“I know I can do whatever I like, because a parrot can’t stop me. And that doesn’t mean I’m staying; it just means I’m tearing out all these ugly-ass blinds. Now, what makes you think my relationship with books is any different than your average bibliophile?”
I focus on the blinds, but I can hear her tiny little claws pattering around the room with the nervous energy expected of any excited bird.
“Because you don’t just love books—it’s like they love you,”she says. “They want to help you. And when you’re in Arcadia Falls, that feeling will be magnified. When you’re far away, it grows weak. Without water from the falls, you can’t do much. But there’s a sort of…longing. A connection. It may fade, but it’s always there. Pulling at you. Like being homesick.”
“There’s a word for that.” I look out into the alley, down at my car’s box-stuffed interior. “Hiraeth.It’s Welsh. Means ‘a longing for a place or time that’s lost or inaccessible.’ I used to feel it all the time, and I didn’t know why. Books came closest to scratching that itch.”
“And does it itch less, now that you’re here?”
I give her another sour glance; she sure is annoyingly pleased with herself when she’s right. “Well, it was pretty itchy when I got duped into bathing in a waterfall and ended up wearing your remains as setting powder.” I yank down the next set of blinds, and sunlight pours into the room. It’s satisfying as hell.
“After that, though. Since you activated the magic and found the book.”
I stare at her, hands on my hips, as motes of dust dance in the light of the tall windows. The place already looks a thousand times better, just by letting in a little light that isn’t the color of old piano keys.
“I guess so. Are you saying being here is like calamine lotion for an itchy soul?”
She flutters up to the window and looks out. “Some people go their whole lives never knowing their calling. They never develop a passion or find something they’re really great at. They don’t have a purpose. But for me—for most of the witches I’ve known—magic gives us that feeling. That satisfaction, bone deep. Especially using our knack. The magic wants to be used. It’s been waiting for you. And it sounds like maybe you were waiting for it.”
I yank down the third and last set of yellow blinds in the room and can finally appreciate what a nice apartment it really is. Twelve-foot ceilings with pressed tin, tall windows in front that look out on the idyllic square, wide wood floors the color of clover honey. Compared to the house I grew up in—with its fake wood paneling, ragged shag carpet, and wet spots on the popcorn ceiling—this place feels like a dream, like I’m the main character in a romance book where a beautiful girl moves to Manhattan and lucks into a rent-controlled apartment overlooking Central Park.
“So here’s the real question,” Maggie continues, cocking her head at me. “Why would you turn all that down? You got fate telling you that you’re supposed to stay here. You got a dictionary giving you ten synonyms that all mean ‘stick around.’ You got me telling you, over and over. What else is it going to take? How many times does destiny have to knock before you answer the damn door?”
I stand in the middle of the room, trying to imagine a life here. I would move the furniture around for sure, get some new throw pillows and blankets, add some plants. I need less Stevie Nicks and more Dixie Chicks. And some candles to clear out all the incense. What exactly is holding me back?
My sisters, for one. I’ve never been this far away from them. They need me.
And I need a job, some way to bring in money. Maybe this place is almost free, but there would still be taxes to pay, utilities, food, upkeep on my car, tons of Epsom salts for all the bookish baths I’ll need to take.
And…
Well, those are the main things. On the other hand, I don’t have a job back home, either. Or a home, considering the lease I signed way too quickly. And I’m fairly certain Officer JimmyWayne wouldn’t stop tailgating me until he found a reason to arrest me for breaking his brother’s heart. I don’t even want to think about all the nails Billy would toss in my carport.
“Well?” Maggie demands.
I still need confirmation.
I hold up a finger to shush her and pick up my phone. Mr. Buckley’s office number is in my contacts because that man had a terrible habit of calling me every time I wasn’t within shouting distance. It only rings once before someone picks up and a bright, bubbly voice says, “Buckley Insurance, this is Sylvie, can I help you?”
“Hi, Sylvie,” I say, realizing I didn’t think this through, either. “This is Rhea Wolfe. I used to work for Mr. Buckley.”
“Oh, Rhea, hi!” She sounds like talking to me is the best thing that’s ever happened to her. “You did such a nice job getting everything ready for me, I swear I haven’t had to think a bit. Your filing system is just beautiful.”
“Thanks?”
“Did you want to talk to Uncle Horace?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. I definitely don’t, but it seems rude to say so. “Um—”
“Because he’s in a meeting right now, but I can have him call you back. Is there a problem with Doris? You’re not giving her back, are you?”
I splutter a little. Yes, there is definitely a problem with Doris, and no, I am not giving her back.
“Nope, she’s doing great. Um, Sylvie, quick question. How are things going around there? You plan to stay awhile?”
“Definitely. I just graduated from Jefferson, and my folks live down the street and are letting me live in the suite over the garage, so this is perfect for me. I’m not going anywhere. My onlyworry about taking this job was dealing with Doris, and you took care of that. You took care of everything!”
She sounds so sincere and happy to be there that I can’t really question her. Plus, I’ve heard Horace talk about his favorite niece before, and I know that short of her dying in a freak accident, there’s no way I could get my job back while she’s settled into that chair. I thank her again, and hang up.
