Page 48 of Magpie
I start at the single line of text, my heart jumping into my throat as I read it no fewer than ten times. A glance at the username shows a green icon above their profile picture, a thumbnail of a witch’s hat. They’re still online. I move to clickout of the chat, ready to delete it, ready to chalk it up to a bot, when the luna key begins to thrum against my chest.
I tug at the collar of my shirt, looking inside to see the key emitting a faint green glow.
I don’t believe in coincidences. Not since Alister.
Looking back up at the screen, I pull the laptop toward myself and hover my fingers over the keyboard. The luna key continues to thrum, and my heart begins to race as I decide to follow the moth into the dark. I type a reply:
Tell me what you know.
It’s close to 10:30pm by the time I see headlights pulling into the parking lot of the diner. I study the old beat-up Cadillac, a dusty champagne gold, looking like it was ripped out of the past. I’m beginning to feel the first drips of doubt filling me as I study the car, wondering if this driver is the person I’m waiting for. This could all very well be a waste of time.
I spent some time chatting with the user, asking them an endless series of questions. I knew the luna key was leading me in this direction, but I couldn’t stop myself from making sure this person wasn’t just some internet troll. When I could no longer ignore the incessant thrum of the key, I typed out the address of the diner and asked them how soon they could get here.
The headlights click off, and I peer into the dark parking lot as the car door opens. I scowl, trying to see through the night and the smudgy windows, but it’s useless; all I can make out is the vague, shadowy outline of someone walking toward the diner.The door is as far down from me as it can be, so I don’t get my first good look until I hear the bell chime, and she steps inside.
Bubblegum-pink hair cut in a bob lines a round, youthful face. She’s wearing a stereotypical witch’s hat, her neon-blue bangs poking out from beneath and falling into her eyes. The hat matches the short black dress with the swooping bell sleeves and the spiderweb fishnets. She looks around the diner until her gaze lands on me. She breaks out into a wide smile and begins waving wildly, bangles and beaded friendship bracelets jangling on her slim wrists. She looks at me like we’re old friends.
This was definitely a mistake.
I have no chance to escape. She’s walking toward me from the only exit, that pleasant smile on her face. She leans on the red vinyl booth and says, “I’m guessing you’re MGP36?”
I grimace at my unimaginative username, but nod.
She beams even brighter, flopping into the seat across from me as she chirps, “I’m WitchyVibes4Life.”
I still don’t speak to her. If she notices my hesitation, my unease, she doesn’t mention it. She pulls her pointed black hat off, tossing it on the seat next to her as she runs her fingers through her hair. Propping her elbow over the back of the bench, she twists and looks at the waitress, holding up two fingers.
“We’ll take two slices of silk pie, Mildred, and a chocolate shake for me.”
Spinning around in the booth, all but bouncing with youthful energy and spirit, she crosses her arms in front of her, leaning on the table. She keeps smiling at me, and I keep quiet. She doesn’t press me, doesn’t even falter as I continue to sit as far back in the booth as I can get. She tilts her head, flicking her eyes up and down me, as the waitress, Mildred, arrives holding a small tray.
The girl finally pulls her gaze off mine as she beams up at Mildred and asks, “How’s Paul doing after the surgery?”
“He’s getting there,” Mildred says, setting down a few paper napkins, placing a couple forks on top.
“Did you get my flowers?” she asks, leaning back to give Mildred room to set down two massive slices of chocolate silk pie and a comically oversized milkshake, complete with a spiral dollop of whipped cream and a ripe red cherry on top.
“We did, even though you know I told you not to go to any trouble, Margaux,” Mildred says, and I quirk an eyebrow. The girl doesn’t strike me as a Margaux; that name seems far too old for someone like her.
Margaux just shrugs, unwrapping a red-and-white straw and sticking it in the milkshake. “You know it’s never any trouble.”
She and Mildred exchange a few more kind words and quippy small talk before Mildred gives Margaux’s shoulder a squeeze, telling her the pie and the shake are on the house before walking off. With nothing left to distract her, Margaux’s eyes find mine as she continues to suck up her milkshake.
“You really should try the pie. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she says, completely oblivious to the fact that I’ve remained silent and still the entire time she’s been here. She picks up a fork and scoops up a large bite, digging in as I continue to study her.
She so…bright. So cheery. Her light is infectious. There is no way she’s been to the House before. Alister would never have let her leave.
“Do you really know how to get there?” I ask, breaking my silence as she takes another sip of her milkshake.
She nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. I always know where it’s going to be.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes at her. It’s common for fans of the Wandering House to boast about their ability to sniff it out. This girl is clearly bluffing. I want to walk away, to leave thisdiner and the girl who is too bright to be in Alister’s clutches behind.
But the luna key is thrumming again.
“You sure you don’t want to try a bite?” Margaux asks, and I simply shake my head. She shrugs and pulls my untouched plate toward her. “Suit yourself.” She takes a few bites, humming a lilting song to herself that sounds oddly familiar. She holds her wrist up. Among the beaded friendship bracelets and bangles sits an ornate watch. After checking the time, she claps her hands together and says, “We need to get going.”
She stands, walking over to the counter and leaning against it as she chats with Mildred. Even the line cook walks over to give her a hug and a smile. I take my time closing my laptop and storing it back in my bag, glancing at Margaux as I do. She’s like everything bright and kind about life encapsulated into one tiny frame. Alister will eat her alive if I let her within five miles of him. Am I any better than Irina if I take this unsuspecting soul with me to the House?
