“I’ll think about algebra,” she says.
In front of the library, a modern building with large glass windows, I remove the vial of elixir from my bag. A tiny fragment of Mr. Frederics’s handkerchief with a sample of his saliva floats inside. Saliva’s a key component of elixir.
I warm the vial in my palm, then shake it vigorously. Usually, we shoot the arrow by sprinkling the elixir directly on the target, or something we are certain the target and no one else will touch. Elixirs are clear, tasteless, and virtually undetectable by the regular human nose. They’re also the same temperature as skin, and lighter than rain, making them nearly impossible to feel. The elixir affixes to the target and in a few days, the targetstarts subconsciously “noticing” the client’s scent. Magic.
Through the windows, I spy Ms. DiCarlo at her desk, rubbing an alcohol-soaked cotton ball over a book cover with such vigor, she might erase the picture. Her red hair bounces around her shoulders, flipped up at the ends into a single fat curl.
I walk right up to the librarian’s desk. “Hi, Ms. DiCarlo.” Beside her keyboard lies a small Starbucks cup filled with a shot of espresso, still steaming, with aDmarked on the side for what must mean “decaf.” I could drop the elixir into the cup. Mom made it so concentrated, a single drop will work, even if Ms. DiCarlo doesn’t finish her drink.
First thing’s first. Our Rulebook requires us to verify that the target is not married and is not a sociopath. We learn about these things during the client interviews and a background check. I simply take a few whiffs of the target to confirm.
Windex and bran muffins with splashes of peaceful green notes, like holy basil, the scent of pensiveness. Decoding a person’s scentprint—peeling away the outside package to see the person inside—is usually my favorite part of the job. But it’s not what I came for today.
She blinks at me with her doll-like eyes. “Hello. Are you new?”
“Yes. I’m Mimosa,” I say, feeling dumb at my lack of a last name. “Please call me Mim.” Another sniff. I don’t detect sour mash or black rot, which could indicate psychosis.
Ms. DiCarlo sits up so straight, her chair rolls back a fewinches. Even faculty isn’t immune to the rumors about me. “Oh yes. I’ve heard you were here. May I help you?”
“So far, no one has signed up for the Puddle Jumpers’ teachers’ team.” Kali put me in charge of recruiting for the charity event she leads every year, buddying troubled youth with SGHS teachers and students. She thought it would help people get over their hesitancy toward me by showing them that I can be fun, too. Plus, it’s something we can do together outside of the garden. “Are you interested? You’d be perfect. Kids always love librarians.” I sniff deeper. I don’t detect any male odors on her whatsoever. No female ones, either, other than her own. Single for sure.
“Oh, well, yes, that’s true.” She tries to suppress a smile, but it doesn’t work, so she waves my comment off. “Well, when is it?”
“Next Friday during homecoming week.”
“Let me check my calendar.” She opens a drawer and pulls out a bound stack of papers that looks like a manuscript. Under the manuscript, she finds her day planner, which is thick as a bible. As she replaces the manuscript in the drawer, I catch the words,Avoiding the Torture Chamber of Medieval Library Collections, by Sofia DiCarlo, on the cover page. She’s a writer.
She flips through the mostly blank pages of her planner and finds the right day. “Looks like I’m free.”
“Great. Is there anyone I might ask to be your faculty partner?” If she says Mr. Frederics, we definitely have a match.
Her traffic-light green eyes shift to the corner, while she thinks it over.
I help her along. “Mr. Frederics, maybe?”
She tilts her chin to the side. “Why not? He always makes the students laugh.”
I catch a zing of anticipation, the one that smells of iced tea, followed by happy puffs of apple blossom, meaning compatibility. Check. Moving on. “One other thing, I’m searching for a book calledWomen in Nineteenth Century America: Socialites to Spinsters.”
At the wordspinster, I detect a note of something salty spiking her natural scent. Something wistful. She’s definitely open to love.
She types something on her computer, then frowns. “It’s in special collections. I’ll fetch it.”
Standing, she smoothes her blouse into the waistband of her tailored skirt, then hurries toward a back room. When the door closes behind her, I dump in the contents of my vial. More than enough.
A minute later, she returns empty-handed. “I’m afraid the book is missing, but City Library has a copy if you want me to make the request.”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks, anyway.”
The Rulebook requires me to witness Ms. DiCarlo take the bait. I exit the library and spy on her through the library windows. She goes back to polishing book covers, still not touching her espresso.
When I pick up the scent of a campfire, my heart jumps.
Court treads toward the library, his arms swinging easily,eyes unfocused and relaxed. The school songbird, Cassandra Linney, bounces alongside him with her arm hooked through his. The two might have stepped out of the pages of a J.Crew catalogue. On him: cashmere V-neck in moss green, size medium. On her: the clambake skirt in seaport blue with cropped pinstripe jacket, size petite. Cassandra flips back her corkscrew hair with a snap of her wrist.
For reasons I don’t understand, my secondhand sundress suddenly feels as shabby as it is. The Aromateur Trust Fund set up by our medieval benefactors only covers business expenses, meaning we live frugally. Still, did I have to choosethiscable-knit scarf andthisratty hat? Looks like something out of a grandma’s closet. I wish I didn’t care so much. After all, once my stint here at Santa Guadalupe High has ended, I will disappear back into the briar, as always.
I shrink into the shadow of a building post as they approach, hoping Court’s too distracted by the living mass of Cassandra’s hair to notice me. The sound of her trilly laugh makes my teeth hurt.
