Neon Blue by E Frost (best big ereader .TXT) 📕

past a figure of a seated woman holding a pair of crossed keys over her breast. The next panel shows stylized clouds, with a tree breaking through them, three branches rising high out of the clouds to spear the air. The branches are inverted keys, prongs spreading from the central trunk like leaves. As my fingers brush over the clouds, I hear a low roll of thunder, and when I reach the tree, there’s an electric tingle.

The air fills with the heavy metallic scent of ozone.

“And I looked,” the man’s deep whisper sounds in my ear again. “There before me I saw the Great Tree of the world, with its branches spearing the heavens. One branch led to the past, one to the present, one into the future. All three converged in the Great Tree, as all times and places are one in the mind of God. Look to the tree, Tsara. When all times and places meet, look to the Tree.”

I jump up, overturning my chair. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Timmi rises, her silver-white eyebrows lifting in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

I debate for a moment. Can’t see the trap, or that I have anything to lose by telling her the truth. “It called me by name.”

“Oh.” Timmi shrugs and sinks back down gracefully. “It does that.”

“Excuse me, it does that?”

“Mmm.” Timmi rises again and takes my arm. “Enough for today. I was right about you and that key, and you and Park’s diary. No one else has heard anything from the key panels. And the pillar calls maybe one in twenty people by name. You’ll be able to read it, given enough time. So, there’s no reason to overwhelm you today. Shall we finish up in my office? I have freshly brewed Amaretto waiting.”

There’s a tough choice. Creepy talking carvings or coffee in Timmi’s office? Hmm, let me think. “Yes, please.”

Timmi leads me through a door beyond the column, down a short flight of stairs and through a dark wood door with a simple gold plaque that says ‘Curator.’ As soon as she opens the door, the wonderful, rich smell of Amaretto fills my nose. It clears out the lingering metallic edge of ozone. I feel myself relax as we move into her office, which is just as cozy as I anticipated, and when Timmi gestures to a deep green leather armchair, I sink into it gratefully.

Timmi busies herself with serving coffee for a moment, which comes in delicate gold and white cups, complete with cream and two biscuits. “You’re spoiling me,” I tell her after the first wonderful sip.

“I prefer to think of it as tempting you.” She smiles. “I’m sorry if Park’s diary was too much.”

I shake my head to absolve her. Take another sip of her coffee. Better than Starbucks. Wow.

She sits down in the other wing chair, facing her desk, and dunks a biscuit in her coffee thoughtfully. “Tsara, if I may ask, where did you train? I assume you’ve had formal training.” She smiles her knowing smile. “If not, you’re terrifyingly adept.”

I nod. “Wydlins Special School for Girls and Bevington College.”

“Ah, a Bevvy girl. I should have known. I studied at Milliwick myself for two years before I went to Vassar,” she says. I nod. A couple of the girls I knew at Bevvy went to Milliwick Prep. Very exclusive. Very pricey. No scholarship students like at Wydlins. “The magical curriculum was very limited in my day. Magical history mostly. Nothing practical.” Timmi dunks thoughtfully for a moment. “Didn’t I read something recently in that ghastly rag we call a newspaper about a Bevvy girl? Something tragic, wasn’t it?”

Rowena.

I take another sip of coffee to wash away the sudden bitter taste in my mouth. “Rowena Martin. She died in a fire.”

“Dear me.” Timmi’s eyes fill with real compassion. “Tsara, did you know her?”

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I do. God-that-I’m-not-sure-I-believe-in, I do. I want to spill everything, tell her about the shit Ro dropped me in, the demon and his terrifying offer, lay all the horror and uncertainty and fear out in front of her and have her tell me what to do.

I open my mouth. Close it.

I’m not a child. She’s not my Dala. I can deal with my own problems.

I throw everything I was about to say into my mental trash bin and empty. “I knew her at Bevvy, but I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in several years. Since we graduated. She took a turn down the Left Path, and we parted Ways.”

Timmi picks up her other biscuit and dunks it thoughtfully, looking into the rippling dark surface, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. That’s one of the advantages of being ‘just’ a collector, I suppose. Most magical objects are neither light nor dark. It’s the user who determines how rightly or wrongly they’re used.”

I nod. Professor Uela used to say the same thing.

Timmi looks up and meets my eyes squarely. Hers are a little probing, but still full of that honest compassion. “You’re still wary. That’s all right, my dear. I hope you’ll come to see that I’m not Aufseherin. Nor do I have a white coat hanging behind that door.” She nods at the open door of her office, which has a sensible brown Mac hanging behind it. “When that time comes, please, feel free to tell me about it.”

I almost do. But when I open my mouth again, Timmi waves her soggy biscuit at me. “Enough seriousness for today. Shall I amuse you instead? I’m told I can be quite charming, when I’m not terrorizing interns and prospective apprentices.” Her infectious grin returns. “Let me show you my toys.”

She shows me the collection of miniature machines on her desk. Some wooden. Some metal. One made of crystal, so soap-bubble fragile that I shake my head when Timmi tries to hand it to me. Some of them whirr. Some have parts that slide back and forth or up and down. None of them actually