Poor Little Witch Girl

by Robin Roseau

  "I really think you should take my advice," she replied.

  I glanced down at the book. "I don't believe in this stuff."

  She raised an eyebrow. It was the opposite side from earlier. "You see auras, but you don't believe in magic?"

  I shrugged.

  She paused, looking at me, then she reached for the book. "A gift?"

  "A gift," I repeated.

  "Thank you." She took the book, tucking it under her arm, then held out her hand. "I will return next Wednesday at this time. I wish another hour from you."

  "I won't be able to tell you more than I have."

  "Nevertheless, I consider this an appointment. Please be available."

  "Of course, Ms. Patrick."

  With that, she took her hand back, another moment of disappointment for me, and turned her back. Two moments later, she was out the door, the book tucked under one arm, her purse over the other. And then Jaime was at my side, the two of us watching after our departed customer.

  "Wow," he said. "She's got the hots for you, Lyra."

  "Oh please."

  "When have I ever been wrong?"

  "I'm the one who sees auras, or have you forgotten?"

  "Darlin', it doesn't take seeing auras to see the look she gave you."

  "What look? I didn't see any look."

  He tsked and walked away.

  This or That

  Twenty minutes later found the store closed, the till counted, the numbers entered, and three friends clustered around a late dinner. We'd barely sat down before Jaime declared, "Lyra caught a hot one."

  "I didn't catch a hot one," I denied.

  "Oh, darlin'," Jaime said. "She was clearly a hot one, and I came to that conclusion before I saw the hundred dollar bill." He turned to Felicity. "You should have seen her, Flick. She was tall, leggy, and expensive." He held his hands out in front of his chest.

  "Not like that!" I said, slapping him with the back of my hand. "She was very sophisticated."

  "Isn't that what I said?"

  "You implied cheap with a fake chest."

  He looked thoughtful. "I don't think there was a thing fake about her," he decided. "The Louis Vuitton was real. The pearls were real. And the looks she gave our lovely little Lyra were definitely real."

  "They were not," I said, hitting him again. It was like hitting a rock. Jaime was tall, athletic, and very popular with the ladies. They never seemed to be willing to believe he wasn't interested in them, but they sure did try.

  "Wait," said Felicity. "Back up. Hundred dollar bill? For what?" Felicity was the one with the business sense between the three of us. Jaime was great with customers. I did readings. And Felicity handled the books, the IRS, and all those other mundane tasks Jaime and I sucked at.

  "A reading," Jaime said. "Whatever did you tell her, Lyra?"

  "Almost nothing." I told them the story. When I got to the part where I tried to give the money back, Felicity nearly chocked on a broccoli, but she didn't interrupt. I finished the telling, took some more teasing from Jaime, and earned a few more looks of disapproval from Felicity when I told her I'd given a book away.

  "She had just paid a hundred dollars for a worthless reading," I said. "And she's coming back next Wednesday. Why, I couldn't tell you. Consider it a marketing expense."

  Felicity nodded; after all, we were ahead on the entire exchange.

  And so, I thought that was the end of that, at least for a week.

  * * * *

  The weekend arrived. Jaime had dates; Jaime always had dates. But he was respectful of the apartment, and it was rare he brought a guy home. I actually worried about him a little. Jaime had a lot of short relationships but had never had anything lasting more than a few weeks. And judging by a complete lack of drama over it, I thought perhaps his various partners were just as happy with the brevity of the relationships as he was.

  Felicity, on the other hand, was nearing two years in her relationship with Dyson. Dyson was a decent guy. He treated Felicity well, was nice to me, and joked around with Jaime. He was a computer geek, and he looked the role, with poor fashion sense and clumsy social skills. But he acted as if Felicity walked on water, and he had a good job. They were both in love, and I was happy for them.

  Dyson didn't spend nights, and Felicity rarely spent nights at his place. They occasionally traveled together, but Felicity was very careful with money, and while Dyson had a good job, he was just as young as we were and just barely beginning what looked to be a promising but still young career.

  And so, Jaime had dates; Felicity would spend a portion of the weekend with Dyson. And I, well, I was nine months into a dry streak. I'd had a few dates, but none of them had gone very far. Either I found her boring, or she found me unattractive. I'd distrusted her aura or she thought it was weird I read tarot cards while operating a bookstore. Same old, same old.

  I found myself thinking about my new patron. I wondered what her shockingly unusual aura meant. I wondered what she wanted from me.

  And, spurred on by Jaime's conjectures, I wondered if she wanted me.

  I couldn't deny my reaction to her, at least not to myself. I didn't always succeed, but I tried to be honest with myself over things like that. She was older than I was by a distinct amount, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

  I wasn't sure how I felt about any of it.

  I thought Jaime was insane suggesting she'd noticed me, at least not like that. Although I had certainly noticed her, and exactly like that.

  But she was old. Sort of. Well, not old. Just older.

  And rich, clearly very rich. And I thought powerful, too.

  But a flake at the same time. What was with that book?

  Questions, questions, questions, and nary an answer in sight.

  * * * *

  Wednesday rolled around. The shop was experiencing a good week. We'd had a reading by a local author Tuesday evening, and she'd been popular, as had her books. I'd done a few more readings, although none of them as lucrative as the one for Ms. Patrick. And we'd even had some web sales, a new feature for the store, courtesy of Dyson.

  Six PM rolled around. Jaime had been scarce for a while, but he reappeared, stepped to my side, and asked, "So, you're wearing that?"

  I looked down. I was wearing what Jaime liked to call "Lyra's uniform" -- tan chinos, a white shirt, and hiking boots. Not that I did much hiking. I just liked to stomp around in them. They gave me presence.

  "What's wrong with this?"

  "You're going to see the rich hottie dressed like Little Orphan Annie?"

  "I don't look at all like Annie."

  "You're right. She dressed better than this." Jaime gestured. "Come on, Lyra. You can't see someone like her dressed like this. Not if you want to get anywhere with her, anyway."

  "I don't want to get anywhere with her." He put a hand on his hip and gave me The Look. "I don't." Even I knew I sounded defensive.

  "Liar."

  "She's old."

  "Go change. Even your new age gypsy clothes are better than this."

  "I don't have new age gypsy clothes. What the hell are new age gypsy clothes?" He gave me The Look again. "What? It's not like I'm ever going to impress her with how I dress."

  "You could put in an effort," Jaime said. "It's not always about the results. Sometimes it's about showing an effort."

  "I'll just look pathetic."

  "You'll look like you care what you look like."

  "I don't care what I look like."

  "Bull. Shit." I stared at him. "Lyra, go primp. Now."

  Jaime didn't get bossy very often. When he did, I knew he was serious.

  "I'm going to look pathetic."

  In response he simply pointed up towards our apartment. I whined a moment before turning for the back stairs. I stomped up them. The boots were good for something.

  * * * *

  I wasn't one of those lesbians who wore her sexuality like a symbol. I tried very hard not to let anything dictate ho
w to live my life or how I should look. I was comfortable in jeans and chinos, but I could also put on a dress and not look like someone forced me into it.

  Not that I had real fashion sense. I had no idea why you weren't supposed to wear white after labor day, and I really didn't care. I wore what I wanted, when I wanted.

  A right rebel I was.

  And so I stared at the contents of my closet, finally settling on a simple, cotton, peasant dress. It was a lovely shade of purple. It was comfortable, and I looked nice in it without looking like I was trying too hard. I switched into the dress, found a pair of flats, and then messed with my hair for a few minutes.

  It would have to do, and if Jaime didn't like it, that was just too bad.

  I barely made it back downstairs in time; Verity Patrick stepped through the door just as I stepped into the shop. Our eyes met, and we stared at each other for a moment before she closed the shop door. We both stepped forward, arriving on opposite sides of the counter at the same time. She held out her hand, and I took it. Then she held my hand while she continued to look at me.

  "Welcome back, Ms. Patrick," I said. She still didn't release my hand. I wasn't in any hurry to have it back, anyway. She could keep it, if she wanted to. Yes, I was just fine if she wanted to keep my hand -- and the rest of me with it, of course.

  "Thank you for making time for me," she replied. Then she finally released my hand, but like she had last week, she did so lingeringly. Then she gestured towards the back room.

  I led the way, holding the doors for her and then, as I had last week, her chair. I took the chair opposite, and we looked at each other for a minute.

  She was dressed just as expensively as last week, but she wore the clothing almost casually. She wasn't putting on airs; she was just dressing how she preferred to dress. Or so I decided.

  "I don't know what I'll be able to tell you that I didn't last week."

  "I thought perhaps I would ask questions, and you would answer."

  "I'll try."

  "I want you to answer honestly, even if you think I won't appreciate the answers."

  "Of course."

  "Did you try to do any research after our last meeting?"

  "No."

  "So you didn't, for instance, Google me?"

  The thought hadn't even occurred to me. What was surprising was that Felicity hadn't suggested it. I shook my head.

  "So you know nothing more about me than what you learned last week."

  "Right."

  "All right. Then I want you to make guesses, as best you can."

  "What is the point-"

  She interrupted. "I want to see how you think."

  I narrowed my eyes, suddenly cautious. "Why?"

  She reached into her purse. She already had the money waiting and didn't need to pull it from a clutch this time. She set another hundred dollar bill on the table. I glanced at it.

  "Do you think you can buy anything you want?"

  "Of course not. But do you think there is any harm at all from playing my game? Maybe I simply like making people talk about me." She smiled when she said it. "And I'm rich enough to pay them to do so."

  "That's not why you're here," I said.

  "Perhaps not," she agreed, "but I'll ask again. Is there any harm playing my game?"

  "Not on the surface, no," I said. "But I don't know what you're doing."

  "Are you afraid of me, Ms. Lane?"

  I looked her up and down. "Should I be?"

  "If I meant you ill, yes. Do you believe I mean you ill?"

  I looked her up and down again. I took my time about it, too. Her aura was just as unsettling as it had been last week, but I didn't detect anything threatening. "You want something," I said. "And you're not only rich, but you're powerful besides."

  "I am," she agreed. "Do you believe I mean you ill?"

  "No, but I don't know what you intend."

  "Are you curious enough to play my game?" she replied. "It's the path to finding out what I intend. Or do you wish to ask me to leave?"

  "I don't want you to leave," I said quickly. "I just-" I looked away. "You unsettle me."

  "Because of my aura?"

  "Not only that." I still didn't look at her.

  Out of the corner of my eye she withdrew another bill from her purse. When I looked over, I saw she had set a fifty on the table halfway between us while maintaining possession of the hundred.

  "The fifty is yours if you tell me exactly why I unsettle you, and don't skimp on the answer."

  I stared at the fifty a moment longer before looking up at her. She was watching me carefully, and I detected something -- interest, hunger, avarice, I'm not sure at all what it was. And while she was unsettling, I truly didn't believe she meant any harm to me.

  "Are you trying to buy me?"

  "A little, yes," she said. "Am I offending you?"

  "A little, yes," I echoed. "You're quite accustomed to people giving you what you want."

  "I am quite accustomed to having to work for it. We're being honest with each other, Ms. Lane, are we not?"

  "Yes, I suppose we are."

  "You operate a small, somewhat eccentric bookstore. You are paying your bills, but you know that could change. We both know this, and so there is no reason to pretend otherwise." She gestured to the table. "This helps you pay those bills. I am not trying to offend you. I am certainly not trying to insult you. I know it's not clear yet, but I happen to have a great deal of respect for you. I want us to be friends."

  "Put the fifty away," I said. She looked disappointed, but it went back into her purse without a word. "I have never been someone who is attracted to power or wealth. If I were, I'd have pursued something other than being a one-third owner in, as you call it, a small, somewhat eccentric bookstore."

  "Quite so," she said in agreement.

  "I find you unsettling for three simple reasons. First, of course, is your perplexing aura. Second, I don't know what you want from me, and I don't know why you're trying to shove so much money at me. It makes me nervous."

  "You distrust my motives."

  "I don't know your motives," I said. "I don't know you. I wouldn't say I distrust either."

  "And so it is the uncertainty that you find unsettling."

  "Yes, I suppose it is."

  "All right," she said after a moment. "And the third reason?"

  "In spite of everything I just said, I have never had as overwhelming, visceral reaction as I had to you when you stepped into the shop last week."

  She sat back in her chair suddenly, and I thought perhaps I had startled her. Then she smiled.

  "You're older than I am, perhaps ten years-"

  "More than that," she interrupted.

  "And-" I trailed off.

  "I understand, Ms. Lane." She leaned forward again. "I am sorry you find me unsettling. I promise, I mean you and your shop no harm at all. Will you please play my game?" She tapped the money. "I would really enjoy it." She offered another smile.

  I looked her up and down and finally nodded. "All right. I'll play your game. For now."

  "For now. Tell me, from looking at my aura, do you believe I have a job?"

  "Like accountant?" I asked.

  "Yes. Something beyond living off a rich spouse or an inheritance. Just give me your gut reaction."

  I looked her up and down yet again, sitting back and considering her. "If you do, it's not an ordinary job."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're not an accountant."

  She laughed. "No, I'm not. But why do you say that?"

  "Whatever you do isn't remotely that mundane."

  "Perhaps I am a stockbroker or financial analyst."

  I shook my head. "You're educated. I don't need to see your aura to tell that." She said nothing. "You're not dressed like a lawyer, but in a way, you feel like one. If you were a politician, I'd probably have heard of you."

  "Perhaps I am some sort of behind-the-scenes politician."

  "Li
ke a lobbyist?" I paused then shook my head. "No. You wield your power yourself. You don't work through others."

  She sat back again. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "What else can you tell me?"

  "You have investments-"

  "Of course."

  "-And you manage them directly. You have people who advise you, but it is only advice. You don't just toss your money into a mutual fund or let your advisors make your decisions."

  "All right. But that's not my primary occupation, although I admit it has become my primary source of income."

  I studied her longer. "I really don't know. All I see is you wield power, but I don't see what sort of power."

  She smiled. "Age?"

  "New topic, hmm?" She nodded at my question. "I can't tell."

  "Why not?"

  "You look forty, maybe. But you don't feel forty."

  "How old do I feel?"

  "Old," I said slowly. I narrowed my eyes. "Are you a vampire?"

  She laughed; she laughed loudly. "No," she managed to say. "I certainly am not." Finally she settled down. "I feel vampire old to you?"

  "Maybe not ancient vampire old," I said. "But a lot older than forty."

  She laughed again, briefly, then sobered. "Animal lover?"

  I looked her up and down again, this time a more mundane inspection. "I don't see a single bit of fur on your clothing. And you don't look like you get down on your knees to greet a dog."

  "So, animal hater?"

  I shook my head. "No. But you're fastidious."

  "Stop looking at my clothing and look at me, Lyra." She said it in a very commanding tone. "Look at me," she repeated.

  And so I leaned forward and opened my eyes more widely. I tried to look past her clothes and past her carefully coiffed hair and perfect nails. And after a moment, like it did sometimes, I saw her with a cat in her arms. The cat was purring, and she was petting it absentmindedly.

  "What is your cat's name?"

  She smiled. "What color?"

  "The white one."

  "That's Sahara."

  "And the black one?"

  "Zula. Do I have others?"

  I stared before shaking my head. "But... dogs. And horses."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  She smiled again. "Animal lover?"

  "Yes."

  "Let's try something harder." She picked up the hundred from the table and, like she had last week, she tapped the edge against the table. I thought perhaps she was displaying a nervous gesture of some sort. Then she set it back down and smoothed it flat. She leaned forward and looked into my eyes. "Do I mean you harm?"