Foretold Page 26

  To see yourself the way someone you care about sees you… I feel exposed. Raw. I want to tell him about my OCD, about what’s wrong with me, but I’m too much of a coward. Too scared of losing him.

  “You don’t like them,” he says flatly.

  “No, I do! They’re… amazing. You’re so talented. It’s…” I look down at my hands.

  “I see you, Cassie. I see all of you.” He takes my hand in his and kisses it. I recoil. He runs his hand through his hair, forgetting it’s shorter than it used to be, and drops it.

  “See that suitcase on the bottom shelf?” he says. “It’s filled with my stuff. Random things that are important to me. Hadn’t occurred to me to take that stuff out and let it clutter up my room out there. Because I’ve never done that. There was no point unpacking when we might have to move around again…” He pauses, visibly searching for what he wants to say. “My dad says we’re staying here. He’s running for Congress, but that’s a whole other story. The point is… I swear I have one… the point is, you have your deal, and when you want to tell me about it, I’m here, but this is my deal: even knowing we’re not moving, I didn’t unpack because this place didn’t feel like home. But you… you do.”

  I pull at his perfect ears and plant my lips on his. He smiles against my mouth a second before he runs his hand up my back. We don’t leave that closet for a very long time.

  Chapter 26

  Veranda Restaurant is all starched white tablecloths and bowtie-wearing waiters, but the dining room has a lively and festive feel to it instead of being stuffy.

  I shush Dad, but his voice still carries even through the din. “When she was seven, she shoved a straw up her nose. It was wedged in there good and tight. We rushed her to the ER. She was screaming, and every time she would draw in a breath, the thing would whistle,” Dad says. Mrs. O, Colin, Regan, and Griffin all laugh.

  I feel myself getting hot. “Dad!”

  He gives me an innocent look. “What?”

  Colin slants me a crooked grin. “I didn’t know you played an instrument, Cass.”

  “She plays the tube-ah,” Griffin says. He and Colin exchange appreciative looks, admiring each other’s lame wit.

  “Terrible.” Regan rolls her eyes.

  “Okay, no more embarrassing stories,” Dad says. He looks like a man reborn. Me, his weirdo daughter, inviting friends around. Hanging with a boy. His dream.

  “Is that a swan?” Colin asks, looking at my napkin.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Dad winks at me and turns to Mrs. O. “Claudia, why don’t you tell us how you’ve been doing.”

  “Oh, you know me, Jeffrey. Plugging along. One foot in front of the other,” Mrs. O says.

  “I don’t want to bring the mood down, but… any news from the city?” Dad asks.

  “Oh! Yes! I heard from them yesterday.” She smiles. To Regan and Griffin she offers, “The city wanted to take my property, but it’s the strangest thing. The developer dropped out! The man from the city called to say they won’t be taking the place after all.”

  I grab for her hand, and she takes mine between both of hers, giving it a squeeze.

  It worked! The ritual worked! Regan gives me a toothy smile and a little silent “yay.” A parade erupts in my mind, bursts of color, fanfare. It worked! I barely hear the others congratulating her. I lean over and give her parchment thin skin an impulsive kiss.

  “Amazing! How?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. He just abandoned the project altogether,” she says. She twists her lip a bit. “It’s funny, though. I was almost sad about it.”

  “Sad? Why would you be sad someone isn’t yoinking your place?” Griffin asks.

  “I don’t understand,” I piggyback.

  “The developer, a man who actually ended up being some kind of wonderful—Paul Tautamo—I guess he caught wind of my situation: how long I’ve been here, my family’s history in the neighborhood. He offered me an apartment in the new building. Rent free for life. He said if I wanted to work, he’d give me a spot in the supermarket he was going to build, but that he’d understand if I wanted to spend the money the city gave me and enjoy retirement instead. Sweet man.” Mrs. O sighs.

  I freeze. “S—so you wanted the deal to go through?”

  “It was tempting, is all.” She pats my hand.

  “But if you could’ve picked what’d happen, would you have picked his offer or—” I almost don’t want her answer.

  “I wouldn’t have chosen at all,” she responds, taking a long sip of her soft drink. “I would’ve let it be.”

  “What do you mean?” Regan asks.

  Mrs. O’s plump cheeks lift with her smile. “When I was a girl, there was a woman who would come into my father’s shop. After I was blinded, I was angry, spitting mad. Uncontrollable. You have an idea of what your life is going to be like, and when something traumatic comes along and makes that idea impossible… Well, misery lives in the space between expectations and reality. She caught an argument between me and my father, God rest his soul, and pulled me aside to tell me a story. I can’t do it justice, but it was something like:

  “An old washerwoman named Yana served the royal family in the land of Ash. Day after day, after she’d finished the wash, she would stand at an enormous vat of boiling water alongside dozens of other women and harvest gray dye from slippery and spiky mollusks. In the evenings, Yana’s young daughter Porto would rub her mother’s gnarled, stained fingers while studying the ancient, forgotten art of Color.

  “One day, Yana discovered she’d been replaced in the washing chamber by another.

  “‘You have lost your work, and I have none. How will we eat?’ Yana’s daughter Porto cried. ‘This is a tragedy!’

  “‘Maybe no, maybe so. It’ll all come clean in the wash,’ Yana replied.

  “Yana showed her daughter how to make the trinkets of her youth, little beaded nothings, and they took them to market, praying they’d fetch enough for a loaf of bread. Their wares sold out immediately. In a drab world, Porto’s knowledge of Color made their designs famous, and soon even the Queen commissioned a wondrous colorful headdress.

  “‘Look at all the gold we have!’ Porto cried. ‘How lucky we are, Mother!’

  “‘Maybe no, maybe so. It’ll all come clean in the wash,’ Yana said

  “Yana and Porto’s beads were carved from the jagged shells found at the water’s edge, and one day one such shell badly injured both of Porto’s hands. Yana carefully washed and bandaged her daughter’s wounds.

  “‘We’ll never finish the Queen’s headdress now, Mother! We are ruined!’ Porto cried.

  “‘Maybe no, maybe so. It’ll all come clean in the wash,’ Yana said.

  “Now it came to pass on the day the headdress was due to be delivered to the Queen a great coup occurred, and the Royal Family and all those inside the palace were murdered.

  “‘The poor Queen! But how lucky we are we were unable to deliver the headdress,’ Porto called.

  “‘Maybe no, maybe so. It’ll all come clean in the wash,’” Yana said.

  “The moral?” Mrs. O asks, like a patient schoolmarm.

  “Yana only knew one phrase?” Griffin offers.

  “That, and… you have to roll with what comes. Sometimes life falls apart to fall into place.” Mrs. O sips her wine. “That’s enough out of an old lady with her secondhand wisdom.”

  “You are a delight, and you know it,” Dad says. “False modesty.”

  “You’re right. I am a delight.” Mrs. O raises her glass in silent toast. “Thank you for the reminder, Jeffrey.”

  “But what good came from you being blinded?” I interrupt. “I don’t understand.”

  Dad gives me a quelling look, but Mrs. O responds. “I ended up going to a special school. I met my husband there. William was vision-impaired, too. But he saw me better than anyone, and I saw him. That man was the greatest happiness of my life.” If remembering her love brings on that look, the full f
orce of her loving must have been striking at the time.

  Regan sighs.

  Mrs. O shrugs and sucks in her bottom lip. “And my greatest sorrow was losing him. But that brought me to you, Cassie. I knew what you were going through. What do you do with all that love? Like being a pitcher with no catcher. I figured I could try and Sherpa you through that painful period. And guess what? You became my next greatest joy. You and your father, and now Colin here, you are my family. Everything happens for a reason.”

  I lean over and give her a fierce hug. Dad squeezes my shoulder when I sit back, his eyes suspiciously moist.

  “Can I get a party started or what?” Mrs. O grins. “Too heavy for a birthday. Back to celebrating, please.”

  “Alright, that’s a tough act to follow, so I won’t even try… but I got you something, Cass.” Colin hands me a wrapped gift box. “Open it.”

  I take the box and stare. I didn’t expect a gift from him. Didn’t really expect one from anyone but my father. I pull the lid off.

  “Are those stuffed squirrels?” Regan asks.

  “I don’t understand girls at all, and even I know that’s not the way to romance them, man.” Griffin shakes his head.

  “Squirrel fur…” I say, beaming at Colin.

  “Slippers,” Colin finishes, ducking his head and suddenly looking a little bashful. “They’re not squirrel fur. Just squirrel-shaped. But I figured this was the next best thing.”

  They’re perfect. So perfect. My very own Cinderella slippers. I cradle the two squirrel slippers to my chest and try to rip my eyes away from Colin’s. There’s a soft look in his blue eyes, and a small smile plays on his lips. His gaze slips past me, and I hear the first strains of “Happy Birthday” from the wait staff.

  My eyes mist as I look at my family. At Mrs. O, belting out the tune enthusiastically. Griffin and Regan, their truce holding during the dinner, both singing for all they’re worth. At Dad—my sweet, brave, selfless father—boisterously shouting it out at the top of his lungs despite his promise. And Colin, who is looking at me like I’m his birthday and Christmas gift all in one. I look down at the slippers in my hands.

  For a second I concentrate on what I have right now—these people, my people—and not on what I’ve lost. I see what the world can be.

  But only for a second. Because the clock within me is ticking, and I can’t keep what I have unless I do something to save it.

  “Griffin tried to read your journal. I didn’t let him,” Regan says.

  We’re back in my room post-birthday dinner. I grab the book and shove it into my desk drawer. When I glare at Griffin, he smiles.

  “What? I was bored. You were up there on the roof with your boyfriend forever. Don’t worry, I didn’t even read two words before Snatchy McSnatcher here grabbed it from me,” he says.

  “Are you sure you want to spend the last few hours of your birthday working on a ritual?” Regan asks.

  I nod and grab my pajamas. “I’ll be right back. Have to say goodnight to Dad.”

  I’ve convinced Dad that all I want for my birthday is a sleepover with Griffin and Regan. He raised an eyebrow about a boy being part of that group, but since that boy isn’t my boyfriend and Regan will be there, he didn’t get all old-fashioned on me.

  “Goodnight, Cass.” Dad kisses my forehead and wraps his arms around me. “I know your friends are waiting so I won’t keep you, but I wanted to say… well, how damn proud I am of the woman you’re becoming. You’re honest. You’re caring. You laugh at my dad jokes. You’re everything your mom and I always dreamed you’d be and more. I’m… I’m glad you’re mine. That’s all.”

  I almost miss Dad wiping his eyes since mine are suddenly swimming. I’m not honest. I’ve been lying to him about camp, about Theban, for an age now. I hug him tight and pray the image he has of me is never shattered.

  “Oh! One more thing. Your present! I wanted to wait to give it to you.” He pulls out a long thin box and holds it out to me.

  “Dad, I told you I just wanted the sleepover. You didn’t have to—oh.” Inside the box is a beautiful gold fan-shaped necklace on a delicate gold chain. Each of the delicate wedges making up the fan houses a picture of my Mom and me. All but the last one, actually. That one is of the three of us.

  “It’s a locket! Antique from the Victorian era. See, you can close the fan up and it becomes a triangle, or you can open it up and the pictures, there’s five of them… Do you like it?” Dad asks.

  I blink back tears and throw my arms around his neck. “I love it.” I kiss his scruffy cheek. “And I love you. I’m glad you’re mine, too.” He helps me put the necklace on.

  “Beautiful. Like the person in the locket and the person wearing it.” He winks. “Okay, enough mushy stuff. Get back to your friends.”

  I laugh and run back to my room, sobering when I see that Regan has already started getting the stuff together for Aunt Bree’s ritual. “Okay, so Griffin made that disgusting paste from those beetles and the plants Bacchy got for us. I don’t know how you’re going to…” Regan shudders. “Anyway, I finished with the Sending Circle. I burned that sign Griffin grabbed from Madame Grey’s wall yesterday, so we have the ash. You have the blood… I think we’re good there,” Regan says. “There’s like five other things on here we still haven’t prepped, but you can get started. The only other part that’s going to suck is this…” She holds up a whip with five knotted ends.

  “Hey, unless you’re into it. Fifty shades of kicking Madame Grey’s ass,” Griffin says. He squints at the copy of the ritual in his hand and shakes his head. “Seventy-three lashes as part of the sacrifice. Pain-powered ritual.”

  “You’ll only get one chance with the mirror, Cassie. Dark mirrors are one charge per ritual,” Regan says. She hesitates. “Are we sure we trust your aunt on all of this…?”

  I reach for the page with the ritual and the whip. “She wants to neutralize Bedlam, right? So do I. I can’t… I need to make it right, Regan, and it needs to be tonight. Then I can concentrate on saving Colin tomorrow.”

  Chapter 27

  No two keyholes on Fenice’s door are alike and, as Griffin put it, “even her locks have locks on them.” How does she keep it all straight?

  I wince as I lift my hand to knock, my shirt brushing against my sore back. The lashes I had to give myself for Aunt Bree’s ritual aren’t bleeding anymore, but the bandages don’t do much for the pain. And they do nothing for my headache; I had to muffle the sounds of the whip and my groans somehow, and Griffin’s attempts at DJ’ing incredibly loud techno sparked a migraine for both me and Regan. It also generated a banging broomstick warning from our downstairs neighbor 3C, an in-person visit from 4D, and a near heart attack when I couldn’t remember locking the door and Dad rattled the door knob after 4D’s visit.

  “Dad, I promise it’s not a sex thing, it’s just a forbidden occult ritual!”

  There is shuffling on the other side of the wooden door, then a brass butterfly’s wing directly in front of my face slides away and is replaced with a magnified eyeball. The sounds of locks being turned sound until Fenice is standing in front of me, her bird’s nest of hair extra poofy today.

  “Cassandra, hello. What brings you—”

  “Pict,” I interrupt, as tears spring to my eyes. Luckily, I feel like I’m betraying Pict since he’s grown on me, which means that the tears come easy—I've always been able to cry when I feel guilty and ashamed.

  “Oh, you poor—come right in. Don’t you worry.” She ushers me in and tosses a nasty glance over at Pict’s door.

  “Please don’t tell him I came here. It’ll make things worse,” I say after she shuts the door and begins locking it behind us. I close my eyes so she can’t see the lie reflected there. Technically it would make things much, much worse if she were to say anything.

  “Of course not! Let me set you up with a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.”

  Her office looks like a greenhouse, and not just
because of all the live plants peppering the space. There are images of flowers on every conceivable surface. A room decorated entirely in floral prints should feel old and dated, but somehow Ms. Fenice’s sanctuary is as refreshing as her presence.

  She hurries over to a sideboard and comes back with a pair of chipped floral teacups. “Sit, please. I’ve been working on perfecting this particular blend for a while now. Sweet enough on its own, no sugar or honey required.”

  I accept the cup with a murmur of thanks, and Fenice seats herself across from me. “Now then, what did that brute do?”

  “He’s…” I can’t force myself to lie.

  “Let me guess. He’s being a perfectionist, hypercritical, insulting ass? He’s been that way most of the time I’ve known him, so it’s no surprise.”

  “Most of the time? Why, he used to be different?” I ask.

  “We’re all a little different when we’re younger and more idealistic. But Marty’s story is not mine to tell.” She shakes her head. “Present bad behavior isn’t excused because of the past.”

  I want to ask so many follow-up questions, but I’m here for a reason. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s right about me.”

  “Nonsense! You are perfectly capable. You positively shine in class. And Magellan has warmed to you more than any of the others. He’s a good judge.”

  I look over at Magellan, her raven. It's true that he doesn’t peck at me as often as the others in class. Evidently, that’s considered warming.

  Fenice crosses to my sofa and takes my hands in hers. “Is this about the attack? We’re scryers, Cassandra. Woulda shouldas are for other people. You can be a Marty, eaten up by the past and made bitter by it… or you can forgive—those around you, yourself, whomever—and move forward a little sadder and a lot wiser.”

  I wasn’t thinking about the attack, but now… no, a pep talk doesn’t get me off the hook.