Dead Reckoning

been useful when you came to live with me.
    Then he came by one more time, a few years ago. He gave me this green thing. He said fairys give it to each other when they’re in love, and Fintan had given it to him to bring here to me if Fintan died before I did. It’s got a magical spell in it, he said. You won’t ever need to use it, I hope, he said. But if you do he said to remember that it was a one time thing, not like a lamp, like in the story, with a lot of wishes. He called this thing a cluviel dor, and showed me how to spell it.
    So I guess Fintan is dead, though I was scared to ask the man any questions. I haven’t seen Fintan since after your dad and Linda were born. He held them both and then he left. He said he couldn’t come again ever, that it was too dangerous for me and the kids, that his enemys would follow him here if he kept visiting, even if he came in disguise. I think maybe he was saying he’d come in disguise before, and that worries me. And why would he have enemys? I guess the fairys don’t always get along, just like people. To tell you the truth, I’d been feeling worse and worse about your grandpa every single time I saw Fintan, so when he said he was going for good, it was more or less a relief. I still feel plenty guilty, but when I remember raising your daddy and Linda I’m so glad I had them, and raising you and Jason has been a joy to me.
    Anyway, this letter is yours now since I’m leaving you the house and the cluviel dor. It may not seem fair that Jason didn’t get anything magical, but your grandfather’s friend said Fintan had watched both of you, and you were the one it should go to. I guess I hope you won’t ever need to know any of this. I always wondered if your problem came from you being a little bit fairy, but then, how come Jason wasn’t the same? Or your dad and Linda, for that matter? Maybe you being able to “know things” just happened. I wish I could have cured it so you could have had a normal life, but we have to take what God gives us, and you’ve been real strong handling it.
    Please be careful. I hope you’re not mad at me, or think the worse of me. All God’s children are sinners. At least my sinning led to life for you and Jason and Hadley.
     
     
    Adele Hale Stackhouse (Grandmother)
    There was so much to think about that I didn’t know where to start.
    I was simultaneously stunned, startled, curious, and confused. Before I could stop myself, I picked up my other relic, the worn velvet bag. I loosened the drawstring, which crumbled in my fingers. I opened the bag and let the hard thing inside—the cluviel dor, the gift from my fairy grandfather—fall into my palm.
    I loved it instantly.
    It was a creamy light green, trimmed in gold. It was like one of the snuffboxes at the antiques store, but nothing in Splendide had been this beautiful. I could see no catch, no hinge, nothing; it didn’t pop open when I gently pressed and twisted the lid—and there was definitely a lid, trimmed in gold. Hmmm. The round box wasn’t ready to yield its secret.
    Okeydokey. Maybe I had to do some research. I put the object to one side and sat with my hands folded on the table, staring into space. My head was crowded with thoughts.
    Gran had obviously been very emotional when she wrote the letter. If our “godfather” had given Gran more information about this gift, either she’d neglected to mention it or she simply hadn’t remembered anything else. I wondered when she’d forced herself to set down this confession. Obviously, it had been written after Aunt Linda died, which had happened when Gran was in her seventies. My birth grandfather’s friend—I was pretty sure I recognized the description. Surely the “godfather” was Mr. Cataliades, demon lawyer. I knew it must have cost her plenty to say— on paper —that she’d had sex with someone other than her husband. My grandmother had been a strong individual, and she’d also been a devout Christian. Such an admission must have haunted her.
    She might have judged herself, but now that I’d gotten over the shock of seeing my grandmother as a woman, I didn’t judge her. Who was I to throw stones? The preacher had told me that all sins were equal in the eyes of God, but I couldn’t help but feel (for example) that a child molester was worse than a person who cheated on his income tax or a lonely woman who’d had unsanctioned sex because she wanted a baby. I was probably wrong, because we also