Page 18 of Magpie
The shadows stretch across the pavement. Nearly the whole day passes, and I am no closer to being able to make myself move. A small stream of customers filters in and out of the shop. Some stay for quite a while; others pop in and out, excitedly looking over their purchases. Everyone who leaves seem lighter for their time inside, like some great burden has been lifted from their shoulders.
According to the website, the store closes at sundown, and one glance at the sky shows that time is rapidly approaching. The last customer to walk in leaves, a large brown paper bag held at their side and a contented smile on their face. The first blooms of darkness are just beginning to win out over the setting sun, and I can wait no longer.
Swallowing hard, I pull the hood of my jacket up and walk resolutely across the street. My hands are shaking, and I ball them into fists at my sides as I try to keep my breathing even.
The bell chimes, alerting her of my entrance, and I can’t help but jump at the sound. The smell of lavender and sage wraps around me and tries to settle the tension in my shoulders. A water fountain splashes softly in the corner, filling the store with a faint rainlike sound. Crystals of all types and sizes are scattered around the room on various tables and shelves, glittering like twinkling stars in the night sky.
I aimlessly wander around, walking into another room, leading myself deeper into the store. I have no idea what I’m going to say when I see her, no idea what I’ll do if she’s not who I think she is.
I hear her moving about, and I follow the sound. I try to not feel like a predator stalking her, like the killer he turned meinto. This room is full of dark wood and the smell of leather and incense. Books line the shelves on the walls, interspersed with bottles of liquid, beaded necklaces with blue-eyed pendants, and dried herbs.
“We’ll be closing soon,” a soft voice calls out from the back of the store.
My heart races, my throat tight, as I turn toward the voice. One shaky foot in front of another, I come to a stop in the middle of the room. A table sits nestled in a corner, covered in a glittering green cloth. A large crystal ball is the centerpiece, the milky white sphere winking at me in the gentle light. A chill slips down my spine as I am consumed with thoughts of that cursed attic, on that fateful night.
Movement catches my eye, and I turn to find her standing with her back to me, dusting the top of a shelf that she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach. She is humming a gentle tune to herself, seeming completely at ease.
“Did you need help finding anything?” she calls over her shoulder, continuing to dust the shelf. The dust glitters and winks in the fading light of the sun as it shines through the window, making her look wrapped in magic.
“I’m looking for the Bird of Fortune,” I say, my voice soft, barely carrying across the room.
She hears, and instantly freezes, a perfect statue captured in the snare of my words. Time seems to stop between us, the falling of the dust the only movement in the room. That, and my rapidly rising and falling chest. My breaths have become chaotic and uneven at her reaction to my words.
It’s her.
Slowly, with the caution of a cornered animal, she plants her feet firmly on the ground, dropping the duster as her arms fall to her sides. We both ignore the duster rolling across the floor as she turns and locks eyes with me, and I watch the color drainfrom her face. Her doe eyes grow wider as she places a trembling hand over her heart. She sees the darkness in me, and she knows only too well who it is attached to.
Pulling my hood down, I hold her gaze. Every ounce of my being is screaming that I do not belong in this place, so free and unburdened by the vileness that sings in my veins. Swallowing hard, I refuse to retreat, refuse to run from this.
The silence lingers between us, the tension in the room rising. I am just beginning to gather myself, to speak, when she cuts me off with a soft, but no less harsh whisper.
“Get out.”
It sounds like a scream in the resounding silence.
“No, please, let me explain,” I plead, taking a step forward. I cannot go back out there, into the night where I know he is waiting.
Moving closer to her proves to be a very big mistake.
“Get out!” she shrieks, grabbing a large black crystal from the shelf behind her and brandishing it over her head like a weapon. She storms toward me, and I take a faltering step back. She does not stop, rounding on me in a few quick strides. Grabbing my arm, she begins to drag me out of the store, ignoring me as I cry and plead with her, my words a jumbled mess as they tumble out of my mouth.
“Please, just listen to me—please,” I beg, my voice catching on a sob as she opens the door and tosses me out. I turn just in time, sticking my foot through the doorframe and stopping her from slamming it in my face. I wince as she crushes my foot, pushing all her weight against the door.
“I will call the police,” she growls, trying to kick my foot out of the way. “Get the fuck off my porch and never come back here. I want nothing to do with him.”
“Neither do I!” I shout, the words echoing around us.
A beat. Two. Then the pressure on the door eases up.
“Just give me a moment,” I say, slinging my backpack off my shoulder and opening it. I rummage around, my pulse pounding in my ears as I search for my notebook. Opening it, I flip to the back to find the newspaper clippings and grab the darker, aged piece, holding it out to her with shaky hands.
She looks at me, never once flicking her fierce eyes to the paper outstretched between us. As she meets my desperate gaze, she falters for just a moment. I see my chance, and I don’t waste it. I take a cautious step forward.
“You got away from Alister.” It is not a question, and we both know it. “I need to know how you did it.”
Holding my breath, I wait, the cool evening air swirling around me. It doesn’t bother me, because I am far colder. The sun is all but down, making its final effort to light up the sky as we stand in silent battle.
The door creaks open, and she leans forward, grabbing the paper like it’s a poisonous snake, as though she’s afraid it will bite. I study her just as intently as she studies the clipping. She looks exactly as she did in the old advertisement. She might not be clothed in feathers and fashion from a bygone time, but time hasn’t touched her. Her eyes are just as big as they were inked on the page, and she’s looking at me now like she’s staring into my soul, if I even still have one.
