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Bennet crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You still have to think about your father and the Hathaways. What are you going to tell them?”
“I’ll leave,” I mutter.
It’s an idea that’s been circulating for the last twenty-four hours ever since I said it to Etta. I don’t care about the Order anymore. I don’t want to inherit my father’s council seat. I don’t even use magic. I have no reason to stay here except for her and Marcia’s killer.
Bennet is right. Etta will marry someone else, and maybe I’ll just have to move on and accept I’ll never know what happened to my sister.
“Fine,” Bennet says skeptically taking a few steps backward out of the room. “But this is some masochistic shit, Roman, even for you.”
* * *
Despite my best efforts, I can’t live with the image of Etta marrying Harrison Dane. I can’t live with picturing her in another man’s bed or kneeling in the Order’s circle and performing the bonding ceremony, or not finishing school because someone told her she couldn’t. I can’t live with never hearing her argue with me again. I can’t live without her.
The bell above the tarot shop door tinkles as I shove the door open with my shoulder. Probably rougher than I needed to, but I’m already bracing myself for the smell.
The other day, the shop was empty, but it must be peak hours because today it’s crowded with tourists, the music playing overhead twice as loud, and the smell five-times as strong.
Perhaps it’s my aversion to readers in general, given my one and only experience with one, but I hate it here. Willingly subjecting myself to this torment again feels like my worst instinct to self-sabotage, especially as Etta made it quite clear she didn’t want to keep trying. But I have no idea where else to turn. I keep wishing I could go back and simply stay in the room, to hear if something was said other than the simple “No,” Etta described. Something that would have panicked her to the point of wanting to give up on the entire plan.
I shove my way through the crowd toward the front of the shop. The same girl is working at the counter, today wearing an orange and white Halloween patterned dress even though it’s November.
“Welcome in,” she calls, keeping her eyes fixed on the cash register as I approach. “Gimme a second.”
I say nothing, hovering in front of the counter while I wait for her to finish whatever she’s doing. Finally, she slams the cash register closed, and turns to me. Her slightly far-away eyes narrow in recognition. “Oh, hello, Non-Believer.”
“Hey.” I tense. I can’t bring myself to find the energy to be charming, but I dig down deep and find something civil. “Is Angelica reading today?”
She sighs. “You aren’t supposed to use the reader’s real names. It’s rude.”
I didn’t notice she had another name. I don’t remember seeing it when we were here before. “Sorry?”
“To answer your question, yes, but she’s booked all afternoon.”
“I just need a few minutes.”
She points down at the book on the counter—the same one I remember seeing last time. “They’re fifteen-minute slots. She doesn’t have a few minutes.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Look. What would it take for you to just…” I glance down at the scheduling book. “Erase the next person. Fifteen minutes is fine.”
My heart beats hard, sweat beading on the back of my neck as she considers. “You’re from the Order, right?”
“Yes…”
I don’t recognize her at all, but the only people who know about the Order are in it, or in extremely high positions of power in other ways—human politicians and the like.
“Fine,” she says, scribbling out a name in her book. “You can just owe me a favor. That’s worth more to me than anything you’ve got on you right now.”
Afavor.It’s like a quest, and this woman, Ophelia, is the gatekeeper. The sphinx that must be defeated. The riddler on the road. The first obstacle to be bypassed in the hero’s journey.
I frown—I’ve never been the hero.
“You still don’t like me,” Angelica says by way of greeting.
I sit down across from her in her little room beyond the red velvet curtain. “Not really,” I reply, deciding it’s better not to lie. And, anyway, I can’t fucking deal with faking anything right now.
She grins, leaning forward, like that’s the most interesting thing she’s ever heard. It transforms her face, and she instantly looks twenty years younger. “Why? I’m dying to know.”
“I’m dying to know why you told Etta you wouldn’t help her.”
