Page 41 of A Winding Wave of Magic
But there was nothing but silence and blank spaces in my mind. My Sight was completely barren.
I scowled. “Fine. I’m going out for supplies. But when I get back, you and I are getting real.”
As if in response, the house creaked against a particularly strong gust of wind.
I couldn’t tell if it was a taunt or a warning.
I decidedto jog into town, where I would be able to get some breakfast and pick up a few groceries before trying the house again. If things went better, maybe I could even surf this afternoon, the surest way I knew of clearing my head.
The run from the house to Manzanita took a little under fifteen minutes at a good clip. The general store wouldn’t open for another hour, so I walked into News and Espresso, the old house turned cafe with walls covered in magazines, the way old newsstands used to have before the advent of the internet.
“Hello, there. What can I get for you?”
Andy Jacobs, the paunchy, fifty-something owner who had been a consistent buyer of Gran’s sweaters over the years, greeted me from behind the counter with a bright smile. I recognized the one he was wearing immediately—Gran had complained about how hard it was to make the feather pattern over the chest.
“Hi Andy,” I said. “How’ve you been?”
Andy nodded with the same friendly, if vacant expression he’d always had. “Not bad, not bad at all. Good to see you.”
He reached a hand out to shake mine, but I demurred.
“Sweaty,” I said, gesturing feebly up and down my body. I was, in fact, sweaty, but the running gloves I wore were not.
“Of course.” Andy bobbed his head as if he completely understood what I was thinking. “Well, what can I get you today?”
“I’ll have a café au lait, please. And…that pecan bun right there. Oh, and I’ll take a copy ofTheNew Yorker,too.”
“Coming right up. Just nine for the magazine—the rest is on the house.”
I looked up. “What? But it’s winter.” I looked around at the few other customers. While the cafe often had a line out the door during the summer tourist season, most of the shops in town were only open a few days a week at most during the winter because of how slow everything was.
Andy just shook his head. “Happy to have a fresh face around here. Come again, will you?”
I dropped five dollars into the tip jar instead, wondering what exactly he meant by that. “Thanks, Andy. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, honey. Here’s that au lait for you.”
For the first time since arriving last night, it felt nice to be home. Though I never admitted it to Gran (steadfastly ignoring her ability to read my thoughts regardless), I missed the slower pace of Manzanita and the ease people had with each other in a small town. So warm, despite the clouds. So different from Boston or even Portland.
I found a small table near a window where I could read my magazine and watch people on their walks down the main street. Most of them were over sixty, so I supposed it wasn’t surprising when Hannah and Marvin, the old tea house owners, didn’t seem to recognize me when I waved.
The New Yorkerhad a review of Rachel Cardy’s newest book, and I was just getting into it when I suddenly felt as if someone had poured ice water down my shirt and turned on the AC. It was a strange, completely new sensation, but one that still felt uncannily familiar.
I turned, expecting to see Lou, an elderly sorcerer and doctor who was the only other fae in town. Perhaps he had brushed my hair and I hadn’t realized it. Normally I’d be sensing his thoughts along with his raspy grumbles, but my Sight had been off lately.
But instead of the friendly old physician, a pair of sharp, familiar green eyes peered at me from the table across from me.
I choked on my coffee with a burned tongue. “You havegotto be kidding me.”
14
A JACK OF THREE TRADES
So write it out and don’t forget
We may be all quite famous yet.
— BRIAN MAC GIOLLA MEIDHRE,CUIRT AN MHEADHON OICHCHE(THE MIDNIGHT COURT)
