The Masquerading Magician Read Online Free PDF Page B

cassette that included “Accidental Life,” a 1950s song by an artist who called himself The Philosopher. It combined a spiritual sound with the danceable rock rhythms gaining popularity in the fifties. What I loved most about it was how The Philosopher used his deep, soulful voice to tell the story of a man who wandered the earth for a thousand years. It wasn’t only the lyrics that spoke to me; there are some voices that simply feel like home.
    The song ended long before I pulled into the driveway. I drove the rest of the way home through side streets, enjoying the late-night silence. In the driveway, I took a moment to breathe in the crisp night air. The spring scents of cherry blossoms, daffodils, and hyacinths came on a gust of wind.
    Inside, I walked through the house to check that all the doors and windows were locked. After being burglarized shortly after I bought the house, it had become my nightly ritual. Despite the break-in, this dilapidated house felt like a real home. Aside from my Airstream trailer that I’d lived out of for decades, this was the first place that had felt like home in the last century.
    Just as I was about to turn off the kitchen light, I spotted a wooden spoon that had fallen in the crack between the Wedgewood oven and counter. I reached it easily enough, but paused before washing it. The scent of vanilla, cloves, and cardamom wafted up from the spoon, along with a scent I couldn’t place. Though I’d been cooking for many more years than Dorian, he was the one who knew how to bring different flavors together in unexpected, complementary ways. Once I came to think of myself as worthy of a good life, I began using vegetables, herbs, and spices to make healthful meals. But my own purpose of cooking was to be healthy, not necessarily to enjoy the taste. Though I know how to dry high-quality herbs and spices for my alchemical transformations, and can create healing tinctures, teas, and salves, before Dorian entered my life I’d never thought about using the same ingredients to transform simple foods into heavenly masterpieces. My little gargoyle gourmet was a culinary alchemist.
    These days, I’m considered a vegan. When I began eating a plant-based diet around the turn of the twentieth century, it was known as a Pythagorean diet, named for the mathematician Pythagoras, who advocated eliminating animal products from one’s diet. Dorian was horrified when he learned I didn’t stock bacon, butter, and heavy cream as kitchen staples. He’d been taught to cook with the traditional French methods, so learning to cook with the ingredients in my kitchen had been an adjustment. He rose to the challenge, though, and now declared that his vegan creations were the most impressive gastronomic feats in this hemisphere. Not only the best vegan creations, but the most delectable foods, period . I never said he was modest.
    Dorian was still off on a nocturnal walk. He didn’t need sleep, so after his nightly walks he spent the hours before sunrise baking pastries at Blue Sky Teas, slipping out before anyone saw him. Baking vegan treats for the local teashop was Dorian’s contribution to our household expenses. Because nobody could know he existed, I was his front. Everyone besides Dorian and Brixton thought I was the chef who rose before dawn to bake fresh breads and delicacies. I hated all the lies I had to tell to fit into normal society, but this untruth provided a reasonable explanation for why I’d been so tired lately. With that thought, I yawned.
    My last stop of the night was the basement. When I opened the door I kept locked at all times, my senses perked up. The second yawn that had been about to surface disappeared, replaced with a surge of adrenaline.
    â€œDorian?” I called out.
    Silence.
    I descended the stairs.
    Standing on the bottom step, I had a full view of the room. The scent of home-brewed beer that had been so strong when I moved