14. 14

I would have had her on a flight out of JFK, Newark, or even LaGuardia the next morning, but she was too damn stubborn.

"I'm not leaving without a proper farewell," she said, in that don't-argue-with-me, I'm-your-mother tone. Also, she was currently elbow-greasing the hell out of Poppy's coffee table, in her odd habit of cleaning wherever she was an overnight guest, and it seemed rude to stop her. "Where I come from, guests don't simply vanish into the night. We show our appreciation—"

"I would appreciate it if you would get on a plane as soon as possible."

"Zelda." She put down the furniture polish, gripped my shoulders, and looked me in the eye. "When you're as old as I am—"

"Not this again."

"When you're as old as I am," she repeated, giving me a shake, "you realize how important it is to do things the right way. To take your time about your goodbyes and make them special."

We were both right. I wanted her out of harm's way; she wanted to cook a gigantic meal for eight people and two dogs. I had logic; she had seniority.

"Besides," she added, dropping her hands from my shoulders and looking away mournfully, "I don't know when I'll get back up here…"

Oh, right. She had guilt on her side, too. I'd forgotten about that. "Fine, Mother. Make your meal."

She squealed and threw her arms around me. Since I was so much taller than her, they landed mid-ribcage and made my bones creak. She released me and finished polishing nonexistent fingerprints off the coffee table. "Now," she said, "have you got a Publix around here?"

"No Publix." My mother's love for the southern grocery chain was legendary. "But we have some respectable purveyors. Or Whole Foods, if you'd prefer."

She looked at me with suspicion as she grabbed the couch pillows and fluffed them. "Whole Foods? Isn't that where all the hippies go?"

"Not anymore, Mom. It's just a grocery store, albeit a fancy one."

"Whole Foods," she muttered. "More like whole paycheck."

"Oh, like Publix is cheap?"

The couch pillows flew in perfect arcs and landed—poof, poof—in the corners, startling Jester, who had curled up in the center of the couch to take a nap while the humans barked at each other.

He leaped down, staggered slightly in mid-afternoon sleepiness, then stretched in a perfect downward dog I couldn't even dream of matching. He straightened up and trotted off to the kitchen, presumably to see if anyone had dropped food since the last time he was in there.

"And I want to use the restaurant," Mom said.

"Why can't we cook here?"

"We aren't cooking anything. I'm cooking. And—no offense—but that kitchen is sized for two or three, not six to ten." She had me there. I had almost opened my mouth to agree when she kept going. "And it was my mother's restaurant…"

"Yes. Fine. Whatever you want." I ended it the way all arguments with my mother eventually ended, which is why I tried not to get into them in the first place. "But we do it tonight, and you go home tomorrow. Are we clear?"

She was off humming to herself and fluffing the couch pillows again. Not listening to me in the slightest. "Mom?"

"Yes, yes, whatever you say."

"What did I say?"

"Something very wise, I'm sure."

Only coffee could fully drag me out of the haze of the previous night. I started with one cup at home, but made it two when I got to the restaurant.

I cooked and served and cleaned my station, letting the heat, noise, and music drown me in simple, uncomplicated sensations. It was good not to think for a while.

Until Berron burst through the door, perfectly dressed as the Brooklyn hipster who had never set foot in Brooklyn. Today's outfit had the audacity to combine corduroy slacks and a thick flannel shirt with a mustard-colored sweater over the whole thing.

Oh, and a fedora.

"Where's my sister?" he said, with all the resonance of a Broadway actor.

"Stop shouting," I said, wishing his autumn vibes outfit wasn't kind of working for me.

"She's gone."

"Gone where? She's a Princess, she can do what she wants." I finished wrapping a to-go order and slung it to James.

Berron stalked forward and faced me across the bar. "You don't understand," he said, enunciating each word. "She's never been to New York."

"So? A lot of people have never been to New York."

"Yeah, well… most of them don't think it's a good idea to carry a bow and arrows around in public. Most of them aren't used to issuing commands. Most of them pay attention to traffic lights."

"To be honest, most New Yorkers don't pay attention to traffic lights." I wiped my counter space, then glanced at Berron. He looked thunderous. "All right," I said. "Don't start throwing chairs. Not in the middle of the breakfast rush. You're worried?"

He lowered his voice. "The Princess of Arrows does not understand anything outside the Forest of Emeralds. She has never been here."

"She's heard about it enough, between you and my mother telling her tourist stories."

Berron winced.

I reached across the bar and patted his hand where it gripped the counter. "I'll help you," I said.

He swept up my hand and, cradling it in his own, pressed it with a kiss. "Thank you," he said.

My face heated, and it wasn't from the nearby grill.

A stricken look crossed his face. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I was so worried. I got carried away."

"You're—uh—still holding my hand."

"Am I?" He looked down. "So I am." He carefully laid my hand on the counter. "There." As if to prove his good behavior, or possibly remove temptation, he put his hands in the pockets of the mustard-colored sweater.

"Right," I said, looking anywhere but at him. "Let me get things squared away."

"Of course."

Somewhere in the wild, infinite universe, there was another version of me who still lived in Florida. Who worked the breakfast shift, perhaps, or maybe even slept late because she had to work the dinner shift. Who didn't get roped into finding lost Gentry princesses who had taken themselves on a field trip.

Who was seeming more and more remote, like a distant second cousin you heard someone mention once, living a life misty and far, far away.

I saluted her and her much calmer life as I pulled off my apron and hung it up.

"Leaving?" James said.

"Call Jessica in," I said.

"Do I have to?"

I ignored that. "Also," I said. "I need to see the two of you sometime. Privately. I want to try something." I got my hat, coat, and scarf, and rejoined Berron. "Where did she go, exactly?"

"That's the problem," he said. "I don't know."

"How long has she been gone?"

He pulled off his hat and ran one hand through his hair. "An hour? Maybe?"

"How much trouble could she have gotten into in an hour?"

He jammed the fedora back on his head. "I don't even want to think about it—"

We both stopped speaking as another sound cut through the air.

"That's not a normal police siren," I said. "That's some kind of alarm."

We hurried outside. The sound was much louder than it had been inside the shop, and on the sidewalk it was easy to determine that it was coming from the east, toward Central Park.

I looked at Berron. "You don't think…"

"It's her," we both said. And we took off running, full speed.

Even when you have magic that lets you run flat-out without tiring, cold breaths still burn going in. Multiply that effect over a few blocks, and by the time we came within sight of the New-York Historical Society and the American Museum of Natural History, it was like I'd been inhaling Tabasco sauce.

The screeching alarm ricocheted off all the buildings as if it was coming from every single one of them. "Is it one of the museums?" I puffed. "Which one?"

"Which one has more jewels?"

"I mean, the Natural History museum is mostly animals, right?"

"Don't forget the hall of gems and minerals," he said, his shoes hitting the pavement in a steady run.

"Damn, I forgot about that."

"But the other one has a gem exhibition right now, too."

A milling crowd in front of the New-York Historical Society put an end to the debate.

"If she's in one of her golden gowns, she should be pretty hard to miss," I said.

We made our way through the crowd.

"What if they've arrested her or something? What am I going to do?"

"Hush. There's a guard."

We approached the entrance.

"Back, please. Stay back," said the guard.

"What's going on?" I said.

"I can't give out any information on that."

"Come on, man, this guy's sister was in there. He's worried." I grabbed Berron's shoulder, to inspire sympathy but also to hold Berron back in case he decided to grab the guard by the throat.

The guard's face softened a little. "It's an ongoing investigation, ma'am—"

"Did you see," Berron said, his voice resonating so warmly it hummed the stone steps beneath our feet, "a woman in gold?"

Sweat appeared on the guard's forehead. "I—uh—"

"We should be allowed to go in," Berron pressed.

I silently hoped the man wouldn't have a concussion from the sheer force of Gentry power Berron was bringing to bear.

"Yeah," the guard said, looking slightly sick. "You two go on in."

"Thank you," Berron said. He touched his finger to the brim of his hat and gave the guard a charming smile.

The guard smiled back, but sweat dripped down his forehead.

We ran up the entrance steps. "How long will that work on him?" I said.

"Long enough."

"If you ever do anything like that to me, I will make sure you die a painful death."

"Do you want to find my sister, or do you want to yell at me?"

"Why not both?" I said, stopping at the entrance door and peeking through the glass. There was no one in the lobby; presumably, they were further in, where the action was. "Come on." I pulled the door open and followed Berron inside.

The cold stone floor and the empty lobby made our steps echo.

"Go ahead, magic yourself up and go see what happened," Berron said.

"‘Magic myself up?'"

He made an aristocratic handwave in my direction. "Disguise yourself."

"As what, exactly?"

"That curator you pretended to be last time."

"What if she's there?"

"Run away fast."

I gave him a look.

"Or be the security guard we just saw. I don't know. Just get in there and find out what happened."

From farther down the hall came an animated one-sided conversation I couldn't quite make out. I motioned him to silence, and listened. "It's the curator," I said. "The one who knows Victorine." I paused, considering the options. "I'm not going to disguise myself. I'm going to go talk to her."

"What if she thinks you're in on whatever happened?"

"Then I run away fast."

We continued down the hall in the direction of the voice.

"There's an arrow in the wall," the curator said. She paused, seeming to listen. "Of course I'm sure! How could I be unsure about an arrow in the wall?"

Berron and I rounded the corner into the gallery.

The curator stood at the other end of the room, her back to us. Between us and her stood an assortment of pillars topped with clear rectangular cases.

The case closest to the door contained a tiny gold ostrich statue with gemstone eyes. Pearls and gold ornaments covered its gold-feathered tail. A gemstone bow tie perched on the golden bird's long neck. The knick-knack could have fit in my hand, and probably would have paid for a second location of West Side Sandwiches.

As we walked on, something crunched under my feet.

Glass. It was everywhere, in small rectangular pieces.

"Who's there?" the curator said.

"It's Zelda Hawkins," I said, following the glass trail like breadcrumbs to an empty pillar.

"I should have known," she said. "And who's your friend?" she added, taking in Berron's height, his looks, and his mustard-colored sweater.

"Him?" I said, glancing at Berron as if he had only just appeared. "He's my secretary."

Berron had a coughing fit.

"I suppose you have something to do with this, then?" She gestured to the wall, where a golden arrow had been deeply embedded. "Look at it. Went right through the case and shattered it."

Berron recovered and reached for the arrow, only to be stopped by the curator.

"Don't touch it," she said. "We'll need it for fingerprints."

"I don't think you'll find those in any database," he said.

I leaned down and read the small informational card attached to the column. "The Heavy Heart. ‘A small lamp consisting of an eighteen carat gold wheelbarrow decorated with colored diamond flowers and holding a large citrine heart.' How large, exactly?"

"Several inches across."

I whistled.

She cupped both hands together. "And the night light itself is this much solid eighteen carat gold."

"Talk about sweet dreams," I said. A golden wheelbarrow with a golden gem for a golden princess. It made sense, in a Gentry sort of way.

"For some reason," the curator added, interrupting my thoughts, "when you people show up, things seem to go missing."

"‘You people'?" Berron said.

I elbowed him. "We'll find it," I said. "Come on." I grabbed Berron and we went back outside.

Berron dropped onto one of the green benches and began bouncing his knees rapid-fire in a fit of nervous energy. "‘You people,'" he muttered.

"Berron, focus. If you were a Gentry princess with a heavy decorative item, what would you do next?"

"How should I know? Even I don't fire arrows through museum displays."

A savory scent wafted through the air: New York hot dogs. "Those hot dogs smell good."

"Is this about your stomach or finding my sister?"

I grabbed his arm and dragged him along. "Maybe she got hungry."

"But she doesn't have any money—"

"No, she has a solid gold knick-knack to trade."

Berron came to a stop with a look of horror. "She wouldn't need to trade it."

"What do you mean? Why?"

"You'll see."

This time, he grabbed my arm and dragged me along.