Emma
We parked on the side street, even though it was technically a loading zone, and I followed Beth up the uneven sidewalk toward Vale Provision. The shop squatted at the end of a row of three brick storefronts. A battered white sign hung from chains above the door, its paint faded to ghostly letters except for the hand-painted V and the P, which had been carefully outlined in what looked like metallic gold. From the outside, the windows glared with that soapy haze I associated with antique stores and places that sold used furniture. It looked a little sad, but then again, most of the best places in this town did.
I’d never noticed the store before. Not on the way to work, or the million times I’d come to this neighborhood for coffee or pastries. The storefront seemed wedged between realities. I told Beth so.
“You probably walked by it a hundred times,” she said. “If you don’t need it, you can’t see it.”
“So it’s magic?” I tried not to laugh, but it was still hard to say that word out loud, even after everything this week had already thrown at me.
Beth nodded her head. “It’s called a veil. Hides shops from normals. You wouldn’t have noticed it before. They only let you see it when you’re ready, or if you already know someone who knows.” She stepped up onto the narrow stoop, boots squeaking against the peeling paint, and tried the door. “Locked,” she announced, then rapped sharply on the pane. “They keep weird hours.”
A few seconds passed. I took the chance to inspect the window up close. On the inside, it was lined with brown butcher paper, decorated with neat rows of stick-on herbs and bundles of dried lavender and something dark and thorny that looked like a cluster of scabbed fingers. Ew.
A bell rang behind the door, like the echo of a distant triangle in a classroom. Someone peered out from the shadows. I flinched, then realized it was just a teenage girl, maybe seventeen, with purple hair and a nose ring. She rolled her eyes at us. The girl, whose name, according to the sticker on her smock, was Summer, opened the door a crack. “We’re not open yet.”
Beth didn’t even hesitate. She pushed her way in and said, “That’s okay, we’re not buying, we just need a word with Susan.” I shuffled in behind, and Summer looked me over as if she could tell my income from my shoes.
“She’s not here.” Summer stepped back, letting the door fall shut behind me. The shop was bigger than it looked from the outside, but also more cluttered, with shelves that slanted under their own weight and displays of candles and dried flowers and packets of tea that looked like they’d been designed by Martha Stewart’s evil twin. It smelled like licorice, cat pee, and dust.
“She’s usually here…” Carol said.
The woman shrugged, then sighed. “I guess I may as well open up a few minutes early.”
Beth had already started a circuit of the front room, scanning for movement, but nothing stirred. I saw a shadow pass over a beaded curtain behind the counter and pointed. “Is that the office?”
Summer squinted. “That’s the stockroom, but she’s not?—”
“Susan!” Beth called loudly.
A voice rose up from somewhere in the back, nasal and impatient. “Summer, I told you I wasn’t to be bothered!” The beads rattled and parted, and a woman stomped out, tugging a black cardigan tight around her chest. She was short and wiry, her hair dyed the color of tar and teased up into a bun. Her makeup had a funereal intensity, all bruise-colored lips and black liner. The name tag pinned over her heart read: Susan Whitaker, Manager.
Susan gave Beth the kind of look usually reserved for unflushable problems. “What’s so important you had to bang down my door before I even finished my breakfast?”
Beth let out a low, conspiratorial laugh and said, “Sorry, Susan, but we need to ask about something from the other day. Do you remember Alice coming in?”
Susan’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Yes, I remember. She’s hard to forget, believe me.”
Beth nodded. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday morning. She came in for a refill. The usual.” Susan shot a suspicious look at Summer, who was already backing out of the conversation and into the next room.
I decided to try being direct. “Did you see anyone else talking to her?”
The bell over the door chimed, and a couple of familiar witches came in, chatting together as they made their way down one of the aisles. I guess the store was officially open.
Susan’s eyes flicked over to me. She sized me up the same way Summer had, except she looked like she was doing the calculations on my ability to pay or steal. “No. Why?”
Beth folded her arms and leaned on the counter, lowering her voice like we were about to drop hot gossip. “Alice hasn’t been home for almost two days. We think someone might have, well, that something might have happened to her.”
Susan rolled her eyes so far back, I worried she might actually get stuck that way. “Oh, please. Alice is too good for that. She’s not the type to find trouble.” She leaned in, and her perfume threatened to singe my eyebrows. “You know what the problem is with Alice? She’s always been the favorite. Even in school. Teachers loved her. She could do no wrong. All of us were just the losers in the background. But did she ever notice anyone else’s pain? No. She just floated through life like she was too busy being perfect to bother with the rest of us.”
What? Did she know Alice at all? Alice was the sweetest person to ever walk the earth. If teachers liked her, it was because she’s so likable. I opened my mouth, but Susan didn’t give me the chance. “I’m not saying I didn’t like her. I did” Well, that was a lie. “She just had that… that thing. You know what I mean? Never had to struggle. Born with the answers. Probably never got a C in her life.” She started rummaging through a pile of receipts, and for a minute, I wondered if she would ever stop talking. “She’s a graphic designer now. Works from home. Getspaid a fortune to doodle on a tablet. The rest of us are still here, cleaning up other people’s messes.”
Beth raised her eyebrows at me, and I could see the thought written all over her face. Is this seriously happening right now?
I bit back what I actually wanted to say and asked, “Did she say anything strange or seem nervous?”
Susan paused in her monologue, considered, and then gave a little shrug. “She looked tired. Pale. Asked for the strong stuff. But she always does that when she’s working on a deadline.”
