I almost wept with joy when the dinner chime rang just then. I scrambled to my feet, tossed my buckwheat pillow on the pile in the corner, and headed out after Rachel.

Not so fast, Gra.s.shopper.

"Nas? A minute?"

I turned with extreme reluctance to face Anne. The others filed out-lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds-leaving us alone in the small workroom.

Anne looked like she was thinking of how to say something. Finally she asked, "Is everything okay? You seemed really upset for a second."

"Oh, I'm okay," I said unconvincingly.

Anne waited for a couple moments to see if I would break down and tell the truth, but when I didn't, she went on. "I remembered you'd heard people's thoughts, in an earlier meditation cla.s.s. I guess-I wasn't sure if you could always do it or whether that was a fluke. But-it's actually not okay to eavesdrop."

"Is there a way to stop it?" I asked.

Anne blinked in surprise. "Yes. You don't listen in on purpose?"

"No. I just... sort of feel my mind opening." I remembered the cutting things my inner Nasty had thrown at me. "Sometimes too much."

"Okay, that will be our next lesson," said Anne. "I've never had to teach someone how to not do that-almost no one can. But it makes sense for you-I should have thought of it earlier. I'll teach you how, okay?"

"Sure." I started to walk out, but she wasn't done.

"Nastasya-you really did seem frightened at the end. When you looked at Amy. What was it?"

I glanced at Anne quickly, remembering that Amy was her sister. "Nothing! I mean, Amy's fine. It was just-my mind playing tricks on me. For just a second she looked like someone else-the friend I left in London. Incy."

Anne frowned. "Had you been thinking about Incy?"

"Not just then. But it's nothing about Amy. She doesn't remind me of him or anything."

"Hmm," Anne said, walking with me out the door.

I shrugged my shoulders, self-conscious and not wanting to talk about it. Had my mind been telling me that I was hopelessly dark? As dark as Innocencio? As dark as my parents had been? Was it in my blood, inescapably? And... would there be any point to me being here, if that was true?

CHAPTER 11.

Be active, my subconscious had said. Make it right. Grow up.

If I had my way, my subconscious would never get another gig as long as I lived. Wait. c.r.a.p. Never mind.

I had no idea what it had meant. I pondered it all the way through Charles's fabulous Chinese dinner, then through a shower, then for about two seconds after I fell into bed, exhausted. When I jolted awake at 5:29, one minute before my alarm went off, I knew that forming any kind of make-it-right plan was a not-happening thing.

I was on egg-gathering duty that morning, appropriately enough, given the chickens.h.i.t reference. The devil chicken gave me the evil eye, and I didn't even try to get her eggs. Someday I would come in here with asbestos fireplace gloves up to my elbows, and there would be a reckoning. But not today.

I put the last warm egg in my basket, imagining my brain overheating from thinking too hard, smoke coming out of my ears. Make it right. Try one little thing at a time. Maybe. Okay, how about... I would try to... um, not judge people too harshly? At least not right away, I amended in a nod to reality. I groaned at coming up with the lamest thing ever and left the warm, feathery coop to head back to the house. About forty feet ahead of me was Reyn, carrying two metal pails of milk from our two milk cows, Beulah and Petunia. He looked tall and strong, carrying the pails as if they were empty. I forced myself to see him as: Man Carrying Milk Pails. He was not only the person I remembered from long ago, and he was not only the superficial, physical object of my fevered fantasies. He was a whole, real person-and, actually, I barely knew him.

We ended up at the kitchen steps together, and he looked over at me.

"Good morning," I said. Big-girl Nastasya.

"Morning." I felt his surprise. Then we went into the kitchen.

So, if you try to make things right with someone, and they dis you, it's so humiliating. Which is why I had never, ever tried. I'd written off any number of friends, had left any number of towns, rather than try to mend a hurt or a misunderstanding or a wrong. I had no idea how to make things right with anyone, much less... Old Mac, for example.

I had no idea what to do, but my rookie instinct told me that I probably had to be in proximity to Old Mac to even try.

So I drove myself to work. The drugstore was unlocked, and my time card was where I had thrown it on the checkout counter. For a second I wondered if Mr. MacIntyre hadn't even locked up the night before, but then I saw him behind his pharmacy counter, and he was wearing different clothes. He looked up when the bell over the door jangled and seemed both surprised and angry to see me. I just went to the back, punched in my time card, and started sweeping.

He came out to stare at me, hands on hips, but I kept sweeping. Sweeping seemed like a very active thing. I swept my pile all the way to the front door and out onto the sidewalk. Then I turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN and got out the feather duster. After a while he went back behind the counter, though I felt him watching me, off and on, most of the morning. Meriwether was in school, and he didn't have anyone else. I did my usual tasks: straightening shelves, marking off what stock needed replacing on the inventory list.

Toward noon the bell jangled and I looked up to see a couple I didn't recognize, a man and a woman, dressed as if they did not live in West Lowing. Boston, maybe. New York. Paris. Most of our customers were locals, and I recognized literally about 98 percent of them. These were strangers.

"Hey," I said from my position on the floor. "Can I help you find something?"

The woman looked at me, and for some reason, right then, I shivered. Her hair was corn straw yellow and cut in a feathery cap all around her head. Her eyes were a very light blue. The man looked from-India Indian, smooth-skinned and polished, well dressed, with blunt, handsome features and a mouth that looked... cruel.

I stood up. They were probably tourists, had gotten lost, just as I had once. But something about them felt-not right. Hinky. My skin crawled and I suddenly felt chilly. It was dumb-I didn't know them; they didn't know me; it was nothing. But still.

"Allergy medicine," said the woman. She had a slight British accent.

"First aisle, in the middle," I said, not smiling.

"Thank you."

I kept my distance as they stood in the cold-and-allergy aisle and read labels. They talked to each other in low murmurs, and I felt like-like they weren't even reading the labels. Like they were killing time by being here. Almost as if they were waiting for someone. Could they... be friends of Incy's? Surely I would have seen them before?

My fists clenched at my sides. I stayed standing, as if I might suddenly have to run. It was weird, and probably stupid, but I felt like a gazelle being eyed by two cheetahs. My breaths were shallow; my heart was beating fast. I sidled toward the back and saw Old Mac engrossed in deciphering a doctor's handwriting.

I edged around the end of the aisle, as if I was casually walking toward the front of the store, and when I quickly glanced up, they were watching me. My heart started pounding.

"There are so many different kinds," said the woman, holding up a box of Benadryl.

"Yes," I said, not going any closer. "Some make you sleepy; some don't. Some work more quickly, but some you have to take every day for them to work well. It depends on what you want it for." I realized I was jabbering on because I was nervous.

The woman nodded. She and the man met eyes again and murmured. I have really good hearing, like, beagle-good hearing, and I couldn't make out a single word they said. Was it a different language? I didn't even recognize the basic patterns and cadences of speech, and I know bits of a lot of languages.

"We want the kind that makes you sleepy," said the woman, and I wondered hysterically if they wanted to dope a victim. With... Benadryl. Unlikely, right?

"Benadryl would do it," I said, my voice cracking. I coughed and headed toward the front counter. My hands were shaking and clammy. I'd never had such a visceral reaction to a person-not to anyone. It was freaking me out. I couldn't even tell if they were immortal or not.

The woman put the box on the counter. Usually you have to look in someone's eyes, or maybe touch them, to "feel" if they were immortal or not. But everything in me refused to look her in the eyes. I was seriously wigging.

I rang up the medicine, the woman paid in cash, I made change, and they left.

I saw them get in their car and drive away, but stood there and watched the front door obsessively, as if they might suddenly reappear. After a few minutes I hurried to the back, pulled that door tightly shut, and locked it. Finally I felt myself relax a little, as if my body no longer sensed a threat.

That had been really freaking weird. I hadn't gotten any magickal vibes from them, no spark of recognition. But they had just been the scariest people imaginable. I shook my head at how nonsensical it was and then found myself something to do.

The day went on. I was already feeling kind of beaten down and weary when Dray came in. Another chance to be active, make things right! Oh boy!

"Hey," I said. Could I do my one thing with Dray? To not judge her?

She nodded and started cruising the aisles. If she was here to steal something, I was going to be seriously p.i.s.sed. Which was, you know, judgmental. I hovered around her, my arms crossed over my chest. She spared me withering glances every so often.

"So what's going on?" I finally said in a burst of activeness.

She looked at me, then continued to read the instructions on a box of Band-Aids.

"Are you okay?"

Her eyes narrowed a bit at that. "What do you care?" she muttered unhelpfully.

"I care if you're okay."

She shrugged.

I waited. In general, I have about a minute and a half of patience, maybe three minutes if I pace myself. I was running out. I gritted my teeth.

"My boyfriend broke up with me," she said finally, not looking at me. "The day before Christmas. I'd already gotten him a present and everything."

"Oh no. That sucks. Why did he do that?"

"I wouldn't help him take the 7-Eleven over in Melchett."

Melchett was the next town over. Take? Like, rob?

"Um, and he got mad?" I ventured.

"Yeah. So he broke up with me. Now he's going around town talking trash about me, telling stories. That aren't even true. Everyone's looking at me funny."

I waited for her to tell me that he then did a drive-by shooting and popped a cap in her grandmother, but the story seemed to be over.

"And you're really upset?"

That earned me a full-on glare. "Yeah, I'm really upset! The whole town hates my family, and now all my friends hate me!"

"So get out of here!" I said once again. "What do you care what your loser boyfriend says? To h.e.l.l with him! He's trash! Ditch this place and all the a.s.sholes that make it tough for you here! Go someplace else; start over. They're n.o.bodies!"

My stomach fell when Dray's eyes filled with tears. She threw the box of Band-Aids down. "You say it like it's so easy!" she shouted at me. "Like you know anything! But it's not! It's hard! I don't have any money, I don't have a car-" Her jaw clenched as if she couldn't bear to say more. So she spit on the linoleum tile by my foot and slammed out, making the door bell jingle violently. Then she stuck her head back in and yelled, "Screw you!"

I was getting to be an old hand at this "making things right."

I rubbed my fist over my forehead, feeling a splitting headache burst into full flower. Then I looked up and saw Mr. MacIntyre standing at the end of the aisle. I braced myself to get yelled at again.

Instead he shook his head, seeming as tired and dragged down as I felt. "Just go home," he said. "And don't come back."

That hurt so much more than him shouting. I was crying by the time I got to my car.

See? That's what happens when you take a chance. I could have stayed home-I'd been fired-but nooo, I had to go be all active. I should have stayed home. Now both Dray and Old Mac had fired me out of their lives-twice. This time I was going to stay fired. Subconscious? Bite me.

Of course at home I was put to work, since I had no job to go to. I was grumpy and out of sorts and didn't feel like being around anyone. I hated to admit it, but my feelings were hurt. I don't make an effort for many people or many situations. I had made an effort for Mr. MacIntyre and Dray. And they couldn't care less. So to h.e.l.l with them.

The next day I was in a spellcrafting lesson, just me and Jess, being taught by Solis. I took some notes: Major Cla.s.ses of Spells: 1) Divination 2) To effect change on a person or thing 3) To effect change on an event 4) Celebration and fellowship What? I have nice handwriting. I might not have graduated from high school, but that doesn't mean I write like a peasant I'm not educated.

We were in the main workroom on the first floor, practicing a healing spell. It would encourage the body to strengthen its response to infection, like from a wound or, say, if Amy stepped on a rake. Solis had led us through the limitations, which were for the specific person, the length of time, and the general nature of the response.

Jess crafted his spell slowly but carefully. It was interesting to watch someone else make magick without having to partic.i.p.ate. When it was over and he had dismantled the spell, I asked, "Do you feel any different?"

Jess thought for a second, rubbing his hand over his grizzled gray stubble. For someone as young as he was, he looked about a thousand. Could hard living have aged him so much? I didn't know.

Then it was my turn. I'd just seen Jess do it, so I was a total whiz. First I drew the sigils of limitation in the air: I specified myself and no one else as the recipient, the response to be mild, and the effect to be open-ended, beginning now and lasting until I ritually broke the spell at a future date. The limitation of response specified that it was to bolster only my germ-fighting response-not to change anything else, like give me great eyesight or other senses. When all the limitations were in place-I glanced at Solis quickly to see if his expression clued me in to any problems-I started to call on my magick. Holding my moonstone in one hand (Jess had used his topaz), I began my song, softly at first, then more confidently.

I could almost feel the spell as an actual structure, as if I were building something with physical form. Mentally I went through the steps: It felt whole and complete and even elegant, like a painting with every dab of paint in the right place. I was pleased: evidence that I was actually learning stuff.

I was deep in concentration. My eyes were closed and I felt focused and content. I felt the magick all around me, as if it were the heavy scent of lilies. No sound disturbed me; I wasn't aware of anything except myself and the feeling of magick shimmering through me. Had my mother worked magick like this? I remembered her chanting over our garden, singing softly as one of our horses foaled. I was connected to her in this way. I was congratulating myself on a job well done-the only thing that had gone right-when suddenly it went not right.

Solis cried out, my eyes popped open, and something hit the back of my head, hard. My head snapped forward and I shrieked something bleep-worthy.

"What did you do?" Solis yelled, diving behind a chair.

The air was full of... flying books. Not cute books with little wings, zipping around like the Golden Snitch, but, like, demonic, possessed books hurling themselves at everything, out for blood.

"Nothing!" I shrieked, ducking from one, then another. A third one whapped me in the shoulder, like a brick. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit!"

Over and over I heard heavy thuds as books-some thick and oversize-hit things. One slammed Jess in the side, and he swore loudly and scrambled over to hide behind the desk. I had no time to dismantle my spell-just covered my head with one arm as I scuttled over behind the desk next to Jess.

More books sailed past me, knocking objects off every surface. Crystal globes shattered on the floor, a gla.s.s inkpot spewed deep purple ink across the antique rug; empty teacups, bits of parchment, chunks of minerals, lumps of copper and gold... all went flying in the crazy storm I had somehow created. A tiny pot of powdered copper flew open and scattered shiny glitter across the pool of ink. Other books flew violently at the window, breaking it with a huge crash. Still others landed in the fireplace, where they caught fire.

"Undo it!" Solis shouted.

"I don't know how!" I wailed, cowering under the desk. Books slid off its top and tumbled onto Jess, who swore again. "I don't know what happened! You're the expert! You fix it!"

Solis was already spitting words out, his deft fingers drawing sigils and runes and other magickal symbols in the air. It seemed to take for-freaking-ever, but suddenly every book dropped heavily to the ground right where it was, all at once. The books made a tremendous noise, but in the deafening silence afterward we heard footsteps running down the hall toward the workroom.

Solis jumped up and ran to the fire, s.n.a.t.c.hing books away from the flames and rolling them in the hearth rug.

"What the h.e.l.l did you do?" Jess roared, ten inches from my face.

"Nothing!" I screamed back. "You saw me do the spell!"

The door burst open. Asher and Brynne stood there, eyes wide. They looked around the room: the shelves almost empty, books strewn everywhere, the window broken. Everything on a surface had been knocked over or pushed off; small pots and bottles of oils and essences were smashed on the floor. Solis was on his knees looking at the burned books to a.s.sess their damage.