Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Page B

for him. Arnold was half afraid he would conjure up another windstorm, but instead he turned a mirror on the counter toward Arnold and waited while Arnold tied the gray silk around his neck. That brought Alphonse up a notch or two in Arnold’s esteem. A good tailor knew that a gentleman tied his own tie.
    His hair was a mess. Arnold smoothed a hand over it, then accepted a silver hairbrush and comb from Alphonse and used them to groom his dark hair into submission.
    â€œVery elegant, sir. Would you care to take in the whole ensemble?”
    A sharp “pop” startled Arnold as a full-length mirror appeared beside him. “I wish you’d quit doing that,” he said, then turned to the mirror to appraise himself.
    â€œMy apologies, sir,” murmured Alphonse. “It’s just quicker.”
    Arnold adjusted the necktie. “Yeah, like the way you tailor a suit is quicker.”
    â€œI hate fussing with pins. Oh, that reminds me.”
    Alphonse reached under the counter and brought out a small case lined in black velvet. In it rested half a dozen stickpins, each tipped with a sizable jewel. Arnold selected one with a diamond head and carefully placed it in the exact center of his tie.
    â€œPerfect,” said Alphonse. “You look much better, if I may say so, sir.”
    â€œYeah, you may.”
    Arnold turned to the mirror. He felt better, too, though he wondered if the suit would turn into a pumpkin at midnight.
    â€œTell me about Penstemon.”
    Alphonse’s eyebrows twitched upward. He blinked, then carefully put away the case of stickpins. “What do you wish to know?”
    â€œWho is he? Where’d he come from?”
    â€œHe is originally from Florida, I believe. As to who—” The tailor paused to brush the shoulders of Arnold’s suit with a silver-handled clothes brush. His golden eyes met Arnold’s in the mirror.
    â€œBeing in his employ, I might be considered biased, but I think it is fair to say he’s the most powerful warlock in the country.”
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~ William ~
    Hertfordshire, England
    W illiam Weare sat up, much annoyed, and took the coins from his eyes. He had been in the middle of a perfectly good haunting when a peculiar sensation had gripped him, rather like to being drawn into a maelstrom, though the underwater feeling of it may have just been his imagination. He was dry now, in any case, though rather chilled. That, upon reflection, was unusual.
    He looked around and saw that he was in the Elstree churchyard, right enough. There was the obnoxious Burton monument just near. He was sitting on his own grave, dressed in his Sunday best. He frowned, stood up, and noticed a stray leaf on his sleeve. He brushed at it and it fell off. That was when he realized he was in a living body.
    Disturbing; he’d forgotten how heavy it felt. He took a deep breath and marveled at the smell of mouldering leaves and damp night air. He hefted the two coins in his hand. Guineas, antiques by now. Probably worth a pretty penny. He dropped them into his coat pocket.
    Alive again. He supposed he should be pleased, but he still felt faintly annoyed. He’d got used to being dead. He could go where he liked without anyone bothering him, and if he got bored he could frighten a few good people out of their wits for a laugh. How was he to frighten anyone now?
    And these clothes—the ones he’d been buried in—well, they were absolutely out of fashion now, he knew that much. Frock coat and breeches belonged at a fancy dress ball nowadays.
    The young people he had been haunting were nowhere in sight. Scared off, perhaps, by the maelstrom or whatever it had been. They had gone home, or off to the pub to brag about daring the graveyard. He felt cheated.
    The sound of horses’ hooves clopping on pavement made him turn his head. Outside the churchyard fence he saw a black coach and pair coming down the street. The matched