by Melissa Marr
“Y-yes,” I say. “Mr. Connolly absolutely had an appointment, and I must insist that you make one yourself if you’re interested in selling that box. As for anything else you think I can do with it, my sisters have a very weird sense of humor. I’ll totally understand if you one-star their business.”
The man’s jaw works. Then he plunks the box on a sideboard. “Fine. You know what? You just bought yourself a curse, young lady. That’s my one-star review.”
He stalks out, leaving the box behind. As the door bells jangle, Connolly murmurs, “That was interesting.”
I force a laugh. “Right?” I ease the cursed tea caddy off the sideboard and tuck it safely out of reach. “So tell me more about this job, Mr. Connolly.”
I agree to stop by Connolly’s office after lunch so I can see the space. Once he’s gone, I exhale and slump over the sideboard. Then I lock the door, place the tea caddy on my desk and peer at it.
While Connolly called it kitsch, it’s actually a valuable antique like everything in here. As I told him, all my goods are one of a kind. That’s because they’re cursed. Formerly cursed, I should say. The former part is very important.
I come from a family of curse weavers—a gift said to stretch back to the Greek arae. While we can weave curses, we can also unweave them, and that’s our true calling. Most times we’re asked to uncurse an item, though, we fake it. Not that we leave the curse on. That would be wrong. The problem is that those who show up on our doorstep rarely suffer from an actual cursed object. Instead, they suffer from an anxious mind that needs settling, and for generations, the Bennett women have provided that service, pretending to uncurse some heirloom or other.
People who have a real cursed object usually don’t realize it. They may only know Great Aunt Edna’s jewelry box gives them the creeps. Worse, no one wants to buy it because it gives them the creeps, too. That’s where I come in. I will take that box off your hands. I’ll even pay you for it. Then I’ll uncurse it and resell it.
One might think that the ethical thing to do would be to offer to uncurse the object. I tried that a few times. The owner stared at me as if I’d sprouted a turban and hoop earrings. Lift a curse? What kind of wacko was I? They just wanted to sell their dead aunt’s weird jewelry box.
A couple of times, when I felt really bad about buying an heirloom, I tried quietly uncursing the object and giving it back. Didn’t help. They wanted it gone. That explains the tea caddy suddenly in my possession. While the owner obviously believed in the curse, he decided dumping it on me was safer than keeping it. Or he just got pissy and wanted to storm off with a grand gesture . . . which ultimately benefited one of us more than the other.
I’ll uncurse the caddy tonight, and if the former owner returns, I’ll buy it from him. Fair and square. Right now, though, I have a far more important task: texting my sisters to tell them I’m going to kill them in some fresh new way that is totally different from the other two times this week I threatened to do it.
Kennedy: Suffocation. Inside an antique tea caddy.
It only takes a moment for my younger sister to reply.
Hope: I don’t think we’d fit.
Kennedy: Oh, you will when I get through with you.
Our older sister, Turani, joins in.
Ani: Pfft. I’m not worried. To kill us, you’d need to come to Unstable. Which apparently has fallen off your GPS.
Kennedy: I missed one weekend. ONE. Also, the highway runs both ways. You could come here.
Ani: To that den of iniquity?
Kennedy: We call it ‘Boston.’
Hope: Can we go pub-hopping?
Ani: Yes. When you’re twenty-one. Now what’s this about a tea caddy?
Kennedy: Joker’s jinx Regency tea caddy. Guy barged in during a client showing.
Ani: I didn’t send him. Hope?
Hope: Hell, no. I learned my lesson. I hate you, by the way, K. I had a date last week. Made the mistake of offering to drive, forgetting that every time I sit in the driver’s seat, it makes a fart noise.