Page 37 of The Sun and the Moon
We reach the porch, and he unhooks Chicken, who runs up the steps to the screen door and scratches. With surprising agility for a self-proclaimed old man, Rick takes the steps two at a time and lets Chicken inside.
“You don’t have to do all this if you don’t want to,” I say. Maybe Moira is trying to swindle a big, lavish engagement party and wedding out of him merely for the spectacle. She loves beingthe center of attention—this isn’t the craziest theory I’ve had so far.
He turns. “I don’t mind a little pageantry.”
“Oh right, I know you’re kind of a performer—”
He waves me off. “I wouldn’t call me a performer. Butyoucan call me one if you like.”
My laugh is a fast burst, surprisingly genuine. It’s easy to see who Sydney learned her skills of communication from. Rick radiates charm, just like his daughter.
“I don’t know if I have enough proof to give you the title,” I reply, surprising myself with how easy the banter slides from my lips.
“You busy?” he asks, eyes sparkling.
Confusion wars with intrigue. I do want to stay here to try to swoop in at the first possible moment and thwart whatever scheme Moira is trying by offering a reading to Sydney. But I also want to see if spending more time with Rick will yield more fruitful insights.
“Not really?” I reply, my voice trailing up in question. He laughs, scaling back down the stairs to meet me on the walkway where I’m still standing.
“Wanna join me on an adventure?” he asks, extending his arm, the elbow crooked like a gentleman.
There haven’t been all that many men in my life. A couple of boyfriends, a few bosses. There were no best friends’ dads to act as my surrogate father. No father. And, of course, the few men Moira did date throughout the years never stuck around long enough to get comfortable.
I tuck my palm into the crook of his elbow with hesitation. Hepulls me into his side in this paternal way that makes tears prick in my eyes, and we head off together as if this is totally normal, as if I am not the estranged daughter of his fiancée and he is not the man I am trying to save from marrying the woman he thinks is his soulmate.
Chapter Sixteen
Sydney
The Reading Room at Kismet is designed as a sacred space.
Moira left me alone inside while she went to the kitchen, claiming a cup of tea and some biscuits were just what we needed to connect with our guides. I think her blood sugar was just taking a midday dip and she needed a caffeine-and-cookie boost. Which is totally fair. I can’t blame her, and also,same.
The room is rectangular. The long wall directly across from the doorway is lined with built-in bookshelves that frame a window with a shallow window seat. There’s a plush carpet in a swirl of deep jewel tones, another wall lined with bookshelves, only this one holds tarot decks and other occult artifacts. At the center of the room sits a round wooden table covered in velvet and lace, with tall-backed chairs on either side. Overhead is a stained-glass light fixture like nothing I’ve ever seen before. A pendant in cerulean and iridescent glass etched with a dandelion flower design that winds around the fixture as the dandelion seeds shoot out as if blown in a wish.
At the far edge of the room is a heavy wooden desk in front ofmore shelves. On those shelves are some colorful wooden boxes and trunks, small enough that they can fit in a bookshelf and a little out of place in how organized they appear.
They must be more function than form. They very likely contain secrets she doesn’t want on full display. Probably private business-related docs.
Cadence texted me that Moira was discussing something financially related to the Kismet property, and this was a red flag to her since the property has been paid off for years.
I want to make a swift and certain beeline for the desk, but I’m aware that Moira could come back any second. I will have to find a way to sneak back in here when she isn’t paying attention. I walk toward the bookshelf nearest me, scanning the shelves with interest. Moira sells tarot decks in her shop outside, some I see here neatly organized. These must be her personal decks, ones she uses for clients or for her personal readings.
There are candles, dried herb bundles, and some beautiful crystals she has set up in clusters around the shelves. But most notable to me is the framed photo of Cadence. It has to be her—the rambling dark curls and haunting hazel eyes are unmistakable. She’s sitting on a tree branch that hangs over the roof of Kismet, her long legs, knees knobby, dangling on either side of the branch. She’s holding on with one hand, but in the other she holds something.
My fingers twitch, moving of their own accord toward the frame to pick it up, draw it closer for a better look.
A bird. Cadence is holding a bird in her open palm.
The sight causes a strange lifting sensation in my stomach.
The hand holding the bird is open, palm up to the sky. The bird sits inside the palm, and Cadence’s smile is calm, a settled,soft fix to her round features. The bird isn’t a parakeet or budgie. It’s not the kind of clipped-winged creature you might expect to see sitting in the palm of a young girl’s hand.
It’s a tiny jewel-headed hummingbird. Not easy to catch, harder to hold on to.
“It flew right to her.” Moira’s voice startles me, and I nearly drop the frame. I turn to see she’s holding a tray of teacups sitting on saucers and a plate of cookies. The cups are a delicate china, mismatched. My stomach growls at the sight of the cookies.
“A hummingbird?” I ask, setting the frame carefully back in place on the shelf.
