“Library of Paranimal Information.”
My heart flutters.
“I’ve tried to digitally archive my notes,” he continues, unaware of what his organizational methods as well as “archive” in his silky voice has done to me, “but the files keep getting corrupted for some reason. The only notes that don’t get ruined are longhand.”
I read a few lines at random:
Huggle: squi;rrel paranimal. Small, furry, three pupils in each eye, shaped like rings, fun!ctions they serve unknown. (Affects how huggle perceives colors, shadow, distance?) Eating habits? Magical abilities?
“What’s this nonsense?” I tap the punctuation errors.
“Crooked-dooring.”
One corner of my mouth pulls back irresistibly into a smile,and I imagine Dottie beside us, smiling, too. I bet she’s tickled to see what I’m up to these days.
I tap my pen against my lips. Morgan watches raptly. “What does this tell us about the Black Bear Witch? We aren’t any closer to figuring out who she is.”
“It tells us she doesn’t like orange cats,” he guesses. “Or maybe that she loves them extra?”
We scour the neighborhood for cats but don’t find any orange ones. At sunset, we reluctantly part ways and resolve to meet up tomorrow. Hopefully we can get on the volunteer list at the animal shelter.
“Meet me at the trolley at nine,” Morgan instructs. The waning day gilds his face with blooms of gold on his forehead, cheekbones, Adam’s apple.
“Why don’t we meet at The Magick Happens?”
“Because your sisters might ask what we’re up to,” he replies.
I can tell he’s thinking exactly what I am: that for now, we want to keep this as a secret for ourselves.
It gives me this aerated, powerful, fireworks feeling, like carrying half of a story that nobody else has ever read, tucked away in my pocket. What gives the story so much value is knowing that Morgan’s got the other half. Everywhere I walk, I’m going to think,I’ve got a secret, and only he knows!And whenever I see Morgan out and about, and we wave hello to each other, I’m going to think,He’s got a secret, and only I know.
Twenty-Four
Tell your troubles to a starling and it will fly away with them.
Local Legends and Superstitions,
Tempest Family Grimoire
I don’t see Morganfor three days.
After a peaceful seventy-two hours in which I have plenty of time to get lots of book planning done with no distractions of the terrible-violin-playing or random-hypothetical-question-asking variety, I do some online shoe shopping instead, and then, in a fit of impatience, saunter across the street to Wafting Crescent.
With September around the corner, Zaid’s setting up an autumnal display, carefully assembling a lumpy tower out of cream puffs and toothpicks with a straw hat on top. “What’s this?” I ask.
Zaid’s tongue pokes out the side of his mouth as he stabs a toothpick through another cream puff. “Scarecroquembouche.”
“Come again?”
“A scarecrow croquembouche. Scarecroquembouche.”
Bushra grabs two vatrushki with her tongs and drops them into a paper bag before I approach the counter. “He’s the Michelangelo of pastry.”
After Bushra rings up my order, I ask if she’s seen Morgan lately.
“I’veheardhim lately.” She knocks her chin toward the ceiling, one hand on her hip. “Sounds like he’s rearranging furniture up there.” As she speaks, I hear a crashingthud, a “Damn it! Not again!” and rapid footsteps.
Zaid doesn’t remove his eyes from his masterpiece. “He’s driving me nuts. Go tell him to shut up, would you?”
