“Let’s stick to your disposition, shall we, Artemis?” Argon snagged a stack of cards from his file. “I am going to show you some inkblots, and you tell me what the shapes suggest to you.”
Artemis’s moan was extended and theatrical. “Inkblots. Oh, please. My life span is considerably shorter than yours, Doctor. I prefer not to waste valuable time on worthless pseudo-tests. We may as well read tea leaves or divine the future in turkey entrails.”
“Inkblot readings are a reliable indicator of mental health,” Argon objected. “Tried and tested.”
“Tested by psychiatrists for psychiatrists,” snorted Artemis.
Argon slapped a card down on the table. “What do you see in this inkblot?”
“I see an inkblot,” said Artemis.
“Yes, but what does the blot suggest to you?”
Artemis smirked in a supremely annoying fashion. “I see card five hundred and thirty-four.”
“Pardon me?”
“Card five hundred and thirty-four,” repeated Artemis. “Of a series of six hundred standard inkblot cards. I memorized them during our sessions. You don’t even shuffle.”
Argon checked the number on the back of the card: 534. Of course.
“Knowing the number does not answer the question. What do you see?”
Artemis allowed his lip to wobble. “I see an ax dripping with blood. Also a scared child, and an elf clothed in the skin of a troll.”
“Really?” Argon was interested now.
“No. Not really. I see a secure building, perhaps a family home, with four windows. A trustworthy pet, and a pathway leading from the door into the distance. I think, if you check your manual, you will find that these answers fall inside healthy parameters.”
Argon did not need to check. The Mud Boy was right, as usual. Perhaps he could blindside Artemis with his new theory. It was not part of the program but might earn him a little respect.
“Have you heard of the theory of relativity?”
Artemis blinked. “Is this a joke? I have traveled through time, Doctor. I think I know a little something about relativity.”
“No. Not that theory; my theory of relativity proposes that all things magical are related and influenced by ancient spells or magical hot spots.”
Artemis rubbed his chin. “Interesting. But I think you’ll find that your postulation should be called the theory of relatedness.”
“Whatever,” said Argon, waving the quibble away. “I did a little research, and it turns out that the Fowls have been a bother to fairy folk off and on for thousands of years. Dozens of your ancestors have tried for the crock of gold, though you are the only one to have succeeded.”
Artemis sat up straight; this was interesting. “And I never knew about this because you mind-wiped my forefathers.”
“Exactly,” said Argon, thrilled to have Artemis’s full attention. “When he was a lad, your own father actually managed to hog-tie a dwarf who was drawn to the estate. I imagine he still dreams of that moment.”
“Good for him.” A thought struck Artemis. “Why was the dwarf attracted to our estate?”
“Because the residual magic there is off the scale. Something happened on the Fowl Estate once. Something huge, magically speaking.”
“And this lingering power plants ideas in the Fowls’ heads and nudges us toward a belief in magic,” Artemis murmured, almost to himself.
“Exactly. It’s a goblin-and-egg situation. Did you think about magic and then find magic? Or did the magic make you think about looking for magic?”
Artemis took a few notes on his smartphone. “And this huge magical event—can you be more specific?”
Argon shrugged. “Our records don’t go back that far. I’d say we’re talking about back when fairies lived on the surface, more than ten thousand years ago.”
Artemis rose and loomed over the squat gnome. He felt he owed the doctor something for the theory of relatedness, which would certainly bear some investigation.
“Dr. Argon, did you have turned-in feet as a child?”
Argon was so surprised that he blurted an honest answer to a personal question, very unusual for a psychiatrist. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“And were you forced to wear remedial shoes with stacked soles?”
Argon was intrigued. He hadn’t thought about those horrible shoes in centuries; he had actually forgotten them until this moment.
“Just one, on my right foot.”
Artemis nodded wisely, and Argon felt as though their roles had been reversed, and that he was the patient.
“I would guess that your foot was pulled into its correct alignment, but your femur was twisted slightly in the process. A simple brace should solve your hip problem.” Artemis pulled a folded napkin from his pocket. “I sketched a design while you kept me waiting these past few sessions. Foaly should be able to build the brace for you. I may have been a few millimeters off in my estimate of your dimensions, so best to get measured.” He placed ten fingers flat on the desk. “May I leave now? Have I fulfilled my obligation?”