"How was she?" Dov blurted. The question surprised him. It just wasn't the sort of thing he'd expect himself to say. An inquiry as to whether or not Peez had secured Fiorella's backing for the company takeover, maybe; a query about any deals Peez might have offered the witch-queen so that he might, in turn, better them, perhaps. But a simple question about her health and well-being? A sincere one, no less? Astounding.

Because it was sincere; Dov couldn't deny that. He actually cared enough about Peez to ask after her! This was something new for him. How had it happened?

And why shouldn't it happen? he thought fiercely, as though someone had challenged his right to feel concern for her. She's my sister, dammit! We're family! Why the hell shouldn't I want to know how she is?

"Just fine," Fiorella replied, sitting opposite Dov and filling the goblets. "A trifle disappointed that I couldn't bring myself to give her my unqualified support, but otherwise well. You see, I like to hear both sides of most things before I make up my mind. That's why I'm so glad that you've finally come to see me. I'd like to choose between you and your sister for the directorship of E. Godz, Inc., after Edwina—"

Dov burst into tears.

He was still shaking with sobs as he felt Fiorella move nearer and put her arms around him. She stroked his hair and whispered soft words of comfort, helped him to his feet, led him to the green velvet divan and lay down beside him, cradling him to her. He cried and cried until all of his tears were gone. Then he closed his eyes tight, took a deep breath, blew it out forcefully, and thrust himself out of Fiorella's embrace.

"I am such an idiot," he said, sitting on the edge of the divan with his head in his hands.

"Probably," Fiorella said, being amenable. "But would you mind specifying what brought on that little bout of personal evaluation?"

"Very funny. I've got a friend you should meet: He's jewelry, but the two of you would get along fine in spite of that. The two of you, working together, should be able to get my ego whittled down to sand-grain size without breaking a sweat."

"Jewelry doesn't sweat. Do you mean you're a fool for crying, or for crying in front of me?" The witch-queen remained comfortably stretched out on the divan like a modern day Cleopatra. "Put your mind at ease, Mr. Godz: Men have been allowed to cry in public since the '90s, and not just over football games. Or are you afraid your outburst will make me think less of you as the potential head of E. Godz, Inc.? Au contraire, it's a blessing to find a CEO who's got human emotions. Why do you think we call it sympathetic magic?"

Dov sat up a little straighter, feeling the old self-confidence trickling back into his bones. "Really?" he asked.

Fiorella nodded. "Considering all the stress you're under, I'd be repulsed if you didn't show a little emotion. Mr. Godz, what I do within the spiritual path I've chosen—what all of us who follow such paths do—is to seek connection. If I wanted a leader who was cold and detached from everything except the dictates of his own ego—" She sighed. "Never mind. I hate discussing politics."

"It has been a rough time for me," Dov admitted. "I've spent most of it, ever since I heard about the report from Mother's doctor, trying not to think about what's coming. It all seems so ... strange to me."

"You're not the only one," Fiorella said. "I must say, when I first heard about poor Edwina's condition, I was shocked."

"Of course you were. You and she have been more than business associates, right? When a friend tells you her doctor's only given her a short time to live—"

"Oh, it wasn't that so much as— Well, yes, it was that, but what struck me as even more shocking was that Edwina not only went to a common M.D., but that she actually believed what he told her. In all the years that I've known your mother, I can count the times she's seen mainstream medicos on the fingers of one hand. Frankly, I think she's only gone to see them that many times for tax purposes."

"Tax purposes?" Dov's right eyebrow lifted.

"Tax purposes, insurance purposes, something like that. You know, like when you want to take out a new policy and it calls for a physical? Most insurance companies won't accept forms that are signed by herbalists, no matters how reputable. Edwina just doesn't trust ordinary doctors; says their diagnoses are a crapshoot and they're too closed-minded to accept alternative methods of healing. I'd have thought that if one of them told her she was about to die, she'd laugh in his face and—" Abruptly, the witch-queen stopped talking. She stared at Dov closely. "Mr. Godz?" she inquired apprehensively. "Mr. Godz, is something wrong?"

"No," said Dov, his voice pitched to that soft, scary level that meant he'd had a very telling revelation. "Nothing's wrong at all. In fact, everything you've just told me is so very, very right that I was a fool not to notice it before now."

He stood up and bowed his head slightly to the witch-queen. "It's been a pleasure, but I have to go. Now. Will you excuse me? I'll see myself out."

Fiorella swung her legs off the divan and reached out a staying hand, "Wait!" she cried. "At least let me escort you back through the store. All that power—"

"Unnecessary," Dov replied as he stalked out. "Now I'll be able to stand it. Power and I are old friends. You might even say we're family."

Midnight in Salem, Massachusetts.

The witching hour found Dov Godz slumped in his rental car in front of Ye Cat and Cauldron engaged in high wizardry of the most puissant order, namely using his palmtop to hack into the records of the M.D. who had supposedly pronounced his mother's death sentence. First he used his own tech skills, enhanced by every drop of magic at his command, to force a passage into Edwina's personal financial records, found evidence of payment rendered for a recent physical examination (for insurance purposes, as he had surmised), and obtained the examining physician's name from that.

Accessing the doctor's records was relatively simple.

Locating a copy of the report that the M.D. had e-mailed to the insurance company was child's play.

Discovering that, in the doctor's professional opinion, Edwina Godz would live to see ninety, was a kick in the head.

Deciding that maybe Edwina would not live to see ninety more seconds of life if he had anything to say about it, was merely the vindictive desire of a moment, cast aside almost as soon as brought to mind. Funny how relief at knowing that his mother wasn't at death's doorstep after all was so quickly replaced by the urge to send her there, special delivery.

Maybe he couldn't kill her, but he sure as hell was going to make her pay for what she'd done to him.

"And Peez, too," he muttered at the glowing screen of his palmtop. "Damn it, Edwina, what the hell were you thinking, putting us through this? Especially Peez. She's always been more concerned about you than I ever was. She gets hurt too much, too easily, and you knew it! Or you should have known it, if you'd paid half a lick of attention to either of us. Why did you do it, Edwina? Nothing good on TV?" He snapped the palmtop shut, started up the car, and drove back to his bed-and-breakfast, thinking dark thoughts all the way.

The front door was locked and deadbolted when he got there. House rules clearly posted in his room indicated that all guests should either plan on being back by midnight or being elsewhere until six the next morning. Dov never was one for conforming to other people's plans. He stroked one fingertip over both locks and they yielded to him soundlessly.

As he climbed the stairs and opened the door to his bedroom he was still immersed in thoughts of vague payback plots to invoke against his mother. He was so distracted that at first he took the scene awaiting him—right in the middle of his bed, no less—for an illusion.