Page 125 of The Witching Hours

“Most mortals who’ve risen to such dizzying heights of fame find a lesser existence is less everything. Less exciting. Less motivating. Less satisfying. Some have retired only to find retirement tiresome. Our promise to you is the experience. We can’t control how you feel about it afterward.”

“Thank you for your straightforward honesty, Winkleman.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Campbell.”

I realized that, at some point, I’d shifted from participating in a fun game of pretend to sounding like I was a believer in the alternate reality of Mr. Rand Carmichael Winkleman, whom I judged to be delightfully nuts.

“How long have you been doing this, Winkleman?”

He froze mid step. “You continue to surprise, Ms. Campbell.”

“How so?”

He continued leading our tour at an ambling pace, presumably so that I’d have ample time to take it all in. Theenormous smorgasbord of occupation and recreation prompted a thought about the gradual narrowing of one’s world. At one time I must have considered, however briefly, each of these pursuits. Had I, at one time, considered becoming a champion sharpshooter? Had I thought about being an astronaut? I smiled when my eyes landed on a judge’s gavel.

“Please share, Ms. Campbell. What, about the judge’s gavel, made you smile?”

I shook my head. “My mother liked to tell the story that, when I was in kindergarten, I was asked what I wanted to do when I grew up. Reportedly I said I either wanted to work at McDonalds or be a supreme court judge.” My recollection earned me the pleasure of one of Winkleman’s extraordinary eye twinkles. “See? Look how easy it is to answer questions. You ask me something. I answer.”

“Hmmm.”

“Yes. Hmmm. Why are you avoiding saying how long you’ve been at this?”

“That’s now two questions.”

“And two dodges.”

He chuckled. “A bargain is afoot.”

“It is?’”

“I’ll answer one of the two, but first. When I asked earlier if you wanted to be a supreme court judge, you said no quickly and emphatically.”

“That’s because I don’t want that. I just like that stupid story.”

“Alright. Which question would you like me to answer?”

Reasoning that perhaps if I chose my second question, I’d inadvertently get a bird’s eye view into the first, I chose number two. “Okay. Why are you avoiding telling me how long you’ve been a purveyor of dreams?”

He barked out a laugh at that. “Purveyor of dreams! I like that. Ms. Campbell, we should circle back for a second look at the writing section.”

I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to a halt. “Answer.” My demand was punctuated by a thunderclap that shook the building. The sound was immediately followed by pounding rain. I knew I couldn’t hear rain on the roof of a multistory building, but my mind was tricking me into thinking I could.

I turned to look at the windows in front of the store. Some people had stood at their threshold that morning debating whether the chance of rain warranted the trouble of carrying an umbrella and made the right choice. The street suddenly looked more like Paris than New York. Brightly colored umbrellas were everywhere. Red. Yellow. Blue polka dots. A clear, dome-style umbrella featuring the surprised yellow eyes of a black cat. I almost laughed out loud and made a mental note to look for an umbrella like that. Random things that make one laugh out loud are worthy of a few minutes of online safari.

Those who’d taken the umbrella challenge that morning and guessed wrong were already soaking wet. Hoodies simply don’t help. One woman stopped to peer in the shop window.

“She doesn’t see us,” Hodgins said.

I jerked my attention to him. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “The store isn’t here for her. She sees an empty space.”

It had been a full fifteen minutes since Winkleman had last said something preposterous, but this latest statement reminded me that I was conversing with a crazy man.

“Right.” Looking back toward the front of the store I saw that she’d gone, but I continued to stare at the street scene. Something about it made me wish I could paint one of those rainy-day watercolors with umbrellas. Maybe I’d consider that. A tow truck was pulling away with the cab rolling behind on itsback wheels. The van had already been picked up, leaving no trace it had been there except for pieces of glass and bits of metal on the street.

“You owe me an answer.”

---