The Mysterious Madam Morpho

Imogen was quite done with conjecture. “But you don’t actually need me—” she started.



“He does”—Criminy nodded at Henry—“and I need him. Besides, it’s been years since I met anyone with a flair for magic who didn’t annoy me. That’s a tricky bit of necromancy with the hair and the butterflies, you know. I could teach you a few things. You strike me as an infinitely useful woman.”



Imogen let herself sag into Henry’s arms, a weight off her soul. She felt as light as a butterfly, knowing that even one person in the world thought her useful.



Well, two people.



“Thank you, Master Stain. That means a great deal.”



“Don’t thank me, my girl. Thank my wife. If not for her prodigious talent, I’d have tossed you out onto the moors.”



“You wouldn’t have!” Henry spluttered.



“Wicked is as wicked does, Mr. Murdoch,” Criminy said, with an overly pointy grin. “Now, go back to your trailer and do whatever it is you Pinkies do when finally free of torment.”



With a final waggle of sharply drawn eyebrows, the gypsy king slammed the door in their faces.



“Back to my wagon, Madam Morpho?” Henry asked.



Right there on the steps of Criminy’s wagon, watched only by a lone bludbunny and the cool cat’s grin of a moon, he kissed her. Her hands caught the smooth planes of his face for the first time, and she kissed him back gladly, feeling that finally she was in precisely the place she was meant to be.



“Let’s dance, Mr. Murdoch,” she answered.