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

ready to let on to any of that yet, though, so all I say is, “I’ll mention it to Lin.”

“May I?” She gestures toward one of my guest chairs. “It was such a lovely day that I thought I’d walk over the bridge, but my feet are not thanking me now.”

If she’s walked all the way from Cambridge to Government Center, her feet won’t be thanking her. Particularly since her low-heeled boots look very stylish but are not what my Dala would have called ‘stout walking shoes.’

“Please,” I say, nodding at the chair. When she sits down, I sink into my desk chair.

She crosses her legs, smoothes her tailored maroon slacks over her knee and smiles at me. Her smile’s disarming.

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” she says.

“As lovely a day as it is, it seems like a long walk for no reason.”

“Ah, but I hate telephones. Modern technology.” That infectious grin again. I find myself smiling back at her. “I wanted to thank you, and although I adore writing notes, I like to have at least met my correspondent first.”

“Really, there’s no need.”

“Please don’t be modest. Modest people are terribly boring, don’t you think? You’ve recovered a valuable antiquity. That at least deserves a personal thank you.”

I tilt my head at her. If she’s a practitioner, she knows exactly how worthless that ‘valuable antiquity’ is. “I was happy to help.”

“I understand from your friend, Mister Goldberg, isn’t it?” At my nod, she continues, “That you won’t accept any financial remuneration.”

“Is that what Manny said?” I’ll strangle him.

“Was he wrong?”

I shrug. Maybe there’s a reason Manny didn’t want me to take anything from the Museum. I trust his judgment. “It’s fine.”

“Well, I would like to thank you more tangibly, if I may. I don’t know if you’re familiar with our collection?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The infectious smile returns. “Could I tempt you with a private tour? We have a number of pieces I think you would find interesting.”

I scratch at the back of my neck, which is a little sweaty from standing over the cauldron. I’ve never been particularly interested in magical artifacts. Ro was the one who filled our dorm room with little bits of crap she said had ‘magical resonance.’ But I don’t want to seem ungrateful. “Okay, sure.”

She claps those small, white, deceptively strong hands together. “Oh, good. I brought along a little something to entice you, but I wonder, would you like to step out and enjoy this glorious day? We could go for a cup of coffee, if you’d like.”

Whatever she’s brought along can’t possibly be as tempting as an offer of coffee. “Sure. There’s Borders on School Street. It’s only a few blocks. Are your feet up to it?”

“I’ll manage.” She picks up the alligator handbag she’s set at her feet. For a moment it looks sleek and maroon, a match for her svelte pants suit, but then I see it more clearly in the afternoon light. It’s a worn brown, the edges fraying, the handle imprinted with the shape of her hand. My Dala had a bag like that. She called it her ‘medicine bag’ even though she never carried anything more magical than a hair comb in it. She had it for as long as I could remember. My cousin Stefan gave her a new handbag for her birthday every year, just to twit her. She thanked him, carefully wrapped the new bag in oilcloth, and put it up in the loft of her caravan. I found thirty-six handbags up there when I cleaned out the caravan after her death. Her medicine bag was hanging on the back of the kitchen chair, where she’d hung it the night before I called the ambulance that took her to the gorgio hospital where their drabba couldn’t save her.

I shake myself and smile at Timmi.

She holds out her bag with a self-deprecating smile. “Tatty, isn’t it? But I adore this old bag. I can’t bear the thought of parting with it. It’s such a good friend. I’m afraid I’ll still be carrying it on my dying day.”

“I was just thinking that my grandmother had a bag very like that.”

“Did she? Where did she come from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly. My family are travelers.” That’s not entirely true. Studying European history at Wydlins helped me identify places in my family’s stories, and I’m pretty sure they came from Italy and Poland before they immigrated to America via England. Finding copies of my Dala’s tarocchi cards in one of my college textbooks on the Italian magical tradition pretty much confirmed it. But I don’t know where my Dala was born, so that part is true enough.

“Travelers?” She pauses for a moment and then her eyes widen. “Oh, I see. Roma.” She rolls the ‘r’. That hint of an accent comes through and this time I place it. Greek.

I nod.

“You’re very fair for a Rom.”

I shrug. “I’m only half. My mother’s family’s Lithuanian.” Which is about all I know about my mother’s family. I’ve never spoken to any of them.

“Do you travel yourself?”

“No.” I rise and hold the door open for her, hoping my movement will close that topic of conversation. It’s hard enough to have the demon poking around through my past. I don’t need random strangers doing it, too. “Let me just tell the receptionist I’m stepping out.”

I stop at Evonne’s desk and tell her I’m going out for coffee. She immediately digs in her drawer and pulls out a rumpled five-dollar bill. “Could you get me a bag of whatever we had this morning? It was better than sex.”

I glance covertly at Timmi, see the small smile that says she’s overheard. I take the five from Evonne with a grimace. “Sure, no problem. Back in a bit.”

When we step out of the office, Timmi is still smiling her small smile. It widens when the golden autumn sunlight hits our faces. I join her in smiling up at