Small Gifts

"I was so nervous," said Paul, his gaze darting around the art gallery. "I don't know why. It's just a gallery opening. I've been to lots of them." He plucked at a button on his shirt, then smoothed it back in place. "I mean, it's not like I'm moving to New York or anything crazy like that."

"Paul." Andrew's voice sounded firm yet gentle. "This is just a gallery opening. Nothing to be nervous about. You met the artist of your piece." He leaned in and whispered: "In the flesh."

Paul shot Andrew a suspicious look, then remembered that Andrew didn't know anything about the bluebird.

Andrew continued. "She lives in a castle and everything. I mean, it's not just a small thing to meet the artist of your and to get the artwork placed in a gallery."

Paul's jaw dropped. He hadn't been expecting a castle.

"Cheerer-upper," said Andrew, giving his shoulder a squeeze and laughing.

Paul looked around, wishing the gallery weren't quite so dark and crowded, and wished that he could see the art on the walls. The room was full to bursting, the air rich with the aroma of perfume, cologne and expensive caterers.

"She lives in a castle, Andrew," he repeated. "Like... a real castle?"

Andrew nodded and looked at him strangely.

Paul placed a hand on Andrew's shoulder and began to whisper his story.

Paul and Andrew had met at a concert, the first time Paul had gone to one since moving to the city. It had been at a small art gallery, an opening for a mystery artist. Paul had been drawn to the pieces instantly, beautiful sculptures of strange yet familiar things: feathers, stones, bits of metal, shiny things. The show had consisted of three pieces, nothing ugly or abstract, just a few small rocks and a feather pinned to an easel, surrounded by a sort of gauze.

He'd thought to himself that some wealthy patron was going to love their tax deduction and give the fledgling artist a big break.

And then, he'd seen the artist. She'd been sitting at a table in the back of the gallery, signing work and chatting with passers by. She'd been even smaller than he'd imagined, with long light brown hair, a thin face and angular features. She wore a trailing blue dress.

He'd introduced himself as the artist of the piece. He'd never been so nervous.

"What piece?" The artist had asked distractedly, not looking up from her work.

"The big black feather and the rocks," Paul had said.

She'd looked up at him then, and he'd recognized a distant familiarity in her eyes. He'd felt himself blush.

"Oh, yes," she'd said finally, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, yes, of course." She'd patted his hand. "You're Paul."

Two weeks after the opening, he'd received an unsigned invitation to the artist's castle. The note simply said "A small gathering of friends. I hope it will be your home, as it is mine. Wine and cake."

He shouldn't have believed her.

The castle was older than his parents' home, a large structure surrounded by high stone walls and a hundred trees. The path leading there was spongy, knee-high grass and ended at a wide, peaceful meadow. Paul was late by a half hour. The clock reading "a quarter past twelve" cast him in a glow of amber light. Andrew was standing next to the gate.

"She's aware that you're late," he said, smiling and wryly.

"She's not welcoming, then?" Paul said, nervously smoothing his hair.

"Oh yes," said Andrew. "She's more than welcoming."

Paul frowned at Andrew's subtle innuendo.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Come, I'll show you to your quarters."

They walked through the dark passages of the castle, also empty save Andrew. Andrew seemed to be leading him in circles and up several flights of stairs.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "The castle is rather large. Not to mention old. Oh, and there's what you might call a maze system, connecting various rooms and halls. Makes it harder for the less desirable guests to find your rooms, I suppose. And the doubles."

Paul fell silent.

Andrew slowed and took a turn down a long corridor. "Here we are," he said, stopping at a door that had been gouged with a claw.

"Bastards," said Andrew. "Be advised that you are your own security. Be on guard, and leave your bedroom door open. Bastards." He sighed and unlocked the door.

"What was that about? Those claw marks?" asked Paul.

Andrew laughed. "Just a side effect of being a crossroad between worlds. Our artist always wanted to be a painter too."

The next morning Paul awoke to soft chimes, bells and the butler.

"Lord Paul," he said, his English accent stiff. "Breakfast will be served in the great hall in ten minutes."

"Thank you," said Paul.

A smaller voice called out behind the butler. "Good morning, Lord Paul?"

Paul turned around to see the artist. All he could see were two outsized glittery eyes looking at him.

"Good morning," he said.

The artist returned a smile and nodded her head.

Paul turned back to the butler. "Excuse me, friend. Where can I change and take breakfast? Would you show me the way?"

There was a slight pause, and then a long sigh from the butler. "I am not a very good servant, my Lord. I simply cannot do it anymore."

Paul frowned, confused.

The butler took a deep breath. "I have only been a butler for one day, and look at how I'm behaving! I'm not an actor, Lord. I was a stunt double for some movies. And being a butler, a gentleman's gentleman, has always been my dream."

The butler looked back at the artist. "No offense, Miss."

The artist narrowed her eyes and tilted her head at the butler. She said nothing.

"Oh, and of course, I know how to enter a magical contract," the butler bubbled on.

"What?" asked Paul.

The butler nodded and opened the door.

Source