The Silver Glove by Suzy McKee Charnas Page B

it was. My watch has little luminous points on it for the hours, but they need some kind of light bouncing off them to show up. In that hole of a room—well, if not for the absolutely overwhelming smell of those spices, you could have used the place for a sensory deprivation experiment.
    I wasn’t going to be found looking all wet and runny, like a little kid, by piggy old Brightner; not if I could help it. I began hunting through my pockets for something to blow my nose on.
    I found something. I found the silver glove.
    As soon as my fingers closed on that soft, crumply leather, I had to smother a shout of laughter: what a jerk I was! What a relief that Gran wasn’t here with me to see what a jerk I was!
    The first thing I should have insisted that she teach me about the glove was to remember, in a pinch, that I had it! Which is not something that comes naturally to a person raised in a world that doesn’t believe in magic (or wearing gloves just for pretty, for that matter). For example, when tough kids start following you in the park in New York, the first thing you think is not likely to be, gosh, have I got my magic glove with me?
    You panic. I had panicked. It was now time to get unpanicked and try seriously using my head.
    I put on the silver glove and I whispered to it, “I need to get out of here! Help!”
    The glove seemed to hug my hand like a promise.
    I pressed my ear against the door and listened. Something had wakened me, and pretty soon I heard it again: running steps, shrill curses in an accented voice, and great thumpings on the walls. What was Ushah up to? And did I really want to know? I imagined her beating the dust out of those poor, lost shadows.
    â€œâ€”Dirty creature!” she shouted as she passed the door in a rushing swish of fabric. Then came another screeched curse. Whatever it was about, the fuss seemed to have taken her out of the immediate vicinity.
    Not daring to breathe, I turned the doorknob slowly with my gloved hand. The latch slipped softly free without even a click. In a burst of confidence, I opened the door and stepped out of the spice pantry into what seemed by comparison to be wonderfully cool, fresh air.
    The kitchen was still empty, lit only by daylight from one window. Afternoon light—I checked my watch. I had slept for something like fourteen hours! A black sleep from those black-magical spices, so here it was Monday afternoon.
    On Mondays lots of restaurants in New York are closed. Ushah was probably alone here, and for the moment not nearby. I could hear the sounds of muffled pursuit not far off.
    Good—whatever was running from Ushah, it would help keep her busy while I checked the office upstairs for signs of Gran. Which I meant to do immediately, before I could really think about it and chicken out.
    First, though, I had to be sure there was a way out of this place. Shutting the spice pantry door softly behind me, I headed for the side door, which was still shut and locked. The silver glove would take care of that, I was sure. The doorknob turned slowly, but it did turn.
    Increasing noise from below: I ducked behind some crates stacked in the passageway, my heart hammering. Ushah was making such a racket herself that it would take more than a thundering heartbeat to get her attention. I hoped.
    A small animal streaked up the stairs. Ushah came dashing after it, waving a mop and screeching. She cornered the creature—it was a gray cat, all puffed up and spitting with fear and rage—at the door to the pantry.
    With her back to me Ushah moved in on the cat, snarling softly, “When I find which one let you in—oh, such stupid people! Feeding you on the sly, hey? Telling each other how you will keep mice away. ‘Health inspector’ means nothing to them, I have to think of everything! Well, you won’t steal food here again!”
    The cat ducked an Olympic-powered whack of the mop and tore back down into the