Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,34
wish,” Bartholomew snorted. “My dad? It was Bing Crosby, which was someone his dad apparently loved.” And then he shuddered. “Like my name, which, by the way, was a complete fuckup.”
Lachlan smiled at him with big anime eyes. “Oh, do tell!”
God. So adorable. And looking at him, Bartholomew Crosby Baker, like that! Unbelievable. Anyway…. “So, there’s this terrible story by Herman Melville—”
“Bartleby, the Scrivener?” Lachlan sounded appalled—and so he might. The story was about a guy who just gave up, said, “I prefer not,” and then died of complete apathy.
“I hate that fucking story,” Bartholomew said, passion in his voice he very rarely let out. To distract himself he started unloading the groceries, stacking them on the table in groups. “But the thing is, apparently Grandpa was a big Melville fan—my father’s name is, I shit you not, Ismael.” And there was the baking group. “Anyway, Dad never got along with Grandpa, and naming me after the damned story was going to bridge the father-son gap and my father was going to get all the love his father deprived him of as he was growing up.” And there was the group for the friends’ batch of amulets.
“Oh dear God…,” Lachlan said, and his dawning horror was, in a way, gratifying. Bartholomew had needed to grasp and regrasp the appalling magnitude of his father’s boner every minute of his life.
“Yeah. So, Dad fucked up the name—because, remember, all the humanities were bullshit, so why actually read the story your father is telling you holds the secret of life. Anyway, Dad presents his father with Bartholomew Crosby—because Crosby was his father’s favorite singer, and his too, because his heart was old when he was born. But the point is, it was not Bartleby Crosby, and his father said, ‘You are the fuckup I’ve always believed you to be,’ and my father learned from this?”
“Not a goddamned thing,” Lachlan said, still horrified.
Very carefully, Bartholomew separated the rose, the clove oil, and the amaryllis, making sure the witch hazel, the fennel, and the chamomile rode the line of both groups. “Nope. And apparently neither have I, because I’ve been so afraid of making mistakes, I almost made the biggest one of all by letting you get away.”
“But you didn’t,” Lachlan said, and now that Bartholomew was still again, that hand at the small of his back resumed the gentle stroke. He kissed Bartholomew’s cheek. “And maybe you can break the terrible family cycle and not judge others for their mistakes as they shall not judge you.”
Bartholomew leaned his head briefly on Lachlan’s shoulder. “Maybe,” he sighed, hoping. “Anyway, let’s get a move on.”
“Sure,” Lachlan said, although he made no move to dislodge Bartholomew’s head. “But first, what’s the vanilla, butter, sugar, and flour for?”
“Shortbread,” Bartholomew said, straightening up again so maybe Lachlan would miss his flush. “I… I make better spells when I’m actually baking.”
Lachlan was just looking at him, the silence so thick Bartholomew finally had to turn his head and look back. “What?”
“You’re so awesome.” A quick, hard, hungry kiss later, Bartholomew was panting for breath and Lachlan was—dammit!—pulling away. “Meet back in an hour. Break!”
And with that, he practically danced out of the house, leaving Bartholomew smiling goofily at the door as he left.
He thought Bartholomew was awesome. Yay!
Making Magic
AN HOUR later, Lachlan carefully sanded the last piece of wood he’d been working on, liking the silky finish of the small chip.
Like he’d promised, he’d made six small discs with a hole drilled near the top, and had then used his wood burner and etched the symbols Bartholomew had shown him. He remembered what Bartholomew had told him about intention and elements, and thought carefully of what he knew of Bartholomew’s friends as he did so, respecting each one their right to be Bartholomew’s family since his own seemed so terribly fraught with strife. When he was done sanding them and marking them, he gave them one more rubdown. He usually used linseed oil to give the wood a matte sheen, but he had no idea what that element would do to the spell. He hoped maybe Bartholomew’s potion would have the same effect.
He’d already seen that these things weren’t to be trifled with.
For himself, he’d put the rune for joy on one side, like he’d promised, and then a small pictograph of a slice of bread—puff top, square bottom. He thought of the complicated recipe that made up Bartholomew Crosby Baker with every line. And in the center, the X,