"Do you think he can help Georgie?" Rose asked.
"We've tried everything else. He can't hurt, I suppose." Grandma sighed. "But if you don't want to leave with him, you should stop helping him."
"I'm doing it for Georgie."
"I know, child. I know." ElEonore petted her shoulder and went inside.
Rose hopped off the porch and approached Declan. He spread the coals with an oversized fork and glanced at her through the cloud of sparks.
"Are you planning to summon a demon?" she asked.
He grimaced. "No."
"Just checking."
He threw a handful of herbs into the fire.
"But you are summoning something?"
"An image. I'm also binding it to the water." He tossed another handful into the fire. The greedy flames pounced on the herbs, sending aromatic smoke into the air. "Problem is, I have to reach across the boundary into the Weird. That will take a fair amount of magic. I'll need a sacrifice. Just not sure if what I have is enough."
The first hesitant traces of magic swirled along the clothesline. The water in the pool darkened.
Declan began to intone something in a steady monotone. She didn't recognize the language, but she felt his effort and the roiling current of magic vibrating within the sigil.
He chanted for almost a half hour, his face quaking with the strain. She sank next to him on the grass. The sound of his voice lulled her into a kind of trance. Shrouded in clouds of fragrant smoke, he seemed otherworldly, like some arcane sorcerer from a fairy tale.
Then Declan clasped his hair in a tight grip, drew the knife, and sliced it off.
"Aaaa!" It happened so fast, all Rose could do was gasp.
"What?" He threw the hair into the flames.
"Your hair!"
"That's why I grew it," he said, glancing at the water in the pool. "Power reserve. Three years' worth. But it's not enough."
Rose stood up, gathered her hair, and held out her hand.
He handed her the knife. She severed her hair with one sharp stroke and threw it in the fire.
"Most women would rather die than cut their hair," he said.
"It's just hair," she said. "I would sacrifice a lot more to keep Georgie alive."
The water within the pool bubbled up, rising, twisting into a huge translucent dome.
Something bumped Rose's elbow, and she jumped. "Jack!"
He regarded her with solemn eyes and held out his hand.
Declan passed her the knife, and she handed it to Jack. He sliced a lock from his head and tossed it into the fire. It went up in flames.
"Smells awful," Rose said, ruffling Jack's hair.
The water swirled, geysered up one last time, and snapped into shape.
SOMEONE was coming up the attic stairs. Georgie looked away from the picture. The attic belonged to him and Jack. It was a wondrous place. Huge piles of junk gathered against the walls: books, weapons, rusty contraptions, drawings, parchments . . . Down in the house, Rose cleaned up any hint of dirt and clutter, but here everything was messy and dusty. He liked it up here. It was quiet, and he could dream. Sometimes he imagined himself to be a pirate like Grandpa in the hull of his ship filled with treasure. Sometimes he was an explorer like Dad. Sometimes he was a demon . . .
A blond head emerged, followed by the rest of Declan. His long blond ponytail was gone, and his head looked lopsided, the hair on one side longer than on the other.
The blueblood paused for a moment, taking in the gloom and treasures, and looked at Georgie on his seat on a punching bag by a narrow window. Georgie sighed. There would be another talk about letting things die and "take their natural course." He'd nod and do what he always did. A waste of time.
Declan crossed the floor, crouched by him, and looked at the metal frame in his hands. George offered it to Declan.
Grandpa Cletus stood in the picture. Very tall and red-headed, he wore loose dark pants and a light shirt, with a triangular hat set at a jaunty angle. A carbine, an ancient musket, rested across his shoulders, the stock held in his right hand, the barrel passing behind his neck. In his other hand, he held a long rapier, leaning on it slightly as if it were a walking stick. His eyes were alight with crazy mirth. Grandma said he looked like a grown-up version of Jack, wrapped in pirate garb. When he first dragged this picture down to show her, she clicked her tongue and said, "Fiercely loyal and utterly unreliable." She didn't smile for a whole day after that, and he hid the picture in the attic with the rest of his stuff.
"Grandpa," George said, in case Declan failed to figure it out.
"I see."
"What happened to your hair?"
"I got tired of it."
George nodded and looked at him, waiting for a lecture.
"I've made something for you," Declan said. "I'd like it if you came to see it with me."
George followed him outside. A kiddie pool was in the middle of the lawn. Around it was a big complicated design made with rope and sticks. They climbed through the ropes. Declan stepped over the lines, while George ducked underneath, and they stood together at the rim.
A transparent dome rose in the middle of the pool, all the water bound together tightly by the magic. Within the dome sat a small settlement of crooked huts. Fields and forest surrounded it, giving way to a green plain. The top of the dome glowed with soft silvery light, and he could see every detail of the village, from the stones on the well to tiny creatures scurrying about. Shaped like little human-looking foxes with red, brown, and black pelts, the creatures went about performing small tasks, carrying water, tending the fields, fixing the thatched roofs. Georgie stared, mesmerized.
"What is that?" he asked finally.
"It's a willworld. Do you know what a computer is?" Declan asked.
"Yes."
"This is similar. It's the Weird version of it, only unlike a computer, the willworld has a very specific purpose. It only does one thing, but it does it really well. I made it for my graduation project when I finished gymnasium."
"Did it take you a long time?"
"A couple of years. The willworld itself is back at my house. This is just a facsimile . . . a copy. It's an exact image of the device, made of water and magic and linked by magic to the original. You might say it's a three-dimensional reflection. For all practical purposes, it's pretty much like having the real thing at your disposal."
George watched the foxes as they carried long stalks back to their huts. "Are they alive?"
"No. They're magic constructs. Strictly speaking, they don't actually exist. If you were to break the dome, you couldn't pick one up. The whole thing would simply go dark. Look here."