He smiles. “Oh, but strange is far better than boring. It denotes a depth of character, a man of style and taste.”
“It does not.”
His smile deepens. “Oh, but it does. If you don’t think so, perhaps you ought to consult a dictionary. I’m quoting from the Oxford English. Inferior volumes may have misinformed you.”
Scarlet folds her arms. “What do you want?”
“Is that how you greet all your illustrious customers?” He nods at the smattering of students, all hunched over laptops. “Is that why you have so few?”
“Paying customers are treated with the utmost respect.” Scarlet sets down the knife. “You, on the other hand, aren’t here for a slice of cake. Am I right?”
“Yes, I suppose you are,” Ezekiel says, lifting his briefcase onto the counter. “I’ve brought you an offer.”
Scarlet narrows her eyes. “For what?”
“For your café.” Ezekiel clicks his briefcase open and extracts a thick folder. “I’ve looked into your takings—you’re struggling. We’re offering to take over the lease and give you a rather generous signing bonus in the bargain.”
Scarlet feels heat rising in her hands, as if she were holding them too close to a fire. She clenches them into fists at her sides. She wants to snatch up the knife and scar his beautiful face. Arrogant prick.
“Are you willing to—”
He’s stopped short by a falling antique art deco lamp, reaffixed to the ceiling by Walt only yesterday, that comes away with clumps of plaster, striking Ezekiel’s head. He stumbles back as the lamp shatters on the floor in an explosion of colour. The smattering of students all glance up from their laptops, then, sensing themselves in no immediate danger, return to their screens.
“What the hell was that?” Ezekiel staggers to the counter, gripping the edge. He grabs a napkin and presses it to his forehead. “Shit. It fucking hurts. Shit.”
Scarlet stares at him, speechless. A shard of glass has sliced Ezekiel’s hairline. Blood runs down his face. He’ll need stitches. A scar on his beautiful face. Scarlet’s thoughts race. No, that’s impossible. But then what the hell is happening? As Ezekiel continues to swear and moan, Scarlet feels her hands getting hotter.
She glances down to see sparks again firing from her fingertips.
6:38 p.m.—Bea
Bea stares at her hands, splayed across the pages of Russell’s The Analysis of Mind, trying to focus but thinking instead about her mother, about the line between madness and sanity, between fantasy and reality. Although Bea would extract her own toenails before admitting any weakness, she can’t deny a morbid terror of madness, of inheriting maternal DNA. Beneath Bea’s fingers, the letters blur into black lines and curls, words she knows so well shifting into hieroglyphics.
The ink on the page begins to pool under her palms, soaking into her hands, staining her skin. Bea watches as the ink seeps slowly into her veins, until they’re running black instead of milky blue.
Bea lifts her left hand, bringing it to her face. Surely not. She squeezes her eyes shut, then opens one eye and peers out. But her veins still pulse dark, her skin tattooed. Panic rises, hot and clammy. She’s got to get out of here. She starts to stand but, as she’s about to abandon the table and flee to the nearest lavatory, fear gradually subsides into calm. And Bea begins to feel herself slipping seamlessly into this new ink-veined skin, until she’s in a perfect alignment of body and soul. As if Judas had reached up from hell to whisper in her ear: Don’t fear. This is who you are, who you’ve always been.
Bea pushes her chair from the table and stands. Only a scattering of students sit at the table, all with heads bowed over their books. Not that she’d now care if they were staring at her, smirking and jeering.
Bea grins. How wonderful not to give a damn what strangers might think. How spectacularly liberating.
Bea steps up onto her chair, one booted foot then the other. She looks around. Not high enough. She steps onto the table. Now Bea can survey her kingdom without impediment. She turns a slow circle to admire every bookcase, every book, every table, every occupant. From here she can see as far as the librarian’s desk, to the librarian bent over his computer, frowning at the screen.
How splendid it is to be so elevated, to see what others cannot, to feel like the lord of all you survey, in a unity of spirit and stature. Bea has always felt