Page 52 of Her Dreadful Will
He couldn’t be here because of the Convocation. She berated herself for being so quick to believe that, even for a short time. No part of this—no part ofhim—was anything like the Highwitch professors of the Institute. She had never encountered a Witchlord, online or otherwise; so it was possible that they were wild rebels like him, but she doubted it. Maybe it was her parents’ French Catholic background, but Soleil couldn’t help picturing the Witchlords in long, elaborate robes. If Highwitches were the priests of sorcery, Witchlords were the Archbishops.
Sighing, Soleil unlocked her shop and walked through it, switching on lights as she went and checking the AC settings. The sheer cost of climate control during the hot Georgia summer was enough to send a girl out of business.
She continued to the back door and unlocked that as well. A quick check of the donation box yielded several decent items, but the rest weren’t up to her standards and would have to go over to Goodwill.
Soleil set the items she wanted to stock in a basket behind the desk to be tagged later. She stood in the center of the shop, surveying her wares. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell she’d ever go back to the Mountain Market, but she’d have to visit yard sales and other regional flea markets soon, to purchase more inventory. That is, if she made a reasonable profit this week. Otherwise she might as well fold everything down this weekend and leave. Give up on her thesis, her shop, her house, her hyacles—everything.
It would be a lot easier to not even try, to forget the dream of being a Highwitch and find some kind of online work and travel with her parents. Or she could get a normal job at a normal company.
She’d thought about it before—how she could mind-flex her way through all sorts of barriers and step lightly right to the top of the corporate ladder. She could be anyone she wanted to be, do whatever she wanted to do. She could mind-flex herself into a position of glamor and wealth, power and influence. And why shouldn’t she, after all? Why not use her privilege, her gift, for herself? Why was she trying so damn hard to bless everyone else with it?
She sighed, flipping the sign on the door to “Open” and settling in for what would probably be a long, dull morning with few customers and even fewer sales. Too bad she couldn’t mind-flex herself a clientele—but that would be a clear breach of her vow.
Only unselfish good.
She was beginning to hate the words.
The door opened, admitting a young couple, then a middle-aged woman, and then a group of women who were clearly having a girls’ day out. They all made purchases, and from then on customers flowed steadily through the shop, until Soleil could barely keep up. Besieged by the overlapping volispheres moving through the narrow room, she had to crush her affinity deep down to keep her mind clear so she could function.
This was strange. Very, very strange.
Where were all these customers coming from, and why?
“What brings you here today?” she asked one of them.
“Saw your flyer,” grunted the man. “Felt like I should come check out the place.” He picked up the old book he’d purchased and sauntered out.
Flyer? What flyer?
Soleil questioned a few more customers. All of them claimed to have seen a flyer for her shop, or heard it recommended by someone—they couldn’t seem to remember who. And none of them happened to have a copy of the mysterious flyer that was supposedly circulating around town.
Maybe another store had accidentally put her shop’s address on their marketing material? Nope, that didn’t make sense; but Soleil didn’t have time to think up a more logical explanation, not when she was flying from the sales floor to the register and back again. If this kept up, she’d need new inventory sooner than she expected.
After lunch, the stream of customers slowed, and Soleil had a moment to catch her breath and eat a sandwich. She was quickly tagging a few new items when a tall Black man entered the shop. He smiled and nodded politely, moving to inspect the items on a shelf near the register.
“You been open long?” he asked.
“Couple of months,” Soleil answered. She glanced at the door as a thin woman edged inside, adjusting the bulging shopping totes on her arm. The newcomer noticed the big man, and her eyes narrowed. She sidled over to a rack of clothes near Soleil, continuing to cast sidelong looks at him.
“Gonna get these,” he said, setting a couple of paintings on the counter. “You take hundreds?”
“Sure.” As she always did with large bills, Soleil surreptitiously passed the hundred across her ouroboros ring to check for authenticity. The ring came in handy for identifying counterfeits and fake goods as well as for crafting magical illusions. Satisfied, she gave the man his change, and with a friendly wave, he left.
Immediately the narrow-faced woman approached the counter. “Are you all right?” she said under her breath. “You want me to call the police?”
“What? Why?” Soleil frowned.
“That man.” The woman jerked her head toward the door. “Someone of his kind, paying with a bill like that in a thrift store? It’s probably a counterfeit.”
Someone of his kind—understanding dawned, and heat flamed along Soleil’s throat.
“What did he say to you before I came in?” the woman continued. “It’s a mercy I showed up. Who knows what he might have done to a pretty thing like you.”
Soleil reached into the woman’s volisphere—a dull, unpleasant space with no more melody than the raw, screeching strings of a poorly tuned violin in the hands of a child. The ugliest of refrains was snarled through the woman’s thoughts and impulses—racism, inbred and reinforced with years of prejudicial thinking.
There was no way Soleil could untangle it all. Not in the few moments she had with this customer.
The woman was already frowning, looking Soleil up and down with growing dislike. “You got a lotta rings there. And you seem kinda out of it. You on drugs?”
