The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angelina said, her voice whisper soft as she thrust the mask into Astrid’s outstretched hand.

  Astrid took it, smiling that same thin-lipped smile as she turned back toward her mother. Mrs. Chamberlain narrowed her eyes at Astrid. “Was that really necessary, Astrid? Only the older people still carry on that tradition.” She looked at John. “What were you doing in here, John?”

  “I, uh, wrong door. I was looking for the washroom.”

  “Oh goodness, you’ve been in this house enough times to know.” She waved her hand. “Well, I suppose not long enough to become well acquainted with all the rooms.” She paused. “I do hope that will change.”

  “Yes, well”—he turned to Angelina—“I’m sorry I scared you, miss.”

  Mrs. Chamberlain glanced at Angelina as if she’d forgotten there was an actual person there.

  “John, maybe you recognize Angelina. She’s the kitchen help and has served tea at our luncheons,” Astrid supplied.

  John looked at Angelina, trying to convey with his eyes how damn sorry he was for this situation. A part of him wanted to shake her for taking the risk in the first place that had brought them to the brink of disaster. Thank the Lord for Astrid. He’d figure out an explanation for her later. But she must suspect the truth if she willingly lied for them, and why she’d chosen to do so was a mystery.

  He nodded at Angelina. “Yes, hello.” He looked away from her, to Astrid. “I never received that dance you promised me.”

  Mrs. Chamberlain clapped her hands together, satisfaction clear in her expression. “That must be remedied then. Astrid, John has just asked you to dance.”

  Tension coiled inside of him, along with the knowledge that it was hurting Angelina to have him ignore her the way he was, but he knew caution was necessary. And they were used to this, used to the small brushing of fingers as she handed him his teacup, used to the glances and the pretending, the polite smiles and the outright lies.

  I don’t want to hide. I want to live in the light, John. He pushed the memory of her words away. The time for that had not arrived.

  “I’d love to dance, John,” Astrid murmured, taking the arm he presented to her as the three of them turned toward the door. He didn’t dare glance back at Angelina.

  As John and Astrid made their way to the dance floor, a slow song replaced the more cheerful music of a moment before—due to Mrs. Chamberlain’s directive, no doubt.

  John took Astrid into his arms, turning her slowly along with the other dancers. “Thank you,” he said softly.

  She tensed for a moment but then nodded, and he was grateful she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know what he was thanking her for. “Astrid—”

  “You don’t have to explain. I already knew. Or, I suspected anyway. The way you watch her, John . . . it was clear to me many weeks ago.”

  He blew out a breath. “Do you think your mother knows?”

  “I know she doesn’t. If she did, Angelina . . . well, you’re taking a very big risk,” she ended softly as he spun her around once more. “Are you certain it’s worth it?”

  John spied Angelina from the corner of his eye, ducking out the door and heading back downstairs. For a halted heartbeat, their eyes met before she disappeared. His body remained in the room, but he swore his soul followed her. “Very,” he said softly, resolutely.

  “Then you’ll need to be more careful. If I’ve noticed, it’s only a matter of time before my mother notices as well. She’s self-centered, but she has a nose for things that might potentially disrupt her plans.”

  “Like her plans for you and me,” he said, a spear of guilt probing at him.

  Astrid paused. “Yes, like you and me.”

  “I’m sorry, Astrid. If—”

  Astrid laughed softly. “Smile, John. You look like I’m holding a revolver underneath my petticoats and forcing you to dance with me. And if you were going to say that if things were different you’d be happy to have me, please don’t. I can only take so much.”

  “I was going to say that, and I’d have meant it. You’re going to make some man very happy one day, Astrid.”

  “It just won’t be you.”

  “No . . . it won’t be me.” He pulled away from Astrid slightly, looking her in the eye. “Will you help us, Astrid?”

  Astrid paused, glancing away for a moment and then back at John. This could be disastrous. He knew he sounded both discourteous and utterly desperate, but it was worth that risk for Angelina. She deserved to shine in the light. They deserved a chance surely. His only hope was that Astrid would see past her own hurt in the name of love.

  Astrid took a deep breath. “Yes, John, I’ll help you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “If I haven’t told you yet, you look stunning,” Marco said as he took her hand and she stepped from his car.

  Clara laughed softly. “You have said it a time or two. Thank you again.”

  Marco grinned, handsome in a black tux and a simple black mask that only covered his eyes and nose, offering her his arm as they headed for the luxury hotel where the charity masquerade ball was being held.

  Clara felt stunning in her gown of black satin, the skirt full, and tiny capped sleeves that fell off her shoulders, the fitted bodice overlaid with hundreds of aqua and green sequins.

  The pickings at the costume shop had been slim, but she’d found an azure mask with gold thread filigree, featuring a cascade of blue and green feathers on one side. It was delicate and beautiful and unique, and it’d appealed to her immediately. It reminded her of a hummingbird.

  She’d planned on wearing a simple but pretty long black gown that she’d worn to a friend’s wedding the year before, but as she’d been passing a vintage clothing shop, she’d spied the gown with the sequins that perfectly matched her mask and ended up fitting like it’d been made for her. It’d felt meant to be.

  Clara was used to dressing up in costumes—she did it for a living—but this dress felt more special than anything she’d worn before. Shimmery. Satiny. Romantic.

  It didn’t feel as though she was dressing up for a part, but rather wearing a gown that was simply her.

  “Wow,” Marco said, stopping and looking around the room appreciatively. Clara agreed with the simply stated sentiment. Wow, indeed.

  The entire room was decorated in black and white and gold, extravagant overhead chandeliers bouncing light around the room and causing the golden accents to sparkle.

  There were full vases of decadent white lilies and trailing greenery on all the tables, each set on a mirror that reflected even more shimmery light around the room.

  Clara inhaled deeply, closing her eyes with delight as she took in the sweet, heady fragrance of fresh flowers.

  “Dance with me,” he said, leaning toward her on a whisper.

  Clara allowed him to lead her to the dance floor where masked couples swayed to the music of the live band set up in the corner.

  Marco took her in his arms and Clara looked around at the couples moving past her, admiring their masks, their beautiful formal attire.

  The party was decorated in black and white and gold, but the women’s dresses were like bright, opulent jewels standing out even more so because of the lack of color in the surroundings.

  “Are you so used to my hands on your body that you zone out when I’m holding you?”

  Clara shook her head. “I wasn’t zoning out. I was admiring all the costumes.”

  “And here I am admiring you,” he whispered against her hair.

  Clara forced herself to focus on Marco. He looked so debonair in his tux. She’d thought of him as a ladies’ man, but he was only looking at her, and maybe . . . maybe she could think of this as a real date. Maybe her rule about not dating coworkers was too limiting. After all, where else would she meet someone? At the wall of some abandoned plantation?

  She scoffed inwardly. Maybe it would be good for her to focus her attention on someone other than a troubled man who c
ouldn’t forgive himself and had chosen instead to lock himself behind a wall forever and ever and ever.

  It wasn’t that Clara was impatient or unkind, but if he never wanted to be found . . . should she continue to try to find him? She wanted to live now.

  She brought her hands up around Marco’s neck and pulled him closer. He looked briefly surprised but then tightened his arms around her back. She gazed at him, attempting to see him as more than just Marco, a fellow dancer. She looked at him as a man, who, yes, seemed to enjoy a variety of women, but who maybe was just waiting for the right one to come along.

  And maybe she was waiting for the right person too.

  Marco leaned in, his eyes moving to her lips. He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him.

  “Excuse me,” a female voice interrupted. Annoyance flashed in Marco’s eyes before he pulled away, glancing over his shoulder as whoever she was, cleared her throat. “We’re up in ten minutes.” It was Roxanne, a fellow apprentice, and she gave Clara a curious, though not unkind, stare before turning and walking away.

  Marco shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I almost forgot you’re performing. You should go get ready. You only have ten minutes.”

  Marco released a frustrated breath, giving a terse nod. “Yeah.”

  He pulled back, taking her hand and walking her to the edge of the dance floor. “The performance is only thirty minutes or so. Wait here?” He gestured to a table at the edge of the dance floor that would be the stage where a handful of dancers performed for the guests.

  Clara hadn’t volunteered—there had been plenty already—and now she was glad. It was nice to be part of the audience for once, and her feet could always use the break anyway.

  Sitting at the table, she smiled at Marco before he sauntered toward the stage. “Good luck,” she called, knowing very well Marco didn’t need any. He was one of the most skilled dancers she’d ever met.

  She ordered a glass of wine when a server came by and sat sipping it leisurely until the ballet dancers were introduced and the lights dimmed.

  Clara loved this moment, loved it from either side of the stage, loved those breath-stealing seconds when her heart was hanging by a string as she waited for something wonderful to happen. There’s nothing else like it, she thought as happy anticipation prickled her skin.

  The lights came up and Clara’s breath released on a slow exhale. Marco stood in the middle of the stage with Roxanne, posed and completely still.

  A saxophone began playing, the smoky sound filling the quiet room as the couple began to move in sync.

  Something overhead caught Clara’s attention and she glanced up. It was a moon, suspended above the dance floor/stage, a thousand tiny lights sparkling in the ceiling to mimic the stars.

  Roxanne spun away and Clara returned her attention to Marco as he moved alone under the glow of the created night sky.

  Your true love dances between moonbeams.

  Clara’s heart jumped. Had the fortune teller been referring to Marco? She watched him for a moment, trying again to see him with newer eyes than the ones that had first judged him. The eyes that had seen the women waiting for him after rehearsal—different ones each week. The eyes that had watched as he flirted with co-workers as they looked at him with hope in their eyes, only to be crushed days later when his attention moved elsewhere.

  He moved beautifully, skillfully, his expression filled with such intense concentration. He wasn’t an emotional dancer—he didn’t pull at her heartstrings like some of the other dancers she loved to watch. But he was good. Amazing, in fact. But she didn’t think the music, the story of the dance, filled his soul.

  She was probably the opposite. She felt the story too much, and forgot to execute the movements with perfect precision. The greats had both, Clara thought. And that was the rarest of all.

  Her small evening bag buzzed softly, the screen lighting up in her purse and creating a soft glow. Clara snatched it, her mind immediately going to her dad. She stood from the table as the music soared and slipped away into the darkened room, waiting until she was far enough away not to interrupt the show before taking her phone from her purse and reading the text from an unknown number.

  You look beautiful tonight.

  Clara stared at the words, a shiver moving through her. Who in the world?

  She brought her head up, glancing around the darkened room, her eyes moving to Marco still dancing under the starry moonlit ceiling and then away.

  A shadow moved near one of the exits, stepping through the doorway. She swore the man glanced back and directly at her before he disappeared around the corner.

  Clara moved in that direction, her heart skipping a beat as she texted back.

  Who is this?

  I’ve been called the wish collector.

  Clara sucked in a sharp breath, halting for a second in surprise and then moving forward again, stepping around a couple who was standing at the back of the room.

  The couple spared her a quick glance and then went back to watching the dance performance. Clara hurried toward the door through which the man had disappeared. You’re here, Jonah? How? And how had he picked her out from the crowd? Half her face covered by a mask nonetheless.

  The door exited into a courtyard with a fountain bubbling in the middle. Large potted trees were placed around the perimeter of the space, their fronds casting moving shadows on the cobblestone. He had disappeared.

  She ventured slowly forward, her heart galloping, her skin prickling. The air was mild, but her skin was flushed with nervousness, doubt, and a tinge of fear.

  A shadow moved to her left and she let out a surprised squeak, turning in that direction.

  It was a man, tall and broad, his shadow mingling with all of the others and then becoming sharper as he stepped forward.

  Clara was uncertain, scared, poised to run, only . . . this was Jonah. There’s nothing to be afraid of, she told herself, the internal words buoying her confidence.

  The wonder of him standing directly in front of her outweighed her doubt, and she stepped forward in order to see him better.

  Something inside of her whispered softly, a warning that told her everything was about to change. Everything. She took another step, her vision adjusting further to the dark.

  Her eyes widened as his face became clearer, her mouth falling open in shock, her pulse jumping at the skeletal lines of his face. Her breath rushed out. But no, it was just a mask, half of it fully covering his face and painted to look like a skeleton, and the other half only covering one eye and a portion of his nose.

  Though her gaze didn’t stray from his face, she also noticed he was wearing a black tuxedo, the white bow tie standing out in stark contrast, just as the milky bones of his mask glowed against the darkness covering most of his skin.

  The air stilled, the scent of night-blooming jasmine reaching her nose, the tinkling sound of splashing water breaking through her excitement and fear and confusion, and a hundred other emotions she didn’t have the wherewithal to separate.

  “This isn’t the fountain where you were supposed to meet me,” she uttered breathlessly taking several more steps toward him.

  He appeared frozen, the set of the half of his mouth she could see a grim line.

  He paused and then it twitched up slightly as he apparently registered her words. “No, I know.” It was him—her wish collector. She’d recognize that deep tenor with the lilting accent anywhere, the voice made for storytelling, for weaving spells, for convincing and cajoling. For seducing and luring and for making dreamy-eyed girls do things they hadn’t intended on. Was that what he’d been doing to her right from the beginning? And if so, she wondered, why do I love it so much?

  Clara stepped right up to him and felt the heat of his body. There was a sudden shift in the air, something chemical Clara couldn’t explain but still felt. Like the way she could tell when a thunderstorm was approaching. The colliding of atoms, the buzz of ozone, only
in this case it existed exclusively in the small space between them.

  He’s here, her heart whispered. She was standing right in front of him, no wall between them.

  Awe filled her, a sense of unreality as if this were merely a dream and she might wake up at any moment.

  She extended her hand and touched his arm, her fingers skimming the stiff material of his jacket. There was nothing separating them, nothing at all. Well, except their masks.

  She reached for hers, swallowing nervously as she pushed it up so it rested on the top of her head. She brought her eyes to his shyly, her face fully exposed to him as she tilted it toward the light. From what she could see, his expression didn’t change.

  “Hi, Jonah,” she whispered. This is me, she thought. She had no idea what he expected, if he expected anything at all, but nerves assaulted her all the same and made her blood tremble within her veins.

  “Hi, Clara.” His tone was gravelly, unsure, and when she reached for his mask tentatively, he leaned back into the shadows again. Her hand fell away. “You’re beautiful.”

  There was a note of something almost reverent in his tone and her heart swelled as relief washed through her.

  It surprised her that she was so pleased by his compliment when she’d never been a girl who cared overly much about her appearance, instead choosing to focus on her talents, her skills, the things she was in control of.

  But she was still a girl, and to hear that this man, whose opinion she’d come to care about, thought she was beautiful brought her joy. It made her very aware of the reason he was so fearful of revealing his scars to her.

  “I went to meet you that night,” he said, turning his head in a way that made her think he favored one eye. “I watched you. I . . . just wasn’t ready.”

  He’d been there that night? Oh. She exhaled a breath, stepping ever closer, seeking his warmth. He wasn’t ready to show her his face yet—his scars—and she wouldn’t push him, but there had already been so much separation between them, and the pull she felt toward him was difficult to resist.

  “It’s okay. You’re here now.” Her brows drew inward as the reality of that settled over her. “How are you here now? How did you know about this?”