Blinking hard, his partner nodded. The spell or script or persona Felipe had fallen back on had cracked but not totally broken. “We… we can do that.”
Oliver’s shoulder sagged in relief. He would still remind Felipe the moment the raffle ended that he had said they could go, but it was something. Before anyone could protest that they should stay a little longer, their conversation was interrupted by a man ringing a bell in the middle of the atrium. He called out that the raffle would be held in two minutes time, and somehow, that managed to summon everyone into the atrium. Oliver’s pulse kicked as he slunk closer to Felipe at the sudden press of bodies in the already crowded atrium. Oliver kicked himself for not asking to leave before the raffle. The extra warmth and noise made the space claustrophobic, but at least from where they stood near the wall, they could easily see the stage and get a little bit of an oil-tinged breeze from the refreshments room. If he hadn’t been overwrought and wrung out earlier, he would have been scrambling to escape. For a moment, Oliver considered handing Felipe his ticket and excusing himself to get some air anyway when an older white woman in a sage green gown with a blood red rose boutonniere pinned on her breast climbed the stairs to the makeshift stage.
The quartet fell silent as the woman, presumably Mrs. Cutler, stood at the podium and waited for everyone’s attention. Oliver had seen her before at the Paranormal Society, though he hadn’t spoken to her and thus had never put her name with her face. Mrs. Cutler had been spoken of as a force to be reckoned with since her retirement. She had a commanding presence yet still seemed soft and kind, like someone’s grandmother or a beloved schoolteacher who was respected and feared in equal measure. He could imagine her running memorization drills or treating a charity event like a military operation. She smiled graciously at the crowd as their chatter fell to an antsy whisper.
“Before we get to the raffle, I would like to thank you all for coming to our holiday charity bazaar,” Mrs. Cutler said, her voice ringing clearly and loudly enough that Oliver suspectedshe must be using magic to manipulate the air around her. “This annual event not only helps local artisans get their crafts into the hands of other people, but this year’s cause is very close to my heart. The reason you have all donated your time, money, and art tonight is to raise enough money to begin the construction of an orphanage for children of magical parents. As some of you may know, I grew up in a foundling home, and while I was lucky enough to be taken in by a kind couple who also had magic, many were not as fortunate. While all children in orphanages are at risk for abuse, children with magic may hurt themselves or others, and in the wrong hands, they can be exploited or weaponized due to their powers. By opening an orphanage for children of magical parents, we can ensure that they grow up in a place that is safe for them, where people will accept their powers and guide them into becoming adults who are part of our community. Orphaned children who aren’t adopted run the risk of being forced onto the streets, but through a close relationship with the magical community and the Paranormal Society, we hope we can give them a stable foundation, whether they are adopted or not.”
Oliver glanced at Felipe. Oliver wanted to say that his rotating introduction idea would have complimented Mrs. Cutler’s proposed orphanage, but from the way Felipe merely stared ahead with his attention skimming indolently across the crowd, he doubted he would be receptive to hearing it.
“This future wouldn’t be possible without all of your help tonight.” As the crowd clapped, Mrs. Cutler waited with a smile for them to settle down only to twitch with pain. She gave the shoulder of her dress above the boutonniere a tug. With a wince, she cleared her throat and added, “Our volunteers from across the city have worked tirelessly to create all of the items available today as well as the refreshments and amusements you see before you. Without their hard work, there would be no charitybazaar, and without you all here tonight, there would be no funds for the orphanage.”
When Mrs. Culter paused to let the audience applaud again, her chest hitched with a cough. She turned away, and the sound was drowned out beneath the crowd. Half a second later, Oliver smelled what must have made her cough. His eyes itched, and he wrinkled his nose at the acrid tang of what smelled like wires burning. He had hoped his temporary reprieve from nerves would hold out until they returned home, but the smells and sounds were starting to get to him. Frying oil and burning wires combined with the press of more people in the atrium and the fountain gurgling even louder made his chest tighten with unease. Oliver drew in a long, slow breath and purposely didn’t look at the fountain or the watermancer playing in it for fear his annoyance would show on his face. In a few minutes, they would leave; he could keep it together a little longer. Motioning for everyone to be quiet again, Mrs. Cutler smiled with a grimace as her chest lurched with another suppressed cough that she covered by clearing her throat.
“I know I am one for longwinded speeches,” she said, her voice rougher and softer than it had been a minute ago, “but I promise I will let you all get back to your browsing and merriment in a moment. Right now, we are about halfway through the bazaar, so I wanted to update you about how close we are to our goal.”
She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and set her glasses on her nose with a flourish. When she opened her mouth to speak, she swallowed hard and shut her eyes for just a touch too long. Oliver studied her more closely. Something was wrong. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but she looked paler and sweatier than she had a moment before. He had seen that look plenty of times during his brief stint as a doctor with living patients. Older women could bear immense amounts of painwithout complaint. As she flashed the crowd a smile and held up the official tally, Oliver swore her teeth were flecked with blood, but it disappeared beneath her tongue and lips when she spoke. Oliver looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but no one else seemed alarmed.
“Between your purchases, the sales from the raffle, and a handful of donations from several benefactors who could not be here today but whom we couldn’t do this without, we are over seventy percent of the way to tonight’s goal!”
The moment the applause started again in earnest, Mrs. Cutler’s brilliant smile faltered, and she covered her mouth as if she might vomit. She turned away from the podium and let out a wet cough that was loud enough to pull a sympathetic cringe from Oliver. He wondered if she was sick with consumption or something more acute. He had assumed it was the burning smell that had made her cough, but if she knew she was sick before she arrived, she should have stayed home no matter how important the bazaar was to her. A ripple of disquiet passed through the crowd when Mrs. Cutler opened her mouth to speak and fell into a coughing spell again. As the coughs turned to crackling wheezes, a younger woman who looked like a brunette version of Mrs. Cutler ran up with a cup, but the older woman waved her off and stepped back up to the podium. She held onto the sides with a white-knuckled grip as wetness trickled from her hairline and her eyes reddened with each pained blink.
“My— my apologies, that appears to be my cue to wrap it up,” Mrs. Cutler said with a half-hearted chuckle.
Her voice faltered, the volume waning and then rising again in time with her focus as she forced herself to keep speaking about the raffle. Dread grew in Oliver’s breast in time with the familiar burning smell. His eyes watered as it filled his sinuses and coated his tongue with each breath. He hadn’t realized hehad reached out to grip Felipe’s arm until his partner whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Oliver opened his mouth only to sneeze. He looked around, but he couldn’t figure out where the smell was coming from. It seemed to come from in front and behind him, yet there was no smoke. “Do you smell something burning? I keep smelling it, but I can’t tell if it’s magic or something physical.”
“Smell what?”
“Get closer to the stage and try again.”
Felipe gave Oliver a queer look but got as close as he could with the crowd pressing in. When he sniffed and then drew in a long breath, Oliver saw the exact moment his partner smelled it too and froze. He didn’t want to say aloud what it reminded him of for fear he was wrong, but from the chilling sluice of uncertainty, Oliver knew Felipe recognized it too. Stepping back beside him, Felipe’s eyes scanned the crowd and walls.
“It smells like the book, but where is it coming from?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see any books for sale. Do you think it could be coming from a person, or—?”
Oliver stared up at Mrs. Cutler in horror. How had he not realized it sooner? Whoever had killed Enoch Whitley had threatened that there would be more deaths, and Oliver had foolishly never considered that it might happen in broad daylight at a charity event. If the smell was coming from her, she had to have touched something to cause it, but what? Oliver eyed the paper in her hand, but she had started coughing before she pulled it out. They had to figure out how to get to her and get everyone out without causing a panic because if they were right, Mrs. Cutler’s life was at stake.
Pushing through the crowd, Oliver cursed women’s fashions as he tried to get a better look at Mrs. Cutler’s skin. Her whole body wavered and her ability to amplify her voice went out as she stumbled through the description of the dinner for two thatserved as the prize for the raffle. Her dress covered everything but her head and hands, the latter of which were hidden beneath gloves. The only things Oliver could see clearly were her face and a tiny bit of her neck, but when he looked closely, he thought he could see what looked like broken blood vessels blooming across her cheeks. He had assumed it was from the coughing fits, but what if it wasn’t? They weren’t ink black like Enoch’s blood vessels were. Perhaps, that was a good thing. Maybe it meant there was still time to save her.
“And the winner is ticket number three five three.”
A man in the back of the room let out a little cry of surprise and held up his ticket. The crowd gave him a polite cheer as they carved a path for him to reach the stage.
“Congratulations. We will have another raffle la—”
Mrs. Cutler drew in a long, rattling breath a second before her whole body convulsed with a string of hard coughs. She gripped the podium and raised her bruised face to the crowd as a thick clot of blood slipped from her lips. Oliver’s blood ran cold as the blood vessels on Mrs. Cutler’s cheeks crackled like shattering ice, haloing her face like a ring of thorns. Oliver had only taken a step toward the stage when an agonizing scream rang out behind him. He turned, expecting to find someone panicking about the blood on Mrs. Cutler’s face when he saw the fountain. The water within it turned black as ink and hissed tempestuously toward the top of the basin. The marble fizzed and smoked with each droplet of water that hit the lip. The watermancer who had been teasing the water for donations cried out in pain and scrambled away holding her arm. Her skin reddened and sizzled where the water had touched her. Oliver stood frozen as his brain sputtered something about acid and laboratory safety. The crowd was churning and yelling, but Oliver couldn’t move.
“Agatha, Louisa, you need to get out,” Felipe said with the full force of Inspector Galvan. Grabbing the bag from Oliver’s hands, Felipe shoved it into Louisa’s and nudged her toward the refreshments room. “Go out through the backdoor and get someone from the Paranormal Society. Tell them to send as many people as they can and that we’ll need healers. Go, now!”
Without a second’s hesitation, Louisa nodded and grabbed for Agatha’s hand. The other woman dithered, staring at Mrs. Cutler as the older woman sank to the floor, but Louisa dragged her toward the refreshments room against the flow of the crowd. The women were barely out of sight when the crowd surged into Oliver, shoving him toward the stage and then toward the fountain as the heaving masses broke for the entrance hall. Oliver’s head swam at the deluge of sensation. Someone was calling for a doctor on stage, people were yelling, a small child let out a wail, a man shoved into Oliver and threw him into Felipe, the water hissed and bubbled behind him, but the smell was everywhere. The acrid tang of burnt wires and flesh overwhelmed everything else until Oliver floated above himself, barely tethered to his body.
“Oliver!”
At the squeeze of Felipe’s hand on his shoulder, Oliver snapped back to reality and the chaos all around him. His partner held his gaze and gave his arms another grounding squeeze. Over Felipe’s head, Oliver could see one of the women around Mrs. Cutler yelling out for help, though he couldn’t hear her over the din.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Mrs. Cutler—”
