Page 157 of Cherish

“We tried knocking,” Macy tells her.

The Curator raises a brow. “And your standard response to someone not answering your knock is to walk into their home anyway?”

“I’m sorry,” I interject before the sharpness in her gaze—and her tone—skewers my cousin straight through. “But we really need to speak with you about the Bittersweet Tree.”

Her infinite outer-space gaze switches to me. “I understand that you are worried about your friend. I can see his situation is dire, but he still has time. I, on the other hand, do not. Please, show yourselves out.”

And with that, she sweeps back into her inner sanctum, the bookcase/door swinging shut behind her.

“Looks like we blew that,” Macy tells me with a giant sigh. “So what do we do? Just wait for her to emerge?”

“I guess so,” I answer. But even as I say it, I’m walking toward the bookcase. “This is kind of like the door to your secret passage, right? There has to be a way to trigger it from both sides.”

“You’re not actually thinking about going in there, are you?” Macy asks, eyes wide. “After she just looked like she was one step from smiting us?”

“Gods don’t smite demigods,” I tell her with an airy wave of my hand. I have no idea if that’s true, but I’m choosing to believe it is.

“Yes, well, do they smite witches? Or humans?” Heather counters, making an are-you-serious face at me. “Considering we aren’t all demigods here.”

“You make a good point.” Still, I can’t help myself from pulling books off the bookshelf one at a time, just to see if the door will swing open again. It doesn’t.

“Hello?” Heather waves a hand in front of my face. “Didn’t you just say I made a convincing point about the smiting?”

“I did.” I reach for a hot-pink coffee-table book about rock bands and lean it forward. Nothing happens.

“So why are you still trying to open that damn door?” she asks, exasperated.

I pull out another book, this one about Beatles lyrics.

“Because we’re out of time,” Macy answers, and that really says it all. They share a look, and then they both start pulling books out with me.

After finishing the first three shelves, I squat and start pulling books off the second two shelves. There’s got to be a way into that damn room, and I’m determined to find it.

“We could ask Hudson to poof the bookshelves,” Macy suggests. “Although that would end in a definite smiting of someone.”

“What if she reallyisbusy, with some god-level stuff?” Heather asks, but she continues tugging on more books. “I mean, we don’t even know what god things she does. She could be saving a village from a volcano right now.”

At that moment, the door swings open again, and internally I crow in triumph. I must have found the right book—until I realize that the Curator is standing over me, glaring. “Yes, Grace. Maybe she really is busy,” she says in a very annoyed voice.

“I know you’re busy. I’m sure whatever you do takes a lot of time—”

“Takes a lot of time?” she repeats, brows raised. “Is that what you want to call it? How many people are there in the world, Grace?”

“Almost eight billion, I think.”

“Actually, more than eight billion now. There are more than eight billion people on this planet, and I have to watchevery single one of themand decide what matters and what doesn’t. So yes, Grace, I’m a little busy.”

“You watch all of us? All the time?” Macy sounds equal parts fascinated and horrified.

“‘All the Time’ is a song by Barry Manilow—1976,” she says, and she doesn’t sound angry anymore—just exhausted. “But yes, I do this job as close to all the time as I can manage.”

It sounds impossible. Not to mention absolutely miserable.

And a little invasive, if I’m being honest. My eyes widen. Was she watching me decide between my purple heart underwear and the ones with little bunnies on them this morning?

“What kind of god are you?” Heather asks, one eyebrow raised. “’Cause I’ll be honest, I’m not comfortable with the idea of you having watched me shower this morning.”

The god in question narrows her eyes on Heather, and I move a step closer.

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