SIX

The breakfast parlor glittered in the morning sunlight. Midas had spent the last two hours wandering about the house and turning everything within reach to gold. It had been like a parade, his brother and the entire household staff trailing behind him as he had walked from room to room, getting richer with every step. He'd told the servants that no one outside the house was supposed to know about the miracle yet, he wanted to surprise his wife and daughter when they returned. Everyone was promised a splendid bonus for their secrecy and they had sworn to be as silent as the grave. They were all still standing around staring at him, even the cook who had had to hurry down to the kitchen to make her master's breakfast. The staff had much to wonder at indeed, for not only were all the rooms furnishings solid gold, but Mr. Leeford himself was different. Gone was the care-laden, serious bank man. In his place was a laughing, lively person, who joked with the footmen and teased the cook for being behind schedule. It frightened them almost as much as it pleased them and the little kitchen maids had been whispering between themselves about black magic until Midas gave each of them a little gold rosebud.

Greg sat next to Midas at the breakfast table, carving up his ham with gilded utensils. They chatted about unimportant things for fifteen minutes or so, pretending to barely pay any mind when something else changed to gold. After that, Midas dismissed the servants so that he could eat in peace.

"I'm still waiting to wake up," Greg mumbled through a mouthful of ham. "This can't actually be happening."

"I know what you mean." Midas could hardly believe it himself. If it was a dream though, he sincerely hoped he wouldn't be waking up anytime soon. He poured himself a cup of tea and picked up his fork. He hadn't been comfortable eating with a roomful of people watching his every move, but he really was famished. He cracked open one of the boiled eggs and dug his spoon into it. "It's not something you encounter every day." He took a bite of the egg and bit down on something so hard that it sent a shooting pain up through his head. He choked and reached for his napkin, which immediately turned to spun gold. He spit the egg into it. Looking down, he saw what appeared to be a gold nugget, the size and shape of the egg he'd been about to eat. He looked down at it for a few moments, the first tingle of apprehension making it's way through him. Greg hadn't seemed to notice. Placing the napkin aside, Midas took another bite of the egg, this time careful not to chomp down quite so hard. As soon as the egg touched his tongue, he felt it harden into gold. He spat this out too. He reached for his golden cup and tried taking a sip of milk. The moment his lips touched the milk, the golden frost swept across it's surface and changed it to gold.

Midas bit his lip, suddenly nervous. He placed the cup down again and put both of his hands flat on the table. He closed his eyes and went very still. The bargain had been that whatever Midas touched would turn to gold. Surely though, he could make it so that the magic was the product of his will, and not an absolute truth. He attempted to focus his thoughts, and tried to force the magic back so that he would be able to eat.

"Midas?" Greg asked.

Midas opened his eyes again and carefully picked up a slice of toast, frowning in concentration as he tried to keep the bread from turning to gold. Unfortunately, the instant he touched it, the toast transformed into a golden triangle. The brothers both gazed down at it, neither one speaking.

"Midas—"

"It's just something I have to practice with," Midas said, interrupting his brother. "That's all."

"But if that happens to everything you eat—"

"It's just something that requires practice," Midas said again, trying to act cool and collected. "It's nothing you need to concern yourself about. I'm not feeling hungry anyway."

He pushed himself back from the table. "I'll see you later. I've got something I need to attend to."

"Sincerely, Midas Leeford."

"Sincerely . . . Midas . . .Leeford," Runnels drawled, jotting down the last bit of the letter Midas had been dictating. They were in the study, Midas standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, while his valet sat at the desk. Midas had changed into his new golden clothes and was again appreciating his magical abilities.

The letter Runnels had written out for him—he hadn't wanted the paper to change into gold—was his letter of resignation. There was little point in struggling up the corporate ladder when all the wealth in the world was at his fingertips. So with much cheerfulness he signed away his career.

"Have it sent to the Department of Loans," he said. "To Dexter Thompson's office."

"Yes, sir."

Midas could not help but be a little bit smug at the idea of Thompson's reaction to his sudden removal. Perhaps it would have been better for the Department of Loans if he'd given a notice and stayed until they had a chance to find a proper replacement. Yet Midas couldn't bring himself to be repentant.

His thoughts went to his family. He wondered how Lillian and Marigold were getting along. He smiled as he imagined their faces when they came into the house.

Midas made his way around the study, touching everything he could, turning it all to gold. Lamps, picture frames, books, everything he could get get his hands on. Even parts of the walls were gold. When he'd gone all the way around the room, he nodded his head in approval and sank down onto the sofa to rest. As soon as he touched it, the sofa turned to gold as well, and instead of a cozy chair, Midas was sitting on hard metal. He glanced down in astonishment, his heart sinking. There was nothing to do about it, the sofa was solid gold, probably worth more than all of London Town and the most uncomfortable seat in the world.

Midas got up and put his hands on his hips. Something had to be done. He walked out to the garden. Once there, he made his way over to the ornamental pear tree. He looked up at it. It was a pretty thing. Lillian cut twigs from it every spring when it was in full blossom. The blossoms were gone now, but it was still an elegant little tree. Midas reached up and plucked a leaf from it. The leaf instantly turned to gold in his hand. Midas held it up to his face. He could still see every vein in the leaf, see every ridge and irregularity. The most brilliant goldsmith couldn't come close to such perfection.

Midas dropped the leaf on the ground, then closed his eyes as he had done at the breakfast table. He tried to find the source of the gold touch. If he could just control it, then everything would be perfect. After staying in that attitude for several minutes, he opened his eyes and plucked another leaf off the tree. The moment his hand brushed it, the leaf was gold. He dropped this one as well and plucked another. Again, the leaf changed to gold. He set his jaw, his patience running thin.

"Stop it," he muttered, plucking another leaf. Gold.

"Don't change." Gold.

"No more." Gold.

Midas remained out there for twenty minutes, plucking one leaf after the other. By the end there was a pile of perfect golden leaves at his feet, and three bald branches on the pear tree. He finally gave up. This was becoming serious. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and he hadn't eaten anything all day. If he didn't fix this problem soon he was going to starve to death.

"Don't think that way," he told himself. "There has to be a way to fix this, I just need to figure out what it is."

He went back inside and went upstairs to his dressing room. He found a pair of gloves, which of course turned to gold as soon as he put them on. Sitting down at his desk, he took out another sheet of paper and a pen. He wasn't going to let someone else write this letter, for fear of showing how concerned he was becoming. This letter was to Bacchus Aurum, asking him if there was a way to control the golden touch.

"And if there's not," he concluded to himself, "I'm going to have to give it up altogether," he cringed at the thought. The golden touch was everything he'd ever wanted, the limitless power it gave was the only good thing destiny had ever done for him. It was his form of revenge against those who had sought to break him and control him. To give it up would be to willingly go back to that listless way of living. "I can't give it up yet," he told himself. "I don't have enough gold. I need more, enough to last me and my family the rest of our lives." He finished the note and called for one of the footmen to have it sent out. Hopefully by the next day he'd have his answer, if he didn't stumble across it that evening.

He didn't go down for dinner. His stomach ached and his mouth was dry, yet he knew he wouldn't be able to eat or drink and the smell of food would drive him to distraction.. He was reminded of an old fairy tale about a sinner condemned to spend all eternity up to his neck in a river but not being allowed to drink from it, and having branches full of beautiful fruit hanging just above his head without being able to reach up and take any. As a child Midas had thought little of the story, but now he was just beginning to comprehend that sort of agony.

The day wore on and on, and every moment Midas became hungrier and thirstier. The thirst soon became more concerning, and it was difficult to think of anything else. He became so desperate that he sent for a pitcher of water to be brought up to his room so that he could try to take a drink, but every time he poured water into a glass, it would turn to gold the moment it touched his lips. Soon the water in the pitcher was gone and Midas ground his teeth together in frustration and threw his golden cup against the wall. It left a dent in the plaster. Midas pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself. He just needed to wait for Bacchus to reply to his note. He was not going to die after one day without food and drink. He decided to go down and see if Greg had any ideas about what to do. He went down to the cellar, expecting to find him there, but instead he found the butler Mr. Simmons with a broom in his hand.

"Simmons?"

"Sir," said the butler with a bow.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Mr. Gregory Leeford informed me that his experimenting days were over. I've been allowed access to the cellar once more." Simmons' expression was a mix of relief and vexation and Midas could only imagine his irritation at finding what a wreck the cellar had become.

"I see. Where is my brother?"

"He left about an hour ago, sir. I believe to meet with someone."

Midas raised an eyebrow. Greg didn't have many acquaintances. He's spent most of the last three years down in the cellar.

"If you happen to see him when he comes home could you send him to find me? I'd like to speak to him."

"Of course, sir."

With his brother gone and the girls not expected home until the next day, there was nothing else to do but sit and wait and wonder at his predicament. He tried to distract himself from the thirst, but every time he picked up a book it changed to gold, warping the letters until they were unintelligible and he couldn't go for a walk because walking just made him thirstier. By nine o'clock in the the evening Midas was more parched than he'd ever been in his life. He had begun to regret ever asking for the golden touch.

"I should have just asked that a cheque for a million pounds be delivered through the post. Why didn't I think of doing that? Then I'd be happy as a clam right now. But no, I had to ask for the maddest thing in the world." He went to bed, hoping that sleep would help distract him from the thirst. He went and changed out of his heavy gold clothes. The night shirt from this morning was lying in the laundry hamper. He eyed it, wondering if it would change once he touched it. It has stayed the same this morning—maybe it would remain cotton. He walked over and picked it up only to watch as the golden frost consumed it. His head drooped in defeat. He was sick of wearing golden clothing, it was heavy and uncomfortable. He missed the feel of soft satin and cotton and wool. He missed being able to sit in a comfortable chair and the sweet taste of water.

"What have I done?" he muttered, letting the golden nightshirt slip through his fingers. Wearing only his underclothes—because who could sleep in golden cloth?—he shuffled into his bedroom and flopped down on the bed. It was like falling on the floor. The instant his back touched the mattress it changed to gold, the sheets and coverlet likewise. His pillow was harder than a rock. Midas covered his face with his hands and groaned. It wasn't fair! He'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted and it was making him more miserable than he'd ever been. He wanted to go back to how things were before he'd gotten the golden touch. He hadn't known how lucky he had been. At least he could eat and drink and had a nice, soft bed to lie in and clothes that didn't weigh a ton and irritate his skin. He suddenly wanted to go back to the time when his only problem was that his coworker had stolen his promotion. That time suddenly seemed like a fairy land.

"You've made your bed, Midas, now lie in it." He muttered to himself. Unsurprisingly, that did little to comfort him.