Page 42 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

“They told me to make sure you stay close to Tristan.”

“Me?” My eyes widen. “Why me?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve seen what you can do.” She rubs her hands together vigorously and then mimes shocking herself with a defibrillator.

“Charming,” I mutter.

“Whatever their reasoning is, you’ve got some serious magical mojo going on, and I want you on Team Tris.”

I stare at her. “This isn’t the bloody Hunger Games.”

She grins. “Will you stop by and see him?”

“Right now?”

“Well, I suggest you change out of those pjs before you damage someone’s retinas.”

I eye her bubblegum-pink latex outfit. “You don’t strike me as someone who has an aversion to ostentatious colours.”

“You’d be right.” She winks. “But you don’t strike me as someone who likes anyone to see him looking anything less than perfectly attired.”

“Am I that obvious?”

She gives me another smile, but this one is softer somehow. “Nothing wrong with that, my little gingersnap.”

“I wondered how long it would take to get to the ginger analogies.”

“So, will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Go and see Tristan,” she says.

I hesitate, but then hadn’t I been thinking about that earlier? About how it would be good to have someone to talk to about everything who actually understands and doesn’t think I’m crazy.

“Why now?”

“I don’t know. I just have this strange feeling something important is about to happen and I need to be somewhere else. I’d feel better if I’ve got a kick-ass witch watching him.”

“So I’m babysitting?” I reply dryly, even though being called a kick-ass witch gives me a little—I don’t want to say thrill exactly, but there is a part of me that finds it quite gratifying. And they haven’t even seen a fraction of what I can actually do.

“Not babysitting and for god’s sake, don’t tell Tristan I sent you.”

I huff out a breath. “Maybe.”

“Careful with that enthusiasm, Cherry Bakewell, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Why does he put up with you?”

“Because of my charming personality and my fantastic singing voice. Would you–”

“No.”

“Fine, but you don’t know what you’re missing out on. I do an excellent Streisand.”

“I’m sure you do,” I respond. “Where are you going anyway? Got the window of another spirit health and safety course to climb out of?”

Her lips twitch. “I’m going to see Bruce.”