A slight frown mars the skin between Megan’s eyes. Does she agree?
The Fates are all watching me, as if waiting for me to decide something.
“You mean like you did?” I ask him.
He glances sideways at Megan as if he’s silently asking her to stop me. But Megan doesn’t move.
I do. I take a step toward him.
“You expect something from me,” I say. “You expect me to do what you want. You’ve always expected that.”
“I know what’s best for you,” he says. “Losing your magic is
not
what’s best.”
I run a hand through my hair. There’s dust in it, and grit from the boxes this afternoon. I probably have dirt on my face.
I look at Clotho. She almost looks like a statue, with her blonde hair flowing down her back, her tunic draped beautifully around her willowy form, and her hands clasped in front of her.
She lives here, in this library. She understands it. She can call up an old play with the flick of a finger, and she can read it, and
understand
it immediately. She has forgotten more than I’ll ever know.
And she seems comfortable here.
So do Lachesis and Atropos.
But I’m not. Even though this library goes on forever, it feels oppressive. It makes me feel small and stupid and jittery, like the library itself expects me to screw up.
I never did anything right when I was here. I didn’t do what Daddy wanted. I didn’t do what Tiffany wanted. I didn’t do what Crystal wanted.
And all the mages who showed up for help, I didn’t do what they wanted either. They wanted us to be wise and we weren’t wise. We were just faking it.
“Brittany,” Megan says, “do you have something to add?”
For a moment, I forgot that she can feel what I feel. I look at her.
“I didn’t lose my magic, did I?” I ask the Fates.
“No, child,” Clotho says. “Your magic is waiting for you when you come of age.”
I nod.
“I think we should have a ruling,” Daddy says. “I think that Brittany should be released from this punishment, and—”
“It’s not a punishment,” Lachesis says.
“But that’s the end result,” he says. “She’s forced to be someone she’s not, she has to labor in a sweaty shop, and she has no room of her own. The conditions you’ve sent her to are terrible. The other girls have nice rooms and nice homes, and they don’t have to be a mass murderer to get it. But Brittany…”
My heart starts to race. Helen of Troy was a mass murderer? Who knew?
“She seems to have nothing at all. I think you should reconsider for her.” Daddy finishes quietly, rather than his usual rhetorical flourish.
“Are you acting as her advocate?” Atropos asks him.
My breath catches. Even I know what that means. I’ve seen it a few times as an Interim Fate. An advocate doesn’t mean he
represents
me. It means he’s speaking out against an injustice.
Usually the advocate speaks out without the person he’s advocating for even knowing that he’s pressing her case.
“Yes,” Daddy says.
“Then we must take this under advisement,” Clotho says, and waves her arm.
And the entire library disappears.
TWELVE
THE NEXT THING I know, I am standing, alone, on the sidewalk outside the store. It’s colder here than it was inside the library, and I shiver. The sky looks just as gray as it had before, and it seems to me that the same cars are parked in the same place in the parking lot.
I don’t have a phone, though, and I don’t have any way to explain what happened to the phone Karl gave me.
The Johnson Family can’t afford to lose a phone. I tear up, then force the tears back. I don’t need to cry over a phone.
Of course, I wouldn’t be crying over a phone. That entire experience…
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Daddy as my advocate. I have no idea how the real Fates will handle that.
I have no idea how he will.
I take a deep breath of the cold air. I can’t get back to the Fates. I can’t talk to Daddy. I’m going to have to get to the Johnson Family Manse somehow.
I turn back to the store, hoping the door is still unlocked. I’ll use their phone, and then I’ll tell Mom what happened to the cell phone. I’ll offer to pay for it.
Somehow.
I pull the door open and step inside. It’s warmer here, and darker than outside, because the front lights are still off. Just ahead of me, I see four silhouettes. I blink to help my eyes adjust, and as they do, I realize the silhouettes are women.
Four women. One of them is Mrs. Larson. She stands near some shelves, arms crossed.
The other women wear cloth coats with fur collars, stockings with lines that goes up the back of their legs, high heels, and jaunty hats that are more decorative than functional.
My breath catches.
The Fates.
Those three women are the Fates.
They can’t be. I just left them at the library—or rather, they banished me back here.
But if they’re taking an advocate seriously, they need to send a representative to evaluate the situation, and if there’s no trusted representative…
They have to do the job themselves.
“Crap,” I mutter, and feel Mom’s disapproval even though she’s not here. “Crap, crap, crap.”
I walk toward the women. Mrs. Larson looks up and waves me over.
I hurry to her side.
Clotho stands directly across from her. Clotho’s coat is a deep red and (gross!) the fur around the collar isn’t attached. It’s a real fur. A fox fur, with the dead fox’s head nipping its tail. Her hands are tucked inside a matching fur muff.
“Ah, Brittany,” Mrs. Larson says, waving me closer still. “I had told these ladies they had just missed you.”
My gaze met Lachesis’s. Her coat is green and it matches her eyes. The fur around the collar is white and spotted, and I worry that it’s from some dead endangered creature. Her hands are bare, and her fingers are covered in gold rings. Her fingernails are painted bright red, matching her lipstick.
“We are not here to see the child,” Lachesis says, forming her words very carefully.
“We are here to examine her work conditions,” Atropos says.
She’s wearing a blue coat, and her fur has no face (thank heavens!). The fur is sleek and black and drapes over the side of the coat like a scarf. She also has a muff that matches, only she’s holding it in one leather-gloved hand, while the other hand clutches a long cigarette holder
à
la Cruella de Vil.
“Who did you say you were again?” Mrs. Larson asks them.
The Fates don’t know enough about the Greater World to lie convincingly. They’d probably just end up magicking Mrs. Larson, which could go wrong in so many ways.
“My father—my real father—is having some custody issues,” I say to Mrs. Larson. “He sent them.”
“He did not
send
us, child,” Atropos says. “He
advocated
—”
“They’re, like, representatives of the government,” I say hastily. I don’t want them to explain who they really are or what they think the American equivalent of their job is. “They have to evaluate my situation.”
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Larson says in a tone that implies that she doesn’t see at all.
“My dad is really rich and influential,” I say, “and he doesn’t approve of anything Mom is doing.”
“He believes she does not have young Brittany’s interests at heart,” Clotho says.
“Karin?” Mrs. Larson says, sounding stunned. “That woman adores this girl. Karin is doing everything in her power to make sure that Brittany has a good life here. Karin doesn’t have any money to speak of and she and Karl have a lot of children, but they do better than any other parents I know of. You give Karin a chance. She’s been waiting years to have Brittany at her side. She was so happy when she learned that Brittany was coming.”
“We are unconcerned about Karin Johnson at the moment,” Lachesis says. “We need to evaluate Brittany’s work conditions.”
I’ve had the job only one real day and already I’m causing trouble. My cheeks heat.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Mrs. Larson. “I didn’t mean for this—”
“That’s all right.” Mrs. Larson pats my arm. “I’ll take care of these ladies. Did you forget something?”
I frown, before I realize why she’s asking. From her perspective, I left and came back immediately. She probably thinks I’m trying to interfere with the Fates’ investigation.
“I don’t have my phone anymore, and I need a ride home.” I glance at the Fates. They watch as if we’re putting on a play for them. “May I use the phone here to call?”
“Certainly,” she says. “Why don’t you use the phone in my office?”
“Thanks,” I say. I walk in there, head down. What a disaster. Daddy can ruin everything without even trying hard.
As I approach the desk, I can hear Mrs. Larson say, “This was Brittany’s first day with us, and she did tremendously well. We’re just setting up the store right now. After we’re done stocking shelves, we’ll help customers….”
Her voice fades as she walks into the back. I hope the Fates understand what she’s talking about.
I hope she’s willing to keep me on after all of this trouble.
If, of course, I’m staying in Superior.
I call the house, and Ivan answers.
“Hey,” I say, “is Mom or Karl there?”
“Um, lemme check.” He sets the phone down with a clang. I hear voices, but all of them young. Then he comes back. “Haven’t seen either of them. I guess they’re not here.”
“What about Eric or Lise?” I ask.
“Eric just left, and I dunno where Lise is. Something I can do?”
“I wish,” I say, thank him, and hang up.
Then I stand in the office for just a moment. I can hear the Fates’ heels clicking loudly as Mrs. Larson gives them a tour of the front area.
I pick up the phone again, and dial the only other number I have memorized—Eric’s.
He answers faster than I expect.
“Hey,” I say. “Would you mind picking me up at the store?”
“No prob,” he says. “I’m a block away. Be outside.”
Then he hangs up.
I glance around, but I don’t see anyone. Even the footsteps have grown quiet. My heart is still pounding too hard.
I had hoped that I’d be able to spy on the Fates and Mrs. Larson, maybe explain a few things. But now I can’t.
I doubt they would have let me anyway.
I step out of the office. Through the big display windows, I see Eric’s rust bucket pull into the parking lot.
He’ll be upset if I’m not waiting for him.
I hurry across the floor, and shout, “Thanks!” as I let myself out.
The cold hits me like a slap. Then the rust bucket squeals to a stop in front of me. I hurry around to the passenger side.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say, and slink down in my seat.
THIRTEEN
ERIC DROPS ME in front of the house. I stand there a moment, feeling tired and achy and lost. The narrow road goes slightly downhill, and if I stand on my tiptoes, I can almost see the lake.
It’s probably the same gray color as the sky. The air smells damp, and twilight is coming.
It’ll get even darker.
I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat, bow my head, and walk toward the house. It’s almost invisible from the street. Daddy thinks the house is horrible, but I like it.
I like it here more than I realized.
And now Daddy’s going to ruin it.
I walk up the driveway, the cold wind stinging my face. The front door is down the sidewalk to my left, but no one except company uses that door. I’m not company—at least not yet.
I round the garage and go up the back steps to the kitchen door. I step inside, and smell peanut butter and coffee.
The coffee still sits in the coffeemaker, but the maker’s unplugged. An open jar of peanut butter sits on the counter, and two slices of bread sit on a plate, but there’s no one in the kitchen.
“Hello!” I shout as I pull off my coat.
I really don’t want to see anyone, but one of the rules of the household is to announce your presence. No sneaking in.
“There you are!” Ingrid leans in from the dining room. “Ivan says you called.”
“I needed a ride,” I say.
“Well, you can deal with everything now,” she says. “I want lunch.”
She heads to the counter, grabs the peanut butter and the plate, and carries it to the kitchen table.
“What everything?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, digging a butter knife into the jar, “let’s see. It’s just been a zoo. Three ladies wearing dead animals showed up and wanted to talk to Mom and Dad. Dad’s working, and Mom disappeared somewhere. We can’t find her, but her car’s around, so she’s probably at the neighbor’s.”