Chapter Text
House-elves, now there’s a curious breed for you. Industrious little blighters, always bustling about with a mop or a sock in hand, looking as if life were one long exercise in starching the universe. I can’t say I envy the lot. The idea of spending one’s days darning other people’s hosiery and simmering soups for the greater glory of the household—it gives me a distinctly grey sensation about the gills. And yet, there they are, trotting about as if servitude were a rather jolly pastime.
I can’t help but feel a touch mournful, watching them scuttle at parties. There they go, pouring drinks, mopping up after the more exuberant tipplers. Not exactly what you’d call topping.
I spotted two of them at Marianne Codswallop’s summer fête on the outskirts of Easeby. I was glistening like a newly-hatched phoenix, for it was the oppressive kind of heat that would have a wizard lying prostrate. However, I was determined to wear my sporting coat, even if I was fairly swimming in it by midday.
Conversation among the guests had grown stale. Keen to evade the usual do-da, I retreated into the cool shade. It was there that I saw the elves cleaning up.
“Hullo! You there!” I called, hoping to inquire politely after their motivations. One nearly did a somersault out of its skin and vanished; the other, squat, baggy, and scowling, grunted “Move!” before elbowing past me, juggling silver trays of pixie punch.
What it was about the creatures that grabbed me, I didn’t know. Perhaps it was the way they recalled those dreaded childhood chores. As an adult, I had kept clear of such indignities. My mornings were devoted to languid tea-sipping, occasionally charming out the wrinkles in my waistcoat or rearranging the books I had never read.
Or perhaps it was because they made my minor shortcomings seem monumental by mere contrast. My flat thrived—or at least survived—on a system of cheerful neglect: a scattering of dust here, a smudge of crumbs there, each, one might say, perfectly positioned as a sort of incidental decoration. A house-elf, then? Preposterous! Too officious, too tidy. Far too likely to disturb my delicate ecosystem. The very thought of constant bustling, polished surfaces, and gentle efficiency intruding upon my day was enough to send shivers up a Johnny's spine.
How, then, one might ask, did Jinx come to be in my company?
It was, as I recall, about a year ago that I paid a call on Aunt Clara. It was one of those visits one undertakes more from moral obligation than from anything even faintly resembling enthusiasm. She was in a proper stew at the time, all on account of cousin Nathaniel, who had taken leave of his senses and decamped to New York.
Nathaniel had written me a letter after his departure. I hadn’t breathed a word of it to Aunt Clara, naturally. In it, he waxed lyrical about the place. According to him, life in New York was a dazzling carousel of freedom: finding a club, getting bored of it, and moving on to the next, perpetuating a nightly cycle of drink, laughter, ennui, and further migration, until, as he put it, “the sun rose and ruined it all.”
He spoke, too, of the beautiful girls and the riot of artistic expression, things he assured me one could never hope to find in the dreary corridors of the Ministry. He had, it seemed, resolved to become an artist himself. A painter, specifically, though I could scarcely imagine him knowing more than three colours by name.
Now, Aunt Clara was never what you’d call a champion of the arts. She’d barricaded herself in that mausoleum of a manor she inherited from the late Uncle Bert, whose chief distinction in life had been amassing a tidy fortune in self-cleaning cauldrons and then promptly expiring. In the years since, she had fortified herself behind ramparts of moral indignation, mahogany furniture, and feathered hats.
Her pet project, naturally, was to ensconce Nathaniel snugly within the Ministry, a scheme made all the more admirable by the fact that she had bankrolled the boy with allowances that would have kept a small country afloat. “What that boy needs,” she confided to me in tones of stern moral certitude, “is a respectable career, and not to drift about like some aimless floater.” By “floater,” of course, she meant me, which I took in good part.
So when the young scamp took it into his head to give the establishment the slip and throw in his lot with the avant-garde, she treated the episode as a personal treachery of the highest order, worthy of a theatrical faint and a good deal of lace-rustling.
We were in her sitting room while she held forth on the subject. I assure you, keeping one’s ears open was an act of saintly endurance.
“He’s ruined,” she said, pale as death, though the powder on her face could take some of the credit there. “Absolutely ruined. Cavorting with Muggles, of all people.” Her fingers fretted a lace handkerchief. “Well, I’ve decided not to give him another penny! If he thinks himself a fancy artist, he can make fancy artist money. I even introduced him to the Senior Undersecretary—humiliating!—and this is the thanks I get. He’ll end in the gutter, mark my words.”
Having delivered her verdict, she jabbed the bell with tragic finality. Two empty wine glasses glinted beside her like accomplices, and I gathered another was to join their ranks.
And so it did, borne in presently on a platter by a house-elf, a wizened little creature dressed in what might once have been a flour sack. Stray wisps of hair curled over a head as smooth as an egg. I must say, it took me aback. For all the years I’d toddled about Aunt Clara’s halls as a tyke, I’d never once seen an elf in the place. A faint “Oh!” escaped before I could throttle it.
Aunt Clara scoffed. “Really, Ariel. It’s not as if you’re a stranger to drink.”
“Not in the least,” I said. “Only, I never knew you had a house-elf.”
“I wouldn’t have known myself,” she said, surveying the mantel. “What with the dust collecting everywhere. Tink, do see to that.”
“Yes, Lady Blackwell.” The creature, Tink, set down her platter and disappeared into another room, returning with a withered clump of feathers. She worked at the mantelpiece with astonishing speed, as if scrubbing for sport. I felt something distinctly unpleasant stir in the gut.
“As I recall from visiting your home last summer, you don’t have an elf of your own,” said Aunt Clara, accepting her glass and sipping daintily at its ruby contents.
“Right,” I said. “Never been inclined toward the whole house-elf arrangement. Doesn’t it feel awkward, having them serve you?”
Aunt Clara stared at me blankly. “Of course not. They enjoy themselves, as I understand. Quite different from butlers and maids, where you can never tell if they’re stealing or poisoning. House-elves, at least, provide some comfort in that respect, since this is all they care to do: provide.” Her expression sharpened. “Which is more than I can say for our Nathaniel! How horrid of him!” She buried herself in that glorified napkin, leaving me to ponder the matter of house-elves.
Well, with some reluctance, I’d eventually acquired one—and the very one to dissolve my misgivings. Not only are they interesting creatures, but fascinating, not at all short of remarkable. At least, in the way of Jinx. Unparalleled brilliance, that one. He has the sort of mind that leaps clean over whatever hurdle you place before it. If you find yourself bogged in a real jungle of a problem, ankle-deep in quicksand, Jinx not only pulls you out but produces a variety of exits, all of them leading to a good bed and a glass of warm milk. Extraordinary, really, and I daresay there isn’t a living soul to rival him.
Not that he cares, mind you.
Call him humble, if you like, but he insists that this quality is merely part of the service—no different from brushing the floor or collecting plates. Which, if you ask me, only makes him more extraordinary. No one appreciates arrogance.
Now, house-elves are usually entwined in a family’s history, appearing all the way back to the dawn of the lineage, but I came across Jinx in the most unorthodox way imaginable. I’d been wandering through an assortment of shops in pursuit of a certain set of robes, having been struck dumb with admiration for the ones worn by Billy Spriggs, a chap I knew at Hogwarts. We’d crossed paths the night before at a party, and our whole conversation, in which Billy recalled boyhood adventures I had only the foggiest memory of, was entirely overshadowed by my determination to discover the origin of his attire.
I finally spotted the robes in a window and smiled, victorious. I could see myself filling out their pressed sleeves, running my fingers over their smooth, wing-like lapels—when I felt a tug at my elbow.
I turned, and to my ample surprise, found myself confronted by a house-elf. Or rather, an elf, sans house.
“I would not purchase those mauve robes if I were you, sir,” he said. “They would not become you.”
Though he was offering fashion advice, he wasn’t wearing much himself—just a dishtowel slung over one shoulder. His eyes were large and solemn, his chin long, his ears pointed. Not meek, exactly, more a sort of calm defiance.
Well, perfect piffle, I thought. Those robes would flatter anyone. You could pop them on a cat, set Mr. Whiskers down at the Ritz, and no one would bat an eye.
Foolishness, in hindsight. I bought the dashed things, wore them that afternoon, and when I caught sight of myself in a shop window, I nearly fainted. I looked flawlessly foul. I might have been the ringleader of a moon-calf circus.
That same day I returned to the shop in a huff, robes in tow, only to discover a firm no-return policy.
On my way out, muttering under my breath, I saw the same creature sitting on the pavement as if he’d been rooted there since time immemorial. Passersby stepped neatly around him. I flushed hot, caught red-handed with the robes, but approached him anyway.
“Hullo! You there! What are you doing on the street? One doesn’t usually find an elf in such open air, am I wrong?”
“I am where I am,” he said, “because no interior will have me.”
“Really now? You seem a competent sort. And you were right about those robes.”
“So it seems. But I’ve been labeled a dissident and liberated from many households.”
“Surely they admired your insight. Uncommon quality, that. Ought to be prized.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But humans are very self-conscious beings, I’ve found, and tend to see me as a threat. I don’t offer my mental services for show, but because I feel they should be expected of me.”
It was odd, hearing the word threat emerge from that small, stooped form, appealing more for sympathy than caution. I didn’t have the full measure of him then—his cerebellum, as it turned out, could wipe the glow off anyone.
Still, something in me clicked. Here was a miracle in miniature, with no air of peril about him. And it came to me, bright as Lumos: if no one else would have this elf, then, by thunder, I would.
: :
In the months that followed, it became perfectly normal to have Jinx fetching the post from my owl, Barnaby; setting me up with tea; and pressing my trousers for the day. He had become a figure of great respect in my household, an ever-reliable source of advice and correction. And correct he was, every time—so often, in fact, that his cleverness began to lose its air of wonder and settle into the natural order of things. In the interstices between household duties and my own sporadic bouts of panic, he ran his own elfish errands and enjoyed the leisure of exploring the volumes in my library, long grown dusty from disuse. It was not unusual to find him engrossed in an unfathomably thick tome: The Colossal Compendium of Conjurations and Curious Hexes, for instance, or A Treatise on the Moral Philosophy of Magic Use.
Fairly heady material. I, for my part, had rather preferred perusing Whizzbang’s Wizarding Catalogue or reading the illustrated exploits of The Fearless Tuckoo.
I’ve told myself to think like Jinx more times than I can count, but there’s always an error to be made, a snag to stumble upon. No matter—Jinx has two brains for the both of us, mine being strictly ornamental.
“Listen here, Jinx,” I said one morning. “I don’t want to step out that door or take another Knut from my pocket without your advice.”
“If you see it fit, sir.”
“Not if. It’s absolute. You keep the shirt on my back.”
That was the first day of a new regime, and it was shaping up to be a pleasant one. I descended the stairs, yawning, and took in the spring light streaming through the windows—not far off in shade from the pat of butter Jinx had laid out. A browned slice of toast gleamed beside a steaming cuppa and the freshly ironed Daily Prophet.
“Jinx, what is it about spring that opens up the senses?”
“I’m sure the admirable weather has something to do with it, sir.”
“Of course. Goodbye to that dreadful winter, and good riddance!”
I buttered my toast and bit in. Perfect crisp. The tea—rightfully sweetened, neither tepid nor tongue-scalding—was faultless. I snapped the Prophet into reading shape. “Let’s see what the Wizarding world’s gotten itself into today. Listen to this, Jinx: a trio of brothers have designed a broom for sporting use. The Cleansweep One, they’re calling it. Won’t be released until—what? Oh, it’s continued on page four.”
Before I could find it, Jinx said, “Until the fourteenth, sir.”
My eyes nearly fell out. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I took the liberty of perusing the Prophet before you woke.”
“Ah. Right.” I set it aside and turned to the mail. “A proper heap. Barnaby must be aching, the poor brute. Which one to start with?”
“Sir, I believe you should begin with the one from your aunt.”
“Right again. A letter from Aunt Clara isn’t something to dawdle over.”
He handed me the letter-opener. I slit the envelope and unfolded the elaborate parchment.
To: Ariel Buckley
I’m writing to inform you of the latest development relating to my problem with Nathaniel. Contrary to my earlier statement that I’d never issue him another allowance, I haven’t been withholding money from him at all. Try as I might, I still picture our Nate as a much younger boy, waving cheerfully from the Hogwarts Express. I’ve decided instead to give him a chance to put his new skills as an artist to good use and commission a portrait. This is as much a chance for work experience as for me to see how he’s spent his months. He’s been very quiet, you know, and I sense trouble afoot, as I always do when I ruminate on Muggles and their various practices. I assume it’s our family’s good fortune that there hasn’t been a marriage proposal. Yet.
Signed,
Lady Clara Blackwell
No sooner had I finished reading than there came a thud from the sitting-room—something heavy, like a man dropped from the ceiling. I nearly flung my tea, sprang up, and barked an expletive as my knee caught the table’s edge.
“Ice, sir?” Jinx inquired.
“No. Just see what’s happened.”
He went at once, unruffled, and returned within moments. “You have a visitor.”
“What? At this hour?”
“Yes. A Mr. Nathaniel Collins, through the Floo network.”
I hurried to the sitting-room, where Nathaniel was staggering out of the fireplace, coughing soot. “My God, Nate! You gave me a fright! What’s happened?”
He was rubbing the powder from his coat and curls. “Ariel!” He looked thinner, drawn, like someone who’d misplaced his breakfast and his dignity both. “Sorry for bursting in, and during breakfast, too, but it’s important.”
“Clearly,” I said, eyeing the mess. Jinx had already begun sweeping. “Spit it out, then.”
“Have you received a letter from Aunt Clara?”
“Yes. It seems she’s commissioned a portrait from you.”
Nathaniel winced as if I’d told him he’d been cut from the family tree. “That’s the thing.”
“I don’t follow. Sit, man.”
He sank into a chair with a sigh, sending up little clouds of Floo powder. “Aunt Clara wants me to paint a portrait of her.”
I paused. “Yes? Is that not a typical commission for an artist?"
“That’s not the problem.” He spoke slowly, miserably. “The problem is, I can’t do it.”
“Why ever not? Are you nervous? Because you shouldn’t be. This is your chance to prove yourself."
“No, it’s not that.” He looked properly woeful. “You see, Ariel, I don’t know a thing about painting.”
“Not a thing? Then what in Merlin’s name have you been doing all this time?”
“I’ve been in love.”
“Love? That’s not good. Not good at all.”
“Oh, but she’s a real dynamite! One of those dancers, you know?”
“A dancer? God. I must sound like a broken record. The question is: what are you going to do?”
“Haven’t the faintest.” He buried his face in his hands. Poor Nate looked the picture of despair. I was beginning to feel for the fellow when Jinx appeared with a rag of ice for my knee, and it occurred to me that I needn’t think at all.
“Oh, Nathaniel,” I said, beaming. “I think you should consult my house-elf.”
“Your house-elf?”
“Well, not just a house-elf. Jinx is an infallible guide. So infallible, in fact, that I’ve left most of my problems for him to solve.”
He looked as if I’d announced my plans to become a chorus girl.
“None of that skepticism, Nate. You’ll see. Jinx!”
I didn’t have to look far; he appeared at once. “Follow me,” I said, dragging him to the sitting-room.
Nathaniel stared at him in disbelief.
“He isn’t a mind-reader,” I prompted. “Tell him the issue.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Jinx said smoothly. “I’ve heard everything—against my wishes, of course. But these walls are thin.” He turned to Nathaniel. “Hearing your difficulty, I’ve already formulated a solution. It will, however, require a considerable sum. Not astronomical, but noticeable.”
Nathaniel nodded eagerly. “Go on.”
“And it will require some effort from you, Master Buckley.”
“From me?” I said. “What’s the scheme, Jinx?”
“Mr. Collins will procure Polyjuice Potion. You, Master Buckley, will drink it and become someone unfamiliar to your aunt. An art critic, perhaps, come to view Mr. Collins’s latest work. Should she find the portrait unsatisfactory, you’ll persuade her otherwise.”
Nathaniel looked dazed. “Polyjuice Potion?”
“The very same,” Jinx replied. “You’ll find it at the apothecarium. I doubt they’d resist a generous offer.”
I clapped my hands in delight. “Marvelous, Jinx! Simply wizard!”
But Nathaniel still looked stricken. “What if she meets the real person somewhere? We’d all be done for.”
“She won’t,” I said, slapping his back. “Aunt Clara rarely leaves the manor — and when she does, it’s not to go dancing.”
He remained unconvinced.
“What you need,” I said, “is confidence. This will go swimmingly. Get the potion, your paints, your easel, and be back here by one. We haven’t much time.”
He sighed. “All right, Ariel. If you’re game, then I am.”
And with that, he vanished in a whoosh of green flame.
: :
Now, I did my part, though I suppose it wasn’t the largest of parts to begin with. Billy Spriggs was invited round for lunch, and while he droned on about memories I pretended to recall fondly, having not the faintest idea what he was talking about, Jinx managed to procure a strand of his hair while pouring his coffee. Billy, the simple chap, never suspected a thing. He just went on and on, the sort of fellow who could talk through an earthquake without noticing.
As the final hour came and Spriggs toddled off to London, I had a quiet moment with my cognac and an uneasy feeling that I had let myself in for something rather rocky.
Nathaniel burst in from the apothecarium looking all nerves.
"Is this the stuff?" I asked, eyeing the small bottle trembling in his hand.
"Just the stuff. Have you got the essence?" He began unpacking his supplies with the air of a surgeon.
"With zero trauma. Say, Jinx, do you think I should bother tracking down that pinstripe suit Billy was wearing?"
"I shouldn’t think so, sir."
"Hm. It was rather dashing. Are you certain?"
"Completely."
"All right," I said, motioning for Nathaniel. "Give it here."
He handed over the potion, and I unstopped the bottle to inspect its color and consistency. I was not filled with confidence. "It’s quite sludgy, don’t you think? There’s a thickness to it." I gave it a sniff and recoiled. "Good heavens. They don’t make this for pleasure."
Jinx passed me the pilfered hair, which I let drop into the potion. I gave the bottle a swirl. "Bottoms up, I suppose." I braced myself, possibly prayed, and downed the lot.
It had a taste, but what kind I couldn’t say. Neither good nor bad, simply unplaceable. A mystery, which was preferable to horror.
"So," said Nathaniel, looking hopeful, "how do you feel?"
"Unchanged, I’m afraid." I barely got the words out before doubling over. My stomach rebelled, my limbs stretched, my nose extended, and my hair thinned. Nathaniel grabbed a mirror from Jinx and held it out, and there, in the reflection, stood Billy Spriggs in my clothes.
Nathaniel grinned weakly. "I think you’ll find you’re far from unchanged."
"Most effective, sir," said Jinx.
I stared at the mirror. Billy’s smallish eyes blinked back. "Right. Billy and I are one and the same. Perhaps you’ll approve of mauve now, Jinx."
Nathaniel glanced at the clock. "Ariel, we’ve got to leave now."
"Very well. Let’s snap to, then."
In a whirl of green flame, we Apparated into Aunt Clara’s sitting-room, which looked as though joy had never once been permitted entry. Nathaniel stumbled out first, burdened with gear, and I followed, not yet accustomed to Billy’s enormous feet.
Aunt Clara sat in her chair, dressed in uncompromising black, her headband topped with a feather that looked fit to joust with. Tink was sweeping the floor as we approached, and I felt the usual dread rise up. Aunt Clara has that rare gift of making any man, no matter his age or distinction, feel like a schoolboy caught breaking a window.
She spotted me first, and confusion crossed her face. For a ghastly second, I thought she could see through the disguise entirely. To make matters worse, Billy was a notorious sweater.
"Ah, Nathaniel, right on the clock," she said. "And you’ve brought company."
"Aunt Clara, this is Mortimer—Mortimer—"
"Mortimer Mortimer?" said Clara.
"Billingsworth," I added quickly.
"Mortimer Mortimer Billingsworth?"
"Only one Mortimer, actually," Nathaniel corrected. "Mortimer, this is Lady Clara Blackwell."
Aunt Clara rose to her full, terrifying height and extended a hand, then withdrew it almost immediately. "You aren’t ill, I hope?"
"Sick?" I said.
"Yes. You’re perspiring dreadfully."
"Ah, the heat gets to me, Lady Blackwell."
She nodded, faintly revolted. "I see. Tink, fetch him a cloth before he ruins the furniture. Nathaniel, explain yourself. Why have you brought Mr. Billingsworth?"
"Mortimer is an art critic," said Nathaniel quickly. "A very close friend of mine. He’s here to observe my first commission."
"An art critic," Aunt Clara repeated. "How quaint."
"Where shall I set up?" Nathaniel asked.
Aunt Clara gestured toward her chair. "Somewhere over there."
Nathaniel began setting up his paints with trembling hands. He leaned toward me. "I can’t do this, Ariel. I say we split at the count of three."
"Are you mad?" I whispered. "We’ve come this far. Just paint the woman and pray."
He nodded faintly and lifted his pencil. "Aunt Clara, I’m ready when you are."
"Coming," she said, draining her wine in one heroic swallow and nearly throwing the glass at Tink before she sat down like a queen.
Nathaniel began sketching. Each brushstroke sounded like a small cry of pain. Aunt Clara sat perfectly still, every inch the tyrant in repose.
At last Nathaniel stepped back. "I think it’s done."
Aunt Clara sprang up. "Let me see!" She peered at the portrait, her excitement turning to horror. "Is this how you see me, Nathaniel Collins? As a fowl?"
"A fowl!" Nathaniel gasped. "No! Not at all! It’s—well—it’s you, Aunt Clara!"
"If that is me, then you might as well pluck and roast me!"
I stepped in before she combusted. "If I may speak, Lady Blackwell."
"Please do, Mr. Art Critic," she snapped. "Enlighten us with your expertise."
I stepped up to the painting. It was indeed a fowl. No doubt about that. But I leaned close, squinting and humming as though glimpsing the divine. Finally, I turned, solemn as a judge. "This, Nathaniel, is a masterpiece."
"What?" Aunt Clara’s jaw dropped.
"Yes, my Lady. A masterpiece. Observe the rawness of the brushwork, the ferocity of spirit. The artist’s very soul bleeds through the canvas. This is not a mere likeness, but a revelation of character—a work that shouts from the walls with genius. Words fail me entirely."
Aunt Clara blinked, visibly conflicted.
She looked at the painting again, pursed her lips, and said, "Well, I suppose it does have character."
: :
“Master Buckley, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“Nathaniel Collins, sir.”
“Ah, bring him in, bring him in.”
A month had gone by since the portrait business, and I hadn’t checked on Nathaniel since we’d managed to get him out of the soup, as they say. Jinx led him in, and there he was, all grins and good cheer, showing off his pearly whites and those round, apple-shaped cheeks.
“Little Nate! What ho! How are things?”
“Smashing.” He plopped into a chair with the force of a man twice his size, tapping one shoe on the floor like a jazz drummer. I grew slightly concerned for the boards beneath us.
“Calm yourself before you tap through the floor. What have you been up to? Painting more fowls, I imagine.”
“Actually, Ariel,” he said, “you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“I’ve taken a job at the Ministry.”
I paused mid-sip. “Huh? I thought you hated the Ministry?”
“I’ve changed my mind. A month can do that to you. I packed up, left New York, and got myself a flat in London.”
“What about the dancer?”
“Her company left. And I didn’t even know her name. Besides”—he stared at his shoes—“I missed magic. Being around Muggles is about as exciting as watching grass grow. And those so-called artists and writers were only artists and writers in theory. Never saw a brush touch canvas, never heard a pen scratch paper. It’s a dreary existence, all that bleeding from the heart nonsense. You’ll run out of blood in no time. Art is fruitless, and boring.”
I gawped. “Since art is boring, what on earth do you plan to do at the Ministry?”
“I fancy a position in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I’ve always liked them, ever since Hogwarts, and your house-elf Jinx has confirmed just how remarkable they can be.”
Once Nathaniel had gone off on his merry way, I had a word with Jinx. “Who could’ve expected that? A job at the Ministry, of all things! After all that trouble convincing Aunt Clara he was a real artist!”
“I had anticipated it, sir.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Yes, sir, I had. Young minds are inclined to change.”
“You know, sometimes it feels like you’re pulling my leg.”
“Master Buckley, I can assure you I’ve done no leg-pulling. Unless that is your wish.”
“Carry on, Jinx.” I waved him off. He disappeared, his mouth twitching upwards in what, for Jinx, passed as a smile. Because with Jinx, it’s never a smile, just a paternal twitch of the muscles in that general upward direction.
: :
A week later, I had tea with Aunt Clara. The portrait loomed above the fireplace, and I noticed that its gaze followed one rather unnervingly. When I arrived, Tink caught me in the hall and confided her distaste.
“Lady Blackwell keeps Tink climbing to dust the thing,” she said, wringing her flour sack apron with righteous fury. “And it’s not even good. At least make Tink risk her life for a proper painting. This one looks like it was done in the dark. And Lady Blackwell even shows it off to guests sometimes, like she forgets she looks like a bird in it.”
Aunt Clara, however, was radiant. She told me Nathaniel had already written about his new position, and she was quite thrilled, grinning as she sipped her syrupy Earl Grey.
“And since he’s turned away from being an artist,” she said, “this painting must be the final work of a genius. If only his parents were alive to see it.”
“I’m positive they’d have loved it.” I kept my eyes firmly away from it.
“And just think how valuable it’ll be to those art people,” she said. “They’ll be green with envy. Not that I’ll be inviting them here again, of course. One was quite enough.”
“Of course.”
Later, I bid Aunt Clara farewell and returned home before evening, finding Jinx setting the dinner table. To be absolutely honest, I had made a brief detour through a clothing shop on the way.
“Now hear me out,” I said as I entered. “A mauve dress shirt.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”
“A mauve tie, perhaps? Or shoes?”
“They would be most unflattering.”
“So what you’re saying is that color has absolutely no business being on my person?”
“I believe so.”
“Oh, all right, Jinx. You’ve not been wrong yet.” And in the face of such a creature, you really can’t argue.