I close my eyes against the darkness that quickly fills this room, looming large over us, shadows on walls, lights dimming, fear thrilling up my spine, my eardrums screaming in pain with heavy air pressure. The wind tears at my skin, whisperingDaisy is hereeeee…I imagine myself a piece of paper, ripped out the gaping glass window, tossed against the forces of the night. Bruised and beaten. Bile churns in my stomach.
An officer gently takes my elbow. “Step back, ma’am.” He leads me away from the edge. Away from the shattered window. Away from this room. The police herd me toward the stairwell in the kitchen, which winds down and down and down, eleven stories. We—me and the other party attendees—are silent. Our footsteps echo in the concrete stairwell, our breaths quick and shallow. Pain shoots through my sliced foot, blood stains myslipper, and I limp. My throat, my wrists, my heart all ache.
At last we reach the ground floor, and someone pushes open the heavy door onto the sidewalk. After our blazing evening, the night air feels so frigid, it burns. Stars pierce the sky like bullet holes. Around the corner, we hear police bells and shouting and chaos. Reverend Jenkins and his ilk, shrieking. Paparazzi flashbulbs popping.
Do I run and pretend all of this never happened?
“Surely this cannot be right?”
Did Kiyoko…?
Questions.
Spirit is mute.
PART THREETHE UNFORESEEN
Dear Friend,
If you’re not yet weary of our tarot reading, indulge me a bit longer? All good readings focus on patterns. Cycles. And many tarot sessions, as this one, have three parts: We scrutinize the past, we treasure the present, and we turn a brutal, honest eye toward the future. Let’s offer up a quick spread to see what we otherwise could not see:
THE FOOL
CARD 0 OF THE MAJOR ARCANA CARDS
A giddy person at the beginning of a journey carries a sword on their shoulder, a rose in the opposite hand. A friendly dog tags along, and the sun shines… The Fool, eyes closed, face lifted to the sky, believes there to be a wonderful journey ahead! They are, however, about to step off a steep cliff.
Upright: risk, chance, potential, optimism
Reversed: despair, destitution, loneliness, devastation
Ah, the Fool. Striding forth, optimistic and foolhardy, blissfully unaware of their own dire circumstances. The perfect card for our merry band of bandits, no?
When the catering company is setting up at Blanck’s party, Pax tamps down his fury and approaches Mrs. Bertha Blanck, who hovers over the waitstaff, correcting, explaining.
“Is there security, ma’am?” His voice is steel. “The catering company wishes to secure its investments.”
At the wordinvestments, Bertha Blanck’s eyes dart to the bookshelves in the parlor. People and their tells. Pax now knows where to narrow Nirav’s search from one quick flick of Mrs. Blanck’s eyes.
“Of course there is security.” She twiddles her fingers at three burly men who huddle near the elevator. “My husband’s bodyguards. They’re dumb and strong. My favorite flavors.” She then combs Pax with her gaze. “Though you’re quite chewy yourself, no?”
Pax forces a grin and retreats into the kitchen. He glances at his pocket watch. Pax insisted that the team’s timepieces be perfectly in sync. To Stella and Kiyoko, this felt like a detail that wasn’t truly of concern, but to our artist Pax? Detailsdomatter. Timingdoesmatter.
So yesterday evening, Willamina, the owner of the clockworks store, synchronized their watches. Pax had, oddly, developed a lump in his throat at this gesture, and he wasn’t sure why. He shook it off as nerves.
But I knew the source of his tenderness.
As silly as it sounds, having someone with whom you synchronize your watch? It means you have someone for whom time is defined in the same way as you. It is a wholesome feeling. Pax is unused to wholesome. He could get used to it.
It is time. Pax clicks his pocket watch closed and slides toward the dumbwaiter. It is exactly where the blueprints said it would be. He pulls frantically on the ropes inside the shaft, hefting the small elevator stuffed with cargo up to this, the eleventh floor of the Potter Building.
“Prokletstvo!” he mutters. He is breathless and sweaty when another in a Bellissimo Cibo uniform approaches him from behind.
“YOU!” the person shouts.
Pax jumps, loses his grip on the ropes, and theyslidesliceburnacross the tender palm of his hand—zzziiiiiiipppp!
He winces and grabs frantically at the whirring rope, at last wrapping his hands tightly around it. I can feel the sting on the palms of his hands, the shooting pain in his shoulder where the plummeting cart nearly yanks it out of socket.
