A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,41
had told her in private.
“Yes,” she replied. “He’s got a feast that will last him days. He’s going to get nice and fat.”
“A quarter cup of food per day is all he’s supposed to have at his age.”
“I’m kidding, of course.” Crys sighed and studied Becca’s pale face. Her sister’s eyes were closed today, so Crys tried to fool herself that she was only sleeping. “Any change?”
“No.”
Crys tried to will Becca to wake up. To pop open those indigo eyes, stretch her arms above her head, and say, “Why does everyone look so worried?”
But she didn’t. That book—whatever it was—had done this to her. It had made everything that made Becca Becca vanish from the world, leaving behind only a shell.
“What is it, Mom?” Crys asked.
She put her book down and looked at her daughter wearily. “What is what, Crys?”
“That book.”
Julia Hatcher’s expression tensed up as she stood. She went to the window, where she pushed the curtains aside to gaze out at the cloudy sky and the cityscape of tall gray buildings and people down on the sidewalk, hustling around like ants. “Don’t mention that here. Someone might be listening.”
Her mother had a talent for summoning Crys’s frustration like a psychic with a wandering spirit. “Yeah, you’re right. Someone might hear me mention . . . a book. I’m sure that would strike anyone as a bizarre conversation topic for a bookshop owner and her daughter-slash-employee.”
“You should go home.”
“I just got here.”
“Crys, please. I’m tired—”
“I just want to understand what’s going on. You know more than you’re telling me, I know you do. What’s wrong with Becca?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Her mother sighed with frustration. “I think you enjoy baiting me. You’re as argumentative as your father.”
Crys couldn’t keep her secret in another moment. If she did, she was going to explode, and that wouldn’t be pretty. She shoved her glasses higher on her nose. “I spoke to him yesterday.”
The room seemed to grow ten degrees colder in seconds as Julia turned from the window to face Crys. “You what?”
Crys hated the lump that had knotted itself up in her throat. She wanted to be strong while she confronted her mother about this. “Why didn’t you tell me he was still in Toronto?”
“Unbelievable.” She rubbed her forehead as if a migraine had just landed. “You were listening to me and Jackie the other night?”
“Nefarious methods, Mom. Sometimes they’re necessary.”
“Fine. Yes, your father is in Toronto, but he may as well be a million miles away. He doesn’t want to see you or Becca—”
“But I did see him. He met me at the art gallery yesterday.”
Her mother gaped at her, her face going nearly as pale as Becca’s. “I don’t know what to say to that. I have no words.”
“I have words. Plenty of them.” Anger burned now, bright as a small sun trapped inside her chest. “You gave him the ultimatum. You’re the one who made him choose between us and his society.”
“Yes. I did,” she said, raising her chin. “And he chose wrong.”
“But why did he have to choose? Couldn’t he—?”
“No, he couldn’t have both.” She cut Crys off, her tone harsh. “You have no idea what you’re butting your nose into, young lady. No idea at all.”
“Really? Don’t I?” Crys pointed at Becca. “I was there when this happened. You weren’t. I have a pretty good idea that there’s something insane going on that you know about, and you’re not telling me a goddamned thing!”
“Language,” her mother growled. But if she wanted Crys to be a prim and proper lady who never swore, she was living in the wrong century. “So, what lies did your father fill your head with, Crystal? Did he try to turn you against me?”
“No. But maybe now that I’ve heard his side of things, I’m wondering if I wouldn’t be better off living with him.”
She blanched. “Over my dead body. If you knew the truth about him . . . about us . . .”
“News flash, Mother. The truth is exactly what I’m trying to learn.” Crys laughed, a dry, brittle sound that held no humor. “What would you care if I left? You barely ever look at me. You haven’t even noticed I changed my hair again.”
“Of course I noticed.” Her mother shook her head. “You can be so dense sometimes. So goddamned dense.”
“Language,” Crys replied mockingly, but her mother’s words had hit her like a punch to the gut. “You know what? It’s fine. I don’t need you to