She was worried the harmlesssheepwould get me? Not the aggressive unicorn?
“That must have been terrifying for you, running into a sheep,” I said, half-sarcastically.
“It was! It slammed its giant hard head into my boob. And it knocked me down. I almost died.”
How could a sheep reach her boob? She was short, but not that short. Did she bend over? My head throbbed just thinking about it.
“Where were you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m...” I twisted the feather between my thumb and forefinger. “Better. Is there a way in this time period, in our circumstances, to easily transfer a photograph to another person on another continent?”
“You want to send someone a picture? Like a selfie?”
I wasn’t sure what a selfie was, so I answered the first question and ignored the second. “Yes.”
“You have a phone, right?”
I nodded, retrieved it from my bag, and handed it to her.
“People don’t really smile anymore. And duck lips are out. You just kind of pose trying to look hot and like you don’t care, but also make sure you do care and tuck and angle for your best features.” She aimed the phone at me.
“I don’t want a photograph of me.” I dug through my bag, and into the case file. I pulled out the shadowy photograph of the man in front of the museum. “I want to send this.”
“Oh, okay.” She took the photograph from me, set it on the bed, and hovered the phone above. She clicked the screen and showed me the result. “There. Good to go. Who do you want to send it to?”
“My mom.”
Imogen paled.
“She can help. And as I said before, she won’t hurt you,” I said.
My reassurance seemed to do nothing to ease Imogen’s discomfort.
“We don’t even have to mention that you’re helping me,” I told her.
Imogen smiled. “Perfect.”
She showed me how to send the digital version of the photograph, then I waited for my mother to respond.
Three dots appeared on the screen. They disappeared.
I texted to her:This is Cornelius Kurnbottom.
She didn’t respond, which wasn’t entirely surprising since she said she’d needed time. Perhaps she would look through old receipts at the magic shop to jog her memory. Or perhaps she wouldn’t remember him at all. The thought made me itchy.
“What’s our next move?” Imogen asked.
I hadn’t entirely decided that part yet. In the competition to solve this case, we were easily a day behind Silas. We needed to go through the steps weshouldhave taken yesterday, and we needed an edge.
“There are two of us,” I said. “So we’re taking a two-prong approach, if you’re willing.”
Imogen nodded. “I’m here to help.”
“Good. I need you to go to the library. There’s something going on with this Cornelius guy, and we need to figure out what. That’s your job.”
“I don’t know anything about using the library. Do I need a card? Do I need to know the Dewey Decimal System? BecauseI don’t.”
“You’ll be fine. I will provide a written list of instructions. When you step through the portal, a risi will greet you. He’ll look like a tall, thin, hairless man.”