Page 83 of Search for the Lost

Leo felt as if a weight had disappeared from his back, one he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. He stroked Crispin’s face. “We’re going to make it, aren’t we? You and me, I mean. Assuming we survive this quest.”

“We’re going to make it.” Crispin almost glowed with love. No, wait. He was glowing, as if he were a salt lamp lit from within, and that looked pretty cool. The glow didn’t seem to bother him at all, and Aspin, watching from across the table, simply looked a little wistful. It was another one of those fae magick things, Leo concluded. Like Dietrich reappearing from out of nowhere, or impossible flattening luggage. Only way better.

Another thing that made his Crispin special.

And man, the antipasto looked good.

They had all made pretty good progress on demolishing the platter of food—even Cypher, who’d apparently decided it wasn’t poisoned—when the woman reemerged. This time she lugged a white bowl large enough to bathe a child. Dietrich jumped up and tried to help, but she shooed him away and somehow managed to get it onto the table. “Il primo,” she announced. “Ragù alla bolognese.”

They all dug in without hesitation while she watched, smiling in approval. The noodles, Leo saw, were shaped like witch hats. He vaguely remembered an Italian witch was called una strega—hey, that was a clue!—so these were… stregatelli?

He didn’t care what they looked like, though, because a single bite made him sigh with happiness. He vividly pictured fields of wheat, golden beneath the sun, and tomatoes hanging heavily from verdant vines. There were onions, herbs, enough garlic to scare away an entire Anne Rice novel-worth of vampires, and little bits of juicy meat. When their hostess caught his eye, he nodded and made appreciative noises in his throat since his mouth was full.

And then he suddenly remembered why this place seemed so familiar. “My birthday,” he told Crispin as soon as he’d swallowed.

“Pardon?”

“The last birthday I spent with my parents, not long before they died. We went to an Italian restaurant for dinner.”

They hadn’t gone out to eat very often because it inevitably ended in disaster. Leo would break something or somehow spill his food on another patron’s lap. Nobody’s order would be correct. There would be a kitchen fire or members of the cook staff would get into a knife-brandishing argument. But on that particular birthday, his parents had bravely taken him to a cute little place in a converted house. It wasn’t exactly like Nonna Strega’s but gave off similar vibes.

He’d loved the food. And the owner—a tiny old Italian lady with a lovely accent—had escorted him to the kitchen and explained how things were prepared. When he’d accidentally collided with a waiter, sending laden plates to the floor, the owner had simply made sure that Leo was unharmed before handing him a white paper bag full of home-baked cookies.

“A good memory,” Crispin said.

“Yeah.”

The woman—Nonna Strega herself?—came closer. “It is very difficult to be a parent, especially when your child is… challenging.” She gave both Leo and Crispin significant looks before continuing. “And sometimes the parents of such children, sometimes they need un riposo, a rest. Especially when they also have very difficult jobs outside the home. You understand?”

Leo did understand, and Crispin evidently did too, because he was nodding. “Yes, all right, a rest,” said Crispin. “But the curse and⁠—”

“And also a mother who loves her son so much will do all she can to make sure his life turns out as well as possible.” She shrugged. “But none of us are perfect. Sometimes even a mother makes mistakes. Sometimes things happen that she did not expect.”

Well, that was completely vague, at least from Leo’s perspective. Crispin frowned at her. “Madam, where is my mother?”

That brought another shrug. “I do not know.”

“Very well. Then where are the Red Dukes?”

She wagged a finger at him. “I will not tell you that unless you defeat me. Now, mangia! I made that pasta myself. Soon I will bring il secondo and i contorni.” She picked up the antipasto platter and made her escape.

Nobody stopped eating. Not even the mouse-WOLFs, who’d crawled out of Leo’s pocket and were perched on the tablecloth, feasting on pieces of meat from the sauce. Their little noses and paws were stained red.

Leo spoke with his mouth full. “By the time we get to the tiramisu, none of us is going to be able to move.”

Crispin, also with his mouth full, nodded. “I’ll wager she’ll be happy to let us sleep here, on the floor. And as soon as we wake up she’ll start bringing us breakfast.”

“Is she the kind of witch who fattens people up so she can eat them?” Leo was surprisingly unconcerned about this possibility. Not that he wanted to become anyone’s meal, but he was really enjoying the pasta. There are worse ways to go.

“I don’t think so,” Crispin replied after considering. “It’s not a very efficient way to procure food, is it? Look at Dietrich—he’s already eaten half his weight, and we’re not even to the main course yet.”

Dietrich looked mildly offended, but that didn’t slow him down.

So maybe the evil plan was just to make them willing captives, keeping them so well fed that eventually they forgot why they’d come there to begin with. Again, there were worse ways to go.

“We must find Mother,” said Crispin. He used his napkin to wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of Leo’s mouth.

Leo sighed. “I know. But I’m still not on board with murdering the witch.”