by K. L. Noone
She wanted someone who’d smile back. Someone not afraid of magic. Someone like Dan, except not Dan, because Verity had never had fantasies about dating someone rich and famous; gender wouldn’t matter, but the way Dan looked at Sterling, the way Dan had looked at ghosts and psychic power and simply asked how can I help? and then stayed, true to his word and true-hearted—
She wanted that. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to stay here and impose herself on all the love. She wanted too much, and she didn’t have a name for it all.
As if summoned, Dan emerged from the study, coffee-cup in hand. He didn’t say anything, just came over to stand by her: a medium-sized dirty-blond sweatpants-clad writer who’d held a witch’s hand against the dark.
“Sorry,” Verity said. “I know you’re working. New novel.”
“I am, sort of theoretically. Actually I was answering email just now. Which is something I seem to do more and more instead of, well, the novel. Want more coffee?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m trying not to be in your way…”
“You’re not.”
“Kinda feel like I am. You used to live alone.”
“Well.” Dan glanced at Sterling’s shoes in the entryway, the scarf dangling defiantly off a chair-arm, the napping blob of ghost-puppy in sunlight on the rug. “Yes. I did.”
“Sorry on behalf of my kid brother, too.”
“No, I like it. It’s just different. Sometimes I forget it’s only been a couple of weeks. It feels like it’s always been real. Right. Something like that. I don’t have the words.”
“And you’re a writer,” Verity sighed, teasing; Dan grinned. She added, “I really will get out of here for a few hours, though. Go explore the city. Do tourist things. Give you space. I’ll come back before dinner, sound good?”
“Sure,” Dan said. “But you don’t have to.”
“No, I…” She shrugged. “I want to.”
“Ah.” Dan took a sip from his own coffee-cup. “There’s a punk-rock fashion exhibit over at the Met, I think. And Sterling says there’s a local coven hangout over at a wine bar called Divine, which apparently is a triple play on words, wine and divination and being heavenly. He doesn’t go much because people know who he is, I guess, and that gets a little weird? But he says they’re nice.”
“Yeah, it’s hard being the most gifted psychic of this generation. And also the East Coast Family Head’s son.”
“And you’re her daughter.”
“Yeah, but I’m…” She paused. Admitted, “I’m not special. Not like that. It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t know,” Dan said. “You’re here. Looking out for your brother. That’s not nothing.”
“Go write your novel,” Verity told him, but the sunbeam kissed her fingers; she discovered a smile.
She finished her coffee, pensively; she pulled on boots and jacket and exited the apartment, nodding at the building’s doorman—he nodded amiably back—and went out. New York City. Adventures. Her own choices. All day.
She ran a hand through her hair again. Felt the warmth on her head, the thrum of the world below her boots.
She went to go and find museums and punk rock. She gazed at guitars and striped trousers; she lingered to listen to the interactive concert recordings. She ducked back out and meandered around Central Park; she bought ice cream because she felt like it and kept it from melting with a murmured word. She stopped for pupusas from a street vendor; she spotted a bookshop window with an intriguing tattered copy of A Young Lady’s Guide to Herbology, which of course was Victorian polite phrasing for what was a fairly decent if old-fashioned apprentice’s magical text. She spent an enjoyable half hour browsing the shop—the owner turned out to be one of the local coven, and if the woman recognized Verity Friday’s name, no comment was forthcoming—and left with the Herbology and two other nineteenth-century botanical texts.
She wasn’t particularly a botanical specialist. She wasn’t a historian for the Family. But she liked the illustrations, delicate inky leaves and curls and seeds sprouting from creamy pages. She liked the textures and hues of the covers: time-softened, worn as old jewels, friendly to her touch. She thought that perhaps Verity Friday was someone who liked books, and stories, and touching the past.
Carrying the bag, she stepped out into blinding sunshine; she stepped directly into another person, who gasped and lost her grip on the coffee she’d been carrying.
Coffee flew. Brown liquid splashed. The woman’s briefcase plummeted and snapped open; papers scattered.
Verity dove for the papers, hissed a command at escapist pages, and gathered them up. “Here—”
Straightening up, she forgot words. The woman she’d collided with was literally the loveliest person she’d ever seen: the kind of beauty that might’ve been an artist’s muse, a sculpted goddess, a pale sunbeam given shape, a stray museum piece that’d accidentally followed someone out onto the street.
The pale sunbeam, tall and slim and distressed, touched her stained shirt, her tailored grey suit: wide light blue eyes became as huge as the sky. “I’m so sorry—are you hurt?”
“Me? I ran into you—here, these’re yours—” She attempted to offer papers again. Those blue eyes were beautiful and kind, asking whether Verity was all right; one slender hand stooped to find the emptied coffee-cup and dispose of it in a convenient trash bin.
Beautiful, kind, and considerate. Other people might’ve let that cup roll into the gutter. Verity’s person would find it and do something about it.
Verity’s person? Since when was that a thought?
The woman took the papers, and tucked them into the briefcase, and looked down at herself again: tall height and long legs and corporate polish now drenched in what’d likely been an expensive infusion of caffeine, judging from the understated elegance of her makeup and outfit.
Her eyes were a bit red, though. Tired despite skillfully applied makeup. Verity, even having just stumbled into her, could see that.
The tug of instinct beckoned. She tried again, “Sorry.”
Her person began at the same time, “I’m sorry—”
“No, I’m—” Verity gave up on this ridiculous entanglement of apologies; she gazed at the woman’s once-flawless suit, cringed internally, put out a hand to touch one sleeve. Banishing spells weren’t really possible, not without a good counterweight for the universe; this wouldn’t be serious enough to justify pulling energy out of another world-thread. Coffee stained her fingers; she winced and took her hand away. “Sorry.”
“Oh, no, I…” The woman gave a sort of helpless one-shouldered shrug: a resigned gesture. Despite the ballerina’s grace of the motion, weariness lurked like a storm on the horizon, not yet able to let go. “It’s not your fault. Please don’t worry about this.”
“What if,” Verity said, caught by the weariness, drawn in by the need, “I want to worry? Are you okay?”
Those huge blue eyes stared at her, blinked, and then welled up with hopeless laughter; coffee-splattered and shocked, poise dissolving into hysterical amusement. Other passersby glanced over, and New York sunshine skittered from glass and pavement around them; the woman put a hand over her mouth as if trying to hold back the sound, which echoed like the fraying of threads. “Oh…no, sorry, it’s just…you asking that, today, after everything…and I don’t even know you…”
Verity took her elbow. Steered her firmly out of the middle of the sidewalk. “You don’t. But I’m getting the idea that maybe I should be asking.” Something snagged her attention. Something twinkled amid the threads of the universe like glass: a splinter of wrongness, as if she’d run fingers over a smooth gleaming surface and found a thorn.
No. Not a thorn. Nothing so natural. Verity let her hand linger on the woman’s arm; and she tried not to think about how oddly right that felt, how naturally they shifted closer together, how one strand of shining white-blonde hair slid down from the woman’s tight bun and teased at length an
d silkiness.
She did think all those things. She couldn’t not. But Verity was also a witch, and good at her job; the snarl in the world wasn’t right.
She wanted to make it right.
She said, “Can I buy you another cup of coffee? I don’t have anywhere to be, do you? And my name’s Verity, by the way.”
“Oh…Amelia. Lia. Lia Burne.” One hand smoothed back that single piece of disobedient hair. “And…yes. Why not. We might as well.”
This wasn’t exactly an eager acceptance, but then again they’d only just met, and Verity had run into her and caused coffee-showers all over her and then probably been too pushy as far as protectiveness. Fair enough, then.
But Verity’s hand remained on Lia’s arm. Lia hadn’t drawn away. Their eyes met, under city sun: Verity looking up into that chilly pale blue, which was not at all unfriendly. Lia’s mouth quirked suddenly: a wry smile.
“Come on,” Verity said, and let go, not without some reluctance. She picked up her bag of books, too. “There’s a café back that way.”
Chapter 3
Over coffee, they got to know each other. Verity concluded that other coffee had been spoiled for her by Dan’s caffeine-related skills, gave up, and ordered a store specialty that involved cinnamon and caramel; Lia opted for simple and strong and black, but then eyed the sugar with a mix of longing and guilt. Steam from her oversized mug kissed her hair, and left pink in her pale cheeks; she’d peeled off her stained suit jacket, though the crimson blouse beneath would likely never be the same.
“Go on,” Verity said, about the sugar. “I won’t tell anyone.” She thought about her own appearance for a moment: shortness, battered boots, black leather, tattoos. She did not think she was unattractive, exactly—she’d always thought she had a realistic sense of all her skill sets—but she was also aware of incongruities. Stylish high heels and slim tailored pants and runway-model proportions. A suit that’d likely cost more than her entire wardrobe. That sleek blonde coil versus her own hair, which did what it wanted and held red streaks.
But she liked the red streaks. She liked her leather jacket. And she liked the woman across from her: tall and graceful and awkward when caught off guard, someone who’d forgive a coffee-drenching, and who sneakily wanted to add sugar to a darkly roasted cup.
Lia laughed, and proceeded to overwhelm bitterness with a minor blizzard of sweetness. “Sorry, I—I don’t normally bother with the sugar. But it’s been…a day. Two days, really.”
Verity nudged the sugar even more that way. “Want to talk about it?”
“Oh…I don’t know. It’s silly. And you don’t even know me.”
“I think we’re bonded by coffee, at this point?”
“It’s just…it’s felt like so much terrible bad luck, these last two days…everything keeps going wrong, as if…no, that really is ridiculous.” Lia fiddled with the sugar-infused cup, turning it in both hands. “Honestly, thank you for doing this. But you don’t have to. You must have somewhere to be.”
“Nope,” Verity said firmly. “Nowhere but here.”
“Oh.”
“And trust me, whatever you say, I’ve heard weirder. You don’t want to know some of what my little brother’s gotten up to.”
“You have a brother?” Lia took a sip. Her eyelashes were very long, and very flawlessly darkened by mascara; they’d be lighter, Verity thought, without makeup. But either way they were gorgeous. “I always thought…I thought it might be nice to have siblings. I’m an only child.”
“I’ll sell you mine if you want. Cheap. It’s a package deal, though, he comes with his boyfriend.”
“His—oh.” Lia got more pink-cheeked. This might not have been the fault of the coffee-heat. “I’m not certain I’d like two more men to take care of. I was in a meeting earlier with the senior partners and one of our biggest clients—I’m a lawyer, did I say?—and I’ve had about enough of men for a while. And. Um. As far as men—I, um. Don’t really. I mean I, ah…like…oh, God, what am I even saying, I’ve barely met you.”
Verity sorted through this for a second or two, then said, “Sometimes men are okay, a couple of my ex-boyfriends are good ones, but then again my ex-girlfriends are pretty awesome, too, and two of them even ended up marrying each other?” True, and she’d been thrilled for them. She remained friends with pretty much every ex; they tended to end on good terms, maybe in part because they’d never been much more than casual in any case.
“Oh.” Lia fiddled with the coffee again. But her smile snuck back out, unafraid, if rueful. “This might not be the absolute strangest first conversation I’ve ever had with someone, but it’s definitely up there.”
“Hey, you’ve had a strange day. Or days. Tell me about it?”
“Why would you want to know?”
“Oh, okay, you are a lawyer,” Verity said, into her coffee.
“I don’t mean it like that. I just mean…you don’t know me. And you’re so…”
“What?”
“Um. Nothing. Never mind. I’m a disaster right now.” Lia sighed again. Even mild despair became poetic. “I might as well tell you. This day can’t get any more uncomfortable.” But one hand drifted away from the coffee-mug, rested on the old wood of the table, lay like an invitation: in need of that comfort, or simply wanting Verity’s own hand to reach out as well.
Verity, meeting those pretty water-topaz eyes, felt that wanting, too. A quirk of fate, a tug at the strands of the universe, and the scent of coffee. And sweetness streaking down her spine.
“It started yesterday,” Lia said. “I’m…normally I’m good at my job. That sounds arrogant, but I am. I work for McKillop and Stone—” She said this as if it should mean something; Verity, mystified, tried to pretend it did.
Lia gave her that endearing wry smile again. “Sorry. Legal firm. Corporate real estate. Anyway, yesterday I’d left a negotiation over zoning restrictions, and it went well for us, but then almost the second I left the room, everything started going wrong. Stupid petty little kinds of wrong, like the worst bad luck ever. Leaking pens, late trains, frozen computers, people I needed to talk to suddenly getting sick and being out of the office…I lost an earring, though that was a few days ago, and at least I found it again yesterday…the heel snapped off my favorite pair of blue Lilah London boots, and if you can explain how that happened, I’ll buy you coffee for the next year. I love those boots. Anyway, I was leaving early today; nothing was going right, and someone made a joke about me being cursed, and of course that wasn’t serious but I thought maybe I should give up for the day.”
Verity had vaguely heard of the brand. Lia clearly existed in a world in which people could afford their boots. “Did anything odd happen before that? In the negotiation. Or when you were leaving.”
“You mean aside from my supposed partner spending the entire time glaring at me? No, and Kermit does that anyway. He thinks he deserves the promotion the senior partners keep waving at us.”
“I’m guessing he doesn’t.”
Lia waved a hand. “He’s not a terrible lawyer, but he’s lazy. Sloppy. Likes to take credit for other people’s work. Plus he keeps trying to hit on me.”
“He deserves to be named Kermit.”
“He really does.”
“So, after that…”
“Everything’s been…well, spilled coffee and tripping over strangers. Only this time I don’t know whether it was bad luck, exactly.” Her other hand still lay on the table like temptation, like wistfulness. “Though maybe it was for you. If I’ve interrupted your day.”
“Actually,” Verity said, and reached out, and gathered those long slender fingers into her own, “I’m thinking it was good luck for me. Or not luck at all.”
“What does that mean?”
She’d said it without thinking, but the words felt honest. She drew a breath, let it out.
She felt Lia’s hand in hers, willing and warmed by the touch. She felt the threads like a tapestry, the way sh
e’d always felt magic: cozy and rich and woven like layers of earth and stone, solid but not motionless, sturdy and strong. She wouldn’t ever be a flashy flamboyant sorcerer, and she wouldn’t be Sterling, with those crackling clairvoyant gifts. But she knew how to support, how to protect; she knew when the world was right, and when it wasn’t.
She thought, right now, that Lia’s hand felt right. That the crooked splinter of spikiness was the opposite. That she could fix it, maybe, or find some help who could.
Not luck, she thought. A gift. Being in the right place. Protection.
She said, “Would you trust me, if I said I might be able to help?”
“Yes,” Lia said, and then paused; surprise echoed in the skies of that gaze. “I don’t know why. But yes.”
“Okay,” Verity said. “I think you should come home with me. Um. Not home, I mean, my brother’s apartment. Where I’m staying.”
Lia’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not like that! I mean…I think I can help. I’m pretty sure I can. But I’d rather try it someplace with—” With mystical protections? No. “—um, less public. That’s not helping, is it?”
“Not really.” But Lia was smiling. “I get that you’re not hitting on me, but what do you think you could do that we couldn’t do here?”
“Who says I’m not hitting on you? And…” She couldn’t think fast enough. No good other excuse. And those cool blue eyes were evaluating her: interested, not unkind, but sharpening a little more with each second.
She gave up, gave in, threw herself on the mercy of the universe. “This’ll sound crazy. But you said yourself it sounded like a curse. And you said it’s been two days. And that doesn’t sound normal to me.”
Lia watched her, waiting.
“That sounds,” Verity said, “like magic.”
“Magic.”
“It’s real.”
“And you know about it.”
“I’m a witch,” Verity said levelly. Lia’s tone had been carefully neutral, no indications in any direction. “I’m good at what I do. And something’s not right, and I don’t think it’s your fault, and I do think maybe I can fix it. Or my brother can.”
