Page 43 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

My brow rises? “Bruce?”

“He died back in the eighties, used to play rugby.” She hums happily. “He wears the tiniest shorts and holy disco balls, those thighs!”

“He’s your boyfriend?”

She looks highly scandalised. “No. Who said boyfriend? He’s-he’s a friend, who just so happens to have very powerful thighs, a gorgeous cock, and a very, very talented mouth.”

Now I’m blushing. “Okay. If you say so.”

“I won’t be long. I’m just going to head to the bookshop for a while and ask him–”

“Bookshop?” I say abruptly, and my stomach clenches. I don’t know why; there are thousands of bookshops in London. Surely it can’t be…

“He haunts a bookshop in Whitechapel. It sells occult books and curiosities or something. Tris has sort of made friends with the gin-swilling old fraud who runs it.”

“Fraud?”

“Madame Viv,” she carries on, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Tris has got a soft spot for her. Don’t know why though, considering she fleeced him out of fifty quid for a fake reading the first time we met her.”

Her mouth continues moving, but I don’t hear any of the words. My mouth is dry and there’s a high-pitched buzzing in my ears. How can someone I met completely by random chance know my mother—not only know her but be friends with her. Although I suppose it’s not completely random. After all, I did collide with Tristan at the end of the alley leading to the bookshop.

This could be an opportunity. If I’m not ready to meet her face-to-face yet, perhaps I can mine some information from Tristan in a kind of casual way. It’s not like he needs to know what our connection is. But if he’s supernaturally gifted and his ghostly sidekick is sleeping with one of the ghosts haunting the bookshop, maybe they can tell me more about what’s going on with my mother and with the building itself.

“I’ll do it,” I say, abruptly breaking Dusty from the middle of a tirade.

“Do what?” She blinks.

“Go and see Tristan.”

“Oh,” she says slowly, as if she’s forgotten the request she made before she went on a conversational tangent about the woman who happens to be my birth mother…and apparently a con artist.

I try really hard not to think about it. I’m here for answers. Doesn’t mean I have to like the woman.

“Okay.” Dusty grins. “Well then, I’ll leave you to get dressed. Just remember, don’t–”

“Don’t tell Tristan I’ve seen you, yeah, yeah.”

“I owe you one, Tequila Sunrise.” She blows me a cheeky kiss and then disappears right before my eyes.

Once again alone in my pokey little flat, I release the breath I didn’t realise I was holding, and I can’t help thinking…

This is a bad idea.

It’s getting dark and is much later than I intended by the time I actually find myself standing at the door of a flat in Hackney. Knocking loudly, I barely wait a couple of seconds before ringing the bell. It may come across as a little impatient, but the truth is, I’m about two seconds away from making a run for it.

Nerves swirl in my stomach and my fists clench at my side. I’m trying to think of what to say when the door opens. My eyes widen and my mouth falls open.

“What the bloody hell?” I exclaim loudly before I can censor myself.

There’s a man…woman…person standing there, looking at me expectantly. He…she—they? I’m very confused—is wearing a nude, sparkly bodysuit with a tiny crystal bikini, but holy hell, the feathers. Soooo many feathers. She, I decide until told otherwise, is dressed like a Las Vegas showgirl and is, quite frankly, stunning.

“Yes, can I help you?” Her eyes narrow as she studies me, and I’m utterly mesmerised at the sheer amount of feathers.

“Uh, could I please see Tristan?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Um.”