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“I can’t tell you what a surprise this is,” he said, a pleased smile breaking through the shell-shocked expression. “I thought Gilbert was the last, you see. But now here you are, and you’re just so beautiful. Look at you!” He took my face between his hands and scrunched up my cheeks. “You—you’ve got Gilbert’s eyes. And his nose! Look at that, Andi! She has his nose! Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Jane cleared her throat. “Dick?”
Dick gave me an apologetic smile. “Crossing a line?”
I nodded, my eyes wide and alarmed, like one of those upsetting anime characters.
“Dick and Mr. Wainwright were really close,” Andrea told me, carefully removing Dick’s hand from my face.
Dick looked in Jane’s direction and seemed to be thinking furiously at her, which was rather funny to watch. Dick would squint. Jane would make a vague gesture. Dick would squint even harder. Jane would shrug.
Meanwhile, Andrea retrieved the sleeve of sketches I’d dropped on the floor during Dick’s hugging tirade. “These are beautiful, Nola. Even if they weren’t of historical value, your nana had a wonderful eye for detail.” She carefully shuffled through the old papers. “So each of the artifacts represents one of the four elements?” she asked, while Jane tried to give a Dick a brief summary of why I was in the Hollow and what the hell Andrea was talking about.
I took out the sketch of the object Nana had called “Sea,” which was your typical silver bell, dotted with intricate Celtic designs that spiraled out like ripples on the surface of water. Nana described it as heavy and “flat,” meaning it never quite rang with the delicate, resonant note it was meant to have. The next sketch showed a circular clay altar plaque, “Earth,” which was vaguely shaped like an acorn. Then there was “Air,” the long, thin ritual knife used to direct energy flowing through the air. Ritual knives were also associated with fire, but I suppose my ancestors wanted to be as obvious as possible by using a magically preserved candle—“Flame”—to represent fire.
Jane joined us, poring over the sketches to see if she recognized anything. When her gaze landed on the rendering of Flame, she gasped. “Oh, no!” She clapped her hands over her face and began cursing vehemently.
“What?” I cried. “Please don’t tell me you threw it out, Jane.”
“No, nothing like that,” she promised, looking up at me with a distinct grimace. “I may have given that candle to my mama for Mother’s Day last year.”
Dick broke out of his near-catatonic staring-at-me state and let out a loud, barking laugh. “You regifted your mama something from the shop for Mother’s Day?”
“No one ever gave it to me as a gift; therefore, it is not a regift.”
“You didn’t pay for it!” Andrea protested.
“Did you see the storeroom before I got here?” Jane demanded. “Trust me, I paid for it.”
“Can we focus on the fact that Jane’s mother may be using my family’s magical heritage to decorate her guest bath? We need to get to your parents’ house before she decides to light it!”
There was a long pause, followed by Jane and Andrea laughing hysterically.
“I’m glad you two find this so amusing.”
“No, no.” Andrea giggled, wiping at her eyes. “Jane’s mama would never put something that Jane gave her as a gift in a public area of the house. Someone might see it!”
“Skeptical Nola is skeptical.” Jane snickered. She was very good at reading human facial expressions. “Trust me, I couldn’t have put it in a safer place.”
* * *
When we arrived at Jane’s parents’ perfect little brick house, a woman with a pert brown bob practically ran out the front door to greet us. I was introduced to Sherry Jameson and immediately smothered with hugs, which were only half as intrusive as the hugs Dick had showered on me when I attempted to leave the shop. Andrea threatened to “tranq-dart” him when he insisted that he would come with us, that he didn’t want to let me out of his sight just yet.
I thought she was kidding right until the moment Jane’s handsome husband, Gabriel, showed up at the shop and asked why Andrea had wanted their tranq gun. Personally, I was curious as to why Jane and Gabriel had their own tranq gun.
Mrs. Jameson was so pleased to meet a young person she could feed that she sat me down at the table and heated up a plateful of chicken pot pie. Mr. Jameson, a quiet, academic sort of man, sequestered himself against the counter, by the stove, and shared commiserating glances with his daughter. There was something off about the way he was standing. He seemed a bit pale, as if he wasn’t at his full strength.
“Is your father all right?” I whispered.
“He’s had that same pinched expression on his face ever since he retired. He spends a lot of time at home.” Jane sent a significant look at her mother.
“Come on, now, Nola, take a great big bite!” Mrs. Jameson chirped, sliding the plate in front me with near-maniacal glee.
“I actually had a really large lunch, Mrs. Jameson, and I don’t know if I’m hungry enough to eat again—”
“Oh, shush, you need some meat on your bones,” Mrs. Jameson said, nudging the plate toward me.
If you can hear me right now, Jane, I am going to smack you later, I thought while glaring at her. And despite a clear expression of discomfort on her face, she was still smirking. She could hear me.
