Page 107 of Don't Let Me Go
Jocasta freezes, her cheeks turning paler than the snows of Brattahlid. She stares at Jackson and me in disbelief, and the flicker of recognition in her eyes explodes into a brilliant, burning flame.
“You,” she snarls. “It’syou.”
Chapter 42
Jackson
I’m no expert on witches, but based on every Disney movie I’ve ever seen, I’m pretty sure that if one invites you in for a snack, you’re supposed to run for the hills. Not Riley and me, though. We’re seated at a table with a platter of multicolored macarons in front of us waiting for our witch to finish making a pot of tea in her suite’s kitchenette.
“So, what did you think of my little show?” Jocasta asks as the kettle whistles shrilly. She lifts it off the stovetop and brings it over to our table, where she proceeds to fill our cups with a murky brown liquid.
Riley and I exchange a nervous glance. In the span of two minutes, our hostess has gone from belligerent to welcoming, which is frankly more disturbing. Neither of us touches our tea.
“It wasinteresting,” Riley replies diplomatically.
Jocasta or Ulfhild—I’m not sure what to call her—laughs.
“It’s embarrassing, I know.” She shakes her head and takes a seat across from us. “But what I can do? We’ve all got to make a living.”
“So itisa scam?” I ask.
“Of course it’s a scam. You think Oscar Wilde, Cleopatra, and Napoleon are all hanging out inFlorida?” She sips her tea. “Years ago, when I was first starting out, I tried to use my gifts to help people without all the hocus-pocus nonsense. I’d see someone with a problem and give them incredibly profound—not to mentionpractical—advice,and nine times out of ten, do you know what they’d do? Ignore me! Or, worse, they’d go off and do the exact opposite.”
Jocasta lets out a rueful chuckle. “It didn’t take me long to realize that if I wanted to be taken seriously, I’d have to embellish my routine. Now I still give customers sound advice, only first I put on a little show for them. I weave stories about their past lives, about the great, important people they used to be. That’scrucial.
“You’ve got to flatter their egos if you want them to listen to you. It’s like hiding your dog’s medicine in peanut butter. You give the customer a treat, you make them feel special, like you and only you can see their true potential, andvoilà. Suddenly they’re willing to listen to what you have to tell them. And pay handsomely too.”
Grinning in triumph, Jocasta takes another sip of her tea. At which point she notices the untouched cups sitting in front of Riley and me.
“It’s not poisoned,” she says. “It’s oolong.”
I don’t want her to think I’m frightened, so I take a sip. The liquid is strong and bitter, but I think that’s how tea is supposed to taste. I wouldn’t know. I’m a coffee guy. “Doesn’t anyone ever call you out?” I ask as I grab a red macaron off the platter. I take a bite of its sugary shell hoping to get the tea’s bitter aftertaste out of my mouth.
“Call me out?”
“For being a phony.”
Jocasta shakes her head. “There’s nothing phony about the advice I give. Everything I tell a client is something I truly believe they need to hear.”
“Really?” Riley scoffs, dunking a blue macaron in his tea. “That woman, Dionne, sheneededto hear that she should have a threesome?”
Jocasta smirks. “You’d be surprised how many of life’s problems can be solved with a threesome.”
“But you’re telling people they used to be Cleopatra and Napoleon,” Riley continues. “And you’re getting basic historical facts wrong. Doesn’t anyone get suspicious?”
“Sometimes. But the human capacity for self-delusion is excelled only by its narcissism. Once I told three different men in the same night that they had each been George Washington just to see if I could get away with it. Not a single one batted an eyelash.”
Riley bites his macaron in half and snorts scornfully. “That’s insane.”
Jocasta shrugs. “Human beings need to believe they’re special. And I suppose, in their own ways, they are. Life, after all, is always a miracle. Nonetheless, the simple truth is that most people walking this planet are just average individuals living very average lives.”
“But not you,” I say.
“No.” Jocasta grins—the same wolfish grin from my dream. “Nor you.”
Riley shakes his head. “Look, Ulfhild, we don’t care what sort of scam you’re running. Jackson and I are only here because—”
“I’m not Ulfhild,” she says, cutting him off. “Ulfhild was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. I’ve probably left out fifty or sogreats, but you get the point.”
