A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery by Juliet Blackwell Read Free Book Online

the snack I left for you?”
    “You mean the
apple
? You call that a snack?”
    “Apples are good for you.”
    Oscar made a very rude noise, but when I glared at him he grimaced, which was his gobgoyle version of a smile.
    “It’s your turn to make dinner, mistress. I would have cooked something, but you said you wanted to.”
    He’s right,
I thought guiltily as I headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get right on it. How’s roasted chicken sound?”
    “With cheese and potatoes?”
    “How about a salad?”
    Oscar sighed.
    “I’ll let you grate the cheese for it,” I said, and he sprang onto the kitchen counter.
    I’ve never had a pet, so when Oscar first came to live with me, I forgot to feed him once or twice—what with running around town after suspicious spirits and all, it plumb escaped my mind. So I set about teaching my familiar how to cook a few things for himself, and though he was an enthusiastic chef, his specialties consistedexclusively of some form of carbohydrates combined with cheese: grilled cheese sandwiches, mac and cheese, potatoes au gratin, cheesy baked potatoes. In an effort to inject a few vegetables into our bodies—Oscar claimed his kind didn’t need anything green and leafy, though I wasn’t buying it—I had called dibs on making dinner tonight.
    So although I was anxious to learn more about the velvet cape, I decided to put it off until after dinner. A hungry gobgoyle was not a happy gobgoyle. Besides, after what Conrad and I had found in the park . . . well, a little time to regroup would help calm and center me and restore my energy.
    I rubbed an organic free-range chicken with olive oil, garlic, and fresh herbs from my terrace garden, then popped it in my old Wedgewood oven. Afterward I started pulling together the ingredients to make a Caesar salad—one of the few leafy dishes Oscar would eat, as long as I put enough parmesan cheese on it. I handed him a head of romaine, which he dutifully washed and put in the salad spinner as I’d taught him; then he tore the crunchy lettuce leaves and tossed them into a huge hand-thrown blue ceramic salad bowl.
    “How do you know how to make that dressing?” Oscar asked as I started mixing lemon juice, a raw egg, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and anchovies in a large glass measuring cup.
    “My grandmother taught me. She claimed that Caesar salad had been invented in Mexico. One of the northern resort towns—Tijuana or Rosarito, if I remember correctly.”
    “Is that true?”
    “I have no idea,” I admitted with a chuckle as I measured out a cup of green-gold extra-virgin olive oil. “Apparently, a
lot
of people claim to have invented Caesar salad. Graciela also said Thomas Alva Edison wasMexican—that’s why his middle name is Alva. I think it’s best not to fact-check one’s grandmother.”
    Oscar smiled his ugly gobgoyle smile. “Oh, mistress, I forgot to tell you! I bought you a present.”
    “A present, for me? That’s so sweet, Oscar. I’m . . . I’m so surprised. What’s the special occasion?”
    “It’s my birthday.”
    “What?” I stopped chopping garlic and stared at him. It had never occurred to me that my familiar had a birthday. Though of course he did. He had a mother, after all. “It’s your
birthday
, Oscar? Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “We don’t do that.”
    “How old are you?”
    “We don’t talk about that.”
    “Okay, little guy, if you say so.” I laughed and let it go. As someone with my own share of secrets, I like to respect others’ privacy.
    Oscar retrieved the present from his cubby over the fridge. It was wrapped in a surprisingly sleek way, in fuchsia-colored tissue paper with a raffia bow, sprigs of rosemary and rue crossed atop it. Really lovely.
    “Thank you, Oscar. But if it’s your birthday, shouldn’t I be giving
you
a present?”
    “You humans! I’ll never figure all y’all out.” Oscar had recently taken to mimicking my accent and was developing a pretty