A good night's sleep did its usual wonders for the Maid of Magic. By the time she woke up the next morning, Zatanna was amazed that she had ever thought she might be a menace to the people of Gotham City. It was so patently obvious that the lime-peel incident had been an isolated fluke; her power had saved so many lives, done so much good for so many people, how could she imagine that it was somehow dangerous?
She laughed at how silly she had been, and rolled over and pressed the intercom. "Hello, room service?" she said. "This is Suite 55. Could you… Yes, Zatanna's room. I'd like a half of a grapefruit, a chocolate éclair, and a copy of the Daily Planet sent up to me. –That will be fine, thank you. –Well, I'm glad to hear it. I just hope you like tonight's show as well."
She switched off the intercom, rose from the bed, and conjured up a light silk wrap so she would be suitably covered when the bellhop arrived. (In any other hotel, she probably would have just gotten dressed, but the Romero, which specialized in making its guests feel like Petronius Arbiter relaxing in his villa after a hard night buttering up Nero, was not the sort of hotel where a person put on a suit until she absolutely had to.) Then, having nothing better to do, she wandered over to the window and gazed out at the street below.
It wasn't a particularly exciting scene that met her eyes. There were no rampaging supervillains wreaking havoc on the city plaza, no Batmobiles zooming past on their way to do battle with the forces of evil – only ordinary citizens of Gotham going about their ordinary lives: walking their dogs, chatting on cell phones, purchasing strange teriyaki concoctions from street vendors, and in general doing all the things that people do every day in a big city. But, for some reason (possibly because her dealings with Emil's family the previous day had left her unusually susceptible to the charm of everyday life; possibly because her relief upon deciding that she wasn't Gotham's Public Enemy No. 1 had spilled over into the rest of her psyche; possibly just because it was a beautiful day outside), the very homeliness of the scene filled her with delight. Batman, she thought, had good reason to dedicate himself to the protection of this city.
Her reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. Zatanna was surprised – she hadn't expected the bellhop to arrive so soon – but she hastily pulled the wrap around herself and went to open the door, where she found a positively scrumptious-looking breakfast tray awaiting her. She thanked the bellhop profusely, gave him two dollars and her autograph on one of the napkins, and wheeled the tray inside to stand beside her bed.
Picking up the éclair with her left hand, she unfolded the newspaper with her right, feeling a slight pang of guilt as she did so. She really ought to have asked for the Gotham Post, or one of the other local papers, rather than expecting the Romero staff to find a copy of a Metropolis newspaper on request. Still, she didn't know any of the reporters on the Post, and she liked Kal's writing style. (Alternately, of course, she could have conjured up a copy on her own, but this was the Romero: you came here to be pampered, not to make everything yourself.)
She noticed, idly, that the paper quality of the Planet seemed coarser than she remembered: evidently Mr. White had been serious about cutting production costs, the way Kal had told Bruce he'd been threatening to do. (How was it, she wondered in passing, that she could remember her fellow Leaguers' pre-meeting gossip from three weeks ago, but couldn't remember whether she'd given the bouquet to a boy or a girl last night?) But she didn't spend much time thinking about it, since she had no sooner unfolded the paper than she got a distinct shock. There, smiling out at her from the bottom part of the front page, was a photograph of an elegant, dark-haired woman in a green sweater – a woman who (apart from the sweater, which she wouldn't have been caught dead in) was a dead ringer for Zatanna herself.
Her blood froze; she thought of all the stories her fellow Leaguers had told of evil dream-constructs and duplicates from parallel dimensions. Hastily, she put down her éclair and gave the article accompanying the picture her complete attention.
"'Rucco May Reward Pupils'," she read aloud. "By Jimmy Olsen, Staff Reporter. 'For the past five years, Miss Geraldine Rucco, the 31-year-old science teacher at John Gorrie High School in downtown Metropolis, has presented the trophy to the winner of the Florida State Chemistry Bee. Now, for the first time, she may have an opportunity to present it to one of her own students. The sixteen finalists for the title, who will be going to Tallahassee on Friday to compete in the final stage of the Bee, include no fewer than seven Metropolitans…'"
She stopped reading, and let out a little sigh of relief. Nothing to worry about, then. No evil Zatanna just arrived from another universe: just a silly little local-interest story about a woman who'd apparently been a prominent member of her community for at least five years. Of course, the resemblance was still quite uncanny (if Zatanna hadn't known better, she would have sworn she was looking at one of her own publicity stills), but doubtless there was some good explanation for that. Maybe Miss Rucco was also a distant descendant of Leonardo – with a last name like that, she had to have roots in the old country – and the random shuffling of the great man's genes had somehow, after 800 years, managed to produce two virtually identical women. Anyway, there was no need to press the panic button over it.
(Though it did occur to her that, after her engagement in Gotham was finished, she should waft herself down to Metropolis and pay a call on Miss Geraldine Rucco. If she was a distant cousin of Zatanna's, maybe she had the same powers that Zatanna and her father did – and maybe she was as ignorant of the fact as Zatanna herself would have been, had it not been for her father's serendipitous enchantment of that lamp all those years ago. In which case, it would be a pleasure to enlighten her.)
She picked up her éclair again, and munched vaguely at it as she flipped through the rest of the paper. As might have been expected from the presence of a Chemistry-Bee story on the front page, it had been a slow news day: even Clark's piece about the ongoing investigation of the mayor's aide seemed to lack his usual zing. The only really compelling bit was in the "Universe" section, where someone named Wendy Dagmar had managed to get an exclusive interview with John Stewart about the Green Lantern Corps's recent defeat of a sentient black hole that called itself S'ronnoc. She read this with mild interest; then she folded the paper back up, put it aside, and began attacking her grapefruit half with the vigor of carefree omnipotence.
About half an hour later, she had finished her breakfast, dressed, and was heading downstairs in search of whatever adventures Gotham City offered on a Tuesday morning, when a strange commotion in the lobby caught her attention. An ambulance was parked outside the Romero's front doors, and two paramedics were weaving their way through the foyer, carrying a stretcher between them on which a heavyset black woman was alternately moaning in agony and shouting at someone or other to make sure the soup didn't boil over. It seemed to Zatanna that this called for an explanation, so she tapped the desk clerk on the shoulder and asked what was going on.
"Oh, just a little accident in the kitchens," said the clerk. "That's Wanda, the head cook. She was getting lunch ready, and she managed to drop the yam drawer on her foot."
"The yam drawer?" Zatanna repeated.
"Sure," said the clerk. "About a month ago, someone sent the hotel this huge sort of cabinet thing for the kitchens, with all kinds of drawers for vegetables and fruits and stuff – and Wanda fell in love with it, and she's been using it ever since. Dunno how she feels about it now, though," he added thoughtfully.
"What was she making that had yams in it, though?" said Zatanna. "I didn't see anything about amala on the lunch menu for today."
"Oh, she wasn't actually using the yams," said the clerk. "The way she was telling it, she was reaching into the potato drawer, and the yam drawer just jumped out of the cabinet and landed smack dab on her foot. Just like magic." He said this in a rather sarcastic tone, and made a gesture with his left hand suggesting that, in his opinion, it was more likely that Wanda had been sampling the cooking sherry rather heavily.
A cold shiver ran down Zatanna's spine. "Like magic, was it?" she said.
The clerk blinked, and seemed to suddenly remember to whom he was speaking. "Oh, not that magical people go around dropping yam drawers on people's feet," he said hastily. "I just meant, you know, the way she talked about it – like it just happened without any reason…"
Zatanna held up a hand. "That's all right, Armand," she said. "I knew what you meant."
"Oh," said the clerk. "Well, that's good." He grinned uncertainly. "I mean, I'd hate to have someone like you thinking I'd insulted her. I've got a wife and three kids at home; the last thing I need is to get myself turned into a rat by the Witch-Lady of the JLA."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced, realizing that the Witch-Lady in question might consider that appellation an insult in its own right. Zatanna, however, didn't seem to have heard him. "So, was she badly hurt?" she said.
"Wanda, you mean?" said the clerk. "Well, her foot's probably broken now, of course – a drawer full of yams ain't exactly light – but I don't guess there was any permanent damage. A week or so in the hospital, then a month or two on crutches, and I expect she'll be right as rain again."
"Good," Zatanna murmured. "Good."
She smiled politely at the clerk, and turned and headed outside – more or less automatically, as all desire to explore Gotham, or to do anything else, had been drained out of her by horror. Yam drawer. May reward. Rucco May Reward Pupils. Occur, Yam Drawer Slipup.
She shuddered. Once was bad enough, but twice in under twenty-four hours… what was the matter with her? Was it just bad luck, or was there something more sinister going on?
She considered paying a call on Bruce, to see what he thought about the whole thing, but decided against it. She was a superheroine in her own right: she couldn't expect Batman to solve all her problems for her – and, anyway, Wayne Manor was over on the other end of Gotham City, and somehow she didn't feel like casting a teleportation spell just now. Better to just go for a walk and let herself calm down; there was nothing wrong with her (she told herself firmly) that a bit of fresh air couldn't fix.
She took a deep breath, tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and set her face in the direction of Gorshin Park.