“But she isn’t here.” Fiona’s voice breaks. A tear slides down her cheek. “She isn’t here,” she says more softly.
“And I’m not sorry that I tried to be . . .”
I look down at my tea and wipe my eyes on Snow’s sleeve. “I’m not sorry either,” I whisper.
Fiona sniffs. She blows her nose into a napkin. “All right,” she says, sounding more like her cock-of-the-walk self. She leans over and picks up her handbag, a giant, black leather thing with fringe. She opens the flap, and takes out a vintage tape recorder. She sets it on the table between us. “Found this under my bed.”
I sit up straight and reach for it. “Is that—”
“That’s it, all right. Don’t push any buttons until you find the girl.”
I pull my hands back. “Is there a spell?”
Fiona shakes her head. “The original spell should still be working. ‘Caught on tape.’ ”
“Fuck, that’s savage.”
“It was a real chore finding someone who could cast it.”
“So I just take this to Philippa and . . .”
“Push play.”
I can’t believe Fiona has had this under her bed for years . . .
No. I can believe it.
I gingerly lift the tape recorder off the table and look up into my aunt’s eyes. They’re brown. My mother’s were grey, like mine. “Thank you,” I say.
“Nah, don’t thank me. I mean, really, considering the circumstances.” She reaches over and takes a chunk out of my banana cake, narrowing her eyes at my chest. “ ‘Watford Netball’? Do boys play netball at Watford now, or are you shacking up with a bird?”
I look down. Fucking Snow. Did he steal every one of Agatha’s school jumpers?
“I have to get going.” Fiona is standing up, brushing crumbs off her T-shirt.
I stand up, too.
She ruffles the top of my hair. “I won’t let out your room right away . . .”
“Fiona . . .”
“Seriously, Baz, don’t thank me. I already feel like a twat.”
“What were you looking for that day at Watford?”
She looks at me for a second, then rubs her face with both hands and sighs. “I was looking for my mother’s wedding ring. Your mum used to wear it, on her pinkie. I didn’t figure she’d miss it now.”
“A wedding ring . . .”
Fiona folds her arms, like she’s ready for me to lay into her, and she doesn’t fucking care.
I do just that: “Are you serious? You’re marrying that sleazy Kurt Cobain wannabe?”
“That’s not how I’d describe him . . .”
“His name was stricken from the Book, Fiona!”
“Well.” She shrugs with both arms. “I’m not the Book, am I.”
