A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery by Juliet Blackwell

Author:Juliet Blackwell [Blackwell, Juliet]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-07-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

As I got in my car I thought to myself that a lot of young people are willing to give away more information about themselves than I ever would. But then again, perhaps it wasn’t so much youth per se, as having grown up in a safe and secure situation. What with my childhood, I wasn’t even sure about eating food from unknown sources, much less telling my family history to some woman wandering in off the street.

All the way home, inspired by Hannah’s mindfulness training, I tried to concentrate on the here and now and on not controlling anyone. The fact was that, like Aidan said, Oscar could be anywhere. I wasn’t really his mistress; he was free to go. It would surprise me if he left me, but he might well have his own reasons for doing so, as Aidan implied.

Still, I paused in front of the door to Aunt Cora’s Closet, hoping to see some sign that my missing pig had returned. But the signs were still up, volunteers still milling about. No indication of the celebration I felt sure would accompany Oscar’s return. In fact, it was almost six o’clock, but the store still appeared very much open for business.

When I entered, I discovered why: Some of the volunteers—my money was on the coven sisters—had organized a potluck dinner. They appeared to have no intention of closing down Lost Pig Central anytime soon.

With a heavy heart, I forced myself to walk in with a smile.

But I spent the rest of the evening trying to ignore Oscar’s monogrammed purple silk pillow, pathetically empty.

* * *

“I can’t believe you waited so long to tell me about Oscar,” Sailor said later that evening.

We were seated at Sailor’s cheap laminate kitchen table, eating take-out from one of the best noodle shops in town. Roast duck and dumplings and seared bok choy and noodles with black bean sauce—the food sent up a bouquet of mouth-watering aromas. Despite this, I was picking at my food and trying in vain to work up an appetite. I hadn’t eaten a thing at the potluck, but I still wasn’t hungry.

Sailor’s apartment was in Chinatown, down a little alley into which tourists rarely ventured. Everything smelled of spices and the faint whiff of a ghostly perfume that lingered, evidence of a long-ago perfume factory here in Hang Ah Alley. Once you got past the ghost of a murdered gambler on the landing right outside Sailor’s door, it was a nice place. Urban, but cozy. A neatly made bed, stacks of books, an old TV with a DVD player. The kitchen had only one plate, one bowl, and one set of cutlery, so Sailor was eating straight out of the box with the free wooden chopsticks, which he wielded with mastery.

Normally, I had to practically sit on my hands in order not to offer to fix the place up for him. It wouldn’t take much: a nice set of dishes, some pots and pans, curtains in the window, a pot of basil on the counter and some rosemary at the front door for good luck.

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