Page 18 of Honeyfires

"The whiskey was worse than the fire, in retrospect."

Her mouth curved. "High praise for the fire." She tilted her head. "How are your hands?"

She asked it lightly, but it wasn't a light question. I held one up, fingers spread. Didn't shake.

"Steady," I said.

She looked at it for a moment. Something passed across her face that was warmer than an assessment from a neighbor. "Good." Then she added, "And the mystery key?"

"Still unidentified. I've narrowed it down to either a storage unit I forgot I had or a life I was living before I lost my mind in a hallway forever and a day ago."

She laughed. "We met two days ago, Petra."

"It feels longer."

"Is that a complaint?"

"It's an observation. You're very—" I searched for the word "—present."

"Present," she repeated.

"Everywhere I look, essentially."

She turned slightly pink, which she covered by pulling out another book. The gap was wide enough now that I could see most of her, which was doing nothing good for my composure. "That could be described as a you problem."

"It absolutely is."

"I haven't done anything."

"You did several things. The Dewey Decimal system. The Antique Bridal Whisper color thing. The pajamas." I paused. "That way you said ask me tomorrow."

The pink deepened. She pressed her lips together and looked at the shelves with immense concentration, like they had said something very interesting. "I was just being clear about timing."

"You were being very clear. I appreciated the clarity. I'm here because of the clarity."

"So you're saying this is my fault."

"I'm saying you created conditions that made this outcome extremely likely."

She looked at me through the gap, eyes bright, chin tilted in that way she had when she was deciding whether to be delighted or impossible. She landed, as she generally seemed to, on both. "You know what the problem with you is?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"You're very hard to fluster."

"I'm extremely flustered right now," I lied.

"You don't look it."

"I'm committed to the bit."

She laughed too loudly for the library, and a man three rows over looked up from his periodical and cleared the scowl on his face when he realized Vera had been the one to cause the disturbance. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, eyes bright above it.

"You're going to get me in trouble," she whispered, taking my hand through the gap in the shelves.

"From the job you were clearly born to do? Mrs. Martinez would riot."

"Mrs. Martinez would riot. She's brought me nine tamales as payment for helping her book club pick Circe by Madeline Miller for their most passionate read of the year. I have leverage." Her thumb traced a small arc over my knuckles, which did immediate and significant damage to my capacity for any coherent thought. "What are you actually doing here, Petra?"