Jasmine #2
“O-Oh, um, no, it’s…” I trail off as my gaze returns momentarily to the books slightly behind her.
Rebecca doesn’t say anything, but offers a telling, gentle smile when her eyes meet mine again.
If I can’t trust her to help me, who else is there?
My throat tightens. “Actually, yes, there’s someone you can help me find. ”
Rebecca smiles and taps her temple. “I knew it. I can read people, but I promise it’s not invasive.”
“Not invasive?”
“I can’t read your thoughts or influence them.
It’s kind of like a gut feeling, I suppose.
Like when you have to make a decision and deep down you already know which one you’ll make.
” She straightens a book on the shelf, then beckons me to follow her to the back.
Before we pass through the door separating the store from the rest, Rebecca flicks her hand, which locks the door, flips the sign to Be right back, and dims the lights. “Just in case.”
With another smile, she’s off, and I’m following her.
“Okay, so here for someone, yes?” Rebecca asks, and I nod. “I knew it. Sometimes my readings are wrong, and my husband will make horrible fun of me. But there was something in your aura that led me to take the risk and guess your reason for coming.”
I open my mouth to say something, because staying silent seems rude, when she follows up with, “Oh, how’s the vet? I had an appointment the other day, but you weren’t there. Work going okay? Keeping you busy?”
“Oh, um, yeah, work is good. There’s always something interesting going on.” I spill the first words I think of, suddenly caught off guard by her questions.
“Sorry, I’m a yapper. And it’s not often I have someone searching for something other than a tonic for their migraines or a hangover.”
Rebecca continues to talk about her store, filling me in on the various comings and goings of the townsfolk as we make our way through a small hallway in the back of the store.
Even with my glamour in place, I worry I could lower my guard enough for her to realize I’m not meant to be here.
She’ll know soon why I’m here, and hopefully she knows that asking me to trust her with information about my true self could cost me the life I’ve spent years building.
“Here we are!” Rebecca opens the door to a small, cozy room at the end of the hallway. In the center of the room is a round table with a deep-red velvet cloth. Gold beads line the perimeter, drawing patterns of stars and moons. “Please sit.”
She points to a pair of black velvet chairs on the closer side of the table, while she moves around to sit on the other end. In front of her is a crystal ball of sorts, hazy on the inside with blurry, twinkling lights.
“Alrighty.” Rebecca places both hands on the table, one hand resting over the other. She smiles at me like I’m a long-lost friend, or someone she’s been waiting to meet for a long time. “So, what brings you in today?”
I sit with the question, unsure of where to start. The ask is simple, or it should be. Yet, I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.
“This room”—Rebecca lifts a hand to wave around—“is spelled. No one will hear our conversation. You can tell me as little as you want, but the more the better.”
I bite my lip and nod. “Is it hard to find someone?”
“Great question! It can be. If you don’t remember their appearance or location, the spell doesn’t have a lot to hold on to. So, let’s say you wanted to find an ex-lover who owed you money—”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“No, no, I know. This is just an example,” Rebecca says with a wink. “I’d need something tangible about them. Hair color? Anyone can have. A secret few know? That’s better and bound to find us the person in question. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does.”
If Rebecca can’t help me talk to Marisole or send her a message, I worry I won’t live to see another birthday. I don’t know the official day, but as far as Katrina is concerned, I’m turning twenty-nine on October 1.
“Amazing. So, you’ll need a contact spell today. Right?”
I nod. “What exactly happens with this spell?”
“Another great question. Sorry, like I said, it’s been a long time since someone has asked for this. I’m normally the one providing too much information. The contact spell will connect with the person’s mind, assuming we’re able to find them.”
“Is it possible to find the wrong, um, person?”
Rebecca nods. “And it’s possible for them to lock us out, even if they don’t mean to.”
The more she explains the spell, the riskier it sounds. But if I weigh each risk, which is worse?
Dying, for sure.
I sit up straight in my chair and ask, “What do you need to know?”
“Who are you trying to call?” Rebecca asks.
“It’s my sister,” I whisper, my tone barely audible. “Marisole.”
Rebecca smiles and writes a note, then meets my gaze. “Don’t worry, these notes can’t leave the room. If they do, they burn.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, picturing accidental notes being brought outside the room and burning, making a gigantic, stressful mess.
She hums. “Can you describe what Marisole looks like?”
I knew this question was coming, yet I’m not prepared for it. The last time I saw her…it was a long time ago. How much can a person change over a decade? Will she still want to help me? Only one way to find out.