“Just tell me what I did wrong.”
“I can’t unpack all of it,” Tamara said. “Just don’t get weird about food. If it’s yours and you don’t like it, eat it. If it’s someone else’s, don’t stare at it. They don’t wanna talk about something? Make friends first. This is basic shit.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I just. God, couldn’t you feel how weird it was in there? My spidey sense was going off.”
Tamara put her face in her hands.
“Yes, dear God, yes, I know. We all feel that way when we’re out of our element. You know what was worse than that place in there for me? Walking into a Starbucks without my hair straightened and a solid night sleep. Everyone stares at me.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Look, this is a whole different culture you’re exploring here,” Tamara said. “Stay steady. Stay in your lane. Be respectful.”
“Still, he didn’t have to be so mean. Maybe I wanted to try veal brains. Or his special salami. You want to come with me to the gift shop?”
“Investigate that old kook next, huh,” Tamara said. “Fine, but no white nonsense.”
“I can’t promise that,” I said.
We bickered good-naturedly for another few minutes and then eventually made our way to the gift shop.
Chapter 7
Another creaking doorway served as an entryway into an even older building. This place smelled of lavender and sage—a floral, herby scent that reminded me of church days. Candles, statues, books, and old things stood in haphazard piles with little tiny price tags on them all. Here and there a dagger collection; there and there some ancient computer games on floppy disks. A sundial in one place, and a standing cement angel statue in another.
“Jeez, really on the market here for everything,” Tamara breathed.
“I know,” I said.
“Ladies, welcome, welcome,” an older woman’s voice called. “I’ll be with you in a moment. Feel free to browse. I am currently predisposed with some client work, but should be wrapping up by the end of this… sentence. There.”
A low bookshelf revealed the head of a woman wearing goggles as she raised herself slowly to her feet. One hand was holding a pair of tongs holding a prism—some kind of polished and cut opalescent tetragon of a crystal, and she carefully, carefully walked with it back to a barren counter space and put the crystal, tongs and all, inside a velvet-lined box. She breathed out as she closed it. Having completed her bizarrely arduous task, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and removed her goggles with the same hand.
“Ah, another crisis diverted. What can I interest you two in?”
“I need a new lampshade cover,” Tamara said.
“Far back right corner. Don’t get too close to the plant. It’s extremely delicate. And poisonous.”
“Got it,” Tamara said.
“And you,” the woman said. She extended a hand. Her nails were cut short, and she wore only a single silver ring emblazoned with a star. “My name’s Mel. Short for Imelda. You must be Stacey.”
“And how do you know that?”
“You’re wearing a name badge, dear,” Mel said. “I take it from the name badge that you are a journalist. My presumption is you are here investigating the Night Market.”
“And let me guess. Sal called you before we swung by.”
“You are correct,” Mel said. “Very observant girl. Let me see that birthmark on your neck, would you?”
This again? How many people knew about my birthmark? This was just plain weird.
“Umm, I’m going to have to pass,” I said.
“Quid pro quo. You show me what I want to see. I’ll show you what you want to see. I hear you are looking for someone important?”
“You didn’t hear that from Sal.”
