Chapter 2 – A Night at the Theater
From nearly the first page, The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle was, to Miriam, very worth the effort she’d gone through to claim it.
She devoured the book completely over the course of the afternoon, curled up in her cozy armchair, her favorite, spicy cinnamon candies within easy reach. Every vibrant image, every clever turn of phrase, and especially every salacious innuendo propelled her eyes across the pages at breakneck speed with a desperation to know: what happened next? Beautiful, talented Madam L’Belle stormed her way through a twisting narrative of intrigue, commanding Miriam’s full attention and admiration as easily as the multitude of suitors vying for her hand. She was a woman made of thunder who brought men to their knees.
Miriam grinned broadly with every one of Emerald’s early conquests, vicariously triumphant, until her path collided with that of a handsome viscount from far-away lands. His mysterious history and supernatural bearing drew Emerald in—and then what? He eluded her charms, only for her to manipulate their reunion—and then what? Miriam held her breath as—just as she’d predicted—the viscount revealed he was, in fact, not even human. Even the indomitable Emerald L’Belle nearly swooned when confronted with his full, demonic form! And yet, it intrigued her. This creature’s misshapen but muscular physique stirred her in ways no mere human ever could…
Miriam turned the page to the illustration she had happened on that morning and shivered. It meant so much more now put to context, and she lapped up the rest of the novel’s erotica-fueled exploits, blushing all the while.
When Miriam reached the end, she closed the book, took a deep breath, and thought, Thank goodness Odelia worked today, followed by, Crap, I forgot to buy flour!
By the time Odelia returned from work, Miriam had supper waiting. She regaled her roommate with tales from that morning, which Odelia endured very politely. Then they tidied up, and as was usually the case Odelia settled in to listen to her radio shows while Miriam retreated to her room for the night.
She ended up re-reading several chapters of the book, just to convince herself they truly had been committed to paper. If any book was going to ruffle the feathers of a sixteenth century Puritan like Irene, it would certainly be this one; even Miriam, long-time admirer of Darby’s work, felt herself blushing the second time. More than once she stopped to listen to Odelia in the next room, paranoid that somehow she would be able to hear the scandalous words leaping off the page.
Long after she should have turned in, Miriam finally put the book down and curled up in bed. Even then she couldn’t sleep at first; she kept replaying the images from the book in her mind, setting her imagination to the task of filling in every gap left by Darby’s suggestive and intentionally vague drawings. She closed her eyes and tried to picture what it would be like, confronted by a creature of such ancient power as the demon viscount. To resist at first, as Emerald had, only to give in. To have warm, smooth hands gliding over every part of her body, knowing each curve and crevice with unparalleled intimacy. To have such a sublime creature not only pay her notice, but pay her worship—Miriam simmered with the possibilities.
If only, she thought, but for the moment she only had her imagination to satisfy her, her own two hands and her own body. At least she knew how to make the most of that.
***
By morning, Miriam had channeled all her emboldened energy into its new avenue: Darby’s hearing.
She dressed and went with Odelia to the local phone company branch, where both worked as daytime operators. She managed not to stay for very long; though her supervisor was a humorless woman, Miriam had worked so steadily and efficiently for so long that she managed to negotiate one more morning off. With good lucks from Odelia—and a flurry of whispered speculation from her coworkers—Miriam left again and made her way straight to the courthouse.
Miriam was well-acquainted with the old building. As she stepped inside into the cavernous foyer, she couldn’t help but remember the first time her father had brought her. The tapping of her shoes echoing off the tiled floor made her feel ten years old again, her father’s hand huge and warm around hers. As she strode forward, an eldery bailiff even tipped his hat to her in recognition. She managed a small, embarrassed smile and hurried on.
Finding the courtroom where Darby was to be arraigned was not difficult, as a group of reporters had gathered just outside to finish their cigarettes. There weren’t quite as many of them as Miriam thought the affair deserved, but her attention to them didn’t last long anyway; a handful of women stood off to the side, whispering anxiously about the impending hearing, and among them was the woman Miriam had met at Quigley’s the day before.
That morning had been such a flurry of excitement that Miriam was embarrassed to admit she hadn’t paid the woman nearly as much attention as she deserved. A “friend” of Darby T. Fairchild who shared an interest in historic texts? Already she was leaps ahead of Georgie in terms of Darby’s acquaintances, as far as Miriam was concerned. Her features were very soft, with large, round brown eyes, her face delicately framed by dark curls. She wore a modest dress with a belt and large buttons that ran up one side, all stark white that shone brilliantly against her bronze skin.
Miriam wasn’t known for noticing things like that, but even she had to admit the woman was lovely. But it was when she turned and spotted her that Miriam’s heart gave a thump: those large eyes grew wider still, and a smile tugged at her full lips, as if she had been waiting for Miriam all along and was thrilled to see her.
Of course she’s waiting for me—I told her to come, Miriam thought. She swallowed, unused to anyone being quite that happy to greet her. Don’t think anything about it. She picked up her pace to lessen that awkward approach to as short a span as possible.
“Miriam, good morning,” the woman greeted. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Oh,” said Miriam, though she then quickly sucked in a breath. “Yes. You, too.” A moment of clumsy terror reminded her that she didn’t remember her name, and she blurted out, “I’m sorry, but your name was…?”
“Naomi,” she said, without any hint of disappointment that Miriam hadn’t remembered, thank goodness. She held out her hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself better yesterday. I was a bit…out of sorts.”
“No. Um.” Miriam shook her hand and marveled at how smooth her skin was. “Sorry. I was, too.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s get our seats.”
She marched into the courtroom, and Naomi followed close behind. A few people were seated already—a larger than usual number of court lookiloos among those supporting their arrested friends and family. Already an old man stood before the judge, entering his not guilty plea on some minor charge. Miriam picked a bench as close to the front as was available, and once she and Naomi were seated she took a moment to scan those gathered. Her gaze fell almost immediately on the matted white curls of Irene Usher seated in the next bench over.
Hateful old crone, Miriam thought, glaring daggers into the woman. Of course she has nothing better to do.
She continued to stare openly until Irene finally noticed her and looked over. Irene turned her nose up at her and made the sign of the cross. Miriam bristled, already working on what she would say once she had the chance.
The other women and reporters filtered into the room and found seats. There was a great air of curiosity among the small crowd, more so than the outrage and concern that Miriam thought was deserved. At last the previous detainee was finished, and after a short break for the judge to shuffle his papers, the bailiff stepped forward.
“Calling Mr. Darby T. Fairchild,” he declared.
It had not escaped Miriam’s notice that Darby himself was not yet in the courtroom. Everyone turned in their seats to scan the room, and a quiet murmur arose. The judge looked up from his papers and the bailiff called Darby’s name again. Just as confusion began to make way for impatience, the doors opened with a flourish. Darby, dressed in an impeccable three piece suit, strode confidently down the aisle while his attorney, a portly gentleman in tweed, followed behind with briefcase in hand.
Miriam clenched her hands around her purse strap. Nothing will happen to him, she told herself firmly. Look, he’s not worried at all. Then Naomi touched the back of her palm, and she was so surprised it broke her tension for a moment. She glanced to Naomi next to her, and the reassuring smile being fixed on her made her blush again. She took a deep breath and faced forward.
“Please accept my apologies, your honor,” said Darby as he took his place before the judge. “I had a devil of a time locating the right courtroom.”
The crowd began to murmur all over again, which the judge silenced with a long, sweeping glare of the gallery. He then motioned to the bailiff, who shook himself from a momentarily starstruck look to read the charges. “Mr. Fairchild, you are charged with possession of obscene material of no artistic value, and with the sale of that material. Are you prepared to enter your plea?”
“Indeed I am,” said Darby as his lawyer pulled a folder full of papers out of the briefcase. “I would like to plead nolo contendere to the charge of being a public nuisance, and to make my reparations to the court with a financial sum.”
Darby’s attorney handed his papers to the prosecutor, an elderly gentleman who already looked exhausted by the entire affair. Meanwhile, the judge had to glare his courtroom silent again. “Mr. Fairchild, I’m afraid you don’t have the luxury of choosing the charges against you,” he said. “What is your plea?”
“Again I must beg the court’s forgiveness,” said Darby, as Miriam and all the rest blinked on in astonishment. “I’ve never been in a courtroom, let alone as a defendant. But my lawyer here has assured me that everything is in order.”
“Were you not in possession of the material with the intent to sell?” The judge consulted his notes, and his nose wrinkled. “One, The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle?”
“I was.” Darby straightened his back and lifted his chin. “But my work is of significant artistic value, your honor, and no sale took place.”
“That is a lie!” bellowed Irene Usher, vaulting to her feet. She raised her fist clenched tight around the mangled cover and first several pages of the novel. “I have the evidence right here!”
Miriam resumed her angry glares at the woman. Hateful old mare!
The judge, his bailiff, and even the prosecutor all gave a great sigh as the courtroom bubbled with intrigue. “Ms. Usher,” the judge said with irritated familiarity. “Please take your seat.” Once she had done so, the judge fixed his heavy stare back on Darby. “Mr. Fairchild, did you sell a copy of your book to that woman?”
“This is no trial,” Darby replied coolly. “I am under no obligation to acknowledge such an accusation from the gallery. I am only here to enter my plea.”
The judge kneaded his temple with two fingers. “So now you’re aware of court procedure?”
“Your honor,” spoke up the prosecutor, his eyebrows raised as he read over the last lines of Darby’s documents. He tapped them against his desk to align them properly and then lifted his head. “The city of Boston will gladly accept Mr. Fairchild’s plea on the charge of public nuisance.”
“I caused a scene,” Darby confessed with a wave of his hand as the gallery resumed their murmurs. “I regret it, and I am prepared to make amends.”
“This court cannot be swayed with bribery!” shouted Irene, beating her fist against the seat ahead of her.
“Oh be quiet!” Miriam snapped back, at the end of her patience. “Just let the judge decide already!”
The judge released another, long-suffering sigh and banged apathetically at his gavel to reclaim order. “Please take note, Mr. Fairchild, that should you find yourself afoul of the law again, these kinds of arrangements can be made with the city prior to you making a spectacle of the court.”
Darby bowed his head respectfully as Irene continued to seethe and the gallery to murmur. “Duly noted, your honor, though I don’t expect it to ever happen again.”
The documents were relayed to the judge, and after a swift reading—which had his eyebrows rising as well—he passed them back to the bailiff. “So be it. The defendant is hereby dismissed and ordered to pay the agreed upon fine to the city.”
The judge banged his gavel, and furious murmurs grew as a smug little grin slithered across Darby’s face. It gave Miriam a chill. Then he was all charm and professionalism. “Your honor, as to the fate of the books?”
“As for The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle,” the judge said wearily, “the court does not share your view that it holds any significant merit, artistic or otherwise. All copies are to be remanded to the state and the sale of any such book is prohibited.”
Miriam felt an icy hand at her throat, and without thinking she leapt to her feet. “No—you can’t do that!” she declared. “You haven’t even read it!”
Quieter, but like-minded grumbles passed through the gallery as Irene turned her chin up in triumph. “Sit down, Miss Vance,” she said coldly. “The judge has given his verdict.”
Miriam spun toward her. “You—”
The judge banged his gavel some more. “This court is adjourned,” he announced, rubbing his eyes. “Bailiff, please clear the gallery before we proceed with the next defendant.”
The bailiff stepped forward, and without a single word of protest or even surprise, Darby turned to stride out with his lawyer. The reporters flocked after him, shouting questions that mostly consisted of, “how much did you pay?” while his fans gossiped along behind, distraught. Miriam gathered up her sunken heart and marched across the aisle to confront Irene.
“I’m sure you’re very proud of yourself, but this isn’t going to stand,” Miriam told her, hands poised to her hips as Irene stood. “I’m sure Mr. Fairchild is going to file suit against the city for this! His books—”
“His books,” Irene said with a sneer, “are nothing more than pornography.” She shoved the torn pages into her handbag and then stepped forward, waiting for Miriam to move out of her way. “I will do everything in my power to keep it and those like it out of the hands of weak-minded idollators like yourself.”
“It’s censorship, and you won’t get away with it,” Miriam continued heatedly. “Maybe if you’d had an affair in your life you wouldn’t be so quick to judge!”
The bailiff cleared his throat loudly as he touched Miriam’s shoulder. “Ma’am, I need you to clear the court.”
Miriam glared, even more put out to see Irene puffing herself up, but then Naomi took her hand. The unexpected contact broke her train of thought, and when she glanced back, Naomi’s distressed look triggered a protective instinct she didn’t know she had.
“Let’s go,” Naomi said quietly, and Miriam immediately nodded.
“This isn’t over,” Miriam promised to Irene, and with that she gripped Naomi’s hand and led her from the courtroom.
Out in the courthouse’s cavernous main hall, Darby had stopped to take questions from the reporters and fans. Almost all of them were clamoring to know the amount of the fee paid, which he coolly deflected. He seemed a little too unmoved by the entire affair, coyly playing up their suspense for an answer he wasn’t about to give. Miriam hung back with Naomi beside her, uncertain what to think, until one of the reporters asked about the book itself.
Darby merely shrugged. “It’s only an hour’s drive to Providence,” he said. “There’s sure to be copies for sale there.”
“And they’ll go for twice the price after they hear Boston declared it too scandalous to sell,” the reporter teased, and the others grinned and joked, agreeing with him.
Miriam’s shoulders went slack. Was it all a stunt after all? she thought, all the righteousness she had carried with her growing sour. The scene at Quigley’s, the police station, here? Just to make the book more popular?
Darby glanced her way, and he looked like he might have been about to call out to her, so Miriam quickly turned to head for the exit.
A gentle tug on her hand reminded her that she was still gripping Naomi, and embarrassed, she quickly let her go. “Sorry!”
“Are you all right?” Naomi asked, matching her swift pace.
“Yes—fine.” Even so Miriam couldn’t stop her face from screwing up. “I guess I was worried for nothing! Mr. Fairchild has everything right in the palm of his hand. Good! I hope he sells out everywhere, because it’s a really good book!”
Naomi followed her out onto the street, and it wasn’t until they were on the sidewalk, a very normal day progressing all around them, that Miriam really stopped to take a proper breath. The sympathetic look Naomi was fixing her with pulled more truth out than she meant to share. “It’s nothing, he’s just…not like I imagined, I guess. Stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” Naomi said quickly, and she touched Miriam’s arm. “Darby’s just like that. He enjoys misrepresenting himself and fooling people—he always has.”
Miriam was so distracted by the unexpected contact on her arm that she almost missed what Naomi was saying. “So you really do know him?” she asked, curiosity perking up despite herself. “You said so, but…I kind of assumed you were exaggerating.”
“Oh, I wish I was,” said Naomi with a wince of a smile. “Don’t feel bad, Miriam. He’s not bad, he’s just…a storyteller, in everything.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” It helped a little to hear, and Miriam nodded. “Who am I kidding? If he writes another I’d drive to New York to get it if I had to. And I’ve got plenty of books to keep me company in the meantime. He’ll be just fine.”
Miriam headed toward the intersection to look for a taxi; Naomi stayed close at her side, and after a moment she cleared her throat. “You mean…like Sefer Poyel?”
“Oh!” Miriam stopped almost mid-step. “Damn, that’s right. I almost forgot.” She glanced back toward the courthouse and then shook her head, berating herself. If it’s some kind of grimoire, it’s not like he wrote it himself. This could really be something—don’t let him ruin it for you! She took a deep breath, gathered herself up, and faced Naomi squarely. “We know Mrs. Quigley gave it to Mr. Tripepi,” she said with renewed fervor. “But it’s not as if we can just walk down Slate Street and ask around for him.” She tapped her chin anxiously as she thought aloud. “Maybe we can ask Mrs. Quigley to call him back. Say the book had an insert or something that he missed. And then…we take it!”
Naomi shifted back and forth. “Just take it? You said he was a criminal.”
“Well, yes, but it’s not like he paid for it. It’s supposed to be mine!” Miriam sighed in frustration. “But you’re right. There’s no telling if he’d even bring it with him! Maybe if we could find out where he lives…”
Naomi fidgeted some more. There was an almost guilty look on her face as she said, “Knowing where the book is is the most important part. I think I could…scry for it.”
“Scry?” Miriam loomed closer, aglow with interest. “You know how to scry?” She gasped with a jolt. “Are you a witch!”
“No!” Naomi said quickly, making a shushing gesture. “No, I, um.” Her cheeks darkened with a blush. “I don’t have a patron or anything like that.”
“Then you must be blessed,” Miriam concluded, and she grabbed up Naomi’s hands. “What’s it like? Ooh, you should have said so earlier! Can you really do magic? I want to hear all about it!”
Naomi blushed more deeply, and her voice softened, though there was relief and happiness in her face as if she never would have expected such a reaction. “You don’t think that’s…disturbing?” she asked. “Magic, I mean.”
“Of course not!” Miriam scoffed at the very idea. “I’m not one of Irene Usher’s little prudes. Magic is so incredible—I sure wish an angel had come down and…”
Miriam cut herself off with an embarrassed grimace; even she managed to realize from time to time that she was saying too much. She cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s not disturbing at all,” she told Naomi firmly. “And you had better show it to me.”
Naomi smiled, her gratitude showing so clearly that it put mysterious little butterflies in Miriam’s stomach. “I’d love to,” she said. “Can we go somewhere private?”
Private? For some reason the word made Miriam swallow, and she stumbled over a reply. “I don’t live far from here,” she said, only to shake herself a moment later. “Damn it, though, I have to go back to work. My superior said she’d only give me the morning.” Realizing she was still holding Naomi’s hands, she released her, flustered, and began digging through her purse. “I’ll give you my address. Will you come by tonight, after six? Is there anything you need to do the scrying?”
“Oh, um, not really. I mean, I’ll bring whatever I need.” She watched as Miriam scrawled out the address on the back of a receipt and then accepted it gladly. “I’ll be there at six.”
“Great. Once we know where the book is, we can figure out how to snag it.” Though satisfied with their plan, when Miriam looked to Naomi—still smiling so happily—it made her feel off kilter, and was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Well. I should get back. But yes, I’ll see you then.” She offered an awkward smile and then hurried off toward the intersection again.
***
I knew it, Naomi thought as she watched Miriam all the way to the end of the street. Her heart was still beating quickly against her ribs, and it was all she could do to keep from grinning openly. She’s perfect. She’s interested in magic—she thinks I’m blessed and didn’t flinch! She clasped her hands together, so gratified by Miriam’s reaction that she could have soared. This is going to work.
“Your halo is showing.”
Naomi startled and spun about, mortified, only to realize it was just Darby who had snuck up on her. Even so she checked above her head to be sure; no ring of burning gold after all. She folded her arms self consciously. “Darby! Don’t tease me like that.”
Darby rested his thumbs in his pockets as he smiled at Naomi with dull curiosity. “It’s only the truth,” he drawled. “I could see you glowing even in that courtroom. So?” He raised an elegant eyebrow. “How are you enjoying your first familiar?”
“That’s none of…” Naomi began, but she did not have Darby’s talent for lying, and he pulled the truth out of her without even trying. She sighed. “I haven’t done anything yet. A man named Tripepi has the book.”
“Joey Tripepi? The Brick?” Darby gave a quiet scoff. “Well, it hardly matters, doesn’t it? It’s not as if she needs to ‘summon’ an angel if you’ve already picked her.” He frowned thoughtfully. “You have decided on her, haven’t you?”
“Yes!” Naomi glanced over her shoulder just in time to see Miriam disappear into the back seat of a taxi. She was still smiling when she turned back, and even Darby’s condescending amusement failed to take that from her. “You know, I wasn’t happy with you when I heard you’d intended to pass the book off in a lottery, but it really did work out for the best. Miriam is the perfect choice—smart, and driven, and lovely—and wants magic. Everything I could have hoped for.”
“So…?” Darby shrugged. “Go to it.”
At last Naomi’s good humor was dampened. Darby’s bored look was nothing like the cold impatience of Elijah, but it gnawed on her all the same. “No,” she said, gesturing as she spoke. “No, the plan was to plant the book so a human would think they could summon an angel. Then I appear, I grant their wish and give them magic, no surprises or hard feelings.”
Darby continued to squint at her, unconvinced. “You already said she wants magic. So…give it to her?”
“No,” Naomi insisted, crossing her arms again. “The last time I exposed myself to a human, she called me a witch and tried to burn me! If I wait for one to try to summon me that’s the only way to be sure.”
“But you said…” Darby rolled his eyes and sighed, completely without sympathy or understanding. “If this was Elijah’s idea it really is his worst yet,” he said with a flippant wave. “Either way it doesn’t involve me anymore.”
He turned to go, but the mention of Elijah’s name sent a chill through Naomi, and she quickly moved around in front of him. “You’ve spoken to Elijah?” she asked in an urgent whisper. “Recently?”
“I’ll have you know, Elijah and I are on very good terms, and I speak to him often,” Darby replied coolly. “He’s told me everything.”
“Then you know about—” Naomi cut herself off when she realized she was staring much too hard into Darby’s pale eyes. She stepped back from him and shook her head. “No, you’re lying. You always do.”
“I have never spoken falsely in my life,” Darby lied, pretending to be affronted. “It’s your dear Elijah you should worry about. If he’s encouraging you to take a familiar, it’s because he has plans for you both.” For a moment, his tone changed into something approaching friendly concern. “Be careful, Naomi.”
Naomi swallowed, but before she could begin to consider his words, she took another step back. “You’re not going to trick me into saying anything.”
Darby shrugged carelessly. “Don’t blame me for trying,” he said, and this time when he started to leave, Naomi did not interfere. “It’s only my nature. Good luck, old friend.”
Darby sauntered on, rejoining his lawyer further down the sidewalk. As the two climbed into Darby’s fancy car, Naomi at last turned to head back toward her own small residence in the city.
He’s just jealous, she told herself as she hurried along, eager to recall her earlier excitement. And dying of curiosity. If Elijah had really told him anything, he wouldn’t have needed to come tease me at all. She took in a deep breath, wishing she was audacious enough to unfurl her wings right then and there. An Angel’s familiar. There hasn’t been one in decades, but Miriam is perfect for it. They’ll all see—she’ll be incredible.
Once again overflowing with optimism, Naomi rushed home to prepare.
***
“What?” Miriam asked, blinking owlishly at Odelia as they headed into their building that evening. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“Dinner,” said Odelia, apparently not for the first time. “You said you have a friend coming over. Is she staying for dinner?”
“Oh! Um.” Miriam tugged at her purse strap as she followed Odelia up the stairs. “I didn’t ask. I guess so?”
“It’s okay if she is,” Odelia said patiently. “I was going to cook up some cabbage with dumplings, and there’ll be plenty.” She glanced at Miriam over her shoulder. “I’ll get that started if you wanted to tidy your room…?”
Miriam frowned. “My room? Why?”
Odelia smiled and continued on. “Or, you can help me chop onions.”
Miriam prided herself as a skilled onion-cutter—she almost never shed a tear. She made quick work of all the chopping in fact, with such enthusiasm that Odelia worried for her fingers. By the time the bell rang, the apartment was full of a heavenly aroma of onions and butter. Miriam skipped steps on her way down to the front door, mysteriously already flustered.
I get to see real magic! she thought, explaining away her uncharacteristic nerves. She yanked the door open and there stood Naomi, smiling at her, just as patient and sweet as that morning.
Naomi adjusted the weight of the handbag hanging off her shoulder. “Hello. I hope I’m not late.”
“You can’t be,” Miriam replied with a shrug. “I don’t even know what time it is.”
Naomi giggled. Was that funny? Miriam thought, suddenly embarrassed. She quickly took a step back and waved Naomi inside. “Come on up—we’re just finishing supper.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything,” Naomi said as she followed Miriam back up the stairs. “I was so focused on getting ready for the scrying, I didn’t even think about supper.”
“Neither did I,” Miriam admitted. “We have Odelia to thank—my roommate.”
She let them into the apartment and made introductions. Odelia greeted Naomi warmly and with no small measure of curiosity. “Miriam’s never brought a friend home,” she said as they sat down for dinner. “Have you known each other long?”
“Since yesterday,” said Naomi brightly. “We met at Quigley’s.”
“We’re going to do a ritual,” added Miriam. “So please don’t come into my room once we’re finished eating.”
Odelia smiled with a mother’s patience. “Oh, of course. I’ll leave you be.”
After supper and the cleanup that followed—which Naomi offered to help with—Miriam led her guest into her bedroom. She remembered then the comment Odelia had made about cleaning, but Naomi took in the clutter without missing a beat.
“You have quite a collection,” said Naomi, crouching down to read the spines of the books. She smiled at the box of tarot cards on the top of the stack and drew her fingertips over the Seal of Solomon carved into the surface. “You must have been at it for a long time.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Miriam fidgeted; she’d never had much opportunity to share her occult passions with anyone, and she suddenly didn’t know where to start or how much was even appropriate. “Some of it belonged to my grandmother. My father didn’t approve much; I had to keep most of it hidden when he was still around.” She straightened out the comforter on her bed while Naomi was busy admiring the small collection of crystals on the vanity.
Naomi glanced over at her. “Still around?”
“He died a long time ago,” Miriam explained, though when she realized how cold her easy answer might have sounded to an outsider, she cleared her throat. “Anyway, let’s get started. What do you need?”
“Oh! Right.” Naomi set her bag on the bed and began pulling out items: candles first, which she handed to Miriam. “Would you mind lighting these?”
“Sure!” It took a little tidying after all to find places for the candles to sit, but Miriam buzzed excitedly as she lit the wicks. They burned with a warmer, darker flame than she expected. Real magic, she thought, almost giddy as she drew the only curtains in the room. Will I be able to see it? Feel it?
She turned back and found Naomi seated on the bed, spreading a map out in front of her. “I haven’t done this with an audience before,” Naomi admitted, somewhat sheepish, as Miriam sat cross-legged opposite her.
“I haven’t seen magic before,” Miriam replied, watching closely as Naomi removed a round, obsidian stone from the bag. “Can I help?”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Naomi took Miriam’s hand and placed the stone in the center of her palm, then closed her fingers over it. As before, her skin was uncommonly soft and warm, and Miriam felt her cheeks go rosey. “The book is intended for you, after all. I’m sure your energy will attract it.”
“Really?” Miriam cleared her throat. Focus, Miriam! This is important. She stayed very still as Naomi took out a pen as the final object, then positioned Miriam’s closed fist to just over the back of her palm. “What should I do?”
“Concentrate,” Naomi said quietly. She drew their touching hands over the map, pen held down a few inches overtop. “Repeat the name Sefer Poyel over in your mind, and imagine a book: a leather-bound book with the sigil of the angel Poiel on the cover.” She frowned. “Should I draw…?”
“I know the sigil for Poiel,” Miriam reassured her quickly. “Let’s do it.”
Naomi smiled, surprised but very pleased. “Okay. Here we go.”
Naomi closed her eyes, but Miriam kept hers wide open. Sefer Poyel, she thought, staring hard at their touching hands as Naomi’s waved just slightly back and forth. Sefel Poyel, you’re meant for me. Please let me find you.
The candles gave off a sweet, earthy smell, not unlike warm cinnamon. Miriam breathed it in, and just as she was beginning to recite another round, Naomi’s hand darted across the map and then fell, marking it with her pen.
Miriam kept her hand in place, squeezing the obsidian. “Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Naomi drew her hand back, and Miriam frowned as she did the same. She had expected that the spell would take longer, or that she might genuinely feel something when it worked. “Corner of Chestnut and River St. That can’t be his home, though…”
“Maybe he’s out shopping or having dinner?” Miriam suggested, rubbing her thumb back and forth across the stone. “Damn, if it’s sitting in his car now’s the perfect chance to nab it!”
Miriam leapt to her feet, full of renewed energy as she blew out the candles. “Let’s go! If we’re quick maybe we can catch him!”
Naomi hastily folded the map up and tucked it in her bag. “Now? Right now?”
“Of course right now, or we’ll have to do it again later!” Miriam snatched up her purse, only to then realize she was still holding the obsidian. She started to return it to Naomi, who after only a moment’s pause urged Miriam to keep it.
“In case we do have to do it again later,” she said, and the two of them hurried out.
“Leaving so soon?” Odelia called from her easy chair as the pair rushed through the apartment.
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” Miriam replied, and then they were out the door.
They managed to catch a cab right away, and Miriam resisted the urge to tell the driver to step on it as they made their way south. Besider her, Naomi couldn’t stop fidgeting.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” Naomi admitted in a whisper. “It’s exciting! But if it’s in his car, how will we get it?”
“That’ll be easy—just smash a window and grab it,” Miriam replied. When she saw the cab driver glance at them in his rear-view mirror, she cleared her throat. “It’ll be fine. It’s not like he paid for it anyway. It was never supposed to be his.”
“No, that’s very true,” Naomi said, with an unexpected conviction behind the words. “Someone like that doesn’t deserve it.”
They arrived just as the sun was setting, and the city night life yawned to life. The old building on the corner of Chestnut and River St was still open, a few patrons inside, but it was not where Miriam would have expected a known gangster to spend his evening: River St. Upholstery, specializing in imported curtains, carpets, and rugs. Miriam and Naomi stood in front of the main show window, squinting in at the occupants.
“Do you know what Mr. Tripepi looks like?” Naomi asked.
“Nope. But I’m sure they call him ‘The Brick’ for a reason.” Miriam looked between the skinny store clerk to the various middle-aged patrons, unconvinced that any of them fit the moniker. None of the cars parked outside looked particularly gangster-esque, either. “Maybe we already missed him, or it’s one of the shops nearby…”
Miriam turned to look across the street, but Naomi didn’t budge. “It’s this building,” Naomi said, again with that startling confidence. “And it’s still here, in the building.” She abruptly sagged and started chewing her thumbnail. “But I was expecting a restaurant, or a lounge…”
“You could see that during the scry?” Miriam took a step back, peering up at the building’s higher windows, but they looked to be normal apartments. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend stowed up there or something…”
“Miriam, look.”
Miriam turned toward where Naomi was nodding: a well-dressed man and woman had opened what appeared to be the shop’s side entrance and disappeared inside. A quick glance through the shop window confirmed they hadn’t entered. “Of course!” Miriam cried, only to shake herself and lower her voice immediately after. “A speakeasy! There must be a bar in the basement. Come on!”
She grabbed Naomi by the wrist and drew her down the sidewalk, despite Naomi’s sudden trepidation. “Miriam, wait,” Naomi said, though she didn’t resist the tugging. “I don’t think we can just go in there.”
“Why not? They did.” Miriam stopped in front of the door for a good hard look: there were no markings, no shop sign, nothing to indicate it was anything more than an employee entrance for the shop next door. There wasn’t even so much as a peep hole for a mafia goon to keep lookout through. She reached for the door knob, heart pounding, and jumped when Naomi snatched her wrist away from it.
“Don’t,” Naomi said, her face stricken. She pointed to the knob.
There was an engraving just barely visible in the brass, worn down from patron after patron: a cross at the center, a half circle below with curled edges, and across the top a line of pointed triangles like a crown. Miriam shook Naomi’s hand off so she could run her thumb over the symbol. Another demon’s sigil, she thought, flipping through the pages of her memory. When it came to her, she couldn’t help but speak the name aloud. “Gremory.”
Naomi took a step back. They barely knew each other, but Miriam was still struck by how uneasy she looked then. “You shouldn’t go down there.”
“That’s the second sigil in two days! This could be important somehow.” Miriam glanced up and down the street; a group of young men on the opposite sidewalk had taken notice of them and were passing curious looks their way. “We can’t just stand out here. We came for the book and it’s inside—we have to at least take a look.”
“I-I can’t,” said Naomi, shaking her head.
“You can,” Miriam insisted. “We’ll just take a look and—”
“No—I mean, I can’t.” Naomi rubbed her hands anxiously together. “I’m blessed—I can’t pass through a doorway marked by a demon.”
Miriam’s eyes grew wide. “Really?” She glanced to the branded knob and back again. “It really works that way?”
“Yes! Please Miriam.” Naomi motioned for her to step away from the door. “We’ll wait for a while and then do the scrying again, after he’s gone somewhere else.”
Miriam hemmed as she shifted from foot to foot. As much as Naomi made sense, her eyes continued to wander back to the sigil on the doorknob. How many times had she seen those curved lines and triangles in her books, symbols of ancient histories she’d never expected to see out in the real world? Not to mention branded on the door of what might have been a gangster’s secret lounge, just like the rumored witches of New York. She didn’t stand a chance against curiosity that strong, and she squared her shoulders to the door. Remember the chariot, she thought, taking a deep breath.
“I’m just going to take a peek,” she said. “And then I’ll be back. If there’s a password or something they’ll just turn me away. You can wait for me in the rug shop—I won’t be long.”
Naomi remained unconvinced; if Miriam had been any less determined, she might have relented to keep her from looking so pained. “I don’t think you should, but…I’ll wait for you inside. Be careful.”
“It’ll be fine,” Miriam reassured her, and to prove it, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it open.
Part of her was convinced the door was locked, and all her courage would go to waste—the door opened without any resistance. It led to a narrow stairway leading down, and a hallway beyond. The worst thing that’ll happen is they turn you away, Miriam told herself, and she marched down the steps.
The walls were thick concrete; as soon as the door shut behind Miriam, all sound from the street above was drowned out. Goose bumps prickled her neck as she continued down anyway, coming out into a short hall that led to another unmarked door. This door did have a guard: a tall, barrel-chested man, looking every inch like a secret bar bouncer. He raised an eyebrow as Miriam approached but he didn’t even bother uncrossing his arms.
“Are you a cop?” he asked doubtfully.
“Of course not,” Miriam retorted. “I’m here to see Mr. Tripepi. Is he in?”
The guard gave a quiet huff, and though Miriam feared she’d already overplayed her hand, he nodded. “Go on in, then,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Miriam, and determined not to falter in front of him, she let herself through the second door.
It was to Miriam like stepping straight into her own imagination. At the first crack of the door she was met with a haze of cigarette smoke and eager chatter, candlelight and sleazy jazz. The chamber spread out ahead of her into a lounge, with low tables surrounded by curved sofas instead of chairs, thick curtains draping every wall and a bar bustling to one side. The very center of the room was conspicuously empty, save for a round dance floor slick with polish. At the edge of this space, a bass player and saxophonist plucked and hummed a formless, sensual melody. Those patrons seated closest kept time by idly rapping on their tables.
Miriam gulped. As wide as her eyes were in taking in the sights, she was suddenly, acutely aware of how much she stood out in the parlour. Not everyone was obviously high class, but her long skirt and blouse buttoned to the neck were a stark contrast to the men—and women—in three piece suits, silk dresses barely clinging to skin, and sweaty work clothes half buttoned. The patrons lounged and drank and smoked, every one of them posed as a perfect fit to their surroundings pretty as a painting.
“Did you reserve a table, darling?” someone asked close to Miriam’s ear, and she jumped. A waitress carrying a platter full of bourbon glasses watched her expectantly. Her hair was shaved down to stubble and she was dressed entirely in sheer lace that left Miriam’s cheeks feeling hot.
“I’m looking for Mr. Tripepi,” Miriam said loudly, hoping to cover her sudden nerves with artificial courage. The waitress looked surprised, then impressed, and she pointed toward a table near the center.
Maybe Naomi was right, Miriam thought, swallowing hard as she weaved through the tables. She passed two men in ballgowns who looked her up and down, and a table older, sneering drunks who were passing a small, unmarked medicine bottle between them. This sure isn’t the place for someone blessed by an angel. She found herself searching the eyes of the patrons whenever they turned on her, as if they might gleam with an unnatural shade. Could any of them be…demonic? Real witches? Or even worse?
The table the waitress had pointed toward was inhabited by possibly the broadest man Miriam had ever seen. His shoulders jutted out like the roof of a barn bound in a tweed suit, and she could have sworn his neck was thicker around than her waist. As she drew closer, she could see wisps of gray in his dark brown hair. Despite the happy commotion of the room, and several companions seated at his table engaging in conversation, his head was bowed and quiet. Cautiously she rounded the table to make out his face: powerful, square jaw, ruddy square cheeks, and a pair of reading glasses perched on his pronounced, square nose. He was reading from a book in his lap.
Miriam’s heart skipped and then began to pound. Even in the dull lighting there was no mistaking that the pages were yellowed with age, the cover bound in leather. The man’s huge, boxy hands cradled the tome with remarkable delicacy that proved its value. When he turned the page, it revealed a complex drawing of a five-pointed star surrounded in other twisting, overlapping stars, with hebrew text in the margins. Though Miriam had never doubted that the spell had served her true, to see the object of hers and Naomi’s scrying laid out so easily before her made her fingertips tingle with shock and excitement.
She couldn’t help herself. “That’s my book.”
He lifted his head, as did the four others around the table. Joey Tripepi—The Brick, the papers called him, and rightfully so—the new leader of Boston’s unrivaled Slate Street Gang. Despite his monstrous frame he regarded Miriam with calm curiosity. His companions—two older women and a young man who would have been considered impressive in stature, were he by himself—eyed Miriam as they whispered to each other. One of the women burst out cackling.
“I beg your pardon?” said Joey.
Naomi was right—this was a bad idea, Miriam thought, but another glance at the book in Joey’s hands, its diagrams taunting her from the weathered page, brought her courage roaring to the forefront again. She planted her feet in the carpet, planted her hands on her hips, and faced the city’s most famous bootlegger straight on. “Please excuse the interruption, Mr. Tripepi,” she said with authority, “but I’m afraid that book you’re reading belongs to me.”
“I don’t see your name on it, sweetheart,” sneered the cackling woman.
“This is a private table,” the woman next to her agreed in kind. “Go away.”
Joey, meanwhile, quite calmly paged to the inside cover of the book as if to check for a signature of some kind. Finding none, he closed it, and in doing so revealed the sigil of Poiel engraved on its cover. “Did you write it?” he asked, eyeing her over the top of his spectacles.
“Of course not. Look at it—it’s a historic Hebrew text.” Miriam gestured at the book impatiently, which Joey did pause to take another look at. “The Book of Poiel. It was intended for me and I would like to have it back, please.”
“Fuck off,” the woman snarled. “The show is going to start soon!”
Joey held up a hand to quiet her, as well as the young man who was also glaring at Miriam with distrust. “Mrs. Quigley herself gave me this book yesterday,” he said.
Miriam took a step closer. Though the women were scantily dressed, faces made up and clearly here for vice, she didn’t have much difficulty imagining them as a pair of Irene Ushers, and she wasn’t afraid of them. She put all her focus on Joey. “It wasn’t hers to give away,” she insisted. “It belonged to Mr. Fairchild, who had her put it aside for the signing. After he was arrested she gave it to you just to get rid of it, but Mr. Fairchild said it was supposed to go to me. And I’d like very much to have it.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Miriam hesitated. Because it might have what I’ve been looking for my whole life, she thought, hoping the four pairs of eyes fixed on her weren’t clever enough to suss it out—or worse yet, mind-readers. “Because Mr. Fairchild said so. You can call him and ask him yourself if you want.”
True to his namesake, The Brick remained unmoved. “Who are you, that you matter that much to him?”
“Miriam Vance,” she blurted out before her common sense could warn her otherwise. The slight widening of Joey’s eyes in recognition was like a wall being thrown up in front of her, and all the bold momentum she’d built up in hopes of barreling through this negotiation carried her straight into it. The impact made her skin prickle with cold. “I was with him when he was arrested, and at his hearing this morning.”
“Vance,” Joe repeated. “You’re pretty bold, aren’t you?”
“I’ve…been told that before, yes.” Miriam clenched her hands against the waist of her skirt to keep from fidgeting. “Well?”
He gestured for her to step forward. “Come sit with me.”
“No thank you.” Miriam took a step back. “I’d like to take my book and leave, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Joey, and even if he made an attempt to soften his expression to match the words, the fact that he’d offered them unprompted canceled out that effort. “Sit down so we can talk.”
Miriam tried to take another step back, but suddenly Joey’s brawny companion was next to her, and his hand on her elbow prevented her. The surrounding lounge began to muddle around her, the cheery cacophony crumbling against Miriam’s ears until it all sounded like the cackling, middle-aged women in front of her. An instinct she’d never quite felt before churned sickly in her stomach, and for a moment she thought her body would act without her and break out running. Instead she went stiff, and she allowed the bodyguard to usher her onto the curved sofa at Joey’s side.
He was even larger close up; she felt like a rabbit next to a bear. He hushed the two women and turned toward Miriam so he could lower his voice and still be heard. “If you were at the signing yesterday, did you get a copy of the book?” he asked.
Miriam blinked at him, caught off guard. “You mean, Emerald L’Belle?” She vaguely remembered Mrs. Quigley saying something about Mr. Tripepi being a valued customer and couldn’t help but stare. “Are you a fan of Mr. Faichild’s?”
Joey’s cheeks were already ruddy by nature, but they seemed to grow redder, to Miriam’s amazement. He tapped the book in his lap. “I brought this here tonight to get advice from a friend,” he said. “When I’ve gotten its full use from it, I’ll trade you.”
Trade? Miriam thought, her mind and emotions caught up in a new whirlwind. Give it up? But it’s the only copy in Boston! She pursed her lips tightly as her eyes darted between Joey’s serious face and the book he held. There was no question of the value she would be exchanging: The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle would soon be purchasable from any shop outside the state, and she’d already read it enough to tide her over until she could arrange a day trip to New York if necessary; meanwhile, the sigil of a holy angel stared up at her from the old leather of a forgotten testament. There was no telling what secrets lay within its aged pages, nor what power she might draw from them. It should have been an easy choice.
Then she remembered the sigil Darby had scrawled into that particular copy’s inside page—different from, and yet reminiscent of the brass doorknob that led into the very club they occupied. My favorite abomination he’d signed. The mystery gnawed at the back of her mind, and as far short of his charming reputation as Darby had fallen, it was still the signature of her favorite modern author.
“Thank you for the offer, but I shouldn’t have to trade anything,” Miriam told Joey at long last. “Both books were a gift to me from Mr. Fairchild, and I’d rather not give either of them up.”
Joey scoffed quietly as he regarded her with amused incredulity; his companions gaped. “If I were you, I wouldn’t, either,” he admitted. “And I won’t.” He removed his spectacles and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “If you’re not willing to trade, this book stays with me.”
“But it’s mine,” Miriam protested, the confidence she had clung to dragged out from under her fingers; she had always been scaling an insurmountable wall after all. “Mr. Tripepi, I’ll buy it from you if you want—I need that book.”
“You already refused my price.” Joey motioned for her to leave the table. “Good night, Miss Vance. This is no place for you.”
Miriam vibrated, clawing for some other argument or excuse, even as Joey’s bodyguard tried to urge her to her feet. The book was right there in front of her. She hadn’t actually felt anything during the scrying, but faced with the prize from that spell, it was very easy to tell herself that she had, and that she felt the powerful tug of magic between them. She especially didn’t want to return to Naomi empty-handed after all her grand talk.
Just take it, a mad portion of her brain suggested. Grab the book and run. It’s not far and they’re too big to be fast—you can make it. Though her hands shook at the thought, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from that book. I can make it if I—
Her body started to move without her, but before she could get anywhere near touching the book, someone leaning over the back of the sofa clasped her shoulder. “Miriam!” sang a familiar voice that gave Miriam a very different kind of chill. “I just knew I’d see you here eventually, you sly little thing.”
Miriam shook as if waking from a trance and lifted her head, meeting a pair of flashing, lavender eyes. “Georgie?”
“It sure is.” George smirked, and Joey and his entourage were shocked all over again to see her treat Miriam with such familiarity. She hopped to sit on the back of the sofa, one hand braced to Joey’s shoulder. Compared to the other guests she wasn’t dressed in any particularly noteworthy fashion; a simple, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, maroon slacks and matching men’s necktie. Even so, there was something so effortless in the casual elegance of her posture that Miriam found annoyingly captivating. “What’s with all the commotion? You’re not teasing this poor lost lamb, are you, Joe?”
“I’m not lost,” Miriam retorted, though she suddenly wasn’t sure if she was irritated or relieved by Georgie’s interruption. The thought of what she’d almost done moments ago left a reverberation in her hands, and even if Georgie wasn’t an ally let alone a friend, at least she had a familiar face. “And I’m not a poor lamb, either. I’m here for my property.”
“Oh?” Georgie looked to Joey for an explanation, and he leaned to the side so that she would be able to see the book.
“I wanted to ask you about this book,” he said. “Miss Vance here claims Darby Fairchild gifted it to her.”
“He did!” Miriam insisted. “She was there for it!” She twisted in her seat so she could better face the both of them. “Tell him, Georgie. Didn’t Mr. Fairchild say I should have it?”
Georgie hummed noncommittally as she looked over the book’s engraved cover. “Hold onto it,” she told Joey. “We’ll talk after the show. In the meantime…” She slipped off the edge of the sofa and motioned for Miriam to stand. “Why don’t you come with me, Miri? We need to catch up.”
Miriam hesitated, but when Georgie rounded the table and offered her hand, there didn’t seem to be any refusing. She accepted the hand, even clung to it for a moment despite herself as she let Georgie tug her to her feet.
The two women continued to gape. “You know Darby Fairchild and Georgie Royale?” one demanded.
“She better not tell me you were a bitch to her,” Georgie warned the woman playfully, “or I’ll ban you for life.” She laughed, leaving the woman to grow pale as she led Miriam across the room to the bar.
“For the record, they were both very rude,” said Miriam.
“Don’t take it personally—they’re like that to everyone.” Georgie urged her onto a stool at the bar and then motioned the bartender over. “A gin for my friend here.”
“What?” Miriam frowned as the bartender—an androgenous individual wearing a jumpsuit—poured the drink. “No, thank you.”
“Take a drink,” Georgie insisted. “You need to calm down.”
“But I am calm—”
“Your hands are shaking.”
Georgie drew Miriam’s hands around the glass to prove it to her; the alcohol sloshed back and forth. Miriam stared, not quite understanding at first. “I’m not scared,” she said, though now that she was away from Joey and his small entourage and should have breathed easier, she found it even harder to settle. She swallowed and looked at Georgie. “I’m fine.”
Georgie gave a little smirk, though not with as much scorn as Miriam expected. “Just take a sip. It’s good stuff and it’s on me.”
That’s a bad idea, Miriam thought, but her emotions were all out of sorts, her courage scrambling to reconstruct itself. She took a long gulp of the gin and then grimaced, fighting not to cough.
“That’s the spirit,” Georgie congratulated her. “Feel better?”
“Well, no.” Miriam took another moment to catch her breath as she set the glass back down. You told Naomi it would be fine, and it is fine. It’s not like even a gangster would have hurt you in front of all these people. He’s not that scary. She smoothed her hair back and her blouse down. “Why didn’t you tell him the truth? You were right there when Mr. Fairchild said—”
Georgie interrupted her with a laugh. “Darling, you’ve got courage, I’ll give you that. But you know who that is, right?” She nodded back toward the table. “Say goodbye to that book. Whatever’s in it isn’t worth it.”
“You don’t know that,” Miriam retorted. “We haven’t even seen inside it.”
Georgie scoffed. “Don’t need to. Nothing magic is ever worth the trouble.” She paused a moment, looking Miriam over; Miriam squirmed on the barstool self-consciously. Those lavender eyes continued to unsettle her, though…not entirely in an unpleasant way. “How’d you know it was here anyway?”
It would have been smarter to lie, probably, but Miriam wasn’t convinced of her talent in that arena, and besides, part of her was very curious to see Georgie’s reaction. She never did answer me straight about whether she has magic, she thought, trying to ignore the commotion around them to focus on reading Georgie’s face. Maybe she’ll give something away. “A spell told me.”
Georgie’s brow raised, but not enough to constitute surprise. “A spell?”
“A scrying spell.”
“Is that so?” She looked more amused than impressed, infuriatingly so. “You can do spells, Miri?”
Miriam folded her arms and lifted her chin. “I found it here, didn’t I?”
“Sure seems that way.” Georgie shrugged. “I admire your tenacity, but I’m telling you honestly, sweetheart—don’t go anywhere near Tripepi again.”
She leaned closer, so that even when she lowered her voice, her breath tickled Miriam’s ear. It stopped Miriam’s protests in her throat, along with the rest of the air in the room. “This is no place for little girls,” she purred, “and I won’t rescue you a second time.”
Miriam gulped, her skin prickling with heat. Georgie was too close, and though her sultry voice made Miriam tingle in ways she was too proud to admit, the words stung like a pic in her chest. You don’t belong here, she heard, loud and clear. How dare Georgie drive her nails into that scab.
“I’m not a little girl,” she retorted, though her voice was drawn so tight it trembled. “And I don’t need your help.”
Miriam hopped off the stool, and her knee gave a wobble, ruining her perfect dismount. She refused to let her face reflect that moment of embarrassment as she snatched up the glass of gin and downed its remaining contents. That probably wasn’t a great idea either, and her vision swam a moment, but she held fast. With a deep breath she straightened her blouse and marched back across the room to Joey’s table.
I can do this, she told herself firmly. I can’t let anyone tell me I can’t.
Miriam stood herself in front of the Slate Street table once more. They regarded her with confusion she hoped would work to her advantage. “Mr. Tripepi,” she said, “I’d like to make that trade after all, if you don’t mind.”
Joey set his hand on the book nestled beside him, as if he had sensed her impulse to steal it earlier and was now on guard. “Once I’m through with it,” he reminded her.
“That’s fine—I don’t have the other book with me anyway.” Miriam risked a glance at the women who had heckled her earlier; both were watching with extreme distrust. “How much time do you need? Should we meet back here in a few nights’ time?”
“Next Tuesday,” said Joey. “Same time.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can assume you won’t have any trouble getting back in?”
“Not at all,” Miriam replied with a shrug. “I’ll see you then.” And at last deciding not to push her luck any further than that, she stepped back. “Sorry for interrupting your evening.” He nodded, and with that Miriam headed back toward the way she’d come in. What she would actually do come Tuesday, she wasn’t sure yet, but she was confident she’d find a way forward.
Just as Miriam reached the exit, the music from the stage at the center conspicuously quieted, followed by the dulling of the rest of the patrons and their chatter. Miriam told herself not to look, as her work was done and there wasn’t anything else to be gained from staying any longer than she had to. But then Georgie started to speak, and against what remained of her good judgement, she turned back.
“Fellow miscreants,” Georgie greeted the crowd. Everyone returned to their seats in preparation for whatever “show” was about to commence, except for a tall, blonde woman with long hair and a flowing white dress who was joining Georgie at center stage. “It’s good to have you here, as always. I’m sure you’re enjoying my booze, but I think it’s about time we start the real show, no?”
The crowd encouraged her with cheers and whistles, and Georgie leaned toward her beautiful co-star to whisper something in her ear. The woman smiled shyly, and she didn’t seem to mind Georgie’s arm snaking around her waist. As the pair of them backed to the edge of the stage near the band, Georgie made sure to cast Miriam a sly look only for her. It was as if she was daring her.
Just what kind of show is it? Miriam couldn’t help but wonder as the house lights dimmed, leaving the stage aglow in gold. Are they going to sing? Only the bass resumed, plucking out idle notes. Dance? Something…else?
When Miriam realized she was holding her breath, her cheeks flushed. This was just Georgie broadcasting that she had won, somehow—or that she would, if Miriam admitted how great her curiosity was. Determined not to give that to her, she turned and continued out of the lounge.
***
Gremory is here, Naomi thought, over and over, as she paced the length of the rug shop above. She’s down there, right now. What should I do? She chewed on her nails and waved off the saleswoman’s attempts to approach her. I knew she’d be in Boston but I didn’t think she’d be here! Can it be a coincidence?
Naomi wandered the shop for what felt like hours, crushing every attempt by her imagination to fill in what might have been happening underground. Several times she considered returning to the secret door, even knowing full well it was futile for her to try to cross Gremory’s seal. Miriam will be fine, she thought, all concerns over Mr. Tripepi squashed beneath this potentially greater threat—not just to Miriam herself, but to all Naomi had been working toward. She’s strong, she won’t fall for any tricks or…seductions. Naomi’s stomach turned and she sat down on the nearest sofa. It would be now, when I’ve found the perfect match, that she shows up to ruin things for me again.
After some time—and another attempt by one of the shop workers to ask about swatches—the bell over the door jingled, and Naomi lurched to her feet. She sighed with relief as Miriam bustled inside and hurried over. “Miriam!”
“Hey,” Miriam replied, pushing her hair away from her face. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
“Of course.”
It wasn’t until they had headed outside, chill evening air stirring their skirts, that Naomi even remembered the real reason they had come. Miriam was very obviously not carrying the promised book. “Are you all right?” Naomi asked, noting Miriam’s long, distant stare. “Did you see Mr. Tripepi?”
“Huh? Oh, sure.” Miriam began fussing with her hair again, only to seem to realize she was doing it, upon which she forced her hands down again. “He had the book but he refused to give it to me, unless I traded him for Emerald L’Belle.”
“Oh!” Naomi brightened at what she thought was an easy trade, but seeing that Miriam was still shifting anxiously, she tempered her reaction. “What will you do?”
“I’m not sure, yet,” Miriam admitted, and she suddenly shook herself off all over like a dog. “God! Why does everyone have to be so frustrating! I’m not a child.”
Naomi frowned, wishing dearly that she had a more complete recounting of what had happened. As she watched Miriam glare into the distance, though, experience guided her to gentle her tone. She touched Miriam’s back, and though Miriam stiffened at first, she gradually relaxed. Naomi waited for her to glance over to speak.
“I know you’re not,” she said. “You were really brave to go down there.”
“I’m not—” Miriam squirmed and looked away again, and after a moment she pushed her glasses back to swipe at her eyes. “I’m not really, I just…I didn’t want them to think…” She sighed in exasperation and let her hands fall. “Sorry; they told me I didn’t belong down there and it pissed me off, that’s all. I’m fine.”
“All right.” Naomi waited a moment longer to see if she would say more, her heart aching in sympathy. When nothing more followed, she offered a smile instead. “Let’s go buy a cake.”
Miriam blinked at her, completely off guard. “A what?”
“A cake. We’ll take it back to Odelia.” Naomi gave Miriam’s back an encouraging rub. “I saw Tarot cards in your room. Will you read my fortune while we eat cake?”
Miriam scoffed, but the rest of the tension in her back finally unfurled, and she took a step toward the curb. “All right—I know a good place. But my fortunes are very accurate, so don’t say I didn’t warn you if you don’t like what the cards say.”
“I’m ready for it,” Naomi assured her, and she took Miriam’s hand as they moved toward the intersection to look for a taxi. “I trust you.”
Again Miriam seemed hesitant at first, only to take Naomi’s hand back. “Good,” she said, and she took the lead.
***
Poiel is here, Georgie thought, paging through the weathered tome that Joey had handed her. She might still be just outside, even. Oh, what to do?
The show had gone as smoothly as ever; her charming co-stars were all relaxing among the audience, drinking the rest of the night away while a new band sought to entertain. Georgie sat next to Joey in his booth, rummaging through the Sefer Poyel he was so eager to show her. Superstitious gangsters. It always made her smile.
“Well?” Joey asked, watching with close fascination while his companions pretended to be interested only for his sake. “Is it authentic?”
Georgie shrugged as she scanned over the book’s penultimate page: a summoning circle drawn in dark ink. “I don’t know why you thought about asking me. It’s not like I’m a witch.”
“But you’ve said you know things about magic,” Joey insisted. “And the show—”
“It’s just theater, Joe. Lights and mirrors. All magic is parlour tricks.”
At the center of the drawn circle, the name Poiel had been written in angelic glyphs. Georgie ran her thumb across the ink. What are you up to, Poiel? she mused, not flinching as the glyphs burned her skin. Why do you want that girl to have this book, and why rope Darby into it too? She pressed harder into the page.
“What about New York, then?” Joey carried on. “Did you read the papers? That wasn’t just tricks.”
Georgie closed the book with a clap. “Of course it was. Don’t be such a sap.” She dropped the book into his lap and stood, careful to tuck her thumb into her palm until the burn had healed over. “You’re better off buying yourself a big gun, if it’s firepower you need. I can connect you to a dealer.”
Joe frowned down at the book, fingering the sigil on the cover with stubborn reverence. Georgie looked away. “Thank you, but no. I have plenty of guns.”
“Joey is his very own arms dealer,” purred one of his usual companions as she latched onto his elbow. “He’s doing just fine.”
Georgie rolled her eyes. “She’s not allowed back,” she told Joey. “But the rest of you, please enjoy your evening.”
She headed to the next table, ignoring the woman’s “Is she serious?” behind her back. Her mind was already far away, but she had to put in a good show for the other patrons before retiring for the night. Dear little Miriam, she thought as she accepted a drink from one of her guests. What could you have stumbled into?