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#Writever 2404.01 — Time
[/Apologizing ahead of time. —R.S./]

"Are you sure using /Unlock/ on his door— what?" Céline said, getting her first look inside the centuries old Montpellier townhouse. Dust coated everything in the foyer, and the apples in the crystal bowl on the Art Deco console looked like shrunken heads. An orange was covered in blue-green and the dried soup might have been a banana. Little flies and a cloud of spore swarmed up in the gust of air when Béatrice shut the door.

Celine covered her mouth with a kerchief as they walked around the rat droppings on the red Persian rug toward the stair. She added, "So, Risgold died?"

"Not exactly..." Béatrice's voice trailed off.

"Well, I'll miss the old fart; was missing him is why I mentioned it at the Sorcerer's Club. Always good for chuckle, his misinterpreting things in spells." They descended the stairs.

"Yeah. Always discovering the unexpected by accident—"

"Needing us to point it out. Why are we going to the servants quarters?"

"He lived alone, so he cooked."

"Ah. Of course—"

Béatrice sped ahead. She held out an arm to stop her from entering the kitchen. The stately woman shook her head.

Céline groaned. "He is dead, isn't he?" She sniffed. "Something smells off."

"It's the icebox; he left it open. Please be careful. Open the door but don't enter. There's an active spell."

Céline nodded. With eccentric Risgold, it was /always/ a spell. These days, male sorcerers wore a business suit when working with customers, or jeans and a white t-shirt when they worked because they were comfortable and easier to clean. Risgold? Robes. Shades of the 17th century. His white hair wasn't a powdered wig, but at his age looked like one. He even used a finger flame to light women's cigarettes, the few that still smoked, anyway. Then there was his candles. He used them around his house instead of electricity.

The sconce beside the door held a melted down, drippy sample.

The door was a swinging door, the better for the servants to push open with a foot with filled trays for the upstairs. Béatrice had Céline pull it open, possibly because it kept Céline from reflexively stepping in...

Risgold looked up in the light of the ten candle chandelier, blue eyes sparkling in the dancing flames. "Ah!" he said, tugging on his long wizardly beard. "I'm glad you showed up. This is a half-recipe, but should prove plenty for all of us. It's really simple—" He squinted at the /Provence Cuisine/ cookbook he had propped up before him.

Céline's smile grew as she cried, "Risgold, it's so good to—"

Béatrice restrained her by grabbing her shoulder tightly. She pointed to this side and that. The icebox door stood open behind the old man, rotted meat on one shelf, a burst carton of milk having toppled itself to the floor. Inside of a sphere centered on Risgold, everything remained fresh. The chicken on the marble top. The sliced vegetables. The stock pot on the gas fire, bubbling and steaming. The man: very much alive.

Risgold looked up, his finger on the recipe book. "Just a minute. I'm trying to figure out what this means." He tapped the page with a finger, then grabbed his ebony wand. "Don't know how to measure 3 grams of time, but I can certainly add 3 minutes—" he finished, swishing it.

The flash was blinding. The next instant, the stock pot splashed as Risgold dropped cut potatoes into it, then returned to scrutinizing his recipe. In the space of three minutes, Risgold noticed his visitors, greeted them... grabbed his wand and swished it.

Béatrice facepalmed. "Thyme is a spice."

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