666 Park Avenue by Gabriella Pierce

strange. She had made eye contact, shaken hands, and kissed cheeks with at least a dozen people, and none of them had set off an unpleasant mind-reading episode. She mused on the anomaly for a brief moment. The magic seemed to flare up the most when she was tense or nervous, which she certainly had been tonight. Had the Dorans made her feel more comfortable than she realized? Or was it the lingering aftereffects of drugging herself? Whatever the reason, she was grateful for it. She couldn’t have handled knowing where Lynne’s mind had gone when she’d mentioned her wished-for grandchildren.
    At that somewhat catty thought, Jane immediately felt guilty. Lynne had been welcoming beyond her wildest dreams. Of course she would be intense about grandchildren: she’d lost her only daughter, which had to be particularly earth-shattering, given her pride in female heritage. Because Annette had died, the Doran line—as per the tree on the wall, at least—would end with Lynne.
    The somber reflection weighted down Jane’s already heavy limbs, reminding her just how tired she was. Malcolm was in a heated conversation with Rolly McCarroll (or was that Andrew?) nearby. She tapped lightly on his arm and, with an apologetic smile, drew him a few feet away. “I think I need to sleep,” she whispered.
    Lynne Doran reappeared abruptly at her side. “Of course, dear. I’m afraid I’ll need to catch up with my son for just a bit longer, but Sofia will show you to your and Malcolm’s suite. And Jane, we must schedule some time to chat soon. Lunch tomorrow? I’d love to get to know you better.”
    Jane thanked Lynne and followed the black-uniformed maid to the hallway. She looked back once and took in the odd collection of people inside—her brand-new family.

Chapter Nine
    S ofia turned out to be a tiny maid with ivory-colored skin and slightly bulging eyes that gave her a permanently nervous look. She padded silently down the hallway on sensible shoes, giving Jane the impression that she was following a ghost. The girl came briefly to life when she showed Jane her suite: the bathroom with its heated tile floor, the walk-in closets with gentle track lighting, the staff call button—and, of course, the ubiquitous keypad that controlled the privacy lock. Jane worried a little about having so many important things in one place that she could potentially blow up, but the worry was brief: she was too tired to so much as power a lightbulb, and tomorrow would just have to work itself out.
    Jane dropped her bag on an overstuffed velvet chair and took in her new pad. The wallpaper was the same rich ivory as the living room had been, and the deep chocolate-brown of the wooden floor glowed darkly in contrast. The effect, however, was spoiled by a multitude of Oriental throw-rugs, most of which favored the red-and-gold theme of the canopy bed. The bed itself was a work of art, although Jane usually preferred her art a little less suffocating. Carved animals, flowers, and mythical creatures adorned each of the four posts, which rose nearly to the molded ceiling. Heavy brocaded curtains hung around the bed, matching the red and gold of the Pratesi duvet. The room felt as though it came from a different era; it reminded her of a medieval birthing room she’d once seen in an illuminated manuscript.
    Everything will look better in the morning, she reassured herself. The sun would stream in through the east-facing windows and make the highlights in the dark wood glow. She might even be able to catch a glimpse of Central Park from here, an almost suitable replacement for her familiar corner of Notre Dame. She would find the kitchen, sip an espresso, and try her first authentic New York bagel. Malcolm would read the paper . . . preferably the real estate section. And, in a perfect world, he would find the perfect apartment listing—a converted loft somewhere downtown with bone-colored hardwood floors and keys that actually turned—and they would