“You may as well read this.” The musician tossed the card at the woman.
She settled the puppy onto her lap and opened the envelope.
There was a single sheet of paper. The wind couldn’t read, but it recognized the slant of the boy’s writing. It was just like him: gentle, polite, the letters spaced a little too far apart, hinting at the aloneness he’d always feared.
The woman scanned the letter, her gaze catching on a line and reading it again and again.
“What does it say?” The musician leaned close, but the woman twisted her hand, and the letter burst into flame, and then into a cloud of ash.
“It’s a gift.”
“From the Ward?”
She nodded, and the wind curved over the heat infusing her cheeks. Did she like it? The boy hoped she would. He’d searched the city, scoured the animal shelters, tried to find exactly the right dog. He’d told the wind he wanted a dog who didn’t have any purpose except to love. That the citrus and pearl dust scented woman hadn’t ever had anyone love her without any requirements or expectations. She’d never had anyone love her for just being herself. The boy wanted her to know that kind of love. To know happiness.
“Everyone wants something from her. Everyone wants her to be something for them,” he’d said, “but a dog will only want to love her.”
“You’ll have to get rid of it,” the musician said. “It could be conjured. He could’ve invaded its mind. It might snap. Attack. It could have a venomous bite. Poisonous fur. Or maybe it’s recording our conversations. Or?—”
“It’s a dog, Ragnor. A puppy. Nothing else. It’s a useless, scared, helpless dog.”
The musician glared at the white fluff curled in the woman’s arms. “Why did he give it to you then? What’s the trick?”
The woman bit her lip and frowned. She stroked the soft fur on the puppy’s back. The wind rolled in the warmth flowing between them. “It’s a favor.”
“Another favor?”
She nodded.
“Get rid of it, Lia. If you want a dog, conjure a jackaltooth.”
The woman flinched, and the musician scowled and looked away.
“You know you can’t keep it,” he finally said. “Kill it or take it to a shelter. Never keep a gift from a Ward.”
She sighed and stared down at the puppy. It’d fallen asleep, and its tongue hung from the side of its mouth. She rested her hand on the puppy’s belly and let it rise with each slow inhale and fall with each subtle exhale. It was a soothing, ocean-like rhythm.
The wind settled in the curve of the woman’s arms. She watched the puppy with a soft smile.
“What have you decided?” the musician asked.
“I’ve decided,” she said, rubbing the puppy’s velvety ear, “that I like walking into traps. The bait’s set. It’s irresistible. I’m going to bite.”
“And?”
“And . . .” She grinned, and the wind reared back, surprised at her murderous expression. “I’ve got sharp teeth, Raggie. I’m not docile, and I’m not innocent. I’m going to walk right into his trap, and then he’s going to pay.”
59
I carefully poked my head out from under the king-size bed. A white sheet drooped off the mattress and hid me from view, but I’d learned my lesson. I moved slowly, leveraging my forearms on the stone floor.
The late-morning sun speared through a narrow window and lit the dust motes I’d stirred up. I sniffed, holding back a sneeze. My eyes watered as I waited, listening for breathing, the shifting of the mattress, or any noise that meant someone else was in the room with me.
There was nothing under the bed but dust. The floors were cold and bare, the walls plaster. No molding. No curtains. No decoration, except for a sword hanging on the wall opposite the bed.
I smiled. I’d found the Smiths.
It’d been more difficult than I’d thought.
