box but rather a small wooden chest with brass-work. It was obviously old, so maybe it was worth something. It was locked, but great-grandmother had—with classic Irish logic—carefully tied the key onto the box with a piece of string.
Inside, she found a jumble of papers: a marriage license, immigration papers, an army discharge (Meagan giggled to see that her great-grandfather, a notorious Anglophobe, had served in the British army), stacks of old letters, and an elaborate Valentine. There were a couple of painted miniatures and a few pieces of jewelry (bracelets, a locket that wouldn't open, and a rather handsome pocket watch), a porcelain teacup (now broken), two pairs of lace gloves, and some unidentifiable bits. And a half-burned candle.
Meagan fell back. What possible reason could her great-grandmother have had to save a used candle for a hundred years? Dumb. But her resentment was fading into a warm glow (which surely had nothing to do with the Jameson’s), a glow not lessened by the possibility that the bracelets might be valuable and the watch almost certainly was. Maybe even the miniatures, too—you never knew.
So she waved a Bic over the bottom of the candle until it was soft enough to mush down on a coaster and lit it. She poured one last shot of the Jameson's (it had better be her last—her head was already swimming) and raised a toast to dear old great-grandmother Flaherty. "Téigh le Dia!" which was pretty much all the Gaelic she knew, and then added, "Póg mo thóin," which was the rest of the Gaelic she knew, "Whichever." Go with God or kiss my ass. Not a bad choice.
She smiled as the candle glowed brighter and brighter, and cocked her head sideways as the flame flared up as bright as a sunset. Lord, she was drunk. Then the candle blazed blinding and went out. She blinked at it. It was out. She turned away, shaking her head as if she could shake off the phosphors exploding inside her dazzled eyes. And there he was.
He was definitely Irish. Short. Redheaded. Freckled.Snub-nosed. But basically normal. He was wearing an ordinary pair of dark green cargo pants and a green-on-green camo jacket over a bright green T-shirt. If he hadn't just materialized out of nowhere, she wouldn't have looked at him twice. Except he had.
He smiled and bowed and started to talk. She didn't understand a word. It sounded like Gaelic, but since he never said anything about going with God or kissing his ass, she couldn't be sure. She listened for a while, and finally said, "Huh?"
He stopped talking. He stood very still, looking at her. Finally he said, "You want me to talk in the English?" His Irish accent was thick and his tone utterly bewildered, as if he had never heard of anything so peculiar as talking in English.
"Yeah," she nodded. "Who are you?" After a half second's thought she added, "What'cha doin' here?" Only belatedly did it occur to her that he might be there to rob her or murder her, but as soon as she thought it, she chuckled. What nonsense. This little guy meant no harm to anybody, and even if he did, there was nothing he could do about it. Not big enough. Shorter even than her, maybe, and skinny. Nothing like scary. Sort of cute, actually.
He bowed again. "I am Seamus MacCormac Devlin Kerrigan, Esquire, of County Sligo, at your service, dear Miss. May I presume you are the heir of the beauteous Deidre O'Shaughnessy?' He smiled. "As if I needed to ask—you're the very image of her, and that's a fact."
She stared at him. He had the greenest eyes she'd ever seen, and she definitely liked him saying she was 'the very image' of somebody 'beauteous'. But nowhere in her whole huge Irish family was there a single O'Shaughnessy, or even a Deirdre. He stared back at her, smiling, clearly waiting for her flash of understanding. Finally, with a puzzled look, he added, "She that married that feckless rogue, Tom Flaherty."
"You mean great grandmother Flaherty?" she said, extending a hand. Well, great-grandma must have had a maiden name once, and a first name, too. "I'm Meagan. Seamus,
you said?" Poor guy—what an awful name. "What can I do for you?"
He smiled. He had a great smile. "More, what can I do for you Miss Meagan—it is 'Miss,' I'm hoping?" She nodded. "For I owe a very great debt to your dear. . . " he paused. "GREAT grandmother, you say? It must have been a very long time." He glanced down as if noticing his outfit for the first time. "The fashion has certainly changed." He didn't sound pleased. At long last, his glance fell on the bottle of Jameson's. "Now that's a most tragical thing to see, a pretty young lady, drinking all by herself. Have you no sweetheart to help you wash away your troubles?" He dropped down on the sofa beside her, picked up the bottle and raised it to his lips.
"I don't recollect offering you a drink," she pointed out.
He waved a hand airily. "There now, don't you fret about a little slip of manners among family. You'd have remembered in a minute."
She was still mulling over why she wasn't afraid of him. Sure, he was a likable guy—she might even consider going out with him if he were taller—but a strange man sneaking into your apartment wasn't usually a good thing. World-class sneaking, too. He'd appeared out of thin air, like. . . But that was too ridiculous even to think about. Still, it was that exact moment when. . . "What would happen if I lit the candle again?" she asked.
He turned those green eyes on her, all wide and wounded. "Now, what would you want to be doing that for? It must be the Jameson's talking—for surely you'd never send me off when you've not even made your wish yet." He edged closer to her on the sofa and took her hand in both of his. "Why don't you tell me what's got you weeping into your whisky and let me fix it for you?"
"I'm not weeping!"
He patted her hand. "Is it some lout of a man? I'll crack his skull into little bits for you. Aye, and spit on the little bits, too."
"No, no, nothing like that. But I've been out of work for nearly a year now, my savings are all gone and I don't know how I'm going to pay the rent. And then that stupid Human Resources Manager had the nerve to make an Irish joke." By the time she'd finished saying it, she was weeping, so she put her head on his shoulder and sobbed. "Can you really give me a wish?" Silly as the suggestion was, she found herself looking up imploringly, somehow still hoping, even though it was sheer nonsense.
He rolled his eyes. "Is that all you're needing? Money?" He lifted a hand—but happened to leave the other arm around her shoulders—and snapped his fingers. A flame leapt up from the wick of the snuffed candle. "There you go, little darling."
She stared at the burning candle in so much confusion that she failed to notice that he had called her 'darling'. "I thought you said we shouldn't light the candle again."
"No," he answered. "I said YOU shouldn't light it again." He smiled at her, clearly waiting for her to see the obvious. Eventually he sighed. "Ach, it's a good thing you've got me to protect you from them that would take advantage of your ignorance. As long as it's me lighting the candle, I'm opening the door, don't you know? But if you was to light it, you'd be closing the door."
She turned and looked at the front door, but he hadn't opened that. It was closed, locked even. "What door?"
He stared at her "You know. The door." She didn't know. He shrugged. "So, you think that'll be enough?" He waved a hand, and there, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, was a pot of gold. Just like in the old stories.
Her mouth fell open. It had to be fake, some kind of trick, but she still reached down to look. Nothing happened when she lifted. It wasn't a big pot, not much more than a quart. She lifted again, with more force. Thirty-five or forty pounds, at the very least. She scooped up a handful of coins. They were all different sizes, with unfamiliar portraits and foreign inscriptions, some worn thin and others crisply etched, but all lustrous and gleaming in the candlelight. They couldn't possibly be real, but the weight of them slipping through her fingers was intoxicating. "How. . .?" she breathed, turning to Seamus, and his eyes glowed brighter than the gold, warming her heart and compelling her to smile. "Why don't you have another drink, Sam? I'll get you a glass."
He smiled back, a smile that was almost magical. "I'd rather share yours, Meg."
#
She woke in the morning, never doubting it was all a drunken dream (despite the complete absence of a hangover) or even an outright hallucination. Then she smelled breakfast. The bottle of Jameson's was gone but the little clay pot was not. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but there were pancakes and bacon and home-fries on the table, still hot and fragrant. He must have just stepped out for a minute. The very thought of Sam's name set her blushing bright purple. So she ordered herself not to think about him, and set to work while she ate.
Step one was sorting the coins. There were a dozen denominations, not counting a few that were too battered to identify. It took a long time: stacking them and counting them and bagging them up in zip-locs according to type, not to mention jotting down how many there were of each, while pausing at intervals to nibble a strip of bacon and wipe the grease off her fingers.
Finally she leaned back, lips pressed together in annoyance. Not a single American coin in the lot, so no grocery shopping. It shouldn't have been such a disappointment. She'd known yesterday there'd be no grocery shopping if she didn't get the job. But with hundreds, nearly thousands, of gold coins scattered across the table, she felt entitled to go grocery shopping. Maybe if she asked Sam, he could do something about it.
Except Sam wasn't there. He'd never come back. She sat up straight and looked around. She even called. But no Sam. What, he'd made her breakfast and then snuck out? The connotations of a man sneaking out before breakfast set her blushing again. Had she really? She couldn't have, she barely knew him! But he’d been so charming. . . And there was the Jameson's. . . And the gold. . .
And then he'd walked out without even staying for breakfast, like she was a. . . The blush faded and tears welled up instead. 'NO,' she told herself. He'd cooked the breakfast he hadn't stayed for. He was coming back. He'd forgotten to leave a note, was all. Nobody handed over a pot of gold and then dumped you.
Step two would have to be identifying the coins. She stuffed a baggie of sample coins into her purse and wrote a note for Sam (because surely he was coming back) but froze at the door. She couldn't just stroll out, with a fortune sitting on the kitchen table. Could she? No, she couldn't. She stuffed the baggies into the pot and pushed it into the cupboard under the sink, behind the giant economy package of paper towels. It was the best she could do, security-wise. Then off to the library for free wi-fi. She walked, of course. The car had been repossessed months ago.
It was a good thing she loved the library. Otherwise the afternoon would have been a total waste. She thought she knew her way around the internet, but hours of surfing left her knowing only that coin collectors were called numismatists, rare coins were sometimes valuable even when they weren't gold, and numismatists were a secretive bunch of nerds. Their websites assumed knowledge and experience, and were impenetrable to the uninitiated, not to mention lacking in the visual data one expected of the internet. In the absence of pictures, she failed to identify a single coin.
General searches on 'gold coins' brought up information on the difference between 24K and 22K, on the comparative weights of troy ounces, regular ounces and grams and on the history of the gold standard, which most countries had abandoned in favor of paper currency after the Depression. She learned that a new fifty-dollar American Buffalo gold piece (not available in banks) had recently been issued and used the same engravings as an old nickel. She also learned that the price of gold rarely fluctuated and was currently over $1,600 per (regular) ounce.
At that, she paused for some mental arithmetic. She had originally guessed thirty-five or forty pounds. That would be worth about a million dollars! She definitely had to weigh that pot when she got home. But she still couldn't find out which foreign coins were made of gold, or what they looked like. Maybe that was all on websites in other languages.
She stretched and her eyes grazed a window. It was already dark out. Time to go home. She'd try again tomorrow. Then, trudging through Evanston (not her favorite place to be after dark) and looking every which way to avoid eye contact with the panhandlers, she saw a sign in a darkened window reading, "L & D GOLD AND SILVER EXCHANGE. TRADE IN YOUR OLD JEWELRY FOR CASH!" She laughed out loud. Who cared what kind of coins they were? They were gold. She could sell them tomorrow. For now, Sam was bound to be waiting. Maybe even worried. She hurried home.
Sam was not waiting, but a fresh batch of bills and the breakfast dishes were. Her heart sank. She set up a sink of hot, soapy water (the dishwasher was busted) and checked the fridge. Almost empty. Maybe Sam would take her out when he showed up. (She refused to think, 'if he showed up'.) She could go to the grocery tomorrow, after she'd been to the L & D Gold and Silver Exchange. Meanwhile she put together a sandwich with a couple of stale heels of bread and some Velveeta, and got back to work.
Fortunately she still had her high-end digital scale, with the special little cup designed for measuring spices. The coins ranged in weight from an eighth to a quarter of an ounce. Which meant that even the small ones were worth about $200.00 and the large (well, less small) ones, $400.00. The middlemen would take a cut, probably a big one. But even if she only got half value, a mere handful of the coins would dig her out of her financial hole at last.
That was all she actually needed to know, but she continued to play with the coins, weighing and measuring them and taking pictures with her cell phone (not the latest model but still a good one—lucky she hadn't broken it, throwing it at the chair) while waiting for Sam. He might be late but he was bound to show—he'd been so sweet, he'd really seemed to care for her. She couldn't be wrong about that. She fell asleep on the sofa, still waiting.
#
In the morning, her neck and shoulder had cramped and the back of her mind had faced the ugly possibility that Sam did not really care about her. Why should he? He barely knew her. She'd been a fool to hope for it. Yet he'd given her a pot of gold. Surely that meant he was serious? She sat up suddenly with a yelp, and not because of the twinge in her back.
Maybe the gold was stolen! That would account for why he passed it on casually to a near stranger.
Or not. Why bother to steal something, just to give it away? Unless it was so hot, he didn't dare get caught with it. She chewed her lip. Did she even dare to try selling it? Yes. She needed the money. If the L & D Gold and Silver Exchange said it was stolen, well, she would have to hand the whole pot over to the police, and hope for a reward. That might get Sam in trouble, but she didn’t owe him anything, did she? Not if he'd left her holding the bag, anyway.
#
At least there was no mention of theft. "What's that?" said the sullen teenager in peacock blue eye-shadow at the counter of the L & D Gold and Silver Exchange.
Meaghan refrained from sarcasm. "It's a coin," she replied, as if that weren’t obvious.
"Doesn't look like any coin I ever saw," answered the salesgirl, like that meant it wasn't a real coin. What, she thought it was an aardvark? "Where's it from?"
Meaghan shrugged and went on smiling. "How would I know? My boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday." Close enough to true. "He said his grandmother collected coins." There was a pause. A long pause. "Does it matter? It's gold, isn't it?"
The girl had to think about that. "I'll ask," she said at last, and walked away, carrying the coin with her.
Meaghan bit her lip. She didn't like the coin going away. Were they calling the police?
After several minutes, the sales clerk returned with a greasy looking man behind her. The manager smiled. It made him look even greasier. He held up her coin. "You are the lady that brought this in?" he inquired. Even his voice was greasy. When she nodded, he adjusted his smile in an attempt to look sympathetic. "I'm afraid it isn't real gold," he told her.
"What!?!" If there was one thing in the universe she had not expected him to say, that was it. "But my boyfriend said it was gold!"
The manager shook his head. "I am so sorry. He must have. . . shall we say, indulged in a little fib? Men will say many things to impress a pretty girl." Somehow, the word 'pretty' didn't sound very flattering, coming from this guy. "Or perhaps he was himself deceived. But it is only gold plated." He turned the coin over several times, while continuing to watch Meaghan from the corner of his eye. "It is an interesting curio. I could give you ten dollars for it."
Meaghan stared at him, with her mind whirling. "Gold-plated?"
"I'm afraid so. It is mostly copper and nickel."
It was the mention of copper and nickel that tipped her off. She might have believed him if he had said lead, but copper and nickel were light metals. Gold weighed more than twice as much as either one, and she had weighed that coin herself. This nasty weasel was trying to cheat her. She should have looked up L & D Gold and Silver Exchange on Craig's List. She took a deep breath. "Thanks anyway, but it was a present from my boyfriend. If it's not valuable, I might as well keep it for the sentimental value." She held out her hand.
"Fifteen?" he offered. She continued to hold out her hand. "Twenty?" He must have sensed that he was betraying too much eagerness. He laid the coin back in her hand, trying with imperfect success to conceal his reluctance. "Please come back if you change your mind."
"Thanks, I will," she murmured, picturing him burning in an Irish Catholic hellfire.
So she went back to the library, and drew up a map with gold dealers, coin dealers and jewelers marked on it, all of them with good reputations. She focused mainly on places within walking distance, but there was a cluster of merchants downtown that might be worth the price of a bus ticket.
The jewelry stores declined to deal in coins, although they confirmed that hers were real gold. The L & D proved far from typical—several gold dealers told her earnestly that her coins were obviously rare, and she should check out their numismatic value before selling them as gold. But the coin dealers all said her coins were too rare. They dealt with American or British coins, for the most part, although one asked if she had anything from Japan.
Since she hadn’t had any breakfast, she was hungry and tired enough to give up by 4:00, but she had to pass the last coin dealer on her way home anyway. When she did, she saw an old man inside, eating a very late lunch. She did not so much deliberately enter the musty shop as allow herself to be drawn in, mesmerized by the sandwich. The old guy saw her coming, and put it down on its wrapper. Then, to her horror, he folded the waxed paper up around it, and tossed the whole thing into the trash.
"Don't do that!" she cried, and her voice actually squeaked. He looked (justifiably) astonished at her remark, and she attempted to soften her tone. "I mean, you shouldn't let me ruin your lunch, and besides, that's terribly wasteful."
"Nothing to do with you. It was already ruined." He wrinkled his nose. "It's bologna. I hate bologna." He eyed her for a moment and then fished the sandwich back out of the bin and handed it to her. "Here, go take it to China if you want. Or is it India where the kids are supposed to be starving nowadays?"
She took the sandwich and was embarrassed to see her hand tremble. She hoped he hadn't seen it. "Maybe I will," she announced primly. She stuck the sandwich in her purse, and turned to go.
"You come in here just to collect sandwiches for the poor?" She winced. Stupid. Blushing and wordless, she fished a coin out of her bag and handed it to him. He glanced at it, and sat bolt upright. He picked up a jeweler's loupe and stuck it in his eye. Finally he looked up and said, "Mind if I take this to the back and check some books?" She nodded. As soon as he was gone, she gobbled up the sandwich.
He returned with an armload of books, and lifted a section of the counter to permit her to come back and sit next to him. "So tell me," he said. "Where did you get this?" She started to stammer out the story about her boyfriend, but he held up a hand to stop her.
"Sorry, wrong question. What I should have said is: do you know what this is?"
"It's not stolen!" she burst out.
"Didn't say it was. Do you know what it is?" he repeated.
Nobody else had asked her that. She wasn't sure how to take it. "No," she admitted. "What is it?"
He sighed. "Where did you get it? Really. And spare me the line about your boyfriend."
"He is my boyfriend," she insisted, then hung her head. "At least I thought he was."
"You thought he was?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business," she sniffed. "You’re a total stranger. I don't even know your name. So, are you going to tell me what this thing is, or are you just going to sit there, asking personal questions?"
He smiled. "My name is James. Not Jim. And I'd like to tell you, honest. The problem is, you wouldn't believe me. Not in a million years. Unless. . . " He thought about it. "This boyfriend of yours—are you sure he's human?"
It was such an outrageous question that the truth popped out of her mouth before she thought about it. "I don't think so."
He nodded. "Then I guess I can tell you." He held up the coin. "This is fairy gold."
#
"Okay, I think I got this straight," she said as they climbed the stairs to her apartment. She set the grocery bag down on the floor while she fished for her keys. James had taken her shopping. It felt nice to have groceries. "It looks just like real gold."
"For all intents and purposes, it is real gold," interrupted James. "Only more so. But it can't be traced, because it has no earthly origin, and it has some special properties, which means it can be dangerous to handle. It's a good thing you didn't manage to sell any of it."
Meaghan knocked before turning the key—just in case—but there was no answer, so she opened the door. James followed her in with two more sacks of groceries.
"But Sam was so sweet," she protested. "I can't believe he would give me something that would hurt me."
"He probably meant to stick around and help you spend it," answered James. "He'd have known—or at least he'd have thought he knew—how to handle it safely."
"But then what happened to him?" she wailed. "I mean, one minute he was there, making breakfast, and the next he was gone!" She sniffed. "Maybe he really did dump me."
"No, he'd have taken his gold with him, if he hadn't meant to come back." He started unpacking the bags. "Now you go get that candle. We can't find your Seamus without it."
She left him doing a surprisingly good job of putting the groceries away, considering he didn't know her kitchen. Psychic powers, maybe. Great grandma's box of Irish luck was still sitting on the coffee table, which was otherwise very tidy. She didn't remember putting everything away, but apparently she had, as none of the detritus from the other night was sitting out: no pile of papers, no little framed pictures, no pocket watch and certainly no candle. Just the little canister of decorative coasters, an oversized book of Matisse prints, a bowl of nuts and the chest. It looked as if she had cleaned up for company.
She opened the chest and started taking everything out again. The candle was not underneath the marriage license. It hadn't slid into one of the gloves. She didn't like to untie the packet of old letters, but she thumbed through them carefully. No candle. When the box was empty, she picked it up and shook it, as if the candle might be caught invisibly in a crack. It wasn't. And then she noticed the teacup. It was a very pretty little thing, in perfect condition. Not even chipped. Certainly not broken. "James," she called.
"Don't panic," he told her firmly, when it had become inescapably obvious that she was panicking.
"But it isn’t possible! I saw it broken! And the candle’s gone and that’s not possible either, and he’s gone, too! Why is everything vanishing? It isn’t possible!"
"Exactly," interrupted James firmly, "It's not possible to disappear without a trace. There are always traces."
"You mean it’s natural? We should we call the police?"
"No," he sighed. "Not that kind of traces." He took her hand. "Go through it again for me, please. You were telling him your troubles, you said, and he called up the gold." He patted the pot, which they had brought out from the kitchen. "Which he then gave to you, unsolicited, just hoping to please you."
"What's that got to do with it?" She observed his expression. "Yes, he just snapped his fingers and there it was. Like. . ." she skipped past that impossible concept. "Is that important?"
"What's important is that the gold was his idea. You never actually wished for it. Be sure, now, Meaghan. Because it IS important."
She thought it over carefully, and found she remembered it. Remembered it vividly. "No, I never wished for it. I never wished for anything. Why should I? There’s no such thing as wishes." She bit her lip. "At least that's what I thought."
James nodded. "Excellent. And after he gave you the gold, did you say anything about your wish being granted?" She shook her head. "Not even, 'Oh, Seamus, that's just what I wanted,' or something like that?"
She blushed and blushed. "No, we didn't talk much after that." Her eyes filled with tears. "I never even said thank you."
"That's wonderful!" crowed James. Seeing her bewildered expression, he continued, "If you never accepted the gold, he still owes you a wish! So, no matter who took him, you have a prior claim."
"Took him where?" she wailed. "Who would do such a thing? And why?"
"The 'where' you don't want to know. It might not even be possible for you to know. But the 'who' is easy enough: whoever he stole the gold from. Maybe even a couple of whoevers, working together. And that pretty much covers the 'why', too."
"You think he stole the gold?"
"Puh-leeze. You think he worked for it? Being what he is?"
She reflected that James had never actually said what he thought Sam was. But she was Irish enough to know what he meant. "They do have a reputation."
"Larcenous little weasels," he sniffed. She gave him a look, and he added, "But charming and loyal, if they like you." He smiled, "So, let's get back to the candle. We could maybe make do with the teacup, since he must have fixed it for you. Or maybe the gold—we know he handled that. But touched it is one thing, and bound to it is another. The candle would be a lot better."
"But I told you. It's gone."
"Can't be. That candle is yours. It's the contract between Seamus and your great-grandmother and only you can destroy it. Maybe there's only a little bit left, but it’s here somewhere."
They searched for an hour. Not just in the chest, since that was obviously empty. They combed through the threadbare carpet. They picked up the sofa cushions, and then the sofa, and then the recliner. They rolled the TV away from the wall. James even went into the bedroom and looked under the bed, although Meaghan was very sure it couldn't be there. Good thing she'd made the bed—sometimes she didn't bother.
She went back to the living room, and checked the bookshelves again, which led her back to the recliner. The cushions were not removable, so she propped it up sideways and tried to look into the mechanism. It fell over on her and she started to cry. She was terribly embarrassed. She knew she shouldn't be crying. But it had been such a long day, and so many things that couldn’t possibly happen kept happening anyway, it just made her head ache. It made her whole brain ache.
James was very sweet about it. He picked up the chair, and petted her. He sat her down on the sofa, and ordered her to rest while he made her some dinner. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, clattering pans and singing loudly and tunelessly in some language she didn't know. He'd been so good to her, buying her groceries and bringing her home. She'd thought she was going crazy, but he believed every impossible thing she told him, and then he’d even known what to do about the impossible—she didn’t know how she would have managed without him. So kind. So very kind. Kinder than she would have imagined possible.
She sat there, exhausted, waiting for him to bring her food, sat there in front of the coffee table where she'd lit that candle. She'd lit it right there. . . On a coaster. . . She pulled over the canister of decorative coasters. The lid wasn't lying flat. Neither were the coasters inside it. Because the bottom coaster still had a large, knobby puddle of wax on it. With a short, black wick sticking out of it.
She didn't even bother to call James, because she knew exactly what to do. The wick was so deeply embedded in the wax that she had to kneel on the floor and crouch over the remains of the candle to light it. No need to fear that she would close the door and push him out—he was already pushed out and she needed to open the door to let him in again. All the while that she was holding the Bic to the candle she whispered. "I never asked for gold. I never wanted gold. I never agreed to gold. He was supposed to care about me. He owes me that. Send him back."
There was a hoarse cry from the kitchen door, "Wait!" But it was too late for that. The candle had caught and the flame leapt up, so brightly she could barely see. A dark figure—she thought it was James—tore in from the kitchen. He fell on his knees before the coffee table and flung his arms around the little clay pot. And at the exact same second, another dark form emerged from. . . from somewhere else, and also threw itself upon the gold, crying, "Mine! Mine!" in a strange, eldritch voice that hurt her ears. The two figures struggled together until they were engulfed in the light and she could not see them anymore. Then the light faded and they were both gone, and so was the gold.
But Sam was lying on the sofa. He looked like he'd been in a nasty fight, but his hair was as bright as red gold and his smile was much better than magic.
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