Page 9 of Blackwicket
“Didn’t get it all, but I grabbed what would earn you a ticket to having your magic yanked out your ass by the Authority.”
“Your world-class charm appears to be intact.”
“It’s the truth, no charm required. So,” he segued as I rushed to assess my belongings. “How many you got in there? Ten? Fifteen?”
I opened the bags, rummaging, pushing aside the remnants of my most recent life until my fingers brushed the smooth surface of a plain wooden lockbox, festering with vessels full of foul power. I’d been gathering these artifacts for years, snatching them from shop shelves and off employers’ bookcases and desks. Two had come from my early days of pick-pocketing when I’d been Carrie Holt in the small city of Weston.
I hadn’t intended to answer my father’s question, but a strange sense of guilt encouraged the response.
“Thirty-three.”
He whistled low.
“That’s a goddamn felony ten times over. Not too different from your old man after all.”
“I don’t sell them.”
“Neither do I.” He offered me an unaffected smile.
“Of course not,” I said.
“Ah, cut it out. You’ve been on the wrong side of the Authority recently yourself. That guy, Mofton…”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Of course not,” he replied, echoing me.
I eyed him. My father had always been a dandy, concerned with appearances, but I noticed the stubble on his chin and the faded glory of a once-expensive suit. There was gray at his temples, but the new bulge of his belly aged him most. For a white-hot moment, I wondered how my mother would have looked if she’d lived long enough to turn soft and gray.
“So, what, you’re keeping the curses as pets?” Darren asked, tossing his empty food container back into the paper bag. “That’s depressing, Cricket.”
After leaving home, I promised myself I’d never curse eat again, and I hadn’t, but as I came across curses out in the world, it felt wrong to ignore them. So, I became a collector. Every night, as a minor concession, I infused the box with a meager portion of my magic to prevent the curses from growing too restless and turning on one another. As I accumulated more, the amount of magic necessary to keep them subdued increased. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to pacify them. But I didn’t owe Darren an explanation.
Ignoring his question, I appraised what else had been gathered. The pocketbook I’d hidden in the ceiling vent was present, filled with money I’d saved for a hasty exit. I’d grown too comfortable, daring to think I’d be in Devin long term, and there was very little. I also found a chaotic assortment of clothes, items yanked from my closet and drawers at random. There was a coat I’d meant to get rid of, a pair of trousers and a winter skirt, a vest, no stockings, no shoes, and nearly all the blouses for warm weather. Most of the savings I’d managed would have to go toward replacing items. If I traveled stockingless, dressed in a thin summer shirt, I’d attract attention, and attention was my eternal nemesis.
The other items were sentimental, and I was surprised by Darren’s inclusion of them: a birthday card from Madge and a small book of terrible poetry Ben had given me, with pressedflowers in the pages for no other reason than I liked pretending I was a romantic woman. There was also an intimate letter tucked inside. Ben was a civil engineer, frequently traveling to remote areas struggling to adjust to a world devoid of magical energy that once drove economies and households. His frequent absences suited me and my need for space and privacy to deal with the curses I’d accumulated. When he was away, he wrote to me and returned with enough entertaining stories to keep our conversation light and free of talk about what I’d been up to. It was possible he assumed I never got up to anything. I’d convinced him I was a woman of very few interests: a competent dance partner, an avid listener, a terrible cook, and a willing bedmate. It’s all he seemed to want and all I had the energy to provide while balancing a counterfeit identity and an illegal pastime.
The final non-essential item I uncovered was the only photo of me I’d kept, taken on my twenty-sixth birthday, a month before the disaster that triggered my Sisyphean tumble: Madge, Wendy, Ben, and I sitting together on the bench of a picnic table, the sun shining a spotlight on our happiness. Ben’s arm rested around my waist, while Madge and Wendy leaned together, faces bright with laughter.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and tossed the mementos into a sad pile. Then, sparing energy I really couldn’t waste, I drew on my wrecked magic. A feeble spark ignited, and I wove in instructions to burn only these memories, bringing the diminutive flame dancing on my fingertips to the photo. When it was all alight, I claimed the trousers and knit sweater from the trunk and changed quickly in the bathroom. I smoothed my hair, but there was nothing to do for the tear at the corner of my mouth, which had stopped seeping but was swollen and red.
When I exited with my ruined uniform, Darren was still sitting at the table, finishing his food, as content and peaceful as though this were a routine. A casual drop-in.
“Where’s the bracelet?” I asked.
“Safe.”
“I know what you do with curses, Darren.”
With a long-suffering sigh, he produced the bracelet and tossed it to me. I caught it by a small miracle, dropping the clothes in the process.
“Would fetch a nice price. You could go anywhere.”
“This almost killed a woman. I’m sure it’s killed others.”
I considered Ms. Rosley’s children, all falling ill, dying within weeks of each other.
“All the more reason to part with it,” Darren said.
