hungry when you get home.”
“I’ll do that.” She patted him on the shoulder as she passed. It was a compromise:
I can’t give you that, so I’ll give you this.
He twisted around to watch her walk down the hallway. The stakes and other tools clattered as she scooped her backpack up from its place beside the front door. “Elly?”
She paused and turned, wary even though she had her keys in her hand and the door—escape—was two steps away. “Yeah?”
“Just . . . Be careful.”
“Always am.” She wavered there another moment, then turned abruptly and fled.
* * *
A N HOUR LATER, the kitchen table had been cleared of Elly’s books and notes. Cavale had wiped it clean as he could. He’d picked it up at a yard sale, more concerned that it could fulfill its function as a table than if it would be aesthetically pleasing. Its dark stained surface was scuffed and scarred. Lia said it had character; Lia was nice like that. What mattered was he could eat off it, which he’d just done. Like the table, the taquitos had done their job without being anything fancy—since they didn’t have to satisfy anyone but Cavale, it worked out fine.
They hadn’t been good, but they were fast. With his hunger sated, he could move on to his night’s work.
Cooking for Beginners
sat abandoned on the counter as Cavale laid his ritual tools out on the table. He’d cook for Elly after he had some answers; she’d be more interested in what he could tell her about the ghost than in eating a beef and cheese casserole.
He spread a square of linen in the center of the table and set the tub of ectoplasm atop it. The cardinal points were embroidered in the corners of the cloth; at each of them, he placed a stubby crimson candle. Sprigs of dried lavender and thyme hung in the window above the sink. Cavale clipped a few, twisting their stems together with a short length of black thread. He made three bunches and arranged them in a triangle around the container.
When all was to his satisfaction, he lit the candles and retrieved an old, well-worn pack of tarot cards from what in any mundane kitchen would be the junk drawer.
His work deck was fancier, the illustrations done by a local artist. His customers liked to examine the cards he drew, interpreting meaning from the artist’s flourishes whether their ideas had anything to do with the actual card or not. This deck, his home deck, was about as plain as you could get. It was the deck he’d learned on, the one Father Value had put in his hands ten, fifteen years gone, with a book on how to read them. Father Value didn’t do gifts, Cavale knew. The cards were yet another lesson, and a survival tool of sorts. And hadn’t he used them just that way? Hadn’t he put food in his and Elly’s mouths with money he earned from setting up a folding table at a flea market? Hadn’t his accuracy been uncanny enough to bring in tips that bought them warm coats from secondhand stores?
They were the one thing he’d taken with him when he walked out that he hadn’t paid for himself. He could have bought another deck—
had
bought others since he’d landed in Crow’s Neck—but he knew these best. His hands had been too small for them when he’d first shuffled them, spilling them across the floor as often as not. But he’d grown, until they’d fit perfectly in his long fingers, until shuffling them became second nature, the very act of it a meditation.
He flipped three cards now, a spread for the ghost. They told him little more than what Elly had relayed already: hints at upheaval in his past, which a gunshot wound certainly counted as; a feeling of lost control in his present; a return to contentment in the end. He passed his hands over the flame of the closest candle and crushed a bit of lavender between his fingers. Then he pinched off a piece of the ectoplasm and held it in his palm.
It lay there, cold and inert, drying as he watched. He’d been right: Elly had done a
“I’ll do that.” She patted him on the shoulder as she passed. It was a compromise:
I can’t give you that, so I’ll give you this.
He twisted around to watch her walk down the hallway. The stakes and other tools clattered as she scooped her backpack up from its place beside the front door. “Elly?”
She paused and turned, wary even though she had her keys in her hand and the door—escape—was two steps away. “Yeah?”
“Just . . . Be careful.”
“Always am.” She wavered there another moment, then turned abruptly and fled.
* * *
A N HOUR LATER, the kitchen table had been cleared of Elly’s books and notes. Cavale had wiped it clean as he could. He’d picked it up at a yard sale, more concerned that it could fulfill its function as a table than if it would be aesthetically pleasing. Its dark stained surface was scuffed and scarred. Lia said it had character; Lia was nice like that. What mattered was he could eat off it, which he’d just done. Like the table, the taquitos had done their job without being anything fancy—since they didn’t have to satisfy anyone but Cavale, it worked out fine.
They hadn’t been good, but they were fast. With his hunger sated, he could move on to his night’s work.
Cooking for Beginners
sat abandoned on the counter as Cavale laid his ritual tools out on the table. He’d cook for Elly after he had some answers; she’d be more interested in what he could tell her about the ghost than in eating a beef and cheese casserole.
He spread a square of linen in the center of the table and set the tub of ectoplasm atop it. The cardinal points were embroidered in the corners of the cloth; at each of them, he placed a stubby crimson candle. Sprigs of dried lavender and thyme hung in the window above the sink. Cavale clipped a few, twisting their stems together with a short length of black thread. He made three bunches and arranged them in a triangle around the container.
When all was to his satisfaction, he lit the candles and retrieved an old, well-worn pack of tarot cards from what in any mundane kitchen would be the junk drawer.
His work deck was fancier, the illustrations done by a local artist. His customers liked to examine the cards he drew, interpreting meaning from the artist’s flourishes whether their ideas had anything to do with the actual card or not. This deck, his home deck, was about as plain as you could get. It was the deck he’d learned on, the one Father Value had put in his hands ten, fifteen years gone, with a book on how to read them. Father Value didn’t do gifts, Cavale knew. The cards were yet another lesson, and a survival tool of sorts. And hadn’t he used them just that way? Hadn’t he put food in his and Elly’s mouths with money he earned from setting up a folding table at a flea market? Hadn’t his accuracy been uncanny enough to bring in tips that bought them warm coats from secondhand stores?
They were the one thing he’d taken with him when he walked out that he hadn’t paid for himself. He could have bought another deck—
had
bought others since he’d landed in Crow’s Neck—but he knew these best. His hands had been too small for them when he’d first shuffled them, spilling them across the floor as often as not. But he’d grown, until they’d fit perfectly in his long fingers, until shuffling them became second nature, the very act of it a meditation.
He flipped three cards now, a spread for the ghost. They told him little more than what Elly had relayed already: hints at upheaval in his past, which a gunshot wound certainly counted as; a feeling of lost control in his present; a return to contentment in the end. He passed his hands over the flame of the closest candle and crushed a bit of lavender between his fingers. Then he pinched off a piece of the ectoplasm and held it in his palm.
It lay there, cold and inert, drying as he watched. He’d been right: Elly had done a
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