I tried to seat Liz and Diana in the parlor while I went to put on water for tea, but they followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Liz folded her hands on top of the table and pressed her lips together. Diana rearranged the sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, and a Mason jar full of wilting wildflowers.

“What is it?” I asked, finally picking up on the women’s tension. “Is something wrong? Has the circle banished me? Is Ann okay? Has her hand gotten worse?”

“Ann’s fine,” Liz assured me. “And the circle … well there was some disagreement at first.” She pressed her lips together and I guessed that Moondance had probably given her a hard time about bringing me into the circle. “But we found a private tutor who we think will be perfect for you. One of our circle can personally vouch for him and I spent the night calling his references.” Liz placed unusual stress on the word calling. It took me another minute in my groggy state to realize why. Last year when Liz had hired Liam Doyle to take over a Creative Writing class she had relied on his internet profile and emailed references – all of which had been fabricated by my crafty incubus. Liz was trying to assure me that she wasn’t making the same mistake again.

“Thank you for being so thorough,” I said, turning to pour boiling water in the teapot – and also to hide the blood that had risen to my face. I knew I should be grateful to Liz, but instead I felt a sudden wash of grief at the thought that even if Liz wasn’t this careful – and no matter what dreams I had of him – I’d never see Liam in the flesh again.

“His name is Duncan Laird,” Diana blurted. “He has a DMA from Oxford!”

“A DMA?”

“A Doctorate of Magical Studies,” Liz explained. “He’s a Wizard of the Ninth Order. We’re lucky to get him. He happened to be visiting friends in Rhinebeck. He’ll be here early this evening, around five.”

“Today?” I asked, appalled. “I’ve got a flooded basement and a leaking roof. Everything’s a mess …” I looked around the kitchen and noticed for the first time that it was not a mess. The pots and pans I’d used to catch drips had been rinsed, dried, and stacked, and put away in the pantry. The mud on the floor had been mopped up. Even the coffee cup I’d given to Bill earlier was rinsed and drying in the draining rack beside the sink. There was a note from Bill under it that read: “I’ve gotten a tarp over the roof to stop the leaks for now and went for roofing supplies.”

Wow, a man who cleaned up after himself and left notes. What better reference did I need for him?