Milo and the Gypsy
By Pattie Lawler
Milo’s jaw dropped. Movement was out of the question. His mind raced, frantic in its flights of fancy and delighted innuendo. Did he dare hope? Was it possible? His eyes were fixed on the name and refused to move. The beating of his heart was thunderous, his breathing labored.
Doubt flared.
"That sword is bound to your happiness."
The mental echo of the gypsy’s words was as clear as when she stood beside him, nodding at the katana in his hand. Unused to someone so very in his personal space, Milo looked down at the speaker and resisted the urge to step back. He wondered how this ambulatory hill of rags had been granted access to the exclusive antiques’ showroom and perhaps more importantly, where Simon was.
Amused, Milo smiled at her cryptic declaration. "Is that so?"
She continued to nod, a gloved hand, palm up, emerging from the layers of colorful material that swathed her.
Milo knew better. "Is the news good or bad, Grandmother Caldararu?"
"Bad news isn’t interested in you just now."
His smile grew. "Well, I’m glad it’s found someone else to pick on." He reached for his wallet. "Tell me about my happiness." He selected a bill, pinched the short end between thumb and pointer, and drew the note across her palm like a brush stoke.
She watched, still nodding. A body-shaking chortle shook her as her hand closed around the bill. "Your children will come from a capital city."
"Now that is good news."
She looked up, her gaze hard. "You doubt me?"
"Only a fool would doubt you, Grandmother Caldararu. Is there more?"
The constant nod became an insistent shake of her head. Milo waited, watching for a change, but she was immovable.
The return of the clerk broke the spell. Milo’s attention was momentarily drawn to the file containing the sword’s providence, and when he looked back, the gypsy was gone.
"Simon!"
"What’s up, boss?"
He already knew the answer, but asked anyway. "Did you see an elderly woman in the shop with me?"
"Nope. Nodding off, were you?"
"Apparently."
"Everything alright?"
Milo looked at the sword, at Simon, and finally at the folder. "Couldn’t be better." He smiled at the clerk, holding out the katana. "I’ll take it. Bill me."
The clerk accepted the sword and hurried away to wrap it. Milo pulled the file close, flipped the cover open and began reading aloud.
"It was owned by a little old lady from Canton."
"Who only stabbed people on Sundays." Simon glanced at the page. "Wanna tell me why you’re buying a sword?"
Milo looked up to smile at his bodyguard. "Seems I’m going to be marrying Paris Hilton."
"Then a sword’s appropriate. By the way, I’m tendering my resignation."
"Coward."
<0>
Back at the penthouse, it had taken mere seconds for Milo to discover the curse on the sword. Once exposed, he spent some time puzzling over its removal. The secondary concern was the curse itself. He had to negate it, if possible. Failing that, he needed to locate any survivors of the cursed family and warn them.
The first problem he took upon himself, the latter he presented to Lawrence and his team.
"Make it a priority."
He had no doubt that the previous owner was ignorant of the curse. If they had known, the sword’s asking price would have been significantly different. Ignorance also meant that the blade had not been handled in an appropriate manner. He didn’t think the curse was active, but he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.
Drafting the ritual to remove the malicious spell went quickly, and when Fanny demanded attention before returning to England, Milo simply included her in his task. As they worked he told her of the gypsy, of her prediction, and they joked about his well-connected children.
With the curse lifted and secure, Milo turned his attention to Lawrence’s report.
"We’ve narrowed it down to three possibles," Lawrence was saying as Milo opened the email...and felt his world stop.
He tried to breathe around his panicking heart. "I’ll call you back," he whispered and hoped his thumb found the disconnect.
There, top name on the screen, was a capital city.
Albany Wendel.
Albany.
"Your children will come from a capital city."
Milo struggled against a maelstrom of emotions. Leaning forward, he hit reply, removed all the unread text but the name, typed, "This one," and hit send.
It was all he managed before being dragged back into the tempest. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the name. Flights of fancy, the likes of which he had never experienced, threatened to leave him giddy.
"Simon!"
He counted the seconds as three minutes crept by, and not once did he look away from the name on the screen.
"You bellowed?"
"Come look."
He felt Simon’s presence as the bodyguard bent to read the screen.
"Ms. Hilton’s not going to like this."
Milo found release in laughter. It poured from him, and yet filled and warmed him. His eyes closed, and he pushed himself back into his chair.
Simon pointed. "Who is it? Not the one from the curse?"
"Yes. Lawrence sent me a list of names."
"Did you read any of the others? There might be an Amsterdam Wendel on there, too."
Milo sat forward, his fingers furiously typing. After a moment of insistent clicking, he paused, sitting back. "She’s an opera singer. A mezzo-soprano, here in New York."
"What better place for an Albany? Do you suppose she’s a diva?"
Milo flicked a hand at the screen, freeing Simon to look further.
Simon turned the laptop to better face him and reached for the mouse. "There’s a picture. Wanna look?"
"No. Not yet."
Simon instantly understood Milo’s forbearance and straightened. "What’s Lawrence doing?"
"Probably working on a dossier."
"I’ll want a copy."
"Of course."
Sensing Milo’s withdrawal, Simon excused himself with a parting good night. Milo’s response was automatic. He barely heard his retreating bodyguard as he was again adrift in a sea of possibilities.
And then it hit him like a slap.
He hadn’t thought of Fanny in whole minutes!
For eight years, his neice had been the motivation for his every move, the center of his universe. Until tonight. Until this greatest of ventures. Was he ready for wife and family? Was Fanny prepared to share him?
He pulled the laptop back to face him and brought up the Metropolitan Opera’s homepage and then the calendar. Yes, there was a performance tonight. Was Albany singing?
Albany.
A family name? Or was she conceived in the State House? He smiled at the image and closed the browser.
"Enough," he told the empty office. No more until Lawrence got back to him with the facts. If Albany proved unsuitable to expose Fanny to, why wound himself needlessly? Gypsies weren’t known for accuracy, and this gypsy wasn’t the only woman to make a prediction about his love life. He almost groaned aloud, thrust aside unwelcome thoughts, and wondered why he trusted this string of coincidences.
So many questions, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and all of them answered by a capital city.
Rising, he strode from the office, through the empty penthouse and to the dinning room. It was his favorite room, with its two long walls of glass. He went to the one that faced the city and pressed his forehead against its cold surface. He looked toward the twinkling lights of Midtown, toward the theater, and recalled his soaring heart.
His life was a house of cards. He had built it with his own hands, and now that delicate pyramid was threatened by the one thing he both feared and desired.
No. He had to be rational. For Fanny. For his sanity.
His eyes closed on an image of the stage, of the thunderous audience, of a slender figure bowing, a cascade of roses over her arm. He allowed himself to be selfish for one second more.
"Albany."
<0>
The dossier arrived with the next package of mail from home. Placed atop the remarkably thick folder was a black note with silver gel ink, addressed to Milo. He smiled as he picked it up.
"Fanny says she’s coming home tomorrow night."
Simon grunted in reply and set aside his coffee, pulling the second folder close. Milo saw him eye the two inch pile with consternation and quickly looked away to avoid the bodyguard’s gaze. But the face Simon made as he flipped open the cover on his copy of Albany’s life wasn’t lost on Milo. He followed suit, putting aside his annoyance, and pushed the button on the tabletop intercom. Lawrence picked up on the second ring.
"What’s up, boss?"
"I want you around. Simon and I got the folders."
"Not a problem. And I’m in my office."
Far from prying ears.
"How much did you read?" Simon wondered aloud.
"Not much, to be honest. I was more interested in locating the daito...no offense, boss."
"Swords of that length and period are a dime a dozen," Milo mused, distracted by what he was reading.
"Not when you know the maker," Lawrence countered. "Eric’s gotten the list down to less than a hundred possibles."
"Focus on any in the city."
"We are, and will work out from Midtown."
"You know," Milo mentally returned to the office for a moment, "it might be a good idea if we had Winthrup tail her." He waved a hand at the dossier. "We don’t know her habits yet and without knowing where the sword is, she could be walking into an early grave."
"Assuming that after," Simon flipped back a page, read her birth date and did the math, "thirty-one years of clean living—"
"Ah," Milo held up a hand. "But clean living might have ended when the clerk and I handled the sword. According to the dealer, the last time it was handled was in California, en route to the shop. Far from Ms. Wendel."
Simon looked at him, his expression one of concern.
Milo’s eyes closed as he shook his head. "No, I’m not overreacting! Nor am I projecting. I’m simply trying to think ahead."
"Can’t hurt," Lawrence said. "I’ll call him with the details."
"Call MaryAnn too, please. I want to know where we are on the letter."
"Will do."
Silence reigned for a time as they read. Milo lost himself in discovery while Simon took copious notes. Lawrence was called upon more than a few times, but usually by Simon. Lawrence later interrupted their dinner to let them know that Winthrup was on the case and currently at the opera.
Simon snorted at the image, but didn’t pause his reading marathon.
Lawrence was sent to bed, and still they read.
The hour was closing on 2AM when Simon announced he would continue reading in his room. Milo nodded, expressed his thanks, and continued reading.
<0>
"She’s got a performance tonight, so is off today," Winthrup rasped over the speakerphone. Years of smoking had left their mark on the man’s voice, but Mark Winthrup wasn’t known for his conversation.
"That’s terrible timing," Simon groused as he poured himself another cup of coffee.
"Not if she stays home," Milo offered in Albany’s defense.
"That’s not the way luck goes, Milo."
Winthrup made a noise Milo hoped wasn’t painful and had to assume was a chuckle. "I’ll call if she leaves."
"Stay warm," were Simon’s parting words as he rang off.
Milo pushed back from the table, a coffee mug in hand. "So…tell me what you think."
"I think we won’t know anything until we meet Ms. Wendel."
"Nice. Now tell me what you think."
"I think, since you asked so nicely, that we won’t know anything until we meet Ms. Wendel."
Milo was about to complain when Simon held up a hand.
"No, Milo. You’ve already made up your mind, admit it, and anything I might think to the contrary, which I don’t, could come back and bite my ass in a big way. However, I have no opinion beyond the fact that I think she’s gotten the dirty end of the life stick."
"Yeah. That was more than a mild shock."
"But it’s something you have in common, isn’t it?"
Milo nodded, fearful of reliving one moment of the horror eight years past. "Thankfully, Ms. Wendel was much younger when she suffered her loss."
"Now, the question for you is, is she a suitable aunt for Fanny?"
Milo smiled as he met Simon’s gaze. "I won’t know until I’ve met her."
<0>
And suddenly, the longed-for meeting was immanent. Winthrup’s next call was as close to panicked as Milo had ever heard the man.
"I can’t believe it. She’s heading for the antiques district."
Simon was on his phone, summoning a car as Milo leapt for the closet and his coat.
In silence they rode to the lobby, but were both dialing as the elevator doors rolled open. Hurrying for the revolving doors, Milo listened to Lawrence and his list of dealers with swords, noting their addresses.
"And this is assuming that the dealer is known to us," Milo said, sitting beside Simon in the front seat of the town car.
"I am relying on our contact," Lawrence admitted.
Milo clamped down on annoyance. "I’ll call you when we’re closer." He disconnected and pulled the sun visor down to check his appearance in the mirror.
"Not the first meeting you envisioned," Simon observed.
Milo frowned, flipping the visor back. "I’ve had all kinds of fantasies over the past thirty-six hours, including gallantly saving her from...I don’t even know what."
"Looks like you’re about to get your wish."
Milo laughed, adjusting his tie and removing a fresh pair of white gloves from the glove compartment. He changed the ones he wore, tugging them nervously. "Why is traffic at its most horrible when you’re in a hurry?"
"It’s always bad. You just pay attention at odd times."
Winthrup flagged them down before a crowded coffee shop. Simon left the car, locked and running, as Milo threw himself out and ran for the gallery door.
"Second floor," Winthrup said, jogging beside him. "The place is massive. We’ll need to split up."
Milo nodded in recognition and quickened his pace. "Wait for Simon, fill him in, and call if you spot her." He didn’t wait for Winthrup’s reply. Alone, he mentally sectioned the gallery and hoped to methodically parse the space.
A flash of movement to the right drew his attention. He spun, just in time to see the daito flying for the boutiques that faced the street. Milo pursued. The sword flew above him, well out of reach and he cursed his lack of scarf.
When the sword hesitated, Milo used the time to search the few boutiques in the area. Some were nothing more than three walls fronted by a glass counter, crammed with objects, and equally as crowded shelves behind, while others were more shop-like, with walls of glass and proper doors. Like the sword, he saw not a soul. He was about to call out to Simon when a figure rose in a store further along the row. The person had their back to him but shoulder-length chestnut hair hinted that it was a woman. The sword, too, seemed to arrive at the same conclusion and oriented on her slender figure.
Milo ran.
Bursting through the door, he called out a warning. The sword lanced downward. He bit back an oath and threw himself against her, shoving her to the floor. He landed squarely atop her, which only confirmed that she was indeed female, being agreeably padded in all the right places. She also smelled of lilac and shampoo.
It was the breaking of pottery that alerted Simon to their location, and ultimately Simon who preserved their lives. But Milo didn’t mind, being wholly absorbed in her presence.
Their ensuing exchanges surprised him. She showed no fear, accepted his offer of coffee and laughed at his jokes. When he threw caution to the wind, inviting her to witness the removal of the curse, she followed.
En route to the penthouse he prattled, giving vent to overwhelming excitement. At one point she met his gaze, her eyes sparkling with delight, and later she blushed at some nonsensical thing he had said. At the staining of her cheeks, a feeling of elation threatened to crush him. Her eyes were lowered, her eyelids shielding her from his gaze, and he suddenly understood the wisdom and function of a fan. And in that simple gesture, a heretofore unknown level of femininity was learned. She showed him not only the lack of decorum in his previous lovers, but exposed the tedium of his past romances.
The gypsy was right. Here was his happiness, and if the universe would continue to smile upon him with hazel eyes, then yes, his children would come from a capital city.