“That’snotmy answer.” My cheeks flared with heat.Who even is this guy? Adonis or not, how’d he get off talking to customers and potential employees like that? No wonder the place is deserted.“I was just collecting my thoughts. You should hire me because I’m a hard worker. I’m punctual. I have some retail experience, as well as design expertise so I can do graphics and window displays—”
“I don’t care. Why do you want to workhere?No one wants to work here. That was the wholepointof the ad.”
I racked my brain for an answer to that question.What does he want from me?“Um… I guess because I used to hang out in the bookshop all the time as a kid. I know where all the books go and I’ve personally helped Mr. ___ fix that till on at least two occasions.” I pointed to the ancient contraption the raven was pecking.
Earnshaw glared at me, his eyes flicking over my face as though searching for something. He didn’t say a thing. The silence stretched between us until even the raven got bored of hunting for worms in the credit card machine and stared at me, too.
Is he waiting for more?
“And… um, I have all sorts of useful skills.” I scrambled for anything that might endear me to this strong-chinned man. “I have a fashion degree, so that’s probably not useful. But I am a Millennial, so I can do the store’s social media. I could build a website—”
You can see it, can’t you?That strange voice said.It’s obvious. She’s the one he told you about.
Earnshaw grunted. I narrowed my eyes at him.Did he hear it, too?
Just hire her already,that voice said again.She’s pretty.
“Hey!” I glanced over my shoulder, looking for the owner of the voice so I could kick them in the nuts. But there was no one else in the room.
Was it Earnshaw? But the voice didn’t sound like him, and judging by the way he was still staring at me, he already thought I was nuts.Maybe he didn’t hear the voice after all?
Besides, the voice almost sounded like it came frominsidemy head.
Please, don’t tell me that on top of everything else, I’m hallucinating voices as well.
“I like her. I bet she’ll bring me treats. Berries, smoked salmon, maybe even a hard-boiled egg.”
I peered over my shoulder again.Are they hiding in the hallway? Behind the beanbag stack?“Who’s there?”
Earnshaw’s head whipped up. “Who are you talking to?”
“You didn’t hear that? Someone prattling on about salmon and eggs.”
Earnshaw’s eyes narrowed. He reached out and clamped an enormous hand around the raven’s beak. “You didn’t leave the door open, did you? We’re supposed to beclosed.”
“No. I…” My shoulders sagged.Who am I kidding? This is hopeless.“I guess I’ll just be going now. Thank you for your time and—”
“You start tomorrow,” Earnshaw glowered. “We open at nine. Be here at eight-thirty, but don’t let anyone else in. If you’re late, the bird gets your first paycheck.”
Chapter Two
“Darling,” a voice purred as soon as I flung the front door open, the pitch rising with excitement. “You’re home! Come help me.”
My stomach sank at my mother’s tone. Iknewthat tone. It was her ‘I’ve-discovered-the-secret-to-riches-beyond-my-wildest-dreams’ tone, otherwise known as the beginning of yet another one of her get-rich-quick schemes.
My mother was obsessed with getting rich. I don’t think she’d actually be rich for long, because she’s hopeless with money, but thus far we’ve never had any to test my theory. For my entire life we’d lived one bounced rental payment away from being turfed out while she flitted from scheme to scheme, convinced that this time she’d make her millions. Smoothie mixes, vitamins, overly-complicated blenders, light-up nativity scenes, glue-on nails – Mum had tried them all, each one digging her deeper into debt. When she wasn’t hawking useless crap to the unsuspecting populace of ___field, she made her living as a spirit medium and tarot reader at a local crystal and witchcraft shop. She didn’t have a precognitive bone in her body (as evidenced by her inability to predict that her ventures would fail, despite the inevitability of this fact), but she studied the Fox sisters and Mina Crandon and knew all sorts of tricks.
When I told Mum I’d decided to forgo my scholarship to Oxford in favor of fashion school in New York City, she’d hugged me and told me I’d never been more her daughter. “I didn’t want to have to tell you, darling, but there’s no such thing as a rich professor. When you’re the next Vivienne Westwood, I want to stand next to Edward Woodward on the red carpet.”
“Edward Woodward’s dead, Mum.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll fix that, honey.” Mum had launched into a long-winded description about the dress she wanted me to design for her wedding to Edward Woodward. That was my mother, off in her fantasy world. We were alike, in that way.
Right now, she was dragging an enormous metal platform across our cramped living room. “We’ve got to get the rest of these out of the car.”
“What isthat?”
“It’s a power-plate machine,” Mum grinned, dropping the platform on the carpet with athud. “Russian cosmonauts use them to train their bodies for the rigors of space. Isn’t it amazing? You stand on it and it just wobbles the flab away. Watch.”
