I laugh awkwardly, my cheeks burning with red hot, mortified flame. Because what in the world possessed me to blurt that?
“When?” Jude asks.
“The first time we met. In the graveyard last Sunday. I was out for a jog, and somehow he was there, too. I’m not sure if he was following me or what.”
Oh my gosh, Selah.
Stop rambling.
Stop it right now.
But I keep going. Verbal diarrhea. And with each word, his expression tightens all the more.
The coiled snake is back, ready to strike.
I pull at the collar of my hoodie, looking for aconversational exit when Jude’s phone vibrates against the table.
The screen lights up, flashing the time.
I hop out of my chair like a hot potato. I reach inside the front pocket of my hoodie. But my phone isn’t there. I left it in my bedroom. I set my hand on top of my head. “I was supposed to meet Twig a half hour ago.”
Like Cinderella fleeing the ball at midnight, I hurry down the spiral staircase. I don’t lose a shoe. And Jude doesn’t chase after me. But as soon as I’m outside, I can’t help but feel the disappointment of a spell that’s been broken.
11
THE LOCKED TOME
Twig and I have had a long-standing date every Saturday at noon in Maggie’s basement, where we brainstorm, research, outline, record, and edit episodes for the podcast. Today, I’m late. And I don’t mean fifteen minutes late like last Saturday, either. I mean egregiously late. Like,we should be wrapping up by now because my shift starts soonlate.
I jog across the street to Evermore Books, a two-story brick building on the square. The second floor is home to Maggie’s impressive compilation of historical records, accessible by appointment only. The first floor is the book shop, a haphazard maze of mismatching shelves stuffed with mostly used books, many of which have handwritten notes tucked inside. My all time favorite? A hastily scribbled note in all caps thatwarned, “Do not read after midnight.” I found it insideThe Haunting of Hill Houseby Shirley Jackson, and Maggie was right. I really shouldn’t have read it after midnight.
Breathless and windswept, I rush past the storefront window, which boasts, among other things, a taxidermy raven with beady eyes. The bell on the door jingles as I let myself in.
Twig is bent over the counter, chatting with Walt while the resident black cat, Poe, tries to nuzzle his way between Twig’s folded arms.
“I amsosorry,” I say, rushing toward them, “but I promise when I tell you what I’ve been up to, you will forgive me.”
Twig responds with such an emphatic sneeze, his glasses slide to the end of his nose. He’s allergic to cats, and Poe never leaves him alone. “It’s not a problem,” he says on the cusp of another.
Walt shoos Poe off the counter. “Yes, because being an hour late isn’t a problem at all.”
“Fifty-four minutes late,” Twig corrects, followed by a third sneeze. He grabs a tissue and blows his nose. “Which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t the end of the world.”
Walt harrumphs. He’s a retired journalist who loathes tardiness. Back in the day, he worked for the Foggy Hollow Gazette as a hard-nosed beat reporter, investigating scandal and corruption in local politics.
The FHPS hates him.
I plop a paper bag from Tudor’s next to the cash register. “I bring a peace offering.”
Walt digs inside and removes the wrapped biscuits. He tosses one to Twig and takes the other for himself.
“I’ve been chatting with your friend here about Dante’s comet, set to make its appearance over our town in thirty-nine days, ten hours, and ...” He checks his wristwatch. “Forty-four minutes.” Walt shoots me a wink. When it comes to time—or any measurement at all, really—Twig is nothing if not exact.
“And brightest on Halloween night,” I say, a smile stretching across my face. “What are the chances?”
“Point zero eight percent,” Twig replies around a mouthful. He’s already unwrapped his food and taken a giant bite. He swallows it down. “That’s the probability of a random individual being alive when the comet returns,andits peak visibility occurring on Halloween Night.”
My smile widens. “Point zero eight percent.”
