“Ambrosius?”

“No, not I. ” He paused. “He was Japanese.”

“Not Chinese?” said Kira.

“No, Japanese, ” insisted Merlin. “I’m sure of it.”

“I think Chinese, ” said Kira. “Yeah, definitely Chinese.”

“Chinese?” a new voice broke in. “What, the middle of the night

and you’re gonna send out for Chinese? Somebody pregnant here or

what?”

An old straw broom swept in from the kitchen, shuffling toward

them on its bristles and gesturing with spindly, rubbery arms that

had three fingers on each hand. Perched on the end of its broom

handle was a red cotton nightcap.

“What, nobody sleeps around here anymore?” the broom said in a

matronly voice that was thick with a New York Jewish accent.

It was the same voice and accent, in fact, as that of Wyrdrune’s

mother, the late Mrs. Stella Karpinsky, who had named her only

child Melvin, which was the chief reason why Wyrdrune used only

his magename. When he had left to attend the School of

Thaumaturgy in Cambridge, Massachusetts, he had cast a spell to

animate the broom, in order that his mother might have some help

and company around the apartment while he was gone.

Unfortunately, he had overreached himself, as usual, and the spell

had not come off quite the way he had expected.

The broom turned out to be a bit too animated and once it was

alive, there was no returning it to the inanimate object it had been

before. And, in his mother’s constant company, it had become

impressed with her personality and mannerisms. Now that she was

gone, Wyrdrune had “inherited” the broom, perhaps the oddest

familiar in all of thaumaturgic history.

Mrs. Karpinsky had dearly loved the broom and always used to

take it with her to the automat, where she had tea and Danish with

her friends and Broom learned the timeless art of kibbitzing. While

on her deathbed, she had asked the broom to take care of her son

and now nothing could dissuade it from its adopted maternal role.

Nor could Wyrdrune come up with any spell to silence or control it.