Witching Hour

by Skylar Finn

  “I’m sure,” said Cameron. “We’ll probably run into them eventually. Let’s check out this living room, I want to look for stuff to decorate the store. Make it more fun and eclectic, you know?”

  The first thing I noticed about the living room was that it was filled with clocks. Not just one or two, as there ordinarily would have been, but clocks everywhere: a cuckoo clock over the mantel, a grandfather clock in the corner, a wall clock in the shape of a cat, whose eyes and tail moved with each tick of the second hand. There was a sweeping array of pocket watches laid out across the grand piano and a line of hourglasses on the coffee table.

  “What’s with all the clocks?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, I guess they’re like, really into telling time?” He picked up one of the pocket watches on the piano. “This is gorgeous. I’m totally bringing back the pocket watch!” He clutched it to his chest. “It’s happening. Montgomery Dupont be damned!”

  “Who’s Montgomery Dupont?” I asked.

  “He’s this horrible little blogger who’s been roasting me nonstop. Says vintage is ‘over, predictable, grandma’s clothes.’ I hate him. I want him to die. He hasn’t stopped anyone from coming into my store, has he?”

  “Um, no?” I’d never seen Cameron this riled up before. He was normally a pacifist.

  “Exactly.” Cameron sounded satisfied. “And he never will.”

  A glint of light in the next room caught my eye. I left Cameron to his under-the-breath mumbling and approached it cautiously, gaining entry through an ornate doorway. It looked hand-carved, with elaborate white curlicues.

  It was a fountain. The room was dim, but the light reflected from the water danced on the walls in the narrow shaft of light coming from a single window opposite. I could see the edge of the garden maze through the window. I approached the fountain, fascinated. I leaned over and saw coins scattered at the bottom.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there, gazing into the crystal clear water, before I noticed a prickling feeling on the back of my neck.

  It was then that I realized I wasn’t alone.

  3

  The Magic of Cristo

  I spun around, only to find there was no one behind me. I could have sworn there was someone there; I felt it. Was I completely cracking up?

  “Sam?” I heard Cameron call from the next room. “Where did you go?”

  I went back to the living room. Cameron was hovering over the grand piano, studying the display of pocket watches. He was flanked by an extremely beautiful woman of indeterminate age—with her blunt bob and bangs, she could have been fifteen or twenty-five. She wore a simple sheer white frock and seemed to glimmer softly, like a moonbeam. She turned to regard me curiously with large, dark eyes.

  “Samantha Hale, meet Suki,” said Cameron. “She’s going to help me bring the pocket watch back in style.”

  “I don’t know why it ever went out of style in the first place,” said Suki in a voice like a choir.

  “Phones,” said Cameron dismissively. “Phones and wristwatches. The Swatch, that was the problem right there. Although I do sell Swatches myself, so I’m not one to talk. What if I want to buy all of these? Can I do that?”

  “Certainly,” said Suki in her polite, measured tone. “How does the saying go? Everything must go?”

  “I’d like that grandfather clock as well,” added Cameron. He turned to me. “What about you, Sam? Are you getting anything?”

  I eyed the cat clock on the wall. “I could give you a deal,” said Suki. “You seem like nice people. I enjoy your auras.”

  “I have always wanted a cat,” I admitted. I glanced over at the table. “What about the hourglasses? How much are those?” There was something anchronistic about them that appealed to me. They reminded me of the sundial in my mother’s house.

  “They are not technically for sale,” said Suki. She studied me briefly. “However, in your case, I will make an exception.”

  I didn’t ask why. There was something odd about this place that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It wasn’t bad, but it was noticeable and strong and I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  I chose the hourglass on the end. Suki wrapped the watches and the cat clock and told us she would ship the grandfather clock directly to the store. She helped Cameron and me put everything in the Prius. He closed the trunk with a definitive click.

  “Thank you again,” said Suki, drifting back to the house like a feather borne aloft on an errant breeze. She seemed to disappear before our very eyes. I blinked as the sun broke free of the clouds, and she was gone.

  “I like her,” said Cameron approvingly. “I would love to have her model some things for me on Insta. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think she would do that,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know her. But I’m not entirely convinced she was real. Like, is this a dream we’re having?”

  “I know what you mean.” He shook his head as we got into the car. “But still, you have got to get a hobby or something, Sam. You’re getting all weird and Sartre on me, and it’s freaking me out.”

  I watched the elaborate hedge maze pass as we made our way down the winding driveway. At the foot of the hill, an elderly woman in sunglasses sat in a chair with a blanket over her lap. She looked like she was staring at the sun. I craned my neck around as we passed, but she never looked away.

  Back at the shop, I helped Cameron carry in his purchases. “Let me see that thing that you got,” said Cameron, once we had everything inside. He held out his hand.

  “The hourglass?” I held it out to him. The glass was thick and sturdy. It was in a wood frame decorated with odd symbols I couldn’t read. It was also empty.

  “Deeply pre-digital,” Cameron mused, studying it. “Isn’t it supposed to be filled with something? Crystals or whatever?”

  “Sand,” I said. “This one didn’t have anything in it for some reason. I figured it was a dud, but I liked that it was different.”

  “Quaint,” he said. “You know, I think I have something you can put this on.” He rummaged through a drawer near the register and brought out a thin silver chain. He threaded it through the tiny hook at the top.

  “It’s almost as if it was designed to be a necklace already,” he said, studying it. “I wonder if they had any more of them?”

  “They had others, but I’m pretty sure they had sand in them,” I said, fastening the necklace behind my neck. “What do you think?”

  “Gorgeous,” he declared. “We could really start a trend with these things. Pity they didn’t have more.”

  I dropped my new purchases off at my house before I went to meet Tamsin. I didn’t feel like lugging them all over the city and anyway, I needed to brush my teeth. I was going to have to get over this thing of not keeping anything at Peter’s. I had a travel toothbrush in my bag, but in my pre-coffee haze, I’d brought neither my bag nor toothbrush with me.

  Something else was bothering me: the fact that my lease was going to be up soon, and I had to decide whether to re-sign or look for a new place. When I first rented the row home, it was with Jill, my college roommate and best friend, who had since moved out and gotten a place of her own. It was really too big for me alone, which left me with the prospect of finding a different one or someone else to move in.

  I wouldn’t want to live with anyone besides Tamsin or Peter, but the idea of asking Peter to move in with me so soon made me quake with fear. I didn’t even know if I wanted that; how could I know if he did? It seemed odd given that we spent all of our time together anyway, but maybe that’s because it was an option. A choice. Maybe I would find him annoying if I saw him all the time. Maybe he would get annoyed by me. Maybe we would take each other for granted.

  I was getting to the point where I was starting to get annoyed by my own thought process, so I quickly put my hair up in a scrunchie and left the house. I was far enough from Broad Street to warrant taking a Lyft. When I got to the café, Tamsin was nowhere t
o be seen and I realized I’d probably have quite a wait ahead of me. Punctuality was not Tamsin’s strong point, and I typically arrived fifteen minutes after our scheduled time to reduce my wait time, but traffic had been light and I was ahead of schedule.

  I perused the croissants, debating whether to get chocolate or almond (almond, obviously) when a hand on my shoulder made me jump. I turned to find Tamsin looking at me quizzically, her large eyes lined with dark kohl like a raccoon.

  “You’re early,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you for at least another hour.”

  She checked her Swatch. Tamsin was Cameron’s best client. “What do you mean? I was supposed to be here five minutes ago.” She realized I was giving her a hard time and swatted me on the arm. “I’m on time! You goon. Sometimes, anyway.”

  “Rarely,” I said and turned back to the croissants. “Do you want to split one?”

  “Absolutely not, I’m famished,” she declared. “I want my own, and I want two of them.” She nudged me aside with her hip so she could eye the display for herself. “That freshman fifteen is no joke. I just started my summer session, and I’m already eating constantly.”

  When we were seated with our respective croissants and drinks, I asked Tamsin about school right away. I wanted to avoid the topics of what I was up to (little to nothing) and how things were with Peter (opening the table to my apathetic insecurities and anxieties). Tamsin, however, became equally as evasive as I felt.

  “It’s fine,” she chirped. “I’m really enjoying it, actually.”

  I eyed the glass of red wine she ordered with her fake ID. “What do you enjoy about it? And do the elderberry notes compliment the buttery flake of your croissant, would you say?”

  She ignored my obvious dig at her midday drink. “I’m obsessed with my photography class,” she said, shoving half the croissant in her mouth. She had to chew for several minutes before continuing. “My teacher, Cristo, is amazing. Like, a god. A Greek God who returned to Earth to teach. Incidentally,” she added, eyeing me beadily, “Cristo says that red wine is mandatory for any artist. He says a glass of red wine keeps the demons at bay. He’s very European.”

  “Really?” I said. “Where’s he from?”

  “Europe?” She shrugged. “Someplace fancy and glamorous where people have accents and drink wine all day.”

  “Sounds made up,” I said. “I bet you he’s from Detroit.”

  “He is not from Detroit,” said Tamsin indignantly. “Cristo was educated at the Sorbonne, okay. I’m pretty sure that’s not in Detroit.”

  “Sure,” I said. “The Motor City Sorbonne. Haven’t you heard of it? Besides, there is nothing wrong with being from Detroit, Tam. It’s a great city that was once the beacon of American industry, and will someday be again. Especially in terms of the arts.” I don’t know why I was giving her a hard time. I guess I was bored.

  “I have nothing against Detroit!” She rolled her made-up eyes dramatically. I took in the rest of her ensemble: ripped black tights, black dress, black flats. Black-framed glasses on her head, buried in her mounds of hair which was swept up in a black updo. I was a hundred percent certain her glasses had fake plastic lenses. Tamsin was definitely in her first semester of art school, all right. “I’m just saying. You’ve never even met Cristo. Cristo is not a fraud.”

  “Tell me about him, then.” When Tamsin got going, she could talk for days. We’d never have to talk about me or the present condition of my life.

  “Cristo hates digital and is only teaching us to shoot using film. He detests the modern era and believes it’s destructive to the human soul and therefore art.” I could tell she was quoting this verbatim, probably after writing it down in her notebook.

  I hid my amusement. “He sounds like quite a guy.”

  “He is.” Tamsin turned dreamy, misty-eyed at the thought of him. I choked back a laugh. Everyone has that teacher—particularly their first professor their first semester of college—who seems so incredibly brilliant and awe-inspiring. For me, it was Professor Marchbanks, who was from England and made Statistics seem like a fascinating subject. “You should meet him, Sam,” she said, suddenly inspired. “You could come with me to my class today. Cristo wouldn’t mind. I know it. I’m his favorite student.”

  This didn’t surprise me. Tamsin was both vivacious and incredibly pretty. Her little black dress showed off her head-turning curves, and whoever Cristo was, I felt certain this had gained his notice in addition to her artistic skill.

  “What would I do there?” I asked.

  “Be inspired.” She forked the remainder of her croissant, which had not been long for this world, into her waiting mouth. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, so I’m not gonna get into it. But you’re clearly bored, it’s obviously driving you crazy, and I think this could really help you. Maybe you’ll want to go back to school for something that’s actually fun.” She quirked an eyebrow at me. Tamsin thought my original course of studies sounded like the most boring thing imaginable. (It was.)

  “Okay, okay.” I relented. “But if I find myself becoming irresistibly seduced by the magic of Cristo, I’m leaving. I already have someone.”

  “Don’t joke about Cristo, Sam,” said Tamsin seriously. “It just might happen.”

  Cristo’s class was in a dim old building at the edge of campus. It was unrenovated and reeked of chalk and disinfectant. The hallways were lined with dusty gray tile and the room itself was filled with wooden desks and chairs.

  “Why does he hold class in the land that time forgot?” I asked. We were early, but there was already a line of girls dressed in black, seated in the front row like magpies on a branch.

  “Cristo despises The Newness,” said Tamsin somberly. “That’s what he calls it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Newness. Got it.”

  We sat in the second row. The girl immediately in front of Tamsin turned to glare at her. She had thick glasses with black frames like Tamsin’s and a beret perched on her dark red curls. I had never seen anyone actually wear a beret before. She shifted her glare to me.

  “Are you auditing?” she demanded.

  “No.” I stared at her without volunteering any further information till she turned back around.

  Tamsin smiled, pleased with my throwdown. “That’s my enemy,” she said, not troubling to lower her voice. “She thinks she’s Annie Leibovitz. I mean, why take the class if you already know everything about the subject? But whatever floats your boat, I guess.”

  I saw the girl’s shoulders stiffen visibly and wondered if there would be a fight (I was curious to know what an art school fight looked like: would they throw charcoal at each other, or maybe those weird chewy gray erasers?) but the door opened and everyone turned, simultaneously falling into a hushed and reverential silence.

  When I say the door opened, I’m not really doing it justice. It was flung inward with a melodramatic flourish, and a small but muscular man strolled in. He, too, was dressed in black: tight black t-shirt, black jeans, and Italian loafers. He had black ink up and down his arms in a peculiar pattern I couldn’t fully discern from the second row. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail and massive RayBans eclipsed his eyes.

  He went to the desk at the front of the room and removed his sunglasses, setting them at the desk’s edge. All the heads in front of us and Tamsin’s swiveled to follow his movements. He perched at the edge of his desk, considering us for a moment before speaking.

  “Timing,” he said. “I want to talk to you today about timing.” His accent was hard to pin down. If pressed, I would liken it to Antonio Banderas in Interview with the Vampire. “It is so essential to our art, yes? We are ruled by seconds in the darkroom. On the streets, we have but an instant to capture the precise story we are trying to tell. We must tell a story in a single frame. Our timing must be impeccable.” He paused and hopped off the desk, pacing briefly before turning to his enraptured class. “What does time mean to all of you?”

 
“Precision,” said Tamsin’s enemy immediately. “There is no value to the story we wish to tell if we can’t capture it precisely and with intention.”

  I stifled a laugh. I had an enemy exactly like her in my freshman Econ class. That eager-to-please, competitive jerk who never shuts up and has an answer for everything, which is really just what they think their professor wants to hear. There’s one everywhere you go.

  “Perhaps,” said Cristo politely. “I think there is more to it than this German-like efficiency of which you speak.” I could see her shoulders fall slightly and felt kind of sorry for her. They were all clearly desperate for his approval, and anything less probably seemed on par with failure.

  Cristo’s eyes fell on Tamsin. He surveyed her with an intense expression of burning curiosity. This guy was super serious for a photography teacher. It was kind of weird. But then, I didn’t go to art school.

  “Tamsin?” he said. “What do you think?”

  I could sense Tamsin weighing her words carefully before she answered. I could tell that she wanted to impress him, but with her honest opinion and not some made-up pretentious gibberish. “I think that we’re all ruled by time,” she said. “And a photograph is a single moment in our lives. Ideally, it’s an important one.”

  Cristo closed his eyes in what appeared to be bliss. He seemed to want to sit with her answer before continuing. “What a wonderful way of putting it,” he said as he opened his eyes.

  I glanced over at Tamsin, who blushed. Her enemy turned her head like an owl’s to shoot her an unspeakably evil look, which Tamsin didn’t even notice. She was clearly on cloud nine.

  “And now that we’ve established the nature of the photograph,” said Cristo. “Let us move on to the ideal composition.”

  After an hour of listening to Cristo, I guess I could kind of see the appeal: if you’re stuck listening to someone talk for an hour straight, that person might as well be good-looking. I just didn’t think he was the transcendent genius Tamsin seemed to think he was.