On my way out, I passed Sophie in the corridor, wringing her hands.
“How did it go?”
“Well, really well, I think.”
“Is he moving here?” Sophie demanded and I just laughed, shrugging a shoulder.
“I can’t say. That’s for him to talk about it, if he chooses to.”
“Damn it.” Sophie stomped a foot.
“You’re so nosey,” Matthew drawled, coming out of the door of the library with the dogs at his feet.
“You’re my best friend. You’re not allowed to keep secrets from me,” Sophie complained, putting her hands on her hips.
“Fine, drama queen. Think this old pile of bricks can fit my wardrobe?”
Sophie screamed and launched herself at Matthew, throwing her arms around his neck. The dogs went ballistic, barking as they raced in circles, and Hilda came running down the hallway.
“What’s going on?”
“Matthew’s going to move here!” Sophie cried.
Hilda joined the hug and the three bounced in a circle in the hallway.
A bellow filled the hallway, causing me to duck my head, just before Clyde jumped out of a wall at the end of the corridor and barreled toward us.
“Clyde, no!” Sophie shrieked and then he trampled right over the three of them, mooing with joy.
“Damn it, he’s icy,” Matthew complained, rubbing his hands up and down his arms.
“He just wants to be part of the fun,” Sophie sighed.
A wailing “moo” of agreement came through the walls, and we all laughed.
I laughed all the way down the path toward my car, happy that once again, I was able to give a meaningful reading that actually helped people. It was beginning to look like returning to Loren Brae was exactly the decision I needed to make to really step into my powers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIORA
Another week flew by, and when I saw the text message from my sister—an invite for tea after my shift on Sunday—guilt assuaged me. I’d been neglecting her, caught up with Torin and my new chartweaving powers, and hadn’t responded to many of her messages. I was being a bad sister, and I knew it, but for some reason I just wanted to keep what Torin and I had to myself. I knew that as soon as I put it under Zara’s microscope, she’d show me all the cracks.
By the time I reached Zara’s flat, my stomach was doing somersaults that had nothing to do with the half-eaten bacon roll I’d inhaled on the walk over.
“This is fine,” I muttered to myself as I juggled a bakery box and my handbag. “Just a wee sister chat. Tea. Cake. Maybe a light scolding.”
I knocked and the door swung open.
“You’re late,” Zara said.
That was the first bad sign.
Normally she opened with “Hi,” or “Mitch, who’s here?” Today, her brown eyes were narrowed, her dark hair scraped back into a tight plait and her mouth was a tight line.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I said. “But I brought sweets.”
“Then, of course, you may enter.”