certain, but even if she were just the typical tourist she would be compelling. Alas, the life of the solitary magician is not conducive to serious relationships.”
Hmmm, I wondered. Did magicians all give up actual relationships for their magic, or was this just Marten pitying himself? Though he never seemed to be the type for self-pity, and he must be aware that the only reason he didn’t have a serious girlfriend was that he didn’t want one. A man with his looks, charm, dancing ability, wardrobe and, well, bedside manner, shall we say, could have any woman he wanted. So he must not have wanted, not beyond a series of flings.
I read further in his journal. “I am so sorry she is leaving. Always before I have felt that a short acquaintance and fun was what I wanted. And yet, this one intrigues me more than I had anticipated. I had expected beautiful, but not so intelligent, accomplished, and stylish. And sophisticated. No wonder Meph thinks so highly of her! Well, then, perhaps it would not be impossible to visit New York after all . . . Hmmm . . .”
Well, that was nice to know. At least he wasn’t entirely using me for my demonic contacts and position with Satan—he had found something about me alone to be intriguing. And maybe he really had used the party and all because he wanted to be here to see me.
I smiled a bit and gave myself about five seconds to feel pleased. Then I went on. While I’d answered one question, I’d found another. The more I looked at his MagicMirror, the more I was certain that he wasn’t an accountant. Not like the guy I go to for my taxes, at least. And even if he were, he certainly wasn’t supporting himself on that salary.
I went through his MagicMirror, but there wasn’t anything terribly useful. Clearly he had learned not to put anything online that you wouldn’t want your mother to see. Even in such a locked and protected place as MagicMirror.
So I closed the browser and took a look at his documents folder.
And there was everything I wanted to know about Marten and what he was doing, how big a fund he had accumulated from Mephistopheles, everything. I’m certain of that.
And it was all written in Dutch.
I swore under my breath. How completely ridiculous, insane! What kind of modern metrosexual was he, to keep his records in a language I couldn’t read? The nerve of him.
And I bet, just like Nathan, he believed he was safe because no one could read what he’d written. Only in this case, thinking about me, he’d be right. I’d never learned Dutch and my German wasn’t particularly good. I’d spent time in Berlin in the 1920s, of course—the cabaret scene there was unlike anything in the world before or since. But there had been plenty of foreigners and no one cared if my German sounded like it had been learned in an Italian high school. Admin had not installed the language so it was not hidden deep in my brain structure. No, what little I’d had (and it had only covered directions, menus, and tourist necessities) had deteriorated as badly as if I’d been fully human and hadn’t used a language in eighty years. It was gone.
German isn’t Dutch anyway, and I couldn’t make out anything in the documents labeled Ritual and Mephistopheles and Program. Why had he labeled them in English but written them in Dutch? (Okay, he wrote them in Dutch because that was his native language, but why had he labeled everything in English? Just to make me crazy? I wouldn’t put it past him.)
Barely containing my frustration, I closed My Documents and went to look at the programs under Start. And I found Quicken.
And there I found out that his income was somewhere around two hundred eighty thousand Euros a year. Even for an accountant that would be very high.
I heard a groan from the bed and quickly brought Zappos.com back up. Then I looked over to check but Marten appeared to be asleep. Still, I figured I didn’t have much time and that I was pushing it as it was. The only
Hmmm, I wondered. Did magicians all give up actual relationships for their magic, or was this just Marten pitying himself? Though he never seemed to be the type for self-pity, and he must be aware that the only reason he didn’t have a serious girlfriend was that he didn’t want one. A man with his looks, charm, dancing ability, wardrobe and, well, bedside manner, shall we say, could have any woman he wanted. So he must not have wanted, not beyond a series of flings.
I read further in his journal. “I am so sorry she is leaving. Always before I have felt that a short acquaintance and fun was what I wanted. And yet, this one intrigues me more than I had anticipated. I had expected beautiful, but not so intelligent, accomplished, and stylish. And sophisticated. No wonder Meph thinks so highly of her! Well, then, perhaps it would not be impossible to visit New York after all . . . Hmmm . . .”
Well, that was nice to know. At least he wasn’t entirely using me for my demonic contacts and position with Satan—he had found something about me alone to be intriguing. And maybe he really had used the party and all because he wanted to be here to see me.
I smiled a bit and gave myself about five seconds to feel pleased. Then I went on. While I’d answered one question, I’d found another. The more I looked at his MagicMirror, the more I was certain that he wasn’t an accountant. Not like the guy I go to for my taxes, at least. And even if he were, he certainly wasn’t supporting himself on that salary.
I went through his MagicMirror, but there wasn’t anything terribly useful. Clearly he had learned not to put anything online that you wouldn’t want your mother to see. Even in such a locked and protected place as MagicMirror.
So I closed the browser and took a look at his documents folder.
And there was everything I wanted to know about Marten and what he was doing, how big a fund he had accumulated from Mephistopheles, everything. I’m certain of that.
And it was all written in Dutch.
I swore under my breath. How completely ridiculous, insane! What kind of modern metrosexual was he, to keep his records in a language I couldn’t read? The nerve of him.
And I bet, just like Nathan, he believed he was safe because no one could read what he’d written. Only in this case, thinking about me, he’d be right. I’d never learned Dutch and my German wasn’t particularly good. I’d spent time in Berlin in the 1920s, of course—the cabaret scene there was unlike anything in the world before or since. But there had been plenty of foreigners and no one cared if my German sounded like it had been learned in an Italian high school. Admin had not installed the language so it was not hidden deep in my brain structure. No, what little I’d had (and it had only covered directions, menus, and tourist necessities) had deteriorated as badly as if I’d been fully human and hadn’t used a language in eighty years. It was gone.
German isn’t Dutch anyway, and I couldn’t make out anything in the documents labeled Ritual and Mephistopheles and Program. Why had he labeled them in English but written them in Dutch? (Okay, he wrote them in Dutch because that was his native language, but why had he labeled everything in English? Just to make me crazy? I wouldn’t put it past him.)
Barely containing my frustration, I closed My Documents and went to look at the programs under Start. And I found Quicken.
And there I found out that his income was somewhere around two hundred eighty thousand Euros a year. Even for an accountant that would be very high.
I heard a groan from the bed and quickly brought Zappos.com back up. Then I looked over to check but Marten appeared to be asleep. Still, I figured I didn’t have much time and that I was pushing it as it was. The only
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