Page 72 of A Shade of Myself
He blinked back to his senses and reached for the flask. “Huh?”
I heaved a sigh of relief. Then I asked him about five times if he was okay, which made him extremely snippy. I dropped it for now, switching topics to his divination.
Emmett didn’t have the ability to interpret his prophecies, which sucked, but he might springboard off something I said, so I showed him the prophecy because he didn’t tend to remember them once he was out of his trance. “Let’s start with the easy part. Flowers have to refer to my parents, Noah and Adele Blum”—pronounced Bloom—“because that’s who I’m looking for. Or at least, I’m looking into what happened to them.”
“Why would your parents look for a shark, when that’s more dangerous than they are as flowers?”
“Because they knew they were in danger from one? If the shark is their killer…” I shook my head. “If that were the case, why would James ask if I was a baby shark? And what’s the star? Is it the Ascendant?”
“Could be an actual thing,” Emmett said.
“How could a physical item seek me?” I typed a series of question marks. “Say you’re right. Suppose the shark was seeking a treasure of some sort, this star, and my parents were looking for that shark. Did they hope to stop them from getting the treasure?”
“Or to steal the treasure for themselves,” Emmett said.
“Maybe.” I could intellectually admit that my parents were the type of people to steal treasure, I just wasn’t ready to fully accept it. “Or this star is another person.” And the Ascendant could be its handle.
I stilled. Could they be the new player that Poe showed me in the cards? I was drowning in possibilities and variables and I had to narrow them down. I folded the pages and put them back in my purse. “I have a lot more avenues to pursue than I did before. Emmett, I could kiss you.”
“Ew, don’t.”
“It’s just a figure of speech. I’ll find you those articles I promised.” I spent the next few moments looking up appropriate reading material for him, and forwarded some articles about sexuality and intimacy but told him to start with the links on relationships and making connections.
When I left, Emmett was hunched over his phone, diving into the research and humming along to jazz.
It was a nice change to see him happy.
As for me, I had to get ready for book club. I hit up the first stop on my list: the bakery that sold both the gluten-free and cranberry crisp crackers necessary for book club. Unfortunately, the young man with the pencil mustache behind the counter was more intimidating than any demon.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for some gluten-free crackers for my book club.”
“Which type of flour are you interested in?” he asked in a bored voice.
Being a smart woman, I knew that “the gluten-free kind” wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “Rice?”
He made a face like I’d tracked dog shit into his store. “Then I recommend you go to Whole Foods.”
Okay, buddy, tone it down. “What would you recommend?”
“Today we are featuring arrowroot, sorghum, and teff.” These were recited in a snooty tone along with a mean glint in his eyes like he was waiting for stupid follow-up questions he could condescendingly answer.
Arrowroot in my experience was a cookie fed to teething babies, which, admittedly, I’d bought more than once for myself because they were yummy with tea. I couldn’t begin to guess what teff flour was, but sorghum sounded like a badass ancient warrior. “Sorghum,” I said confidently.
“With or without ajwine?”
For the first time in many years, I felt the stomach-churning nervousness of being called upon in class, and, having no idea which answer was correct, choosing whichever felt best.
I swallowed hard and prayed. “With?”
“Excellent choice.” He wrapped the crackers beautifully in a beeswax food container and presented it to me with more flourish than the unveiling of the Eiffel Tower. “And for those guests who cannot absorb the whole grains of the sorghum?”
Really? You couldn’t mention that little drawback to me before I’d ordered the crackers that were probably going to cost as much as my sofa? “Teff.”
“A bold move, considering many guests have diabetes.” He inhaled as though it pained him. “But very well.”
I rubbed a hand over the back of my now-sweaty neck. “I meant arrowroot.”
The man nodded slowly like he’d finally drawn the correct answer out of the dim-witted lump before him. “That would be best.”
