Page 78 of Persephone's Curse
“Atnight?” I said.
“That’s perfect,” Clara said.
“It’s kinda late,” I mumbled.
“As close to the witching hour as possible,” Maybe said. “Do you have candles? Salt? Olive oil? A Swiffer WetJet?”
“A Swiffer—what?”
“Yes,” Clara said. “All of the above.”
“Perfect. Less for me to carry,” Maybe said.
“Do you want, like, money?” I asked.
“The reward of helping a bunch of neighborhood kids summon their first demon is enough,” Maybe said. “And also, two hundred dollars.”
“Done,” Clara said.
“We aren’t summoning ademon,” I said.
“Hopefully not,” Maybe said, flashing a smile so bright I felt exposed by it.
“Sheiscute,” Clara said when we’d left, back out into the unnatural cold, scarves wrapped around our necks and half-covering our mouths, so we had to lean in close to hear each other. “Did you see her boots? Original nineties Flower Floral Sienna Miller Docs.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”
“Bernie will,” Clara said, spirits undampened.
“Why do you think she needs salt and olive oil?”
“Maybe séances make her hungry.”
“Are we sure this is the right thing?”
“You’re always so concerned with that, you know. Therightthing, thewrongthing. It’s impossible to make that declaration in the moment. You can only do thebestthing. Make thebestdecision.”
“And this is…”
“This is the best decision. This is us, trying.”
“Trying to bring Henry back.”
“Trying to save the world,” Clara said, her eyes darting upward, to where the black tear sliced through the gray sky, a tangible portent of doom.
“I’m not feeling great,” Mom said later, after dinner. I was helping her clean dishes, rinsing them and slotting them into the dishwasher.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just feel this… Like a weight, almost.”
“A weight…”
“Is it strange outside? The cold? I know it’s winter. It just feels a little strange.”
“Strange…”
“I’m sounding silly, I know,” she said, taking a sip from her glass of red wine. “I just have the oddest feeling. The oddest sense of…déjà vu, I guess you could call it.” She turned to face me, setting her wineglass back on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
