On Monday morning, Mr. Garrity told Jack Planter that he had one week.

“One week.” Mr. Garrity wore custom-tailored suits and a gold pocket watch, and looked like he should constantly be chewing on a cigar. “You have one week to prove you deserve a job here.”

Jack, who’d started his day drinking coffee and reciting mantras to himself in the mirror, swallowed hard, resisting the urge to smooth back his hair or straighten his tie. Mr. Garrity would have made him feel shabby even if Mr. Garrity had been a kind and jolly sort of man. The fact that Mr. Garrity was not, in fact, kind or jolly made things worse.

“What do I need to do, sir?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Mr. Garrity demanded. “You are a car salesman. Perhaps you could try to actually sell a car.” He jabbed a finger toward the window overlooking the lot. “Any car. If you haven’t sold at least one car by the end of the week, you need to find another job.”

Jack nodded, squaring his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

*          *          *

Edith Yates didn’t even try to read the letter. Quentin Holmes would insist on writing in cursive, great looping whorls that tangled up with each other on the page. His handwriting tended to get more excitable when he was upset. She couldn’t make sense of the mess of baroque curlicues that could have been A’s or D’s or possibly even J’s.

Instead, she picked up the phone — something he ought to have done in the first place, she thought irritably.

She dialed the number from memory, then tucked the receiver under her ear. The cord was long enough to allow her to pour herself another cup of coffee before she settled down at the table while she waited for him to answer.

“Hello?”

“Quentin, it’s Edie. What is all that noise?”

“I’m outside. Hang on.” The static quieted marginally. “Edie? Can you hear me? Is that better?”

“I suppose.” Cell phones might be more convenient, but she hated talking to people on them. She always worried that they couldn’t hear her, so she spoke more loudly, more slowly, than she probably needed to. Then she worried that she sounded like some dumb old biddy who didn’t understand technology.

“Did you get my letter?” he asked.

She glanced at the tangled blue ink. “Why didn’t you just call? Or at least type the thing, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, Edie. You know I can’t type.”

Edith rolled her eyes. “So why don’t you tell me what it says, Quentin?”

He hesitated. “It’s about Archie.”

“Archie? Quentin, Archie’s been dead for two years.”

“Don’t I know it. I was executor of his will, you know.”

“Not Dora? Why?”

“Oh, that was just the beginning of the fight. It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that, once we got the court battle resolved and the will actually dealt with, there was an estate sale.”

“Court battle? My goodness.”

“There was no goodness about it,” he said. “But there was an estate sale.”

“Yes?”

“They sold everything not distributed in the will.”

“Yes, I believe that’s how these things work.”

“Archie’s car wasn’t distributed in the will.”

Silence fell after this pronouncement like a curtain. “My goodness,” Edith finally managed.

“Exactly.”

“This would be the…”

“The special car, yes. The one he’s been tinkering with.”

“Oh, my.” Edith paused. “Who bought it?”

“Well, that’s a piece of good news. It was bought by a used car sales company — Garrity’s Garage? Have you heard of them?”

“Garrity’s over in Lincoln County?”

“The same.”

“Why, yes. I know where that is.”

“Good. I need you to go buy that car, Edie.”

“Quentin, that’s absurd. I live on a fixed income. I can’t possibly afford to gallivant over to the next county and buy a car on a whim!”

“Well, whether or not you choose to gallivant is up to you. But we need to buy that car, Edith, before some poor unsuspecting soul does. Who knows what’s going to happen if someone decides to just start pushing any of the buttons Archie added to the thing?”

“But who’s going to pay for it?”

“I will. Archie left some cash for the administration of his estate, and most of it is still left. If you can’t talk them down to my budget, let me know. But this should cover it.”

“Then why don’t you come out and buy the thing?” she demanded. “You’re the executor, after all. I don’t understand why I need to be involved.”

“I’m terrible with salesmen, Edie. You know this. I can’t haggle worth a damn.”

“I hate buying cars, Quentin. You know how they treat women my age.”

“I know they underestimate women your age.” She could practically hear his grin through he phone line. “But won’t you have fun, eating some poor car salesman for breakfast?”

*          *          *

Not a single customer that Monday. That Tuesday, either.

On Wednesday a whole family came in, mom and dad and two little kids, the woman groaningly pregnant with the third. Jack spent half the day with them, showing them what felt like every single minivan on the lot. By afternoon, he was half deaf from the shrieking of the smaller of the children, and weary of the woman’s endless questions about safety rating and airbags. They told him they’d have to think about it, and politely vanished into the brittle afternoon heat.

By Thursday morning, Jack was beginning to panic. He stared at himself in the mirror over his toothpaste-laden toothbrush. He’d covered the edges of the mirror with post-it notes bearing helpful phrases. “YOU are a GREAT salesman,” one pronounced. “In order to sell a product, you must believe in two things: the product, and yourself,” said another.

Surrounded by this barrage of advice, the reflection of Jack’s face looked stretched, like there was too much tension in the wires. Any second now, things might start to spring loose.

“You can do this,” he promised himself. “You can.”

He forced himself to believe it.

But he made no sales Thursday, either.

*          *          *

Friday morning, Edith carefully prepared for her trip out to Lincoln County to buy Archie’s car.

She pulled her hair into a bun, then applied her makeup, checking four times to make sure her lipstick hadn’t migrated to her teeth. She put on a slip and pantyhose and her best weekday dress, the dark blue one with the dots, because it looked dressy but not too dressy. After some consideration, she decided not to wear a hat. She wore boxy blue pumps instead of loafers, though — they were low-heeled, but still might be enough to give her an excuse not to walk all over the lot looking at every car the damn fools had to sell. She donned the right amount of jewelry for an old lady — earrings and rings and a brooch shaped like a bird. All shiny and ostentatious, all obviously fake.

Then came the important part: her pocketbook. She selected her red one, equipped with pockets and dividers and far more brass than was probably warranted. She loaded it up with her wallet and checkbook and an envelope of cash; with tissues and lipstick and hand sanitizer; with a paperback novel and a crossword book and a couple of pairs of readers in case she wanted them. Bottles of aspirin and her medicines, chewing gum and mints and a granola bar in case she wanted a snack.

The last thing she put into the red pocketbook was her wand. No sense taking chances, after all. There was no telling what Archie had done to that car.

*          *          *

Jack watched the battered little Ford pull into the lot, arranging his face in what he hoped was a friendly and mildly eager expression. He schooled his hands when they wanted to check the straightness of his tie, the smoothness of his hair.   “You look great,” he muttered to himself, fairly certain that his lips hadn’t moved. “Now go and get this sale.”

He felt his face slide downward a stitch, though, when the woman climbed out of the car. She wore her white hair dragged back into a severe bun, a somber dress and shoes, and an expression which shouted loudly that she fully expected that someone was about to swindle her and she wasn’t going to stand for it.

Still. She was, ostensibly at least, here to buy a car. And he was here to sell a car. He strode out, putting on his best smile. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, holding out a hand to take hers.

She ignored his hand. “Is it? Well, it must be good for some, I suppose. I find these summer mornings unpleasant, myself. Entirely too hot.”

His smile stumbled, then hitched itself back up. “Well, we can step into the office where it’s cool, if you like. I can offer you water, soda, or coffee.”

“Well, if I’d wanted one of those things, I guess I would have gone to a restaurant. What I was hoping, young man, was that you could offer me a car.”

He followed the twitching current of conversation more smoothly this time. “Certainly I can, ma’am. Why don’t you come inside and tell me what it is that you’re looking for.” He opened the door for her. “I’m Jack, by the way. Jack Planter.”

“Edith Yates.” She stepped into the office. She sat down on the edge of a chair, obviously prepared to bolt away at the slightest provocation. Her red purse was perched on her knees, and she clutched the straps with both hands as though certain he was about to try to steal it from her.

Jack settled behind his desk, folded his hands, and fixed his attention on her. People trusted you if they thought you were really, really listening. At least, that’s what he’d learned from a TED Talk. “So tell me, Mrs. Yates. What kind of vehicle were you interested in?”

She pursed her lips, fixing him with her bird-bright stare. “I’ve been looking for a classic sort of car. You know, vintage. They just don’t make them right anymore.”

“No, ma’am, they do not. We do have a few fine older cars in stock. Did you have a particular make or model in mind?”

“Well, I like Ford.” One hand released its death-grip on her purse for long enough to wave toward the parking lot. “My little Escort has been extremely reliable.”

“Certainly. And were you thinking to trade in the Escort?”

“Oh, no. That’s my everyday car. What I’m looking for is a car for Sunday driving.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure the classic Fords we have will suit your needs. We’ve got a couple of Mustangs, but I’m not sure those are what you want for Sunday driving.”

She smiled suddenly, broad and feral as the Cheshire cat. “Oh, I think a Mustang would be just perfect. Do you have any red ones?”

Jack’s heart sank.

*          *          *

Edith examined the car in dismay. It was just like Archibald to have such a garish monstrosity as a red Mustang convertible.

The car crouched, all curves and muscle, in the far corner of the lot, flanked on either side by other Mustangs, in blue and cream and black. Edith had not the slightest interest in vintage cars, and she couldn’t have said what year it was, but it was definitely old. “We just got it in this week,” Jack said, his voice tense. “It hasn’t been cleared for sale yet.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Well, what does that entail? You know it wasn’t stolen, correct?”

“No. I mean, yes, we’ve verified chain of title. Apparently it’s only had one owner, an elderly gentleman who unfortunately passed away. He’s kept it in excellent condition, as you can see.”

“Yes, it’s very shiny. So why isn’t it cleared for sale?”

“Well, there are procedures we have to go through, tests we have to run, to make sure it’s roadworthy.”

“Surely we can tell that from a test drive.”

A slow flush crept up his face. “Technically, I can’t take it out for a test drive. It’s not cleared for that.”

“Young man, if you want to sell this car, then I would strongly suggest that you get it cleared for that.”

“It’s not that simple,” he protested.

Edith cocked her head and fixed him with a look. Having never been on the receiving end of her look herself, she couldn’t have said exactly what is was like. But stronger men than Jack Planter, seller of cars, had crumbled before it.

“Let me check with my manager,” he said. “I think he’s got the only key.”

*          *          *

“Well? Is the old lady gonna buy a car?” Mr. Garrity asked when Jack walked into the office.

“She wants to test drive the red Mustang, sir.”

“Here ya go, then.” Mr. Garrity picked a key off the wall. It was affixed with an orange tag, instead of green.

Jack waved the orange tag at him. “It’s not cleared for test drives yet, Mr. Garrity. We don’t know that it’s safe.”

Mr. Garrity glared at him. “If I were a man with twenty-four hours left to sell a car, and a nice lady showed up wanting to drive a red Mustang, I believe I’d let her drive it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” He trudged back to the lot.

*          *          *

Mrs. Yates took an interminable amount of time to adjust her seat, finally winding up so close to the steering wheel that she hunched over it. At last, she seemed as comfortable as she was going to get. She started the engine. The car leapt to life with a thick rich growl.

The dashboard held rather more knobs, buttons, and switches than seemed entirely correct. Jack glanced at the notes in the file. “The previous owner made some modifications,” he said. “It says here that there’s a log in the glovebox. Let’s have a look.”

The glovebox held a thick, hard-bound journal, as well as a pair of camel leather driving gloves. Mrs. Yates took the gloves without comment, slipping them onto her hands. She glanced at the book. “Oh, I don’t think we need that,” she said. “Let’s just see how it drives. If I buy it, I can explore all these buttons on my own, can’t I?”

“We at least need to make sure that none of them violate any safety laws,” he said as she lurched the car into reverse and backed them out of the space.

“Let’s just see if it runs first.” She shifted the car into first gear. To his surprise, she seemed fairly comfortable with a manual shift — the clutch jerked on the shift from first to second, but after that she seemed to have the feel of it and shifted smoothly as they pulled out onto the road.

*          *          *

Edith had to admit that the car handled quite nicely, despite its ostentatious snarling. The clutch was quite a bit better than the one on poor old Hettie, her ancient Escort, and the engine certainly had more pep. Despite herself, her eyes were drawn again and again to the tidy rows of buttons and switches on the dashboard. Archibald had tagged each one with a little brass tag bearing a symbol of some kind. It had a certain aesthetic appeal, she thought grudgingly, like the instrument panel on some archaic adventure submarine. But how on earth was she supposed to tell all those little symbols apart, or remember what they were supposed to do? Some of them were animals, for heaven’s sake. There was knob with a picture of an octopus on it, and a switch labeled with a picture of a bird.

Jack must have noticed the direction of her glances, because he suddenly decided to open Archie’s damned book. “We might as well see what he says about some of these, huh?” he asked, in what he probably thought of as a conspiratorial tone.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said.

“Here. These two.” He pointed at two buttons in the center. Each bore a picture of what looked like a tiny squashy armchair. He looked back at the notebook. Edith glanced over. In the top left corner of the page, Archie had drawn the same squashy-chair symbol, next to a diagram that seemed to show the location of the buttons on the dashboard. He’d filled the rest of the page with crabbed handwriting.

“What does it say?” she prompted.

“Well, it’s hard to tell,” he said. “It doesn’t look like the gentleman was much of a mechanic — there aren’t really notes on how he actually did the work, aside from a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about ‘magic’ and ‘special charm.’”

Edith made herself snort and roll her eyes. “Foolishness,” she scoffed. “Though perhaps he was simply mad, the poor man. Do you know how he died?”

Jack shook his head, eyes still on the book. “The upshot seems to be, though, that the buttons will make the seats more comfortable. I think the one on the left must control the driver’s seat, and the one on the right the passenger.” He looked over at her, his expression suddenly boyishly eager. “They don’t sound too dire. Want to try them out?”

Edith opened her mouth to object, but he was already reaching out, pressing the buttons.

The seat beneath her immediately shifted itself. The leather, which had been uncomfortably warm in the heat of the afternoon, became cool and soothing. The seat tilted itself subtly back and away from the wheel, rolling her spine and shoulders into a more comfortable position. Suddenly, she was, indeed, sitting in what felt like a squashy armchair. In fact, it had even turned the same gray-green color as her armchair at home.

“Whoa,” Jack said. His seat had also transformed, turning blue and overstuffed, and growing padded armrests. “That’s…this is incredible.”

“Indeed.” Edith cringed inwardly as he eagerly flipped to the next page. Something told her that not all of Archie’s modifications would be so benign.

“So this one is the music note,” he said, pointing to it a knob with a music note printed on it. “The sound system, I’m guessing?” Without reading Archie’s notes, he twisted the knob as though it were a radio control.

Instantly, the air was filled with an ear-stabbing wail. Edith flinched, causing the car to swerve and weave. “Turn it off!”

He did so, and the wail cut off abruptly. “What on earth was that supposed to be?”

Edith exhaled, her heart galloping. “At a guess,” she said, “it was either a banshee or a siren.”

He consulted Archie’s notes. “You’re right. It’s supposed to be the wail of a banshee.” Edith felt his glance. “Did you know the previous owner somehow, Mrs. Yates?”

“Maybe let’s just avoid pushing any other buttons without knowing what they’re for, shall we?”

Chastened, as he turned to the next page. “This one’s the octopus. Again with the whole recitation about magic and charms and devices…ah. Here we go. Huh.”

“What?”

“Well, there’s not really much explanation of what it’s for. He just wrote, ‘For getting over obstacles.’”

Edith shuddered. “We will leave that one alone,” she said firmly. The phrase ‘over obstacles’ could mean anything, but knowing Archibald as she did, she would bet that it meant flying. The last thing she needed, at her age, was to be trapped in a flying muscle car with a used car salesman.

“Probably best.” He turned to the next page, read for a moment. “Okay, what about the umbrella? According to this, it’s just that — an umbrella. Or maybe a parasol. Hard to say.” He reached for the switch, then hesitated. “Want to try it?”

Oh, well, Edith thought. She was going to have to test all of Archie’s modifications eventually, if only to figure out how to dismantle them. It was slightly less scary, with Jack enthusiastically flipping through Archie’s book. “Sure,” she sighed. “Why not?”

He took a deep breath, then flipped the switch.

The top of the convertible rolled back smoothly, opening the car to the hot summer sun. There was a hum of gears, and suddenly a ruffled parasol popped open over their heads, providing them a cooling shade.

The result was…less than ideal. Yes, they were sheltered from the sun, but there was a tremendous amount of wind and noise that hadn’t been present when the top had been closed. What’s more, the parasol did not seem to be designed to deal with the wind force when the car was traveling thirty-five miles per hour.

“Do you think it should be shaking so much?” Jack ventured, eyeing the thing nervously.

As if in answer, the parasol suddenly groaned and, with a shriek of protesting metal and gears, snapped upward, flipping inside out. Where once there had been a parasol, now there was a twisted tangle of metal ribs and a useless, broken sail that flapped in the wind.

Jack made some wordless exclamation, but the parasol apparently hadn’t finished. There was a great tearing sound as the fabric tore loose, trailing behind the car like a banner.

“What now?” he asked.

“I’m pulling over,” she said, easing the car onto the shoulder of the road.

It took quite some time to collect the sad, limp fabric of the parasol and fold it up into the trunk. The twisted metal skeleton would not fold back into its compartment, but fortunately it was set up just behind the roof of the convertible. They decided to put the top back up and just let it stay there, jabbing into the sky like a broken television antenna. Edith surveyed the result, doubtful. “Are there any low bridges on the way back?” she asked. “Or wires?”

“I don’t think so.” Jack seemed a little wilted, like some of the puff had gone out of him. He ran a hand over his glossy shell of slicked-back hair.

She cocked her head. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“Look, can I just interest you in one of the other Mustangs we’ve got in stock? A couple of them are in mint condition, and ready for you to drive off today.”

Edith looked from his pleading eyes back to the curvy red car, the giant parasol skeleton jutting absurdly out of it as though some god had tried to impale it with an archaic weapon. “You need to make a sale, don’t you?” she asked gently.

“This week,” he whispered. “Or I’m fired.”

Edith nodded, patting his arm. “I shouldn’t worry, young man,” she said, smiling up at him. “I rather like this car.” She tottered to the driver’s side door. “Now come on. We’ve got time to try another button or two on the way back, don’t you think?”

*          *          *

At her insistence, he picked out another one to try. This one was a knob with a tiny picture of a violin. He turned it with some trepidation.

Instantly, a tiny orchestra appeared on the dashboard — strings, winds, horns, and even a miniature conductor. There was a bit of screeching and random wailing as everyone tested and tuned their instruments, then silence fell as the conductor raised his hands. He brought them down, and the car filled with music.

They played something vaguely familiar — Beethoven, maybe, or Tchaikovsky. The music rolled out rich and full-throated, as though it were being played through a top-quality sound-system rather than by a tiny band of what looked like toy people.

“Well, that’s delightful.” Mrs. Yates beamed down at the musicians.

Jack peered down at them. The conductor stood no taller than his little finger. “Are they real?”

“Of course they are. You can see them, can’t you? Don’t start questioning whether things you can see are real, young man. That way lies madness.”

“But, are they alive? Or just some kind of clockwork toys or robots?”

“I’m sure they’re alive. I don’t think robots could make music like that. But perhaps they’re not here,” she added. “Perhaps it’s just a…whatchamacallit. A hologram.”

He studied the orchestra, pondering this explanation. It didn’t look like a hologram. It seemed perfectly formed from every angle, with no flickering or wavering of the edges.

He decided to drop the subject. “Do you want to keep them on?”

“Sure. I like this piece. Maybe turn down the volume a bit.”

He reached for the knob, turning it like the volume control on a radio. To his surprise, the volume dimmed. He thought the conductor cast him a dirty look over one shoulder.

“What else do we have?” Apparently, the parasol incident had made Mrs. Yates feel more confident in the array of knobs and buttons installed by the car’s previous owner. Jack felt exactly the opposite. He could not possibly sell this car to some innocent little old lady. There was no way it could be safe. One of the buttons had a shark on it, for heaven’s sake.

But he flipped to the next page. “The next one is that button with the rabbit on it,” he said. He skimmed through the usual explanation of magic and charms and other nonsense, getting at last to the last sentence. “It says, ‘Use this when you want to give the car a little hop.’”

She frowned. “A hop?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Well, hold on. Here goes.”

She pushed the button. The car did, in fact, hop. It launched smoothly into the air, leapt perhaps thirty or forty feet forward, and landed without so much as a bump.

“Well, my goodness!” To his surprise, Mrs. Yates was grinning broadly. “That was rather fun, wasn’t it?” She pushed the button again, and the car took another forward leap.

By the third or fourth hop, Jack felt a little motion sick. “Right. So I guess that one works.” He turned to the next page. The drawing looked like a little laser gun. “Um, okay.” He flipped another page.

“What was that one?”

“Didn’t look very interesting.” The next one had a little compass on it. “This one is ‘to help you find your way,’ apparently,” he said, reaching for the button.

A man roughly the size of a kitten appeared, sitting crosslegged on the dashboard to the left of the orchestra. He had a beard to his chest and a knapsack full of what looked like highway maps, each neatly folded and labeled. “Right, then,” he said, looking up at Mrs. Yates. “Where d’you want to get to, doll?”

She rolled her eyes. “Talk to him,” she said, jerking a thumb toward Jack. “He knows the address.”

“Letting you drive, though, is he? My old man always said women weren’t much good at it.” The little man peered down at the speedometer. “My god, woman. You drive like an old biddy.”

“I am an old biddy, you useless codger. Do you just insult people, or do you have some function?”

“I’m the Navigator,” he said, gesturing at the maps. “I mean, sure. Some people like those fancy new GPS systems and whatnot. But at the end of the day, nothing beats a real Navigator.” He looked around the car. “Hey, where’s the other guy? The one with the fine beard. Where’d he go?” He fixed her with a suspicious glare. “Yer not car thieves, are ya?”

“Of course we’re not car thieves,” she snapped. “I’m test-driving this vehicle to see if I want to purchase it.”

“Oh, are ya now?” He looked at Jack. “And is this your hobby boy, then?”

Jack found himself flushing a deep red. “I’m a car salesman,” he managed.

“Likely story,” the Navigator said. He looked over at the orchestra. “Here, what’s that mournful racket?” he demanded. “Away with you, or play something that a man can dance to.”

The conductor gave a disdainful sniff and made a cutting motion with his hands.   The music silenced for a moment. Then, the conductor raised his hands, and the orchestra launched into a decidedly more raucous piece. It took Jack several bars to realize that it was Madonna’s Material Girl.

“That’s quite enough of your nonsense,” Mrs. Yates said. “Young man, turn him off, if you would.”

Jack reached for the compass button, pressing it.

The Navigator remained sitting on the dashboard, grinning up at her. “Ah, that’s the thing, y’see. He got the summoning spell right, but never quite mastered the banishing.”

“What does that mean?” Jack asked.

“It means we can’t turn him off by conventional means.” Mrs. Yates rolled the car to a stop at a stop sign, then reached for her purse, looking at the little man coolly. “Of course, unconventional means are still an option.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the Navigator growled.

“Why wouldn’t I? I do quite a good banishing spell, after all.” She grinned a feral little grin. “I was a far better student than Archie, you see.”

The little man paled. “If you buy the car, you’ll want me. I know which knobs work, and which ones he couldn’t quite get right.”

“Oh, I’ll keep you,” she assured him. She opened her purse and drew out a slender rod of wood, as thick as a pencil and perhaps twice as long, covered with ornate scrollwork of some darker color. “But you’re rather a distraction right now, so I’d like you to please go away.” She raised the wand — it had to be a wand — threateningly.

“Right, then. Just push the button when you want me,” he prattled, then vanished with a pop.

Mrs. Yates tucked the wand into her purse and shifted into gear.

Jack sat in silence for several minutes. Finally he said, “He was not a hologram.”

“No, dear. He wasn’t.”

“What was he?”

“Well, I assume he’s a Navigator, like he said.”

“And he just appeared and disappeared, carrying a bag full of road maps.”

“Yes.”

“And…” Here was the part he was struggling with. “And you’ve got a magic wand in your purse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a fancy knitting needle.”

“And you told him you can do a banishing spell.”

“People believe the silliest things, don’t you find?”

“Mrs. Yates,” Jack closed the book and really looked at her for the first time. “The owner’s writing, about spells and charms and magic…that’s not fluff, is it? That’s exactly what he did to make this car do all those things.”

She rolled to the next stop sign before answering, then turned and met his gaze. “You realize you have to sell me this car, right, dear? And at a fair price, mind you. There’s no one else who can safely buy it.”

“But what will you do with it?”

She smiled, patting his hand. “Don’t you worry about that.”

*          *          *

The little red car crouched in her driveway, clashing with her hydrangeas. Edith left Archie’s driving gloves in the box, but brought the book inside. Might as well get started studying all those symbols.

The phone was ringing already when she let herself into the house. She didn’t hurry. There was only one person who would be calling her right now, and she knew he’d call back.

The phone stopped ringing as she puttered to the kitchen to brew herself some coffee. It started again when she settled down at the table with a mug of coffee and a slice of cake. She picked it up on the second ring. “Yes, Quentin?”

“Were you able to buy it?”

“I was. I rather think I made that young man’s week. He seemed quite desperate for a sale.”

“Right.” Quentin brushed off the question of the sale. “So how do you want to get it to me?”

“To you? I rather thought I might keep it. It’s really a charming little car.”

“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped. “It needs to be destroyed.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Edith, you can’t mean to actually use that thing!”

“Of course I can. I’ll have to see about repairing the parasol, of course. Or perhaps just removing it. It seems rather unnecessary, after all.”

“But you said yourself, it’s not safe!”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Edith said. “It’s not as though Archibald knew any spells that I can’t undo.”

“Edith.”

“Quentin, quit being tiresome. I’ve had quite a long day, and I am not about to listen to you lecturing me about what I should do.”

He paused. Then, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do. Have a nice day, Quentin.”

She hung up the phone without waiting for him to answer. Then, smiling a little to herself, she opened Archie’s book to the page with a drawing of a cannon.

She’d decided to call the car Maisie.

THE END.