Uptown Local and Other Interventions by Diane Duane Page B

the wine and water mixture onto the mirror.
    Water splashed onto the mirror, off onto the tablecloth, and ran right across it. Where it ran, writing as dark as the wine in the glass followed it: cursive lettering, graceful, covering the whole side of the table where Annabelle and George were sitting. Adelio stood up, leaned over the table, his lips moving as he read.
    “‘The basic human necessity,’” he said. “‘To eat, to be entranced by what is eaten, to be sustained, to acquire more than sustenance—’“  Slowly he sank back down into his seat, staring at the writing on the table.
    “It’s the story I heard long ago when I was studying Roman myth,” George said. “It’s the story you told me three years ago when you were plastered, that night. Isn’t it?”
    After a moment Adelio nodded. His mouth worked as if dry: he took a drink of his wine. “All the rest of it,” he said, “recipes, just a few recipes, the first of many. The lost Cumaean scrolls—”
    George turned to Annabelle. “The Sibylline Cookbooks,” he said.
    Her eyes went wide.
    “What?” she said.
    “They were offered once before,” Adelio said. “In ancient days, to the King of Rome. He refused them. Some of them were burnt. The Sibyl, the prophetess, went away, came back again, offered them again, six books instead of nine, the same price. Again they were refused, again she burnt some. Finally she came back one last time, offered the books. The King of Rome bought them. They held great secrets—but the King could not understand them. He thought they were political tracts, prophecies about something as stupid as politics! They were not about countries, their idiom was completely misunderstood, they were about food! And then they were lost. But now she comes again, now she offers again, as was prophesied! A man who had these books, who had such knowledge, could cook dishes whose mere smell would heal the sick, cure the world’s troubles—”
    “And make the owner seriously, seriously rich,” George said softly.
    That was when it started to get noisy. “I will buy them!” Adelio cried. “I will open such restaurants as will make the world gape with wonder, I will—”
    “You won’t,” George said. “ She will.” He nodded at Annabelle.
    “What??” Annabelle and Adelio said in unison.
     “You can open all the restaurants you want, but the scrolls are going to belong to her,” George said. “The Sibyl came to her.”
    “But why her?” Adelio roared. “Why not the great Adelio, why not someone with some public profile, why a shop girl with pretensions of spicery?”
    Annabelle bristled. George shrugged. “Because she’s a witch?” he said. “Because she’s another seer?”
     “A seer!” Adelio flung his hands in the air.
     “It makes sense,” George said. “ You can’t see anything but yourself!” Adelio turned red, but said nothing. “Maybe like calls to like. Or maybe it’s because Annabelle was patient and kind to a little old lady. What difference does it make? What you need to do now is make a plan,” George said, “because you can’t afford to let this opportunity go by. You are going to give her three hundred eighty-nine thousand, five hundred twelve dollars and seventy-six cents.”
    Even Adelio had to gulp at that, though again, the alarm was brief. “And let her do what? Run off and become famous with my money?”
    Annabelle started to get hot under the collar again. “Adelio,” she said, “I’m normally a very ethical person. But I won’t just sit here and be insulted. I would really regret turning you into a frog. But the regrets would come afterwards.”
    Famagiusta stared at Annabelle in brief horror. For a moment he looked so much like Harl had yesterday morning that she could have laughed out loud: but she managed to restrain herself. Then she was shocked in turn when Adelio started laughing.
    “You,” he said, “you perhaps I could train. We would start you in the