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An Inconvenient Familiar

By Ophelia Ravenwood

The animal arrived between Natural History and Diseases of the Horse, carrying one of Caspar’s gloves.

Taliesin knew the glove. He had spent most of the previous winter trying not to notice its owner taking it off with his teeth.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

The animal sat on the horse book. It was no larger than a loaf, with dark velvet fur, six very small feet and ears that folded forward like the corners of an envelope. Its tail had a pale tip. When Taliesin reached for the glove, it put one foot on his wrist, lightly, and sneezed a blue spark into the cuff.

He withdrew his hand. The spark went out.

“You can keep it.”

It couldn’t, apparently. It picked up the glove, jumped down and carried it to the door. There it became extraordinarily thin. Taliesin watched its body flatten into something like a moving ink stain, slide under the door and resume its former thickness on the pavement.

Across the narrow street, Caspar was unlocking his shop. The animal laid the glove on his shoe.

Caspar looked up.

Taliesin stepped behind a shelf.

He had forty minutes before opening and a delivery of damp hymnals to refuse. He didn’t have time to resume a quarrel which had already consumed three weeks, a whole evening and, through some unfair process of association, his enjoyment of breakfast.

The bell rang.

Taliesin came out holding a book he didn’t need.

“Is this yours?” Caspar asked.

The animal was perched along his forearm. Without the winter coat, Caspar looked broader. His rolled sleeves exposed a patch of dark hair and the old burn near his elbow, neither of which Taliesin wished to find interesting at nine twenty on a Thursday.

“No.”

“It was in your shop.”

“It seems to have been in yours. That’s your glove.”

“I know whose glove it is.”

The animal stepped from Caspar’s arm onto Taliesin’s book. It turned twice, settled down and closed its eyes.

They both stared at it.

“Put it outside,” Caspar said.

“You put it outside.”

“It seems comfortable.”

“Then buy the book.”

Caspar looked at the spine. “Diseases of the Horse?”

“Someone should.”

A smile began at one corner of Caspar’s mouth. Taliesin disliked how much he wanted the rest of it.

They had managed civil rivalry for nearly two years. Caspar sold bright new editions, travel books, novels with women running away on the covers. Taliesin sold used books, unhelpfully specialized books, books whose previous owners had left lists in them. Customers crossed between the shops. On wet afternoons Caspar used to bring coffee. Taliesin had once spent an entire hour helping him free a pigeon from the stockroom, though he knew perfectly well how little room there was in that stockroom for two grown men.

Then Caspar had bought the old music teacher’s library before Taliesin could view it. There had been a box of illustrated ballads Taliesin had wanted very badly. He’d called Caspar a dealer in decorative enthusiasm. Caspar had called him a snob. Both had found plenty of evidence afterward.

The animal snored. Its ears lifted and fell.

“There’s a keeper in the covered market,” Caspar said. “She deals with magical strays.”

“Good.”

“I’m not carrying it there alone while it keeps bringing me things from your shop.”

“Things?”

Caspar took a pencil from his pocket. Then a paper knife. Then the small brass weight Taliesin used to hold down receipts.

Taliesin put the book on the counter and tried to move the animal into an empty delivery basket. It stepped obligingly inside. He put the lid on. A dark patch slipped through the weave and became an animal again on the counter.

“That’s useful,” Caspar said.

The animal picked up the pencil and held it out to Taliesin.

“I don’t want a familiar.”

“Neither do I.”

For a moment they were in complete agreement. The animal made a satisfied chirrup.

The market keeper had just finished persuading a kettle to stop following its former owner.

“Old attachment,” she said, closing it in a cupboard. From inside came a low, disappointed whistle. “People give things away and then wonder why they come back.”

Taliesin looked pointedly at the animal. It was riding in the open basket between them, sitting on a towel Caspar had brought. The morning assistant was minding Caspar’s shop. Taliesin had put up a notice saying he would return at eleven, a promise he was beginning to regret.

The keeper examined its ears. It offered her a foot.

“Oh, lovely. Where did you find him?”

“In my shop,” said Taliesin.

“In both our shops,” Caspar said.

The keeper ran her thumb along the pale tail. The animal leaned into it so hard that the basket tilted.

“No collar. Well fed. An adult, I’d say.”

“Can he stay here?” Taliesin asked.

“For a few days, certainly. I’ll put word out. These little things are usually somebody’s companion.”

She lifted him into a roomy pen containing a blanket, water and a piece of branch. He sniffed the blanket. He climbed onto the branch. Taliesin let out a breath.

Then the animal flattened, passed between the bars and landed on Caspar’s boot.

The keeper crouched.

“Or they decide to be.”

“Does that mean we’re stuck with him?” Caspar asked.

“No. It means he likes your boot.” She picked him up again. “I have a room with a threshold he can’t slip through. You’re welcome to leave him while I look for whoever’s missing him.”

Taliesin should have said yes. He was on the verge of saying it when the animal reached over the keeper’s wrist and began to lick a spot of dried paste from his thumb.

“Don’t eat that,” he said.

“It’s flour paste,” Caspar said. “You’ve had it there since yesterday.”

Taliesin looked at him.

“You were in the window.” Caspar turned to the keeper. “Is there anyone nearby who breeds them?”

“Used to. Woman up by the disused glasshouses. She brought some to the spring market. You might try her. But you needn’t spend your day doing my job.”

The animal yawned into Taliesin’s palm.

They left him in the keeper’s care while they went back to their shops. Caspar crossed the street without speaking. Taliesin took down his notice, sold a book on drainage, refused the hymnals and spent an unreasonable amount of time looking at the clean place on his thumb.

At half past one he saw Caspar carrying the open basket past his window.

Taliesin went to the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking him up to the glasshouses. The keeper asked round. Nobody’s reported him missing.”

“You were going without me.”

“I thought you’d be delighted.”

Taliesin glanced back. His regular Thursday relief worker was hanging her coat in the stockroom. Usually he used the afternoon to visit suppliers, go to the baths, eat something that hadn’t been delivered in paper.

“Wait,” he said.

He fetched his coat. By the time he got outside, Caspar was smiling at the basket.

“Not a word,” Taliesin said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

The hill began gently, which Taliesin considered deceptive.

Halfway up, the houses gave way to allotments. Caspar stopped to take off his coat, and the animal climbed out of the basket to explore a hedge. It could make itself thin enough to pass under a door, but apparently saw no reason to walk through leaves without examining every one.

“Come on,” Caspar said.

The animal pulled a strip of blue cloth from the hedge and brought it to him.

“No, I don’t want that.”

Taliesin took it. “It’s a bit of someone’s shirt.”

“That doesn’t improve it.”

The creature trotted ahead, all six feet working industriously. For three minutes it looked like a perfectly sensible animal. Then it found a windblown paper bag, climbed into it and refused to come out.

Caspar picked up the bag.

“Parcel,” he said.

Taliesin laughed before he could stop himself.

Caspar looked at him, not triumphantly. That made it worse, somehow. Taliesin took the basket so Caspar could carry the bag without crushing its occupant.

Above them, the old glasshouses flashed silver. Most of their panes were intact, though ivy had grown through the vents. Bees moved among the last flowers of the season. A woman in a sunhat was sitting outside a cottage, taking apart a wooden chair.

She listened to their explanation while Parcel extricated himself from the bag.

“Never bred those,” she said.

“But the spring market—” Caspar began.

“Moths. I breed moths.”

Taliesin looked at Parcel’s folded ears. “You can see how the mistake might happen.”

“Not really.”

She set down her screwdriver. Parcel had found a saucer under the chair and was licking it with great concentration.

“That’s the cat’s,” she told him.

The animal moved to the other side of the chair, where he continued licking it.

The woman shook her head. “There was a man who brought familiars. Retired now. Other side of the reservoir. Little blue house. He keeps odd hours, but he’s generally there by four.”

Taliesin checked his watch. Two forty.

They could go back. He could have tea at home, put his feet up, be cross about the hill in private. Instead he heard himself ask, “Is there a way across?”

“Ferry. Last one back’s at five.”

She pointed them down a path behind the glasshouses. Before they left, Caspar helped her turn the chair over, holding it while she tested the loosened leg. Taliesin waited with Parcel in the basket. Caspar was listening seriously to a detailed account of the chair’s failings. He didn’t interrupt or pretend to know how to fix it.

When he came back, there was a green smear on his cheek.

“You’ve got something,” Taliesin said, touching his own face.

Caspar wiped the wrong side.

“No. Here.”

Taliesin took out a handkerchief. Caspar stood still while he rubbed away the mark. His skin was warm. At this distance Taliesin could see a silver hair caught among the dark ones above his ear.

“There.”

“Thank you.”

Taliesin folded the handkerchief very carefully.

They bought cheese rolls at the ferry landing. Caspar bought a second roll, ate half of it and handed the other half to Taliesin without asking. Taliesin had been trying not to look hungry.

Parcel was asleep in the basket, his tail draped over the edge. Neither man offered him cheese.

“I should tell you something about the library,” Caspar said.

Taliesin’s mouth was full. He held up a finger, chewed and swallowed. “Must you?”

“Yes. The teacher asked me to buy the whole lot. She needed the room cleared before her daughter moved in.”

“She’d said I could come on Saturday.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You might’ve asked.”

“Asked whether she’d promised her books to every other shop in town?”

Taliesin looked across the reservoir. The ferry was approaching, leaving a broad, bright seam in the water.

“No,” he said at last. “I suppose not.”

Caspar tore a piece from the crust. “I knew you’d want the ballads. I put them aside.”

Taliesin turned.

“Then you came in and told me I bought books by the color of the bindings.”

“I said you sold them that way.”

“An important distinction.”

It had sounded clever in the shop. Taliesin could remember the exact pleasure of saying it. He could also remember Caspar’s expression afterward, which had been less satisfying.

“I was horrible.”

“You were.”

The ferry touched the landing with a padded thump.

“Did you sell them?” Taliesin asked.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I might still. They’re good books.”

They carried the basket aboard. The ferryman took their fares and pointed to a place out of the wind. Taliesin sat with the basket between his feet. Caspar sat beside him.

After they pulled away, Taliesin said, “I wasn’t only angry about the books.”

Caspar waited.

There were other people aboard. An older couple shared a flask near the prow. A child was looking over the side while her father held the back of her coat. Nobody was paying attention to Taliesin. This did not help him speak.

“You stopped coming over for coffee before that happened.”

“I asked you to supper.”

“You said I could come and see the stockroom shelves.”

“I said I’d cook afterward.”

“I thought you wanted help with the shelves.”

“I did want help with the shelves.” Caspar rubbed his forehead. “I also wanted you in my kitchen.”

Taliesin looked down at his hands.

The ferry’s engine had an uneven, comfortable rhythm. A drop of water struck his wrist. He wanted to be younger and less easily embarrassed; then he thought of himself at twenty-six and was grateful he wasn’t.

“I would’ve come,” he said.

“I know. You offered Sunday morning. With a spirit level.”

Taliesin began to laugh. It was dreadful, how much of his dignity depended on the other man not joining in.

Caspar joined in.

Parcel opened one eye, judged the situation, and went back to sleep.

The little blue house was yellow.

“Recently painted,” said its owner, as though they’d accused him of something. He had a white beard, bare feet and a saucepan in his hand. “Bring him round the back.”

They followed him into a garden full of laundry. A small winged creature hung upside down from the washing line beside a row of socks. Parcel raised his ears but stayed in the basket.

The man washed his hands at an outside tap, then examined him, lifting each foot in turn. Parcel tolerated the first five. At the sixth he tucked himself into a ball.

“Healthy little fellow. No, not one of mine. Mine all have a notch here.” He touched an ear. “Has anyone claimed him?”

They explained about the market.

“Leave your details there. Someone may yet come looking. In the meantime, I can keep him. Got room.”

Caspar looked at Taliesin.

Taliesin found himself looking at the basket rather than the man. The towel was crumpled into a small, warm hollow. He’d carried it up a hill, across a reservoir and through most of an argument he’d been avoiding. His wrists ached.

“What does he eat?” he asked.

The man brought out a jar of dry feed and wrote down the name of the shop that sold it. There was more ordinary advice than Taliesin expected: fresh water, somewhere warm, a safe place to sleep. Watch the teeth around loose thread. Don’t let him collect pins.

“He likes bringing things,” Caspar said.

“They do. Most haven’t much judgment.”

“Can they have two people?”

“They can like as many people as they please. Doesn’t mean those people have to live together.” The man glanced at the washing line. “My sister’s one comes here when she’s painting. Stays a week. Goes home when he misses the stove.”

Taliesin felt his face grow warm. Caspar was studying the jar with unnecessary care.

“Will he be unhappy if we leave him?” Taliesin asked.

“Probably annoyed. Then he’ll eat his supper.”

They went to the gate to discuss it. Parcel remained on the man’s lap, chewing something crunchy. Nobody was chasing them. They could catch the ferry and arrive home without a creature that stole paper knives.

“I could take him tonight,” Caspar said. “While the keeper looks for his person.”

“I could do tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Taliesin ran his thumb along a splinter in the gate. “I’d rather not have him among the valuable stock. But there’s room upstairs.”

Caspar nodded. “We’ll ask the keeper what to do if nobody comes.”

They went back and said so. The man lent them enough feed for a few days, refused payment for examining Parcel and accepted a promise that Caspar would find him a decent book about pears.

By the time they reached the ferry landing, the boat was halfway across the reservoir.

Taliesin stopped. “That’s the last one.”

Caspar checked his watch. Five past five.

For a moment neither spoke.

“We’ve missed it,” Caspar said.

“Yes. I can see the missing happening.”

There was a road around the water. A sign pointed to a village where they could get the evening coach. Caspar sat on a bench, took off his shoe and shook out a small stone.

Taliesin sat beside him. He was tired enough to resent the reservoir, the retired man, the sun on the water and Caspar’s very attractive ankle.

“I was going to have a bath this afternoon,” he said.

“Would you rather I’d gone alone?”

“No.”

Caspar put his shoe back on.

“No,” Taliesin said again, less sharply. “I wouldn’t.”

They sat until the boat reached the other shore. Then Caspar offered him the last corner of a crushed roll, and they set off around the reservoir.

The walk took an hour. They carried the basket in turns, stopped once to let Parcel drink, and arrived at the village with ten minutes to spare. Taliesin had a blister. Caspar’s shirt had come untucked. On the coach they sat shoulder to shoulder because the seat was narrow, and kept sitting that way when a wider seat became free.

Back at the market, the keeper was closing her shutters. She took their addresses, approved the temporary arrangement and promised to pass on any inquiry. Parcel tried to give her the coach ticket. She thanked him and gave it back.

Their street was almost empty when they reached it. Caspar’s assistant had closed the shop. Taliesin’s relief worker had left a note about three sales and a customer who would return for a dictionary.

“I should go upstairs,” Taliesin said.

“Yes.”

Neither moved.

Parcel was scratching at the towel. Caspar set the basket inside his shop and poured water into a saucer, leaving the door open. The animal drank, stepped onto a cushion behind the counter and curled up.

Taliesin remained on the pavement.

Caspar came back. “Would you like to have supper with me?”

“Are there shelves involved?”

“No. There might be onions.”

Taliesin smiled. Then his smile faltered, because this was suddenly happening and he was forty-six and had spent three weeks making it difficult.

“I’d like that,” he said. “But not tonight. I smell of hills.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

A breeze moved down the street, lifting the loose corner of Caspar’s window display. Taliesin caught it before it struck the door. Caspar took it from him and put it inside.

When he turned back, he was closer.

“Could I kiss you now?” he asked.

Taliesin said yes, and then had to put a hand against the doorframe because Caspar kissed him with a warmth and lack of hurry that made the whole tiring afternoon suddenly available to him again: the handkerchief, the boat, the ugly little stone in the shoe. He touched Caspar’s waist. Caspar made a quiet sound against his mouth.

They separated without going far.

“Tomorrow,” Taliesin said.

“I heard you.”

“I’m reminding myself.”

Inside the shop, Parcel was asleep. One foot twitched. He had no interest in either of them.

Taliesin crossed the street, unlocked his door and went upstairs. He ran a bath, took off his shoes and discovered that the blister was smaller than it felt. While the water filled, he searched his wardrobe for a shirt he hadn’t worn while pricing books.

There was a soft scrape downstairs.

He turned off the taps and went to the landing. A dark shape passed under the shop door and became Parcel, carrying a folded piece of paper. The animal climbed three stairs, put it down and began washing his face.

Taliesin opened the note.

Seven. No shelves. I’ve put the ballads aside for you to look at, not as a bribe. You can be interested in two things.

Underneath was a rough drawing of a horse. It was a very poor horse.

Taliesin fetched a pencil. On the back he wrote, Seven. That horse needs the book.

He started downstairs with the reply, expecting Parcel to follow. The animal stepped past him, climbed to the warm bathroom and settled on the folded towel.

“All right,” Taliesin said.

He put on his slippers and took the note across himself.