Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next day, we’re wrapping up our readings at Julia’s Bureau, awaiting word from Clarice DuBois on whether she has sweet-talked our way into Max Blanck’s party.
I don’t know what transpired at Mlle DuBois’s apartment last evening, but this morning, Pax was in high spirits, reporting simply, “She’s in. ”
I’m not sure what I expected: Pax slinking in, guilty and leaden?
He doesn’t seem to be either of those things.
Nor is he jubilant, boastful. I’m driving myself mad, trying to interpret every little grin of his, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he examines his fingernails.
I agreed to this; nay, I encouraged this.
No. I exhale. I don’t care. All of this is temporary. I chose revenge.
I relax as much as I know how to relax. Being here, at the Bureau, helps.
I’ve come to love our little storefront.
Kiyoko, Nirav, and William spent hours slicing intricate, lacy patterns into thin rice paper.
They completely covered our four front windows with it, and the whole room glows with a soft, tan light, the color of green tea.
The holes in the paper allow beams of light to dance about the room, and the effect is rather like being inside a starburst.
The clockworks lady next door, Miss Willamina, gave us some of her sagging, decrepit shelves, which I reinforced with a nail here, a dab of glue there, and affixed to our walls. They are now lined with row after row of gem-colored bottles, offering our clients an array of soothing potions.
Aye, by potions she means gin and mescal and rum, don’t she?
I grin. Relief takes many forms, I remind Spirit. We offer tins of tea as well, which is not only a great comfort to our guests, but also allows us to read the tea leaves for those customers who need to see “proof” of the messages we pass along.
There are several small, squat tables adorned with crystal balls and colorful tarot cards and Ouija boards.
These are all for show, of course; many clients need distraction as they receive messages from the beyond.
Velvet curtains line the wall between us and the clockworks shop, and the lush fabric muffles all but the deepest, most booming of the chiming clocks.
I honestly think the effect adds quite a lot to our readings; it gives an air of urgency: Time is running out, don’t you feel it? Act!
We burn heady incense to mask the smells wafting from the horse stalls next door, and the earthy tendrils of smoke provide a sleepy, calming atmosphere.
Sleepy and calming except for Pax. His pacing plants a seed of compassion for him deep within me, and it reminds me of our singular focus: revenge. Everything else is extraneous. Unimportant.
Pax works his jaw, cracks his knuckles. “Do you think Blanck will add us to his roster? We’re not exactly well-known.”
“Yes, Pax.” Kiyoko grins at him, bemused. “We. And what is it, exactly, that you do?”
The distraction works: Pax chuckles. “I’m your manager.” Damn, he’s confident.
“I don’t need managing,” Kiyoko is quick to fire back. “What else you got?”
He thinks for a moment, his expressions exaggerated like he’s starring in a nickelodeon film, like he’s considering, Do I have anything else I can offer? He winks at Nirav.
Nirav giggles. Spirit flickers the lamplight.
“Ah! How about this?” He strides toward me, lifting a cane chair en route, and spins it. He sets it in front of me and straddles it.
“Your palm, miss?” he says. He holds out his right hand, palm up, offering my hand a place to nestle. I hesitate, because his hands were in unknown locations just hours ago.
He tilts his chin, arches an eyebrow. Please?
I place my hand gently in his, so light it almost doesn’t touch his skin. But the warmth is still there. The electricity.
He bends over my hand, studying it. “Ah, yes. Lovely.” His left pointer finger traces the long, curved line that etches along the base of my thumb. His touch is light as a butterfly. His finger trails toward my wrist, toward my blue thrumming veins.
“You’ll have a long life,” he says. He looks deep into my eyes, his silver-green eyes shining. “That’s good.”
I lean closer to see my own hand. The lines there seem foreign, unfamiliar.
Our heads are almost touching.
His finger moves up to the next wrinkle, the line cutting across the middle of my palm. “The head. You’re smart as a whip.” He runs his finger back and forth across it. It tickles and it feels like walking a tightrope. Dangerous and exciting. “Ah, but you’re stubborn!”
I can’t help it. I burst a quick laugh.
He shifts his attention to the line at the top of my palm, under my fingers. “The heart line.” He’s whispering now. Pax traces the length of the line, and I shiver. His forehead crinkles. “It’s very hard to read, your heart.”
That part is true.
“Damn, is it hot in here?” Kiyoko asks. William laughs, but I don’t look at either of them. They are miles away. I am lost in silver-green pools, sparkling and mesmerizing.
“You don’t really believe all this, do you?” I smile at him, and I feel the heat in his hand react to my smile.
“Aristotle said, ‘Lines are not written into the human hand without reason.’ ”
“Aristotle,” I say with a teasing smirk.
“Oh, yes. I’m also a philosopher.” His face pulls into that sideways grin, and his dimple appears. “A manager and a philosopher.”
The air between us is so charged, so thick, it’s like I’m engulfed in heady incense. Or perhaps Spirit is sending me that sensation. Or perhaps it’s the actual incense we’re burning here in the Bureau. At any rate, I’m entranced. “I—” I stammer.
The bell over our shop door rings.
“Max Blanck! He’s coming here.”
It’s Clarice. The spell is broken. Clarice… Max Blanck… here?!
I would expect Pax to toss my hand aside, to leap up, begin pacing, but he does none of these things. Instead, he twines his fingers with mine, like the roots of a tree hugging a rock. He’s seeking an anchor. Stability. His eyes stay locked on mine, pleading.
Clarice notices this. Clarice notices me noticing this.
Pax tears his gaze away and narrows his eyes at her. “Max Blanck. Here? When?”
Clarice exhales as calmly as she can. “Now, Pax. Now.”