Right Hand Magic Read Online Free PDF Page B

a battered old armoire, the only real furniture I owned was a set of bookcases and my workbench. Once I had these furnishings properly situated, I began opening boxes. I was especially relieved to discover that my welding equipment and finished sculptures had made the journey intact. I was so engrossed in sorting through my belongings, I lost track of time. It wasn’t until I heard a polite cough behind me and turned around to see Hexe standing in the doorway that I realized I’d been working nonstop for several hours.
    “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said. “I just stopped by to see how you’re settling in. It looks like you’ve been very busy.”
    “I’m trying to make up for lost time. After all, the sooner I get unpacked, the sooner I can get back to work.”
    “Indeed.” Hexe arched a purple eyebrow upon catching sight of the welder’s helmet and oxyacetylene torch resting atop the workbench. “I’d like to find out more about the art you make. By the way, you must be famished—perhaps you’d like to join me for some dinner?”
    I hadn’t really thought about it beforehand, but once Hexe brought up the subject of food, I was suddenly aware of just how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and the thought of dinner was enough to make my belly growl like an angry puppy.
    “Sounds good to me,” I admitted. “Give me a couple of minutes to get ready.”
    “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”
    “Do you invite all your boarders out to dinner?” I asked as he turned to leave the room.
    Hexe paused on the threshold, his hand resting on the doorknob, and favored me with another of his warm smiles.
    “Only the ones I find interesting.”
    The moment the door closed behind him, I launched myself at my armoire in search of something halfway decent to wear. After a couple of minutes, I decided on a black twill pencil skirt, a red V-neck cardigan sweater, and a pair of black leather wedges. I made a quick visit to the bathroom to check my hair and apply some lipstick and mascara, then hurried downstairs. I found him waiting for me in the parlor, thumbing through that day’s edition of the Herald .
    “You look nice,” Hexe said, lifting a purple eyebrow.
    “It’s not too much, is it?” I asked nervously.
    “No, I think it’s just enough,” he replied with a smile.
    “So where are we going?”
    “There’s a place not far from here that serves up some decent grub—it’s a favorite haunt of mine. It’s called the Two-Headed Calf. Trust me, it’s better than it sounds.”

    The restaurant was located on Morder Lane, a couple blocks over from the boardinghouse, between Nassau and Horsecart Street. It was a three-and-a-half-story, gambrel-roofed Georgian brick building, with four ground-floor bay windows. Above the entrance swung an old-fashioned wooden pub sign depicting the establishment’s namesake. The calf head on the left looked more than a little drunk, with its tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth, while the head on the right contentedly munched on a daisy.
    “Here we are,” Hexe said. “It’s something of a landmark. The Calf was first open to the public in 1742. That makes it America’s oldest restaurant in continuous service. Of course, because it serves Kymeran cuisine and is located in Golgotham, it gets overlooked by the record books. But that’s okay, because that way we don’t have to worry about looky-loos ruining the place.”
    Upon opening the door, we were greeted by the sound of laughter, music, and the smell of tobacco. Just to the left of the entrance was an open, semicircular oaken bar with a copper sheet-metal top, behind which stood several ornate beer pulls and a mirrored shelf with an impressive array of liquors. The stools that lined the bar were supported by cast-iron poles and fastened to the floor. The rest of the seating on the ground floor consisted of stall-type booths, some of which were outfitted with privacy curtains.
    The