“Death,” I say numbly. “Whose?”
“That’s not clear. Here’s your final tile…”
“What? What do you see?” I grab the champagne bottle again.
“An angel,” she says quietly. “Falling from heaven. His wings are on fire, flames flaring from the tip of the feathers, turning them black. You’re right where you need to be, my girl.”
My heart feels funny, like it’s trying to turnsideways in my chest and wiggle out. Morgan’s readings are never wrong, not mine, anyway.
Wallace, a guardian angel. If she sees him falling, wings aflame and turning black, does that mean I’m responsible for his death?
“Maybe I should run, Morgan, take Murder Mittens and get out of here. It’s not right. Wallace doesn’t deserve to die after trying to keep me safe.”
“The tiles can mean many things,” she says sharply. “There’s death here, and lots of it, unfortunately. But nothing I see means your end, or his. Don’t panic. You need to listen to me. This is not the time to run. Be smart. Stay alert. Do you hear me?”
“I do.” My skin’s twitching, I feel like ants are scuttling all over me.
“Take a breath in.” Her firm voice brings me back.
Sucking in as much air as my lungs can hold, I count to five in my head, then let it out slowly.
“Better?”
“Yes,” I croak, mostly meaning it.
After I tell her about our unsettling yet deeply satisfying walk through the South Bridge vaults and she’s demanded every detail, we say goodnight.
“Scarlett?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t take that necklace off. Ever.” If I didn’t know thatnothingscared Morgan, I would think that was fear in her voice.
“I won’t, I promise. Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re my person, Scarlett. You know that.” I must have sniffled, because she snaps, “You’re getting emotional, aren’t you? I’m hanging up.”
It might be a sob or a laugh, but I manage a wet-sounding, “Goodnight, I love you,” before she ends the call.
Reluctantly, I put down my shiny new phone and look around. The room is so quiet. All the heavy drapes muffle the sound from the street outside, and it feels oppressive.
I take a bath in the elaborate tub with more ornate knobs and levers than I know what to do with.
I use a very modern blow dryer to style my hair and change into a nice silk sleep set.
I pace the bedroom, counting the steps from the bathroom to the door to the window and back. I look at the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s only midnight?
There’s a tremendous, thundering round ofknocking on the suite’s front door and I let out a shriek that makes the china rattle on the sideboard.
“Scarlett! Are ye okay?”
The poor door has survived centuries of hotel guests, but it explodes from its frame with a thunderous crash, kicked in by a man who could be Wallace’s brother. He’s huge, green eyes blazing, and his dark hair’s sticking up like he was electrocuted.
“What’s happened? Are ye hurt? Who’s here?” He’s got his gun out, stalking around the room.
“No one’s here but me! Why did you kick down the door?” I screech.
“Ach, that.” He tucks his gun in the waistband of his jeans and lifts the door back into the splintered frame. “I’ll have someone in to fix that by morning.”
