moving, as she focused on the mystery woman a few benches away. She pushed the sensitive tendrils of her magic towards the woman’s mind. ‘A fan? A reporter? A henchwoman? What do you know about me?’ But her magic ran up against a smooth, blank wall, and Jane grimaced. She searched for a few more seconds, looking for any kind of opening, but she knew that it would be futile. Mystery Woman was a witch.
Jane slid off her bench and headed for one of the paths out of the park. She could feel Mystery Woman’s eyes following her, and in a burst of inspiration, Jane turned back and tossed her empty smoothie cup towards the trash can behind the swarm of pigeons. The cup missed, falling instead into the middle of the flock and sending it wildly skyward again. A shower of feathers littered the ground, and the air around the flock grew thick with dust.
Jane hurried away down a paved path, trusting the beating grey wings and angry shoving of beaks to hide her from view. She didn’t turn around again, even once she had reached Washington Square West safely and alone.
Seven
‘I T ’ S SORT OF greenish,’ Jane observed doubtfully, poking at the inside of her falafel with a fork.
‘That means it’s fresh,’ Dee explained, rolling her eyes. ‘Try it with the tomato and some of that sauce – not that much, it’s spicy. You’re going to learn about food that isn’t French if it kills me, Jane.’
Jane stuck her tongue out and then pushed it back in with a bite of falafel. Just as advertised, it tasted fresh, spicy, and good with the tomato. She liked to grumble at Dee, but considering that most ‘foreign’ foods readily available in Paris were tone-deaf, preservative-laden shells of the real thing, Jane was more than happy to branch out. And although she had been skeptical of this place – brightly lit and a little grimy with a long, fast-moving line of takeout customers filing by their cramped little wooden table – it had turned out to be just as good as Dee had promised.
Jane couldn’t help but compare it to some of the stuffy, elegant Doran family dinners she had endured during her time on Park Avenue. The food had been good, certainly, in a refined sort of way, but this cheap-eats hole in the wall had a pulse and character that felt much more honest and appealing to Jane than the Dorans’ celebrity-filled haunts ever had. It reminded her of her student days, and then the low-key places she and her BFF (Best French Friend) Elodie had frequented. Although she had believed that Malcolm Doran was the love of her life, in a way she felt lighter, safer, and more at ease than she had since meeting him.
But I’m not quite out of that relationship yet,
she reminded herself conscientiously, and mentally settled in to get down to business. She had already told Dee about Mystery Witch in the park that afternoon, but so far she had avoided bringing up her plan to find Annette. She knew that Dee would worry and would probably be right to: it was dangerous. But she also knew that Dee might be able to help, and if the last three weeks proved anything it was that Jane couldn’t afford to cut herself off from help.
‘So,’ she announced as casually as possible around a mouthful of lentils, ‘I want to do that . . . thing again.’ She avoided saying ‘spell’ at the last possible second with a pointed glance at the customers currently filing by them: a skinny, impossibly pretty boy in eyeliner and two women in short, floaty dresses. ‘From yesterday,’ she clarified when Dee didn’t immediately react. ‘I still want to find
him
, of course, but what I want to focus on first is finding
her
again. The sister.’
Dee started to shake her head, but Jane waved her protest away and leaned closer across the wooden table.
‘She’s my way out of this,’ she explained in a hiss. ‘My
mother-in-law
wouldn’t need me any more if she was back. Hell, she’d probably throw me a parade. All I have to do is find the sister,
Jane slid off her bench and headed for one of the paths out of the park. She could feel Mystery Woman’s eyes following her, and in a burst of inspiration, Jane turned back and tossed her empty smoothie cup towards the trash can behind the swarm of pigeons. The cup missed, falling instead into the middle of the flock and sending it wildly skyward again. A shower of feathers littered the ground, and the air around the flock grew thick with dust.
Jane hurried away down a paved path, trusting the beating grey wings and angry shoving of beaks to hide her from view. She didn’t turn around again, even once she had reached Washington Square West safely and alone.
Seven
‘I T ’ S SORT OF greenish,’ Jane observed doubtfully, poking at the inside of her falafel with a fork.
‘That means it’s fresh,’ Dee explained, rolling her eyes. ‘Try it with the tomato and some of that sauce – not that much, it’s spicy. You’re going to learn about food that isn’t French if it kills me, Jane.’
Jane stuck her tongue out and then pushed it back in with a bite of falafel. Just as advertised, it tasted fresh, spicy, and good with the tomato. She liked to grumble at Dee, but considering that most ‘foreign’ foods readily available in Paris were tone-deaf, preservative-laden shells of the real thing, Jane was more than happy to branch out. And although she had been skeptical of this place – brightly lit and a little grimy with a long, fast-moving line of takeout customers filing by their cramped little wooden table – it had turned out to be just as good as Dee had promised.
Jane couldn’t help but compare it to some of the stuffy, elegant Doran family dinners she had endured during her time on Park Avenue. The food had been good, certainly, in a refined sort of way, but this cheap-eats hole in the wall had a pulse and character that felt much more honest and appealing to Jane than the Dorans’ celebrity-filled haunts ever had. It reminded her of her student days, and then the low-key places she and her BFF (Best French Friend) Elodie had frequented. Although she had believed that Malcolm Doran was the love of her life, in a way she felt lighter, safer, and more at ease than she had since meeting him.
But I’m not quite out of that relationship yet,
she reminded herself conscientiously, and mentally settled in to get down to business. She had already told Dee about Mystery Witch in the park that afternoon, but so far she had avoided bringing up her plan to find Annette. She knew that Dee would worry and would probably be right to: it was dangerous. But she also knew that Dee might be able to help, and if the last three weeks proved anything it was that Jane couldn’t afford to cut herself off from help.
‘So,’ she announced as casually as possible around a mouthful of lentils, ‘I want to do that . . . thing again.’ She avoided saying ‘spell’ at the last possible second with a pointed glance at the customers currently filing by them: a skinny, impossibly pretty boy in eyeliner and two women in short, floaty dresses. ‘From yesterday,’ she clarified when Dee didn’t immediately react. ‘I still want to find
him
, of course, but what I want to focus on first is finding
her
again. The sister.’
Dee started to shake her head, but Jane waved her protest away and leaned closer across the wooden table.
‘She’s my way out of this,’ she explained in a hiss. ‘My
mother-in-law
wouldn’t need me any more if she was back. Hell, she’d probably throw me a parade. All I have to do is find the sister,
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