47
Keane leads me behind a screen and into a room that houses a collection of what must amount to hundreds of gowns—all of them hanging from the sort of racks you’d expect to find in a dry cleaner from the future.
“Ace this test and you’ll be wearing one of those in no time.”
I glance between him and rows of fancy dresses that look more like costumes. “Is that a nod toThe MatrixorAlice in Wonderland?” I gesture toward his T-shirt. It’s black and fitted with a picture of a white rabbit with a pocket watch hanging from its neck.
Kean looks down with a grin. “Just a reminder,” he says, shoulders casually lifting, his voice traced with the hint of a laugh.
“A reminder of…” I shoot him an expectant look, hoping he won’t think I’m being too nosy.
“To not take myself too seriously,” he says. “And to always remember, the best moments happen to those who are willing to take the trip down the rabbit hole.”
I take a moment to consider his words.
“Just try to stay open to the journey,” he says, “and you’ll see some amazing things. I promise you that. But for now, Charlotte is going to help you get fitted.”
Charlotte greets me with the sort of expectant wide grin that reaches all the way to her eyes and sends a flush of pink sprawling across a complexion so white, it practically blends into her thick mane of oatmeal-colored strands. She has a laid-back demeanor that instantly puts me at ease, and if I had to pick one word to describe her, I’d choose “cozy.” She’s just one of those people who radiates a caring, nurturing, maternal vibe.
And for one fleeting moment, the sight of her makes me miss my own mom so much it sends a shuddering breath up my throat. Until I realize that what Iactuallymiss is the long ago version of my mom—the one who tucked me into bed, wiped away tears, and on nights when the sky was clear, would sit with me out back so we could marvel at the everchanging faces of the moon.
The mom I used to have, before my dad left.
I shake away the thought and focus on Charlotte. She’s dressed in a crisp white blouse worn under a plain gray smock that visibly strains against the abundant mound of her chest, and as she dips into a curtsy the soles of her sensible white sneakers squeak so loudly, she bursts into an infectious fit of giggles that gets me laughing as well.
“I shall help you,” she says, her accent so thick and notably French, I find myself wondering how she found her way to the island. But remembering Jago’s warning against asking those sorts of questions, I settle for dressing in silence.
She helps me into a stretchy black one-piece, then escorts me onto the stage where I stand awkwardly before the four of them, having no idea what I’m supposed to do.
“Pull her hair back,” Hawke says. “Nothing fancy. A simple ponytail will do.”
As Charlotte loops a rubber band around my hair, Keane asks, “How’re you feeling?”
“Good,” I say. “I mean, I’m not really sure what—”
“Turn around,” Keane instructs, so I do, only to find a table with a series of objects arranged across the top.
A deck of cards.
An elaborate gold frame.
A bejeweled leather sheath.
And…a riding crop?
I glance between my audience and the objects displayed before me, unsure how I’m supposed to proceed.
“We’ll go in order,” Hawke tells me. “Starting from the left.”
I reach for the deck of cards and hold them facedown on my palm.
“Choose one,” Hawke says.
I cast a dubious look at the cards. Last time I did this, it didn’t turn out so well. The thought of doing it again sets my insides into a twist.
“Sooner the better,” he says, making a rolling motion with his hand.
A hazy memory of my dad slips into my head, but before it can fully take root, I shake it away. From the moment I stepped inside Arcana, it was like a circuit got tripped in my brain. And now, after years of blocking his memory, nearly every strange thing I encounter reminds me of him.