“Give me your hand,” Henrietta instructs, and places hers on the table, palm up.
Rook glances at me. I spot the first flicker of hesitation on his face. He’s serious now, his earlier cavalier attitude gone in a flash as he stares down the possibility of the truth.
He reaches across the table and places his much larger hand in Henrietta’s.
The second they touch, Henrietta’s eyes close and she inhales, long and low.
“So how does this work?” I ask.
“Shhh!” Henrietta warns.
I clamp my mouth shut.
Rook gives me a look like we’re two naughty children who were caught stealing apples from the cart.
“You’re a long way from home,” Henrietta finally says, her eyes still closed.
“Am I?” Rook asks.
Henrietta goes quiet again. I fidget in my seat.
“You have an enemy,” she says.
Rook and I share a glance. That goes without saying. I did find him beaten and bloodied and tied to a pole, after all. But I wanted to assume it was the Witch of the East responsible for it. Henrietta saidyou have. Present. And the witch is dead.
“Who is this enemy?” Rook asks.
The thin, colorless line of Henrietta’s brow sinks, the skin furrowing over the bridge of her nose. “Oh dear,” she says on a breath.
I lean into the table. “What?”
“I see the Tinman.”
I’ve heard that name.
“The Tinman wants you dead, but he’s not searching for you. It’s almost like he… he loves you and hates you. So he does not want to find you, but he’s not far either.”
I glance at Rook. “Do you know him? The mercenary?”
“It would seem so.”
“Are you… together?” I ask.
“No,” Henrietta says. “Not that kind of love. There’s no fire to it.” Her eyes snap open. “This is the kind of love that grates. That chafes. That cuts you open and takes parts out.” She stares at Rook. “Doesn’t it?”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.”
She adjusts in her chair, tightens her grip on him. “You’re on a journey, one you’ve been on for a very long time, but now it’s different.”
“I’m about to go on a journey to the Emerald City,” I say.
Henrietta considers this. “I do see travel, but I’m not sure that’s what this means. This feels more like a spiritual journey. You’re searching for something that has been kept from you, or have you kept it from yourself?”
“His memories?”
“No.” She shakes her head, her gaze faraway as she tries to decode whatever it is she’s seeing and feeling. “A soul.”
TWENTY-FOUR
