from finding her daughter had
not
stopped Jane.
I could actually
find
her
, Jane realized in a flash.
She didn’t know where the depressing little studio apartment had been, which was a problem. But she was pretty sure that the sitcom she had seen secondhand was on the BBC. That didn’t narrow down Annette’s location much, it was true, but still: if Jane could redo the spell, she might see something that
did
lead her more specifically to the location of the flesh-and-blood heiress to the Doran magic.
And if I found her, Lynne would give me anything. She would give me more than anything: she would lose any reason for chasing me and Malcolm in the first place.
It was perfect: Lynne would be willing to let Jane go about her life, and she would be grateful enough to want to.
But the unicorn shattered,
Jane remembered sadly. She was completely out of Doran-owned objects, and so had nothing to use to find Annette
or
Malcolm. Still, though, the mere fact of Annette’s existence meant that there was hope. If Jane could find her
somehow
– maybe Dee could dig up another spell, or maybe Jane could somehow get another item of Annette’s – then Jane would never even need to fight Lynne. She could just give Lynne her daughter and go on her merry way. The thought alone was intoxicating.
Two pudgy little boys ran full-tilt towards the pigeons, who flocked into the air in a heavy, thrashing mass. Jane watched them carefully, trying to decide if she should abandon her bench and move farther away from the central fountain. The outer branches of the park’s paths were a little more peaceful, but still good for people-watching, and pigeons or no, she didn’t feel ready to leave the park entirely. In the meantime, she settled for glaring at the giggling boys, only realizing after the fact that her habitual sunglasses made that compromise basically invisible. The boys took off, careening around the lip of the fountain pool towards the wide white arch that reminded Jane so achingly of home. The pigeons, emboldened by the remnants of the pretzel and their natural New Yorker cockiness, were already settling back down.
Jane watched them idly, waiting for the disparate threads of thought to come together in her head.
Just like the pigeons,
she reflected smilingly: they seemed chaotic but could resolve into a coherent pattern at any time.
One pigeon broke away from the flock, hopping and pecking until it was completely clear of its cohorts.
Vulnerable,
Jane’s brain supplied automatically, and she realized that she was probably reading a little too much into the birds.
It’s just me,
she told herself sadly.
I’m vulnerable and cut off from the people who love me – most of the ones who are still alive, anyway. But how can I put them in danger just to make myself feel safer?
A red leather boot kicked at the lone pigeon, scaring it back to the safety of its flock. Jane’s gaze followed the boot up a camel-hair-sheathed leg, the riding pants clinging so obediently that Jane could see every contour of the kicker’s lean calf and thigh. Her eyes travelled onward, over a red leather jacket that matched the boots, and then on to the sharp point of a chin and violently high cheekbones with tanned skin stretched over them like Saran Wrap.
I know that skin,
Jane’s mind shouted at her as her gaze reached the woman’s oversize sunglasses. She didn’t even have to register the short black hair to realize that she was looking right at the mystery woman who had frightened her out of her old coffee shop.
It was true that the two places in which she had spotted Mystery Woman were connected by the A, C, and E trains. It wasn’t exactly impossible that the same person might be in both. But she could feel in her bones that this was no coincidence: this woman had been in the coffee shop to watch Jane, and she was watching Jane from behind those huge reflective lenses right now.
‘I want to know who you are,’ she whispered, her lips barely
not
stopped Jane.
I could actually
find
her
, Jane realized in a flash.
She didn’t know where the depressing little studio apartment had been, which was a problem. But she was pretty sure that the sitcom she had seen secondhand was on the BBC. That didn’t narrow down Annette’s location much, it was true, but still: if Jane could redo the spell, she might see something that
did
lead her more specifically to the location of the flesh-and-blood heiress to the Doran magic.
And if I found her, Lynne would give me anything. She would give me more than anything: she would lose any reason for chasing me and Malcolm in the first place.
It was perfect: Lynne would be willing to let Jane go about her life, and she would be grateful enough to want to.
But the unicorn shattered,
Jane remembered sadly. She was completely out of Doran-owned objects, and so had nothing to use to find Annette
or
Malcolm. Still, though, the mere fact of Annette’s existence meant that there was hope. If Jane could find her
somehow
– maybe Dee could dig up another spell, or maybe Jane could somehow get another item of Annette’s – then Jane would never even need to fight Lynne. She could just give Lynne her daughter and go on her merry way. The thought alone was intoxicating.
Two pudgy little boys ran full-tilt towards the pigeons, who flocked into the air in a heavy, thrashing mass. Jane watched them carefully, trying to decide if she should abandon her bench and move farther away from the central fountain. The outer branches of the park’s paths were a little more peaceful, but still good for people-watching, and pigeons or no, she didn’t feel ready to leave the park entirely. In the meantime, she settled for glaring at the giggling boys, only realizing after the fact that her habitual sunglasses made that compromise basically invisible. The boys took off, careening around the lip of the fountain pool towards the wide white arch that reminded Jane so achingly of home. The pigeons, emboldened by the remnants of the pretzel and their natural New Yorker cockiness, were already settling back down.
Jane watched them idly, waiting for the disparate threads of thought to come together in her head.
Just like the pigeons,
she reflected smilingly: they seemed chaotic but could resolve into a coherent pattern at any time.
One pigeon broke away from the flock, hopping and pecking until it was completely clear of its cohorts.
Vulnerable,
Jane’s brain supplied automatically, and she realized that she was probably reading a little too much into the birds.
It’s just me,
she told herself sadly.
I’m vulnerable and cut off from the people who love me – most of the ones who are still alive, anyway. But how can I put them in danger just to make myself feel safer?
A red leather boot kicked at the lone pigeon, scaring it back to the safety of its flock. Jane’s gaze followed the boot up a camel-hair-sheathed leg, the riding pants clinging so obediently that Jane could see every contour of the kicker’s lean calf and thigh. Her eyes travelled onward, over a red leather jacket that matched the boots, and then on to the sharp point of a chin and violently high cheekbones with tanned skin stretched over them like Saran Wrap.
I know that skin,
Jane’s mind shouted at her as her gaze reached the woman’s oversize sunglasses. She didn’t even have to register the short black hair to realize that she was looking right at the mystery woman who had frightened her out of her old coffee shop.
It was true that the two places in which she had spotted Mystery Woman were connected by the A, C, and E trains. It wasn’t exactly impossible that the same person might be in both. But she could feel in her bones that this was no coincidence: this woman had been in the coffee shop to watch Jane, and she was watching Jane from behind those huge reflective lenses right now.
‘I want to know who you are,’ she whispered, her lips barely
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