Dangerous Thoughts

Chapter 5

James had only let Charles out of the house the following morning on the condition that he drink not one, not two, but three of his horrendous concoctions. Charles had lined them up like shot glasses, throwing them back under the watchful eye of his brother and doing his best not to throw them right back up.

"Please try to hire someone respectable," James said as he inspected each bottle to ensure Charles had drunk every last drop. "They'll have to live with us for the next week and I'd rather not have someone slopping muddy shoes through the foyer and spitting out chicken bones on the carpet."

"I'm sure Thaddeus hires a more proper bunch than that," Charles said, adjusting his hat in the front hall mirror. He was trying to hide the bandages wrapped around his head, but it was no use. I guess I'll just be hideous for a day, he thought.

James rolled his eyes. "Just be careful."

"Always am," Charles said with a wink and then stepped out into the morning sun.

While the city had been calm and quiet last night, now that it was daylight, the whole town was alive. Women walked by with parasols, shading their skin from the sun. Carriages rolled by, carting people to and fro with the clopping of horses. And a few vendors were already out, manning their stalls on the street corners, selling a mix of the magical and the mundane: fruits and amulets, roasted peanuts and spell books, hand-carved wooden knickknacks alongside potions galore.

Charles wove his way through the town, tipping his hat at the people who recognized him which—as usual—was always a few more than he anticipated.

"Mister Abbot!" he heard someone cry, and when he turned to the sound, Charles saw an older gentleman with a thick grey mustache hobbling towards him.

"Mister Davis," Charles greeted, doing his best to put on a smile.

Mister Davis paused, catching his breath from his sprint and resting on his ebony walking stick. "Good thing... I caught up to you... Mister Abbot," he said. "I was wondering..."

Charles knew what he was going to ask before the words even came out of his mouth.

"...if you've found... a flying memory for me."

Mister Davis had been asking for the same memory for over three months. And despite looking, Charles had not yet found a mage who could fly.

"I'm sorry, Mister Davis. I still haven't found one."

"Those cheeky buggers. Hiding on me, they are," the old man mumbled. "Someone somewhere knows how to fly."

"You know I'm always keeping my eyes open."

"I know you are, Charles. You're a good man." Mr. Davis looked down, as if expecting to see Charles' briefcase full of memories in his hand, but was surprised to see it empty. "Where's your briefcase?"

"I'm actually not selling today," Charles said.

Mister Davis' drooping eyes widened. "Really? Why not?"

Charles had to stifle a groan. As nice as Mister Davis was, he had an annoying habit of being a bit too intrusive. Still, Charles lifted his hat a little, revealing the bandages. "Got a little bruised up last night. Going to see the doctor," he lied.

"Your brother couldn't patch you up?" he asked with a chuckle.

Charles smiled and slowly started walking away. "I really should be going," he said. "I'm going to miss my appointment."

"Who's your doctor? The wife's been hounding me to talk to someone about my knee..."

Charles pretended not to hear him. And, thanks to Mister Davis' bum knee, Charles was able to escape unscathed. It was how he ended most conversations with the old man, and luckily for his business, Mister Davis didn't hold a grudge.