Me and My Shadow by Katie MacAlister Page B

longer offend your plebeian souls.”
    I exchanged a look with Cyrene as he marched off to the men’s room.
    â€œHe really does love his penis,” she said as if that explained things. “And don’t get me wrong, it was fine and all, but magnificent? A god among penises? No. Maybe a duke, or a minor prince. But not a god.”
    â€œI really find it difficult to believe we’re sitting here discussing Magoth’s genitalia,” I said, rubbing the smooth, cool wooden surface of the table. “It’s just a bit surreal.”
    â€œNot nearly as surreal as this whole place is,” Savian said from where he was examining pictures of boats on the walls. He nodded toward one. “Henley Regatta 1923. Not quite what you’d expect in Latvia.”
    I had to admit that the hotel wasn’t at all what I expected. The question of why an obscure Latvian hotel in the small town of Livs would try so hard to re-create a half-timber English country house complete with wattle and daub was answered by a red-faced, balding man who bounded into the bar from a back room.
    â€œ ’ Ello, ’ello, I didn’t realize we had customers so early. We don’t do lunches here in the pub, just so you know. Those are done in the tearoom upstairs. All handmade pastries up there, nothing store-bought. My wife does the baking—she has a fair hand with pastries, too. You’ll not be finding a better scone west of the Thames.”
    â€œWe’re not hungry, thanks,” I said, leaning back so he could slap a paper coaster in front of me. “Drinks are fine.”
    â€œRight, then. You do look a sight. Been out hiking, have you? We get lots of Americans coming here for the hiking, now that the Russians aren’t in charge anymore. Sisters, are you? You’ve the look of each other, that you do. Oh, but where are my brains today? I’m Ted Havelbury, ye olde host,” he said with a chuckle. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, I do indeed. You’re thinking that old Ted is a bit out of his natural setting, and you wouldn’t be far wrong there, but my wife’s mum was from the old country, and when she died and left us this inn, we thought, why not? The children were grown and had families of their own, so off the missus and I went with nothing but a wish and a prayer, as they say. But now, you’ll be wanting a few drinkies, won’t . . . er . . .”
    Ted, who had been chatting merrily to Cyrene and me, nodded to Savian as he slid into the chair next to mine. Before he could finish his sentence, Magoth, in full snit, emerged from the bathroom, shoved aside Jim, and stomped over to stand in front of Savian. He glared down at the thief taker, who shot me a martyred look before heaving a sigh as he relinquished the seat.
    â€œEr . . . ,” Ted said again.
    â€œOur friend had a little accident with a stream,” I said, shaking out a paper napkin and placing it over Magoth’s lap. “His clothes were too soaked to wear.”
    â€œIs that so?” Ted said slowly, his expression almost enough to make me laugh. “I don’t suppose he’d like to get dressed before he has a drink?”
    â€œTell the slave that I wish a bottle of 1996 Bollinger, chilled to forty-five point nine degrees, with one glass,” Magoth said in his most demanding voice.
    â€œSlave?” Ted asked.
    I leaned forward toward him, speaking in a low, confident voice I’d found worked well with mortals. “You’ll have to excuse our friend. He’s foreign.”
    Ted eyed the naked, dirty, arrogant Magoth with doubt. “He is?”
    â€œSouth American,” I said, mentally apologizing to everyone on that continent.
    â€œOh. Latin,” Ted said, nodding. “That explains it. Impetuous people. Excellent dancers, but impetuous.”
    â€œI’d like a gin and tonic, my twin would like a bottle of lemon Perrier, if you