by Неизвестный
Waleah said, “You don't seem to have any luggage.”
“Nope. I left my suitcase down on the shore, and it's probably washed away.”
“You left it on the shore.”
“Mm hmm.” She didn't say it, but her throat hurt at the memory, and she wanted to ask why nobody had come to meet her. Did they not want her?
Answering the unasked question, Waleah said, “Little light, nobody told me you were coming. I didn't even know you existed until I got the message this morning from the sheriff's office. I had my doubts,” she said as she brushed a strand of hair off Opal's forehead, “until I saw your face.”
“I'm real.”
“And you're here.”
“I really am. I read about this place in Flora's stories, but I didn't know it was true.”
Waleah laughed. “Don't believe half of what Flora says, or a third of what she writes. It's her sister, Farrah, who tells the truth, not Flora.” She pointed to the door of a store that sold shoes and clothes for girls. “Let's get you some proper clothes so you don't stand out so much.”
A group of five people, all ages, had stopped on the sidewalk and were watching them converse. They seemed especially interested in Opal, the Newface, the one who had been arrested, and was still wearing the murdered woman's dress.
Opal practically ran for the door.
Inside, a rack of dresses caught her eye, each cuter than the last. Opal was usually a shorts and t-shirt kind of girl, but this place, this island, made her want to wear dresses. She still didn't know if the place was actually called Broken Shell Island, and when she'd tried to ask Peter about it, he had begged her not to mention that name again.
As Opal looked through the dresses, Waleah caught her by the elbow and said, “We can come back here later.” She seemed nervous, the whites of her eyes showing.
One of the other girls in the shop said, “Ma'am, don't rush out on our account, we're almost done.”
Waleah reached into her orange purse and retrieved the round card. “Here, why don't you pick out five or six outfits for yourself, and meet me at The Fountain when you're done.”
Before Opal could protest, the woman was gone, out the door like a puff of white smoke. The card in Opal's hand felt heavier than expected.
“Hello,” said the girl who'd spoken before. “I'm Carly. I'm a witch from the West Shore.”
Opal turned to find a sturdy-looking blond girl of sixteen or so, with her hand outstretched.
Opal shook the girl's hand. “I'm Opal. I'm new here, and I've never met an actual witch before.”
Carly winked. “I wouldn't be so sure of that. We're everywhere, you know.”
The other girls behind her laughed, but in a merry way, not a mean way.
“I hear you met Peter,” Carly said. Again, the two girls behind her laughed.
“Briefly, yes. Is he a witch too?”
The girls nearly screamed with laughter. The tall girl said, “Imagine, a boy doing magic. It would be nothing but love spells and boob-growing potions.”
Opal said, “There's a potion for growing boobs?”
Carly's cheeks turned red with amusement. “Sure, if you want to grow them on your back.”
The taller girl, the one with long, black, perfectly straight hair, brought an armload of clothes over to Opal and said, “Here, try these on. I'm Zara, no relation to the High Priestess.”
Opal took the clothes in one arm and shook the girl's hand. She was then introduced to the third one, a pale redhead named Delilah, as well as the shop owner, a bored-looking man with a shiny head.
He said, “If you find anything you like that's too big, we do alterations on the spot.”
Opal said, “Your clothes are really pretty. I'm sure I'll find something.”
“Not what you're used to, I bet.”
The other girls ran around the shop, grabbing more things for Opal to try on.
Opal looked down at one of the garments, which reminded her of something. Patchwork. The pieces seemed to be made from smaller swatches of fabric, sewn together like a quilt to make larger panels.
Opal said, “Everything's a little different here. But I like it.”
The man said, “You get used to it. We've got some higher-end pieces that aren't made of scraps, but they cost a little more. Check this out.” He handed her a zip-up hoodie jacket that was teal blue, and not unlike the one she'd left on the shore, except this fabric was incredibly soft. “Bamboo,” he said. “Grown locally, not an import or salvage job.”
The number on the price tag was much higher than the other items she'd been looking at, so she hesitated. Abusing Aunt Waleah's credit card didn't seem like a smart idea.
“Great for rugged terrain and adventuring,” he said. “Half price, for you. I see you as the adventuring type.”
“Thanks,” she said, “I am the adventuring type, so I must try this jacket on.”
“With these,” he said, and he handed her some running shoes, orange with little stripes of pink, or pink with stripes of orange, depending on how you looked at them. “Quick drying, in case you venture into the Wetlands.”
Carly came up and threw her arm around Opal. “The Wetlands? George, you're terrible! Nobody goes there.”
He shrugged.
Carly said, “Cute runners, anyway. Is that your size?”
Opal checked. “Seems to be.”
“That's our George!” Carly said.
* * *
Either the flattering lighting or the flattering mirrors were to blame, because everything Opal tried on was adorable, and narrowing her choices down to “five or six outfits” was not easy. She found some simple underwear that seemed to be cotton, and probably made from new fabric, though she realized the history or former use of the materials didn't matter to her that much.
She settled on one sundress, some skirts and tops that could be mixed and matched, some shorts, and jeans that would make her friend Katy, back home, pretend-cry with jealousy. A pair of dressy shoes with a low heel begged to come home with her, and some new sandals. She also got the zip-up jacket and the orange runners George had suggested.
The shopping experience was unique, to say the least.
Compared to her usual social group of one or two friends, being with three enthusiastic girls was overwhelming, but not in a bad way. She was able to get a few answers about her new home, at least.
The town had one high school, which all the teens attended until seventeen or eighteen. School had already let out for the summer, so she wouldn't be joining until the fall. The town did not have cable TV, or internet, or cell phones, or phones of any type, and the three girls found it amusing that anyone would even care.
They knew what computers and phones were, thanks to their schooling, as well as movie nights, where they gathered to watch films from all over the world. Except for a few older folks who only spoke Cantonese, everyone on the island spoke English, and the economic and political system, from what little they explained, was not that much different from what Opal was used to back home—a democracy, with elections.
“Everything's pretty normal, except for the magic,” Opal said to the girls as the shiny-headed man, George, tallied up her purchases.
“Oh, right,” Carly said, giggling.
“I just have one more question,” Opal said.
They all pretended to be bored from her questions, groaning and rolling their eyes theatrically.
“Is this place actually Broken Shell Island?”
The three girls frowned and looked at each other.
Zara, the willowy black-haired girl with the graceful hand gestures, said, “That is the cursed name, so nobody calls it that. The island has no name except home. To call our home anything is bad luck.”
“What do you call the town? Same rules?” Opal asked.
“The town is called Ystad.”
Opal laughed into her hand. “Really?”
Zara scratched at her scalp. “Is that funny? It was call
ed New Ystad once, but they lost the New part of the name.”
“Ystad,” Opal repeated. “I'm sorry, I don't know why I laughed. Just nervous, I guess. I am new here.”
George handed her a shopping bag filled with her clothes and said, “Is it true you saw the body? Was the Russian girl all torn apart?”
“I don't know. No, I didn't see her.” She shook her head. “No.”
The wedding dress lay ominously at the top of the bag, and Opal was glad she'd changed into one of her new outfits, the shorts and the new orange and pink runners.
“Perhaps the girl was torn apart by wild animals,” Zara said. The others seemed both horrified and excited at the same time, except for quiet little Delilah, who looked like she might throw up.
As they speculated on the horrific details of the murder, none of them with any actual facts, Opal could think only of that poor young man, Edwin, and how he'd lost his fiancee… not to mention the victim herself, and her family back home who might never even find out. Opal's skin flushed cold. She'd been pushing the thought from her mind, but she could no longer deny it could have easily been her, and not Svetlana, who'd been murdered the previous day. She'd also been alone, in the woods, with nobody even knowing she was coming. If she'd been killed, none would have known, let alone cared.
Opal thanked the girls for helping with the shopping.
“Our pleasure,” Zara said.
Delilah smiled shyly and said, “I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”
Opal said, “I guess I'll see you around?”
Carly gave her a big grin. “You won't be able to keep us away!”
Opal thanked them all again, waved goodbye to George, and excused herself to go find her aunt.
Chapter Six
As Opal looked around for a fountain, and her aunt, she got the feeling she was being stalked. With the new clothes on instead of the murdered woman's wedding dress, she didn't stand out quite so much, yet people were watching her. She'd never lived in a small town before, always the city, so she didn't know if this was typical for a small town, or just for this small town.
She spotted a yellow box on the sidewalk ahead of her, holding what seemed to be newspapers. After a few minutes fumbling around trying to get at the papers, with the lurid headlines talking of INNOCENT RUSSIAN MAIL-ORDER BRIDE MEETS TRAGIC END IN GOAT FOREST, she found the slot to swipe the money card.
She didn't use the card, though, because she wasn't comfortable spending her aunt's money on something unauthorized. Instead, she crouched in front of the box and read the beginning of the article, which rehashed the details she already knew. The woman, twenty-one, was a Newface who'd just arrived in Ystad for her wedding. She'd planned to come a month ahead of time, but stayed back in Russia, tending to an ill relative. Her body was discovered by a ranger who'd alerted the sheriff. The time of death was estimated at between three and four o'clock.
Opal looked around to make sure she wasn't attracting too much attention, because for all she knew, it might be illegal in Ystad to read the front page through the box's window without paying for a copy.
The final line before the fold read, “Perhaps the most puzzling part of the mystery is the circumstances…”
Opal frowned at the newspaper box. The good stuff was below the fold, so this place really wasn't that much different than home.
As she stood up, a body darted at the edge of her vision. Whoever was stalking her had slipped up.
Pretending not to have noticed, Opal didn't turn and look around, but carried on her way down the street, pretending to be interested in more shopping. She found a big store window and stationed herself in front, ostensibly looking at the assorted toasters and blenders inside, but actually watching behind herself, using the mirror in the display of housewares.
Sure enough, her stalker let himself be seen. Peter.
She wheeled around quickly.
He froze.
She ran toward him, and he scrambled to get away, kicking up dust in his haste. He dodged between some fast-moving people on bicycles and darted into the shadow between two shops—a space she hadn't noticed was there—and she followed, running comfortably. Her paper shopping bag crinkled from the movement, but her feet were nimble in their new running shoes.
She reached for Peter and grabbed him by the shirt just as they ran out into a patio space where people were enjoying tea and tiny sandwiches. Yanked back by his collar, he came to a guilty halt.
Opal waved to the people dining. The restaurant's patio backed onto a large meadow, and some horses were grazing in the distance. What an awesome town, she thought.
Peter made a gagging noise and tried to slip out of his shirt.
“How-ya-doin-Peter!” she said cheerfully, throwing one arm around his shoulder. “We didn't get much chance to talk yesterday, and I never told you I was on the track team at my high school. Fastest girl in the five-hundred-yard dash, faster even than most of the boys my age.”
He laughed uncomfortably and squirmed. “I knew you weren't Russian.”
“I wish you'd said something earlier, and saved me a night in the old drunk tank. The cot was comfortable enough, but the smells in there weren't so great.”
The people on the patio sipped their tea quietly, turning their heads to better listen to what Opal was saying.
Her arm still around Peter, she pushed him back toward the narrow shadow from which they'd emerged.
He said, “I didn't know for sure, ya chowderbucket. Lemme go.”
She pushed him ahead of her, but held a handful of his shirt, which was made from patches of material, but strong enough.
“Aw, Peter, I thought we were friends. Why were you following me around out there? Are you that scared of me?”
“I'm not scared of anything.”
“Good. Then you can help me find my way around here.” They exited the narrow space, back in the town square again. The scent in the air had changed, as the food vendors switched from breakfast foods to lunch.
Her stomach made itself known with a growl. She could definitely eat again.
He scowled. “I didn't do anything wrong.”
“Peter, you knew something wasn't right, but you didn't even ask me my name. I'll forgive you for not saying something sooner, but you gotta help me get the lay of the land. I met some witches earlier, and they seemed nice enough, but I'm no dummy. They're probably the equivalent of mean cheerleaders around here, aren't they?”
He ran his hand through his longish, light brown hair. “Cheerleaders? You mean like in the movies. Yes, you could say they're like that.”
“Darn. They seemed so nice.”
He looked uncomfortable. “They're not all the same. Just like everyone else, some are good, and some are bad.”
“My great-aunt seemed scared of them. Why do you think that was?”
He shrugged. “Most people steer clear of witch business and don't take sides either way.”
“Sides?”
“Some people are against magic, period.” Peter looked around warily, then whispered, “I like magic.”
“Can you do any spells?”
He laughed nervously, then frowned and hung his head. “No.”
“Phew!” She pretended to wipe her brow. “Color me relieved you won't be casting any spells on me. Now, first things first, where is this fountain? I've been walking in circles and can't find it.”
“What do I get, for helping you?”
She thought back to what he'd asked her about the previous night, about mainland culture. “A story. I'll tell you the plot of a new movie you haven't seen.”
He stood up straighter, becoming slightly taller than her, and grinned. “Deal. The Fountain isn't a fountain, it's a pub.” He pointed to the carved wooden sign hanging over their heads.
“Facepalm,” she said, smacking her face with her hand.
“Facepalm?”
“I just mean I shoulda known,” she said, walking toward the door of The Fountain.
>
“Hey, what about my movie?”
She stopped and turned back. “Let me think of a good one. Come see me later tonight, at my house, wherever that is.”
He shuddered visibly. “Can't we meet somewhere a little less creepy?”
“What do you mean creepy?”
“Never mind,” he said, his face dead serious. “I'm sure it's not as horrible as I remember.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said, walking into the pub.
* * *
At first, Opal wondered if perhaps the pub wasn't open yet for the day.
“Hello?”
A mouse emerged from under a table and scampered across her new orange and pink running shoes.
“That's not a good sign,” she said to herself.
The mouse was followed by a mean-looking pale gold snake, of indeterminate length, with a head the size of a baseball. The snake would have crossed over her shoes as well, if she hadn't started running the second it appeared. She bolted off to the right, knocking upside-down chairs off tables as she ran.
A man called out, “Hoover don't eat people, y'know.”
Opal slowed her fleeing and found the person attached to the voice, a silver-haired man with a big Santa beard, standing behind an ample bar. Opal's great-aunt was sitting on a stool at the bar, tipping back a glass of red wine, her orange purse on the stool next to her. The woman seemed unconcerned by snakes or snake-related mayhem.
“Thanks, dear,” Waleah said to the white-bearded man. “That tasted like another.”
He poured some more red wine into her glass.
Feeling rather sheepish, Opal joined her aunt at the bar. After a moment of awkward silence, she attempted to show off her shopping haul while thanking Waleah for the loan.
“Not a loan,” Waleah said. “Gift.”
“I'll do some chores around the house,” Opal said. “Or maybe I'll get a part-time job.” She looked over at the barman, who was slicing normal-looking limes into wedges. “I don't know who'd be hiring, but back home I worked at a fried chicken restaurant, and then at a piercing place, at the mall. I didn't do the actual piercing, of course, but I filled up the jars with cotton balls and tidied the magazines and…” She glanced behind her as the golden snake slithered past. “Wait, did you say the snake's name is Hoover? As in, named after the vacuum cleaner brand?”