something greater than the sum of its parts. If I hadn’t been worried about that video, I would have been a lot more curious about the meal.
When I hesitated, Brixton gave me a strange look. “Yeah, Mom,” he said. “Zoe is a great cook. Isn’t that right, Zoe? Because who else could be cooking in your kitchen?”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I hope my baby isn’t causing you too much trouble,” Heather said.
“He’s really taken to gardening, even though some stinging nettles scratched his hand. Isn’t that right, Brixton?”
“Can we go, Mom? I just need to get my phone. I left it in the kitchen.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said. “I need to check the stove. Heather, please make yourself at home in the living room. I’m still unpacking, so don’t mind the mess.”
Dorian wasn’t hiding. Not exactly. He stood in the corner of the kitchen, unmoving. He looked exactly as he had when I first opened the crate: a sleeping stone statue. The only difference was that instead of an alchemy book in his hands, he held Brixton’s cell phone.
“What the—” Brixton said with a start.
“We’re alone, Dorian,” I said quietly. “Brixton’s mom is in the other room.”
Gray stone shifted. The movement was subtle and fascinating. I hadn’t been this close when his transformation from stone to life had taken place before. It was like watching an avalanche at a quarry. Granite-colored sand granules shifted in a cascading effect until stone had morphed into thick gray skin.
“No way,” Brixton whispered.
Dorian rolled his head from side to side and stretched his wings. “You must delete it,” he said, handing me Brixton’s phone. “I cannot use the screen of the phone with my fingers. Mobile phones were much better when they had real buttons.”
I found the video file and deleted it before handing the phone back to Brixton. He was still staring at Dorian. I had to push him out the kitchen door.
Once Brixton and his mom were gone, I made sure all the curtains were drawn and the doors and windows locked. I tried one of Heather’s cookies. She wasn’t exaggerating about how good they were. She’d used a sweet and savory combination of dried cherries and salted walnuts. I followed my nose back to the kitchen, where Dorian had resumed cooking. He stood on the stepping stool, stirring the contents of a Dutch Oven pot with a wooden spoon.
How could he be so calm after the close call?
“Dorian, what—”
“ Un moment, s’il vous plaît , ” he said, holding up his clawed index finger. He lifted a spoonful to his snout, nodded to himself, then added a shake of sea salt. He placed the lid on the pot, rested the spoon on the counter, and hopped down from the stool to face me.
“I will require,” he said, “an apron and a spoon rest.”
“An apron?”
“Yes, you did not appear to have one. Quite uncivilized.”
“About Brixton—” I began, caught between being somber about the near-disaster of a video of Dorian going viral and the absurdity of imagining a gargoyle in my kitchen wearing a frilly apron.
“Zoe, it is done. Crisis averted. There is no sense dwelling on the unfortunate occurrence. That would only distract you from discovering the secrets of my book. I will be your personal gargoyle chef while you translate the pages from my book. That way you will have sufficient time to devote to it.”
I burst out laughing. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. My very own personal chef. I was laughing so hard a tear trickled down my cheek.
“ Mon amie, you are hysterical.”
“Dorian, what’s going on?” I leaned back against the counter, my shoulders still shaking but getting hold of myself. “Nothing makes sense.”
Dorian jumped up to sit on a free section of the counter next to me. “I do not think things make much sense once one has left France.”
“Maybe that’s it. The last few decades traveling across America have been a
When I hesitated, Brixton gave me a strange look. “Yeah, Mom,” he said. “Zoe is a great cook. Isn’t that right, Zoe? Because who else could be cooking in your kitchen?”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I hope my baby isn’t causing you too much trouble,” Heather said.
“He’s really taken to gardening, even though some stinging nettles scratched his hand. Isn’t that right, Brixton?”
“Can we go, Mom? I just need to get my phone. I left it in the kitchen.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said. “I need to check the stove. Heather, please make yourself at home in the living room. I’m still unpacking, so don’t mind the mess.”
Dorian wasn’t hiding. Not exactly. He stood in the corner of the kitchen, unmoving. He looked exactly as he had when I first opened the crate: a sleeping stone statue. The only difference was that instead of an alchemy book in his hands, he held Brixton’s cell phone.
“What the—” Brixton said with a start.
“We’re alone, Dorian,” I said quietly. “Brixton’s mom is in the other room.”
Gray stone shifted. The movement was subtle and fascinating. I hadn’t been this close when his transformation from stone to life had taken place before. It was like watching an avalanche at a quarry. Granite-colored sand granules shifted in a cascading effect until stone had morphed into thick gray skin.
“No way,” Brixton whispered.
Dorian rolled his head from side to side and stretched his wings. “You must delete it,” he said, handing me Brixton’s phone. “I cannot use the screen of the phone with my fingers. Mobile phones were much better when they had real buttons.”
I found the video file and deleted it before handing the phone back to Brixton. He was still staring at Dorian. I had to push him out the kitchen door.
Once Brixton and his mom were gone, I made sure all the curtains were drawn and the doors and windows locked. I tried one of Heather’s cookies. She wasn’t exaggerating about how good they were. She’d used a sweet and savory combination of dried cherries and salted walnuts. I followed my nose back to the kitchen, where Dorian had resumed cooking. He stood on the stepping stool, stirring the contents of a Dutch Oven pot with a wooden spoon.
How could he be so calm after the close call?
“Dorian, what—”
“ Un moment, s’il vous plaît , ” he said, holding up his clawed index finger. He lifted a spoonful to his snout, nodded to himself, then added a shake of sea salt. He placed the lid on the pot, rested the spoon on the counter, and hopped down from the stool to face me.
“I will require,” he said, “an apron and a spoon rest.”
“An apron?”
“Yes, you did not appear to have one. Quite uncivilized.”
“About Brixton—” I began, caught between being somber about the near-disaster of a video of Dorian going viral and the absurdity of imagining a gargoyle in my kitchen wearing a frilly apron.
“Zoe, it is done. Crisis averted. There is no sense dwelling on the unfortunate occurrence. That would only distract you from discovering the secrets of my book. I will be your personal gargoyle chef while you translate the pages from my book. That way you will have sufficient time to devote to it.”
I burst out laughing. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. My very own personal chef. I was laughing so hard a tear trickled down my cheek.
“ Mon amie, you are hysterical.”
“Dorian, what’s going on?” I leaned back against the counter, my shoulders still shaking but getting hold of myself. “Nothing makes sense.”
Dorian jumped up to sit on a free section of the counter next to me. “I do not think things make much sense once one has left France.”
“Maybe that’s it. The last few decades traveling across America have been a
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