“My mum wants you all to come to dinner on Saturday,” I blurted out, desperate to change the subject.
Heathcliff’s head whipped around. “Does she, now?”
“Yep. I can’t get out of it, so let’s just get it over with.”
“Food that doesn’t come from a takeout container?” Morrie perked up. “I’m in. Can your mum docoq au vin?”
“Don’t get excited. We’re not… we live on the council estate. The menu will probably be cheese toasties and a Tesco’s chocolate cake.”
“I never knock a cheese toastie. My doctorate thesis was fueled by cheese toasties.” Jo arranged chips on a slice of buttered bread, slathered it in tomato sauce, and took a bite. “Count me in.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“I’m not leaving the shop twice in one weekend,” Heathcliff grumped.
“It’s fine, you don’t have to—”
Morrie kicked him in the shins. “We’ll all be there,” he promised.
“Yes.” Quoth’s finger traced a line along the edge of my hand.
“Are you sure?” My nerves fluttered. I’d half expected them to say no.How are we going to keep Quoth in human form for so long? How are we going to make Heathcliff act like a human being for an evening? By Isis, how am I going to makeMumact like a human being?“My mum’s a little weird. She’s going to try to sell you all dictionaries for cat language.”
“Good.” Morrie patted the cat’s black head. “Grimalkin stands on my face in the middle of the night and makes this chirrup sound and I’d love to know why.”
A lump rose in my throat. I swallowed hard. Why did their reactions affect me so much?
“When you consider what goes on in this shop,” Quoth whispered, his soft lips brushing my ear, “how crazy could she be?”
A strangled laugh escaped my throat.
“Mina, you okay?” his face twisted with worry.
“No… I’m fine. It’s just… Quoth wondered how crazy could she possibly be.” I sighed. “You’re about to find out.”
Chapter Twelve
When Jo drove me home, Mum wasn’t there to give me the third degree. A note pinned to the fridge informed me she’d gone to the bridge tournament at the wrinkly village to sell her cat dictionaries. Apparently pensioners loved wasting their super payments on Mum’s junk.
I sat down and made a list of all the information I knew about the case so far. I didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Ellis, but it seemed likely that Mrs. Lachlan or her husband were responsible – they certainly had the clearest motive. I did a quick online search through the Argleton Gazette for historical articles about Mrs. Scarlett to see if she was involved in any other town events that might breed resentment. Apart from coverage of heated planning committee meetings, the only other thing of interest was a letter to the editor from Mrs. Scarlett in defense of Sylvia Blume’s aura readings and her right to open a witchcraft shop in the village.
I studied the letter with interest. It appeared that some members of Argleton Presbyterian had taken offense to the establishment of ‘pagan rituals’ in the village and Mrs. Scarlett had – quite rightly, in my opinion – taken them to task. In particular, she focused on one member of the committee who seemed to be leading the charge; the same Dorothy Ingram who had Mrs. Winstone banned as youth group leader.
I wonder if Mum remembers this.The article was from ten years ago, which was around the time Mum started offering tarot readings from Sylvia’s shop. Asking Mum about her life would also make her happy. I saved the article to show her later.
I took a shower, changed into my pajamas, and crawled into bed with a vampire novel I’d borrowed from the shop. I jammed my headphones in my ears, stared up at the poster of the Misfits on the roof of my bedroom and all the photographs of me and Ashley, and thought about how I might never see a photograph again. When I went blind, would all my memories imprint in my mind? Would I remember the world before I could see? Would it fade over time, or would I be stuck forever looping visions I could no longer experience?
Fear rippled through me. All my life I’d known exactly what I was going to do – leave this stupid estate and this village and make it in the fashion industry. But now I was just as lost, just as stuck as the guys—
A weird blue light flashed and wiggled across my vision, like a neon sign in Times Square.
I bolted upright.What’s that?
I rubbed my eye. The blue squiggle flashed again, then disappeared.
My body froze.Don’t panic. It could be anything.A reflection from the street outside, a hallucination of my tired, wine-fueled brain.
But Iknew. My ophthalmologist warned me that at some point my eye condition would advance, and I’d start to notice random explosions of color or colors swapping around as my brain tried to rewire itself to see again. They’d become more and more frequent and then, eventually, colors would fade to black and I wouldn’t be able to see at all.
