Henry passes the corner store on Baines Street, offering a “Hello, handsome” and a smile to the striped cat in the window, who ignores him. He looks up at the dark antique shop, knowing Mr. Smith had said it would look closed, but it seems like no one is even upstairs in what he guesses is an apartment or two from the size of the place.

He crosses Baines and steps into the entranceway’s alcove, admiring the tiled floor with the eye motif and the interesting arrangement of old bell pulls. He takes one within easy reach and pulls. “Here goes nothing.”

Miss Kika opens the door. She’s wearing a rose-colored velvet shawl tipped in a golden fringe over a white turtleneck and matching cigarette pants with golden flats. Her hair is pulled back into a long braid, tied with a pink velvet ribbon. “Henry Merlo, welcome!” reads her notebook, held in her hands like a sign.

“Good evening, Miss Kika,” he says, stepping in as she’s directed. “Sorry to intrude so late.”

She flips the notebook around, and it says, “Not an intrusion. You were invited. Let me take you to Madam Tuor.” She motions for his jacket and hangs it on a gilded hook as they pass through a hallway and into a sitting room filled with dark barley twist tables and carefully carved filigree chairs polished to a warm shine and upholstered in rich tapestry designs. Fringed lampshades held up by bronze personifications of the seasons light the room softly. It smells like cloves and brandy. Mulled wine? At the back wall, a portrait of a woman—an actress?—from the 1920s lounges on a chaise in a similar room. Her black hair is bobbed, bangs held in place with a gold and purple scarf tied behind her neck, its ends drape over the black opera coat she wears over a purple and gold silk shift.

He is stunned when the woman in the painting looks up and smiles. “Henry Merlo!” exclaims the not-painting, rising and walking toward him. “I’m so glad you could come so quickly. When Kika is worried about someone, well, let’s say they have my attention.” She extends her hand, and he shakes it, and she gives him another large, shiny, glossed lip the color of Cabernet smile. Her eyes are rimmed in thick black liner with gold and plum smoked shadow. “Let’s have a seat and talk about your dreams, dear boy.”

He follows her to one of several conversation areas in the room — this one, two loveseats facing each other with a coffee table in between and a floor lamp at each seat’s right. Kika stands to the left of Madam Tuor, notebook in hand but no pen.

“My dreams, Ma’am?”

“I suppose lately you’ve only been having nightmares, poor thing.”

He frowns and looks from her to Kika and back. “How do you know?”

Kika flips the page of her notebook, and the word “Magic” appears in her perfect script.

“Kika! That’s a little vague.”

She flips to the next page, and he is startled to see the words, “But that’s what they call it.”

“Who are you?” he asks, “Mr. Smith said I should come see you, but does he know you’re magic?”

Kika and Tuor look at each other, one smiling in delight.

“Mr. Smith!” she closes her eyes briefly, and they flutter open in excitement. “Question for you, Mr. Merlo. Why haven’t you spoken with him about your problems? You could not ask for a fiercer defender.”

“I don’t … I don’t want him to think I’m crazy,” Henry says more mournfully than he’d intended (which was not at all mournful).

He hears the notebook page flipping and looks up to see, “You were attacked; it’s not crazy to be afraid.”

“What kind of magic is it? Are you reading my mind?” he frowns again.

“My lovely Kika is a special sort of spirit. She is a protector of a home, and I’m ever so grateful she chose mine. She can control nightmares—give you one or take one away. And before you ask, she most certainly did not give you yours. But she noticed you having one and took a look to give you some peace last night.”

Kika nods. Henry’s mouth, which had formed a small O, says, “Thank you. So you saw it?”

The new notebook page reads, “I saw your memory of it from your perspective.”

“And that, my dear boy, is why I wanted to see you. I’m in a unique position to have some sway with the Obscure side of Melitown. Obscure is what we are—magic, as you’d call it, or the supernatural. While humans are part of the Obvious world—the parts everyone can see. When one from the Obvious has a lot of contact or a very memorable experience with the Obscure, their alignment with the Veil—the threads of creation that weave this world together—becomes more stable. You’ll start to notice more of the Obscured world, first in your periphery, gone before you can focus on it. Then gradually, the Veil will stop protecting the Obscure from you.”

“Protect them from me?” his hand reaches for his ribs, and he winces.

“They hurt you, and you didn’t tell Mr. Smith?” Madam Tuor tsks.

“I didn’t want him to worry. Or be any more trouble for him. He already does so much for us.”

“I think he’d be sad to find out later when he could’ve helped,” the notebook page now reads.

“Well, now we are worried and will feel troubled if nothing is done. And we’ve never done anything for you, so this is not asking too much of us. I want to help you be safe and feel safe and able to sleep again. Would you like my help?”

“I don’t have a lot of money, Ma’am.”

She laughs like birdsong he can’t place, a cheerful burst of excitement. “Oh no, I just want to clean up a certain mess in my community. Will you let me meddle in your affairs, Henry Merlo?”

“I don’t want to be afraid, and I am so afraid for Avery. He’s my little brother. And here I’m the one afraid of monsters.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. I will need you to do a few things to set things in motion. First, you will deliver a letter for me to Mr. Smith. Easy, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am, but will that letter tattle on me?”

“Smart boy. I hope you understand that the moment you are back home, he will be at my door, and I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods. Lying is terrible for your tastebuds, you know?”

“What?”

“Lies are poisonous. They move across your tongue as you set them free into the world, and the more you tell, the more you damage it.”

“Ok. So I am telling on myself delivering a letter. What else?”

“Another delivery. Do you work in the morning at that dreadful place?”

“No, switched so I could take Avery trick-or-treating.”

“Perfect. I’d like you to pick up something and bring it for me around lunchtime. Normally, I would send Kika, but she will be occupied, so this is helping us both out.”

He nods. “Sounds easy enough.”

“Great, wear something nice and go to Goat’s and tell him, ‘Tuor sent me to pick out two cakes and a surprise, owner’s choice.’”

“Oh! Is there any sort you dislike?”

“If it’s cake, it’s for me. So, easy enough?”

“Sure, unless there are dozens of cakes and I am frozen with decision paralysis.”

She smiles, “That’s what the proprietor is for, my sweet. Don’t be afraid of asking people for help, especially when it’s in their area of expertise.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now then, Kika will escort you home—and there will be no protest. There isn’t anything in this area that could harm her.”

Henry looks doubtful. Miss Kika looks like a doll.

Seeing his concern, Madam Tuor chuckles. “Veils are used to filter harsh light and scrutiny.”

Kika’s notebook reads, “I am a nightmare, Henry Merlo.” Then, it changes to, “Come along, I will see you home.”

Tuor has stepped to a cabinet and, pulling out a dark blue folding note card, she hands it to Kika. They both close their eyes for a moment, and then Kika hands it back. She opens it, skims it, and nods. Leaning on a side table, she signs it, refolds it, and seals it with a drip of candlewax and a press of her ring. She passes it to him, and he notes the eye in the tower pressed into the wax. “Mr. Smith” is written in handwriting that doesn’t resemble Kika’s. 

“You’ll give this to him, then? So he doesn’t show up here tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Off you go. It will be all right, Henry Merlo.”