The Golem's Eye

hands still full of brush and shoe, he stood up, allowed her to kiss his cheek, then motioned her to an empty chair.
    "We've got a hot pot on, love," Kitty's mother said. "It'll be ready in five minutes."
    "Oh, that's great. Cheers."
    "So..." After a moment's consideration, her father placed his brush upon the table and laid the shoe sole-down beside it. He smiled at her broadly. "How's life among the pots and paints?"
    "It's fine. Nothing special, but I'm learning."
    "And Mr. Pennyfeather?"
    "He's getting a little frail. Doesn't walk so well now."
    "Dear, dear. And the business? Most importantly, do you have the magicians' custom? Do they paint?"
    "Not so much."
    "That's where you have to direct your energies, girl. That's where the money is."
    "Yes, Dad. We're directing our energies at the magicians now. How's work?"
    "Oh, you know. I made a big sale at Easter."
    "Easter was months ago, Dad."
    "Business is slow. How about a cup of tea, Iris?"
    "Not before lunch." Her mother was busying herself collecting extra cutlery and setting the place before Kitty with reverent care. "You know, Kitty," she said, "I don't see why you don't stop here with us. It's not so far. And it would be cheaper for you."
    "Rent's not high, Mum."
    "Yes, but food and that. You must spend so much on it, when we could cook for you. It's a waste of money."
    "Mmm." Kitty picked up her fork and tapped the table with it absently. "How's Mrs. Hyrnek?" she said. "And Jakob—have you seen him lately?"
    Her mother had on a large pair of oven gloves and was kneeling before the oven; a gust of red-hot air, heavy with the fragrance of spiced meats, belched from its open door. Her voice echoed strangely as she rummaged within. "Jarmilla is well enough," she said. "Jakob works for his father, as you know. I have not seen him. He does not go out. Alfred—could you fetch out the wooden mat? This is piping hot. That's it. Now drain the potatoes. You should visit him, dear. He'd be glad for company, poor boy. Especially if it's you. It's a shame you don't see him anymore."
    Kitty frowned. "That wasn't what you used to say, Mum."
    "All that business was a long time ago.... You're much steadier now. Oh, and the grandmother has died, Jarmilla says."
    "What? When?"
    "Last month sometime. Don't give me that look—if you came to see us more often, you'd have known about it earlier, wouldn't you? Not that I can see it matters much to you in any case. Oh—do ladle it out, Alfred. It'll go cold, else."
    The potatoes were overcooked, but the stew was excellent. Kitty ate ravenously and, to her mother's delight, plowed through a second helping before her parents had finished their first. Then, while her mother told her news of people she had never met or didn't remember, she sat quietly, fingering a small, smooth, and heavy object in her trouser pocket, lost in thought.
    The evening following her trial had been deeply unpleasant for Kitty, as first her mother, then her father, had expressed their fury at the consequences. It was in vain that Kitty reminded them of her innocence, of the wickedness of Julius Tallow. It was in vain that she swore to somehow find the £600 necessary to placate the wrath of the Courts. Her parents were unmoved. Their argument boiled down to a few eloquent points: (1) They did not have the money. (2) They would have to sell their house. (3) She was a stupid, arrogant brat to think of challenging a magician. (4a) What had everyone told her? (4b) What had they told her? (5) Not to do it. (6) But she was too boneheaded to listen. And (7) now what were they going to do?
     
    The encounter had finished predictably, with the mother weeping, the father raging, and Kitty rushing furiously to her room. It was only when she was there, sitting on the bed, staring hot-eyed at the opposite wall, that she remembered the old man, Mr. Pennyfeather, and his strange offer of assistance. It had entirely slipped her mind during the argument, and now, in the midst of her confusion and distress, it seemed altogether unreal. She thrust it to the back of her mind.
    Her mother, bringing her a conciliatory cup of tea some hours later, found a chair wedged firmly against the door from within. She spoke through the thin plywood. "I forgot to tell you something, Kathleen. Your friend Jakob is out of the hospital. He went home this morning."
    "What! Why didn't you say?" The chair was feverishly removed; a flushed face glared out from under a mane of unkempt hair. "I