Page 3 of Blackwicket
Unpolluted magic was a rare and tempting resource, attracting many types of wickedness. The Authority were undeniably present, dressed as civilians and monitoring each floor for attempts to steal the displays and for any signs of Drudge, cursed magic with enough juice to twist itself into something corporeal. Since the prohibition, Drudge were rare but a threat nonetheless, and Authority prolific. I had a history with both and no interest in running into either.
With cursed magic lurking nearby, I’d need to keep my head down.
Faking illness was tempting, but I’d already taken my entire year of leave following the summer incident that haunted me. Even one more day might cost me my position, best saleswoman or not. I arranged our most expensive bottles to catch the light and pasted on a smile to tempt passersby to stop and distract me from my thoughts. A few eyes slid my way but didn’t linger, and I sighed through my teeth.
“Lizzie!”
My counter partner Magdaline Shaw called out to a friend in her chirping soprano, joyful and excited as always. Everyone was Magdaline’s friend, a trait equal measures endearing and nauseating.
“Lizzie, has your brain clocked in?”
Magdaline appeared at my left elbow, dressed in the Galton Girl uniform, her sweep of ash blond hair worn with a cobaltpin. She was peering at me with those cornflower-blue eyes, lips upturned, bemused.
With a jolt, I shifted back into my present.Lizzie. That was me and had been for two years. Before Lizzie, I’d been Joan; before Joan, Carrie; half a dozen names, all fitting me worse than a secondhand girdle.
“Sorry, Madge,” I replied, “I was daydreaming.”
She pulled a sympathetic face, a small crease appearing between her brows. “I know it’s rough whiling away the hours here when you’ve got such a fine night to look forward to. I’d be daydreaming too.”
I had no plans tonight.
“Dolly Pier is going to be a thrill,” she continued. “I still can’t believe Ben’s taking you there, the cab costs an arm and a leg…”
As was her way, my friend went on talking, amiably rambling with hardly a breath taken, while my stomach curdled with guilt. I’d forgotten tonight. Forgotten Ben. I’d been doing that too much lately. There’d barely be time to change after shift, but my worries were likely wasted. Ben was too sensible to care about my looks and never noticed any effort I put into them.
As Madge chatted on, she chose a bottle of our most expensive scent and spritzed her wrists. Now, she smelled the way she looked, like a starlet waiting for her big break, all sun-kissed skin, pale hair, and excessive, vulnerable optimism. She was summer in human form.
“Have you talked to Wendy?” she asked, breezing into a new subject. Heat surged to my cheeks. “She never answers the phone when I call her flat.”
Wendy never answered because she was long gone and never coming back.
Resentment unfolded in my belly. My life had been settling. I’d gotten used to being Elizabeth Knoles, the woman from aquaint farm town, a two-day train ride away with happy, simple parents who missed her and sent her letters and some money every now and then.Lizziehad a one-room flat in a safe part of town, a library card, a decent boyfriend, and a steady job. She was even due a promotion to department manager. I’d finally been wrestling my life into submission.
And then Wendy Mofton happened.
Sweet, quiet, Wendy and her dreamy white-collar husband, ten years her senior, with his big goofy smile, bigger laugh, and a talent for leaving bruises where no one was likely to notice them. If I’d minded my business, the Authority wouldn’t know I existed, and Wendy’s husband would still be alive.
Anxiety jumped in my throat.
“She hasn’t been in touch with me since Brock passed,” I said. Not since she’d hinted to the Authority I might be involved, resulting in the investigation, the interrogation, and the end of my anonymity in this vast metropolis where I’d once been blessedly invisible. Now, I felt eyes on me at every turn, jumped at any sudden movement. I’d been keeping my nose clean, for the most part, but trouble sought me out, and I had a damnable empathy for it. But at least Wendy was free. Really, there was no one to be angry with but myself. After all, she hadn’t made me kill her husband. I’d done that on my own.
“What an asshole,” Magdaline proclaimed fervently, placing the perfume down a little too hard, the high clink of glass emphasizing her distaste. “Good riddance if you ask me. Gosh, I hope she’s okay.”
I was proud of my friend for having enough sense to detect Brock’s hidden ugliness. At twenty-three, she often seemed much younger, but that might have been more show than I thought.
“Anyway…” The brightness was back in her voice, gloom pushed aside. “I’ve been dying to talk to you about this knockout I’ve been seeing around lately, tall, devilish, so handsome. He could probably throw me over his shoulder like a rag doll.”
“Madge,Icould throw you over my shoulder like a rag doll.”
Her giggle fizzed, high and sweet as champagne. “You’ll see what I mean. I’ll point him out. I thought he might be shopping with his wife, but I’ve never seen a lady with him, and he’s always looking this way. I bet he’s working up the nerve to ... oh.”
Magdaline stopped short, voice pinched into silence as though someone had taken her by the neck. She was looking over my shoulder, expression collapsed.
“It’s Ms. Rosley,” she said with a mournful twist of her hands.
This was jolting news.
Once upon a time, Ms. Rosley had been a regular at our counter, dressed to impress no matter the day or time. In her forties, she was attractive, self-assured, and very hard to read. She knew exactly what she wanted but would never tell you. Her favorite pastime was making the shop girls guess, offering no clues besides a slight rise of the brow or curl of the lip.
