by Arden, Alys
“What? Is that bad?”
He looked to the shelf and then back to me. “No. Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling your Spektral power isn’t something as basic as dream magic. For you . . . it’s going to be something bigger.”
I tried not to scoff. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“But there’s no magic I’d ever discourage you from mastering, Adele.”
“Well, thank you, old wise one.”
He tossed a rag at me. I tossed it back.
“Fine,” he said, “I’ll dust. You make us tea.”
“Deal.”
Jars of loose teas lined the wall behind the counter. I thought we had a collection at the café, but this wall had more teas I’d never heard of than ones that I had. I pulled down a mason jar labeled Dandelion, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed the flowers.
“Good for the liver,” Chatham said, walking in from the hallway.
“It should be a bestseller in this city.”
He laughed and squeezed my shoulder. “Glad to have you back. Please don’t scare your dad like that again.”
“Glad to be back,” I said, and meant it.
In my time in purgatory, I’d thought a lot about the Daures, and Bottom of the Cup and the locator spell pointing us here, and about the witch’s book with Papa Olsin’s name on it. How they were employing two witches at once. What if . . . Chatham was a witch too?
What if one of his kids is the descendant?
I suddenly found myself hoping it was Codi. I didn’t know why; he’d just always been someone I trusted. One of the few.
I started to say something but then stopped and scooped dandelion tea into two star-shaped tea infusers.
What was I supposed to ask? Are you related to a Native American princess-witch who was in a coven with my aristocratic great-something-grand-witch?
Chatham waited patiently, which made me feel even more like I was right, like he was leading me to the water. The water. Water witch.
“Did someone read the book I gave them?” he finally asked when it was clear I was at a loss for words.
Even the totally appropriate question felt loaded with subtext, like he was looking for a way to facilitate an important discussion—start with some chit-chat about basic magic then work up to discussing the history of our intertwined witchhoods. Is that what growing up with a witch-dad would’ve been like?
“Oui. I read it six times, and I have a million questions.” I pulled the book out of my bag. I was ready to talk to anyone who might be able to help me with my dream “problem.” It was like I’d totally lost control of the magic the last couple nights. My brow scrunched as I looked at the cover. “What the heck? This isn’t the—”
“Something wrong?”
My head spun. What the hell? The book was now green, and the title was Dreamology, just like I’d originally thought.
Chatham gave me a knowing smile. “Everything okay?” He looked at Callis, who was across the room dusting the Russian nesting dolls, and then back to me, as if another presence in the room might be the reason for my shyness.
I crossed my arms. Why is this so much harder than talking to Ritha? Ritha was practically a stranger when I asked her about coven stuff. Chatham Daure has known me my entire life. Maybe that’s what made it so weird to reconcile.
A furry little head knocked against my arm. I stroked Onyx gently, which immediately calmed my anxiety.
Chatham watched me with keen interest.
“Adele, if you’re curious about your dreams, go and talk to Papa. He’s just back there in his booth. You’ll find no better source on the subject matter.”
I hesitated.
He smiled. “He had a stroke, Adele—he wasn’t abducted by aliens. I know he seems a little different now, but he’s just listening. He says he’s closer to Ma more than ever since the stroke, and that’s why he’s so quiet, because he can hear better now. Don’t be shy. He’d love a visit.”
“O-okay.” I don’t know why the idea of walking down the hall to the old man’s booth made me nervous.
Onyx leaped off the counter and padded down the corridor, as if he knew that following a cat would somehow make it easier. It did.
Jewel-toned velvet curtains lined both sides of the hallway: cobalt, chartreuse, and a burgundy that matched the shit-kickers on my feet. Papa Olsin’s curtain, a gunmetal gray, was all the way at the end. It had always been his booth. Mrs. Philly’s grape-juice-colored curtain was directly across from his and had been vacant since she passed a few years ago.
“Papa Olsin?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, which seemed appropriately psychic. And appropriately esoteric.
He sat in the muted light of a Tiffany lamp with stained-glass lilies. The booth was dark without being creepy. Shelves behind him contained a jumble of yellowed papers and quartz pendulums, but the table before him, covered by a saddle blanket, was completely bare except for a deck of tarot cards and tape recorder used to produce souvenirs for tourists.
As I sat down and said hello, my gaze was drawn to the display above the bookshelf behind him: a magnificent collection of dream catchers in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors, interlaced like a giant web, protecting Papa Olsin, the spider.
Our eyes met. “I read your book.”
“And now you want to know about twinning?”
Twinning? “I was hoping to talk to you about . . . my dreams.”
“Dreams . . .” His gaze was caring, like Chatham’s, but distant. They had similar noses too, and now that I was so close, it felt like I was looking at a future version of Codi, which instantly made me feel more comfortable. “Dreams are the mind’s way of processing the helter-skelter of the day, sorting all those thoughts, ideas, emotions, experiences—deciding what’s worthy of your long-term memory, what’s earned a key to your heart, and what goes out with the garbage. When you take a journey through your dreams, you might find things you never intended to face again, but you can also learn deeply of yourself.”
“But what if . . . what if it’s not my own dreams I’m trying to navigate?”
“In time, Addie. Dream-twinning is too advanced for you at this stage. You must start by mastering your own dreamscape before connecting with a partner’s.”
“Too late.”
He sighed and pushed the tarot deck to me. I became more nervous as I shuffled the cards—twice—and I pushed them back. He flipped the top card. The Hanged Man, reversed. “Sometimes we find someone we complement so well, the puzzle pieces can’t help but connect. Who is your other half?”
“He’s just a friend.”
“The truth, but not the whole truth.” He flipped the next card. The Four of Pentacles.
“I don’t know what he is.”
“More of the truth, but not the whole truth.”
I began to thumb through the charms hanging at my waist.
He flipped a third card. The Page of Swords. “You want to help this person.”
“No!”
His dark eyes rose to meet mine.
“I don’t want to help him. I want to help my mom.”
“And therein lies the problem, Addie. When you lie to yourself, you are closing off your heart chakra. If it’s answers you seek, you must first be willing to see the truth.”
My heart chakra felt like it was knocking against my chest. What more truth could there possibly be for a guy who threw me out an attic window?
Definitely. No. More. Truth.
“Dream-twinning only occurs in very special relationships,” Papa Olsin continued. “Love asks simple questions, which deserve simple answers, but people tend to overcomplicate matters of love.”
My stomach jolted. What? Love? “Surely there could be other reasons?”
“Surely. And usually there is magic involved.”
Of course there is.
“Entering another’s mind is a precious right, Addie. You must be gentle with his dreams. Dreams are a person’s e
verything. Their memories, their hopes, their desires, their fantasies. Dream-twinning is not for the fainthearted. It requires a level of maturity few can handle, which is why you should only dream-twin with someone who you are willing to share your entire self with. Entering the mind of another is the closest you’ll ever get to touching their soul—well, almost.” He smiled.
I was sure my face went as red as my heart chakra.
“Complete trust is required on both parts, for you might see things about each other that you never intended to share. When entering the dreamscape, everything you see is through the eyes of the dreamer. What they think, what they feel. It is their interpretation of the truth, which might not be objective.”
“Is there a way for me to have better control when we’re connecting?”
“Dream magic is not about control. It’s about letting go—letting go of the part of your mind that is analytical, the part that is critical and judgmental. If you want someone to expose their soul, you must desire it, and they must desire to share it. Few, if any, could take it from another at will.”
“How do I let go, then? How do I just open my mind?” Even as I said the words, I felt myself clamming up. Suddenly I was worried about exactly how much of myself Olsin Daure could see.
“It’s not about opening your mind, Adele. It’s about opening your heart.”
“How do I do that?”
He laughed gently. “It cannot be taught, my dear. Nor is it something that can be achieved by magic.” He smiled again. “You know, you were always Philomena’s favorite.”
“I miss her.”
“I miss her during the day.” He winked and then got up. He reached to the wall behind him and took down one of the dream catchers. It was small, about the size of my palm.
“Hang it above your crown chakra when you sleep, but be ready for whatever comes.”
“What does it do?”
“It catches your dreams, of course. It will protect you from them if you need protecting, or it will amplify them . . . if that’s what you seek.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
“You are very welcome. And, Adele, proceed with caution. If you enter someone’s mind, you can’t cherry-pick what’s presented to you. Memories are easier to navigate, but if you get caught in another’s fantasyscape . . . just remember, you entered at your own risk.” He fanned out the stack of tarot cards, pulled one from the middle, and flipped it over. Justice. “You are playing with a dangerous mind, Adele, and that is the one thing he can’t protect you from.”
“I—I know . . . I’ll be careful.”
He stood and hugged me good-bye, and I exited the curtain, feeling perhaps more confused than when I’d entered but with an overwhelming sense of calm.
Did I just tell him my mom needs help? Did we just have a conversation about Nicco? And how am I going to get Nicco to trust me if he won’t let me back in his dreamscape?
And how am I supposed to open my heart?
Isaac’s voice floated down the corridor and jolted me out of the daze—he was out front, talking to Callis. I ignored it, mentally going over everything Papa Olsin told me. I looked down at the dream catcher in my hand as the information shuffled around in my head. Did we just talk about magic?
The only thing that became more clear was that I needed to talk to Codi.
I pulled out my phone.
Adele 4:53 p.m. CODI! How’s life? Coming home from school anytime soon?
I hung back for a second, waiting to see if he’d respond and also to avoid my pending confrontation with Isaac as long as possible. Another cell phone, not mine, dinged in one of the booths nearby.
I lingered in the hallway, gazing at Mrs. Philly’s booth, and then typed another message:
Adele 4:55 p.m. I need to ask u a few things of the family-matter variety. Sorry for vague-texting. <3
Another ding.
I yanked back the grape-juice-colored curtain. It was dark inside the booth, and even darker when I dropped the curtain behind me. My pulse raced as I pecked out another message:
Adele 4:55 p.m. Codi?
A screen illuminated the pocket of a hoodie on the table.
I pulled out the phone and saw my own text message staring back at me. What the . . . ?
CHAPTER 32
Julie
My plan had been to wait outside the tearoom for Adele, but it felt stalkerish; plus it was cold. Not that it was much warmer in the shop. I buried my hands in my pockets, looking into a cabinet that contained a hundred different decks of tarot cards: fairies, sea creatures, skeletons. I didn’t know anything about tarot, but I liked the art, and it helped me focus less on the tearoom’s energy that made you feel like anyone here would know more about you than you knew about you. It was unsettling, to say the least.
Callis was behind the counter on the phone with a customer, who, from the sounds of it, was giving him a hard time. A dark-haired girl, a few years older than me, was on the other side of the room, crouching next to the shop’s black cat, petting it. She looked up and caught me staring. I glanced away, back to the skeleton cards.
The waiting was driving me nuts. I’d hoped Adele would be working alone, so I could beg her to talk to me. She’d never stayed mad at me this long. Even with Nicco locked away, we’re in a fight because of him, and it was my fault, which was twice as annoying. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut about it? It made me hate him even more. I exhaled loudly and approached the counter as Callis hung up the phone.
“Hey, Adele’s in the back with Papa Olsin,” he said. “You look tired.”
I shrugged. What’s new? “So, on a scale of one to ten, how mad at me is she?”
“Hmm . . . she didn’t want to talk about it, but she in no way let on that all was lost—and she didn’t blow anything up when I mentioned you, so definitely not a ten.”
“A grand gesture,” said the girl from across the shop.
I looked over to her. She was still petting the cat, who was now stretched out on the floor, in total heaven.
“What?” I asked her.
Callis started to repeat himself, but I waved for him to stop.
“Actions speak louder than words.” She gazed up at me. “You need a grand gesture.”
“Like what?”
“Isaac,” Callis said. “Who—?”
“Like what kind of grand gesture?” I asked. She looked familiar.
“Something that lets her know you won’t do it again. That you’ve moved on from whatever upset you enough to upset her.”
“Ohhhhh,” Callis said. “Her. Of course she’s talking to you.”
I turned to him. “Huh?”
“Nothing,” he whispered. “She never talks to me. Girls like you.”
“You do remember that my own girlfriend isn’t talking to me?”
I turned back to her, wondering if Callis was into this girl or something. “You know Adele?”
She watched me as I walked over but didn’t stop petting the cat, who looked like he might scratch my eyes out if I interrupted his massage. His ears flattened to the sides, raising the hairs on my arms. Ever since I’d come into my Air powers, I’d developed an irrational fear of cats.
“They’ll never love us in the way we want them to,” she said, scratching his head.
“Who?”
“She was a sad little girl, but now she’s strong. Now she’s la belle fille du Vieux Carré.”
“The cat?”
“Adele. They think they love us . . .”
“Who are you?”
“Sometimes love isn’t enough. She dreams of another. She told Papa Olsin.”
Jesus, this girl is weird. Of course Callis would be into her.
“You know, my friend over there—”
She stood, an intense look spreading across her face. “He’ll never get me.”
“Ha. Okay.” I looked back at Callis and shrugged apologetically.
“Never,” she said. “I’m strong.”
�
��Okay, I got it.”
“I won’t end up like Alessandro.”
“Who’s Alessandro?”
“He was my friend, but now he’s gone. It’s up to you to protect Jade, or she’s going to end up like him.”
“How do you know about—”
“Protégez la.”
“What?”
“Protégez Jade.”
“Jade’s dea—”
“Protect Jade!” Her hands hit my chest, shoving me back a few steps and making me stumble. I tried to catch her hand, but she dashed through the opening in the counter and disappeared down the hallway as I regained my balance.
What the fuck?
“What was that all about?” Callis asked. “Who’s Jade?”
“No one,” I snapped.
His eyebrow rose, but I didn’t say anything else as I walked back over. He leaned on the counter. “Well, thanks for trying.”
I appreciated him not prying further.
“I’ll have Celestina work on her. Who can resist a nine-year-old, right?”
“You’d be surprised exactly how much she can resist,” Chatham said, appearing in the hall doorway, arms crossed.
Callis stood up straight. “Chatham, can you help me choose between these two different crystals I’ve been contemplating?” He grabbed the closest two out of the glass counter case.
The way he immediately changed the subject gave me the vibe that the girl was off-limits, like she was Chatham’s daughter or niece or something. But from the slight excitement still emitting from Callis, I also got the feeling he wasn’t going to give up so easily.
Godspeed.
The cat jumped onto the counter with the kind of grace I’d grown to appreciate over recent months, trying to perfect my own swoops, and took two steps toward me.
“Meet Onyx,” Chatham said.
I sucked back my irrational fear and held out my hand. Onyx gently buried his head into it. Sometimes I wondered if other animals could sense it in me—the crow part. I liked to think they could.
“He likes you better than me,” Callis said, showing me the scratch marks across his arms.
“At least someone likes me today,” I said to the cat.
“Chatham?” The voice made my pulse pound like a freight train. Everyone turned to Adele, who was now standing in the hallway.
