“I think…”
Several of them tried to answer the question, but none of them managed it, as if their memories had been stolen.
Scarlett debated voicing what she’d whispered to Julian, about the possibility that the Fates were waking up and Poison was actually the Poisoner, but this family had been through enough. They didn’t need to be terrified by Scarlett’s suspicions.
“We’d ask you to stay and dine with us,” said the fatherly looking man. “But I don’t think any of us will be eating after this.”
“That’s all right,” Scarlett said. “We’re just glad we could help.”
She and Julian let everyone embrace them once again before they returned to the carriage. If this scene really was the work of a Fate, they needed to warn—
“Wait!” cried the youngest girl with the braids. She tore across the grass. Scarlett thought she may have come to give Julian a kiss good-bye, but she ran up to Scarlett instead. “I want to give you a gift for stopping to help us.” The girl solemnly reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out an ugly key covered in greenish-white rust and scratches, the color of buried secrets that should not have been dug up.
“That’s all right,” Scarlett said. “You keep it.”
“No,” the girl insisted. “There’s more to this key than just how it looks. It’s like how my family was when you drove by. I don’t know what it does, but I found it this morning, on the edge of the well. One moment, nothing was there, and then it appeared. I think it’s magic, and I want you to have it, because I think you’re magical too.”
The girl handed her the gift.
Scarlett might have teared up, this child was so precious.
“Thank you.” She enclosed the key in her palm.
It wasn’t until after Scarlett stepped into the carriage and looked at it again that she noticed the object had transformed from an aged piece of rust to a crystalline key that glittered like stardust and bewitchment.
10
Donatella
Tella’s limbs were shaking and her eyes were bleary by the time she neared the boardinghouse. Slipping between worlds had left her feeling like a damp sheet of paper that had been wrung out by rough hands.
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Tella didn’t know how much time had passed while she’d been away. From all the rumpled festival streamers and the number of sweets melted in the streets, she’d wager she’d been gone for hours. Children who’d been running around with sun-shaped pinwheels earlier were now asleep in the arms of tired parents, young ladies who’d been wearing simple gowns had changed into sleeker sheaths, and a new round of merchants had taken over the streets. Celebrations were dying and starting up again, coming back to life for the endless night of festival sunshine.
Tella was beyond late to meet Scarlett.
Her steps slowed as she entered the aging boardinghouse. She didn’t want to see Scarlett’s disappointment. She felt terrible that she’d let her down and failed to keep her promise. But Tella didn’t regret following Legend—it was good for her to finally see him when he had no idea she was watching. She probably should have tracked him down in real life weeks ago, but she’d liked the dreams too much. He was so close to perfect in the dreams. And maybe that had been the point. In dreams, Legend was someone she wanted—someone she cared and worried about—but in real life, he was someone that no one should trust.
Tella eased the door open and slowly stepped into a room heated with trapped sunshine.
“Scar,” she tried, hesitant.
“Donatella … is that you?” The question was barely a whisper, so soft it felt closer to a thought, and yet the voice was unmistakable, familiar—even though Tella had only heard it once in the past seven years.
She ran into her mother’s room and immediately crashed to a halt at the sight of her mother sitting up in the bed.
The world stopped. The outside noises from the festival vanished. The shabby apartment faded.
Kisses on eyelids. Locked jewelry boxes. Giddy whispers. Exotic perfume bottles. Stories at night. Grins in daylight. Enchanted laughter. Lullabies. Cups of violet tea. Secretive smiles. Drawers full of letters. Unspoken good-byes. Fluttering curtains. The scent of plumerias.
A hundred misplaced memories resurfaced, and every single one appeared bloodless and insubstantial compared to the miraculous reality of Tella’s mother.
Paloma looked like a slightly older version of Scarlett, although her smile lacked Scarlett’s gentleness. When Paloma’s lips curved they were just as they had been in the Wanted poster Tella had seen for Paradise the Lost. It was the same enchanting and enigmatic smile that Tella remembered practicing when she was a little girl.
“Why am I not surprised that you look as if you just came out of a fight?” Paloma’s smile wavered but her voice was the sweetest sound that Tella had ever heard.
“It was only with a rosebush.” She flung herself toward the bed and pulled her mother into a hug. She didn’t smell the same way Tella remembered—the sweet scent of magic cleaved to Paloma—but Tella didn’t care. She pressed her head into her shoulder as she clung tightly to her mother’s softness, perhaps a little too ferocious.