Chapter 2 An Offer to Not Refuse
The Meister sat across from me, dabbing his handkerchief at the corners of his eyes.
I was familiar with handling emotional reactions from my patrons—occasional fits of rage, minor tantrums, and tears of revelation.
I was no stranger to coddling others’ emotional woes, because I know that the cards—well, by proxy, me—brought up old wounds.
After all, tapping into someone’s subconscious was a dangerous game.
But my own emotional reaction was not something I had become accustomed to. I was rarely, if ever, involved in my patrons’ readings. I was the unbiased third party, bearing witness to the secrets of the universe as they unraveled before me. These were not my secrets.
Fear clogged my throat, but I began. “You come to my shop after it’s closed to ensure no one else would be here.
To avoid interruption, or to avoid being seen?
” My finger twitched in the direction of my drawer, where I kept a ceremonial dagger.
Well, perhaps not ceremonial for much longer.
My father's work had exposed me to the darker facets of humanity; I knew better than to assume the best intentions from anyone.
“You claim to be a scholar—you have a depth of knowledge in arcane magick, as evidenced by the runic glyphs on your cane and your discernment of my type of reading. You seem to know how many clients I have, the rate I charge them, and exactly what my shop hours are, as if you’ve investigated me and my business before you entered. ”
I paused, my lip quivering as the Meister nodded in approval of my deduction.
“You’re not interested in my Tarot readings; you’re interested in me.” My brows knitted into a scowl as I spat out the last words. “Who are you, Christopher Renate? And what do you want from me?”
I followed his motions carefully as the Meister opened the drape of his coat, revealing the dazzling swirls of the red-and-blue lining.
But all he pulled out was a crisp white envelope with the initials D.
B. clearly written in typeface. With his other hand, he brought out a velvet pouch of coins and dropped it on the table.
It made a loud thud, indicating the weight of his payment.
“Here—for the reading—Ms. Blackburne. But I won’t let you keep the money unless you open that envelope first.”
My jaw clenched as I detected the undercurrent of threat.
He pushed the envelope and pouch in front of me.
I peered inside—several solid silver coins reflected off the dim overhead light.
Gabriel would’ve had heart palpitations if he saw the amount of silver sitting in front of me.
Everything in my bones told me to run, to throw the envelope into the hearth, kick the Meister in the teeth, and bolt upstairs.
But I didn’t.
It was as if Fate had sunk her talons into me, coaxing my hand across the table, toward the money, and then toward the envelope. It was her fingers that opened the letter, her eyes that read it.
It was Fate’s voice that read it aloud.
Dear Ms. Dahlia Blackburne,
Congratulations! It is my utmost pleasure to inform you that you have been selected for admission to Foresyth Conservatory for Magickal Arts and Occult Sciences.
Foresyth selects only a handful of students each academic year for structured intellectual liberation, and we are delighted to welcome you to our prestigious community of magickal scholars and elite artists.
You will dedicate yourself to the scholarly preservation of magick through both academic research and applied artistic creation.
Additionally, you have been awarded a coveted research fellowship amounting to six-hundred dollars annually, reflecting our commitment to supporting and nurturing your potential.
At Foresyth, you will have the opportunity to conduct research of unparalleled rigor alongside your fellow peers and renowned magickal scholars.
I broke my reading to look up at Meister who was now studying my reaction. Forgetting any semblance of decorum I spat out, “Is this some kind of jest? You want me to join your magick school? One I didn’t even apply to?”
The Meister cleared his throat, pushing his pince-nez higher up his nose.
“Ms. Blackburne—Foresyth Conservatory is not just a magick school. Firstly, it’s a Conservatory.
Students are artists and creators, first and foremost. They are not pupils learning by rote memorization.
We don’t hold classes per se. Secondly, it is a one-of-a-kind program—rigorous, taxing, and certainly not for the faint of heart . . .” He trailed off.
I stared at him blankly.
“You mistake me, Meister. I am not a follower of any kind of magick,” I began.
“Please, I know your skepticism. I know the tools you use for your readings are mostly based on keen observation and Jungian psychology. You also happen to have a deep knowledge of esoteric religions and ceremonial magick, thanks to your father, which you lavishly display in your . . . performances.”
I swallowed hard. No one had ever seen through my carefully crafted ruse—a charade I’d spent years perfecting. No one had ever called me for what I truly was: a charlatan.
“I’ll ignore your ingratitude for the moment, because the academic position at Foresyth isn’t the true reason for my visit. I have a more honest proposition for your skill set. One I couldn’t commit to ink and paper, and one that certainly couldn’t be overheard.”
I squinted harder, searching for any sign of deception. His face remained steady—no common tells. A swell of intrigue rose in my chest, and I cursed my morbid fascination, a relic of my father’s imprint on me.
“Go on,” I said.
“D. B.—those were your father’s initials too, weren’t they?
Daniel Blackburne? The famous detective who solved the Rothwell murders—the serial killer that terrorized Greenwich in the early turn of the century, ending in a grisly triple homicide.
What a catch that was for him. Such a shame, his daughter wasting away her talents on commoner trinkets and show-and-tell.
” The Meister stacked his fingers into a steeple and clicked his tongue.
“It wasn’t a show-and-tell a few moments ago when I had you dabbing your eyes.
Did I strike a chord with you, Meister?” I replied, steady and sharp.
I knew I ought to kick him out right now—he had overstayed his welcome.
But the money sitting on the table held me fast to my seat.
It could be enough to cover the repairs this month.
“Ah, no need to get defensive, dear Dahlia. If I may call you that? It’s much more befitting, given your girlish appearance.
Though your display is quite impressive and accurate, I must admit.
” The Meister’s eyes narrowed his eyes. “Still, your talents of foresight do not go unnoticed. I’m not here to make you a student—no, I think your skills are far better suited to other endeavors.
Not to say you wouldn’t excel at the Conservatory, should you choose to stay. ”
“I won’t repeat myself: what exactly do you want from me?” I said very slowly. The vestigial light from the grey afternoon had all but faded, a flash of lightning momentarily illuminating the room. The overhead lamp quivered with the distant rumble of thunder.
“Dahlia, I’m upgrading you to detective, and I’m here to hand you your first case.”
A long pause stretched between us before I found my voice again.
“Detective?” I let out. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. The word felt both familiar and bitter on my tongue. “I can’t. As you can see, I run a prosperous and profitable business here,” I countered.
“Be reasonable, girl. You haven’t moved half of the original inventory since your father bought this place on mortgage for your mother ten years ago.
Yes, of course I’ve seen the lien. I don’t hire anyone without proper diligence.
I know you peddle your readings just to make your payments on time,” the Meister said, his tone almost bored.
“And besides, your mind must be turning to mush, hearing the same sodden stories day after day. People really aren’t that interesting, are they? ”
My chest clenched and my eyes stung at the corners before I even realized it.
I studied the ageless face of the stranger across from me—the sharpness of his jaw that met with a narrow chin, the dark eyebrows that looked coarsely drawn with charcoal, and the avian eyes that peered straight through me like I was nothing but the moth-eaten silk of my shawl.
It was almost enough to make me tell the truth. Almost.
I raised my chin higher. “My patrons are loyal, and I love what I do.” It was only a half-lie. I found contentment in taking care of my mother and the books—it was the last of what we had from my father. The last that bound us all together as a family.
“I suspect you crave much more than what the cards of Fate have dealt you. You crave purpose. Not to mention, you despise being a fraud, and that’s what this place makes you feel like. How’s that for a reading?”
Touché. It wasn’t as fun being on the receiving end.
“Fine. I’m not enamored with being a reader, but it covers my expenses. Plenty of people dislike their professions.”
“Did your father dislike his?” the Meister pressed.
I shot out of my seat, pointing my finger at the door. I wouldn’t let this stranger speak of my father. “You, sir, are kindly asked to leave now. Keep your money—the reading’s on the house. But make haste out of my property.”
The Meister swallowed but didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Dahlia. I only meant to imply that you’d find employment under me far more gratifying than being the sole proprietor of a business you lack respect for,” he said, adjusting his spectacles.
I sank back into my chair as he continued.
“I’ve come to you because I find myself in somewhat of a precarious situation.
You see . . . a dark stain rests on the Conservatory.
Last semester, we lost a student.” He paused for a moment, his tone turning grave.
His eyes darted to the Hanged Man still upturned on my reading table.
“Though the authorities ruled it a suicide, I personally suspect foul play. That’s all I can say before we’re under agreement, you understand.
And, well, I have limited options for hiring a private detective as the Conservatory is not so hospitable to outsiders.
We don’t trust many people. Hiring you as a detective as well as a student solves my tricky situation.
You are the daughter of the infamous Detective Blackburne, and you more or less have the right background to be admitted as a student. ”
“You want me to investigate the other students?”
“Yes, precisely. I need to know who did it and why. I can’t bear this stain of darkness on my school—not after all I’ve done, all I’ve invested to get magickal sciences taken seriously in the academic world.
I don’t want anyone thinking we’re just another faction like the rest .
. . We are a prestigious institution of higher education.
“And you, my fine madame detective, not only will you hold the prestige of attending my Conservatory—as I noticed you do not have any secondary education—but I will be glad to pay you handsomely. If you find the killer, I’ll reward you with a two-thousand-dollar bounty.
Plus, the stipend you’ll make as a research assistant, of course. ”
Two thousand dollars. Did I hear him correctly? That was enough to pay off the bookshop mortgage three times over, and then some. I could double my collection of antique tomes. Maybe even take a trip east or west—maybe circle around and do both.
“I can see you’re thinking it over. That’s all I ask. Keep the acceptance letter—show it to anyone who might miss your absence for the year. I’ll be back in a fortnight to collect your answer at the start of our spring term.”
The Meister picked up his cane from the back of the chair and sauntered to the door, just as he had come in. He left the sack of coins in the middle of the table, along with the letter.
“And one more thing, Dahlia. Look too long into the void, and it will begin to recognize you. You’d best follow me out of it.”
As he exited, the Meister flipped the sign on the door to Closed and smiled once more over his shoulder before slipping off into the storm. And I was left alone in the deafening silence of my bookstore.