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“W-what are the answers?” I stammer, wetting my mouth with the sweet, calming tea.
“I cannot answer your first question, forgiveness comes from the deepest parts of you. It is more a choice and an inner acceptance. It is also a gift that nobody else can force you or tell you to give.”
Then, that’s a no.
“But… I can tell you that he feels very sorry for what he did and there was no way he could have known what would happen to you.”
“How do you know this?”
“Magic,” she answers on a light whisper. “It is always incredible.”
I almost don’t dare go on. To know what may happen before it does is a heavy burden. I feel bad for her if she truly can see the future. “What about Presley and Carter?”
With a dreamy sigh she plucks two roses from the air with both hands at the same time. They seem to materialize from nothing. One is light blueish gray, like Presley’s eyes, though the edges are slightly wilting brown. The other is dark brown, almost black, like Carter’s eyes and that too is wilting.
She leans forward and hands them to me. “Mind the thorns on the next one.”
With a final wave of her hand, she produces another beautiful rose, this one dark blue, like my eyes. This one has so many jagged spikes on the stem. The petals are so few, as though it has been plucked many times.
She passes it to me and I take it, holding it gently yet it still pricks my finger with a sharp sting, drawing blood.
“Put them together,” she urges softly and waits.
I look at her, then at the roses and I move them closer, petals first, then stems.
Molly takes a piece of black satin ribbon from the braids in her hair and uses it to tie the roses together.
“What do I do with these?”
“Wait and see.”
She motions for me to place them on my lap and then reclaims her mug. “Your final question is a difficult one to answer as there are many outcomes and he has many enemies. Your uncle will never truly be defeated by you, but he can be dethroned. You have the power to do that and you know you do. It is your choice whether or not you use it, it is for the fates to decide whether or not they need it.”
“He will come after me, won’t he?”
“A powerless man can accomplish very little.”
“Will the box make him powerless?”
She smiles brightly again and looks at the roses in my lap.
They have changed. They are fully formed, perfect roses, with no thorns on the stems and a complete set of beautiful petals. Our colors blend so well together.
“I think no matter what you decide to do, you’ll thrive. It’s up to you if you want others to thrive with you.” She places her hand on my knee and holds my eyes. “You were not his only victim; wouldn’t you like to be his last?”
The door opens and three laughing patrons enter. They’re in the middle of a conversation and don’t see our intense moment. Why would they?
“Thank you, Molly. I’ll pay you back.”
“No need.” She winks at me and pats my knee one more time. “Go be a badass.”
That’s something I absolutely can do.
“Wait,” I say when she starts to walk away.
Her smile is blinding and I find myself mesmerized in its beam. “You can do this. Have courage.”
I stare at the thriving roses and my trembling hand holding them tight. Courage. To do the right thing. I can do the right thing.
“Don’t you have like a wand or something I can shove up his ass?”
She laughs and nods for me to go, and with my roses clutched tightly in one hand, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Before she joins the ladies looking over bottles of many kinds, I turn back once more, another thought in my mind. Presley’s mom.
“Mol—”
“I cannot help her,” she replies sadly.
“How can you be sure?”
“Magic,” she breathes, ushering me out the door. “It is an incredible thing, but sometimes, it can be so entirely useless.”
I make it back by four, and head to the junkyard. I wasn’t expecting to find Stanley there after everything. I had hoped he would be a little too sad and distracted for work. Never mind, I need to speak to him anyway.
When he sees me approaching, he puts down his coffee and utters my name. He wipes his sweaty forehead on his grease-stained arm and raw emotion shines from his eyes.
“I need that business card that you took from that journalist,” I say, keeping my tone flat despite the fact I want to scream at him some more. “If you still have it.”
“I do, it’s in my wallet.” He lumbers to his jacket hanging over the back of his chair. “Are you okay? I got a call saying you didn’t go into school today.”
