Acts of Violet(100)
“Don’t you want to—”
“Nope,” she cuts in. “It’s more exciting if you tell us after. Dad and I trust you.” She busies herself with clearing the table.
Across the way, Gabriel offers me an encouraging wink and pushes his chair back. “We expect a full itinerary by the time I’m done with the dishes.”
I pull up a browser, type in a few search terms, and sift through the results to a backdrop of a domestic symphony: running water, clattering silverware, the refrigerator being open and shut. By the time the final crumbs are wiped from the table and my husband and daughter resume their seats, I’ve just finished entering the credit card info.
My finger hovers over the button that will confirm the trip.
“Do it,” Quinn insists.
I hit enter and let out a breath like I just detonated a bomb. “It’s done. We’re going on a tour of Agatha Christie’s England, beginning with a stay at the Old Swan Hotel in Harrogate, North Yorkshire.”
“Nice!” they exclaim in unison.
“Hang on, though, I still need to get us flights.” As I enter the relevant dates and airports, I feel more and more certain this is where we need to go. There’s something thrilling about acting on impulse and intuition; no wonder my sister—
My mouth falls open. There are several options that’ll get us to Leeds, but only one real choice.
Flight 222.
Oh synchronicity, you rascal, you.
May 17, 2018
It’s an evening flight, and people around us are already yawning as we file into our row. Quinn has claimed the aisle seat and Gabriel offers me the window, but I decline; I’d rather sit in between my husband and daughter. I’ve flown before, but never outside the country, and the thought of crossing an ocean makes me uneasy.
As we settle into our seats, Gabriel cocks his head. “Is that new?”
I fiddle with the loosely knotted scarf he’s pointing to, not used to the feel of silk against my bare skin, unsure of whether I’m wearing it correctly. “Kind of. It’s part of the unworn Violet gift collection.”
“I like it.”
“Me, too.” It’s one of the more subdued scarves she gave me, with a black-and-gray houndstooth pattern, and it goes well with my standard white button-down and jeans (hey, I can’t try all the new things all at once).
During takeoff, my stomach lurches, and it feels like we’re moving in slow motion. If only. Ever since Quinn informed us of her postgraduation plans, life has seemingly gone from a normal pace to warp speed, each day faster than the next. All of a sudden, it’s like I’m in a movie montage and every time I blink it’s a new scene. Family breakfast. Blink. Quinn’s graduation. Blink. England vacation. Before I know it, Quinn will be off to Costa Rica, then briefly home before she’s off again to parts unknown. Despite making peace with some of my Violet troubles and having no further sleep disturbances, it looks like I’ll still have plenty to discuss with Renatta for the foreseeable future.
Gabriel and Sally have promised to keep me so busy and amused, I won’t have time to miss Quinn. We’ve been talking about joining forces and developing our own line of hair care products, but haven’t gotten past arguing over whether they should be branded with the Volk name.
Not all of Quinn’s plans have involved being hundreds or thousands of miles away from us. She’s also been scouting local commercial properties that would be suitable for a museum, though she’s decided it won’t be dedicated solely to Violet.
“I think I’m gonna call it the Women of Magic Museum,” she informed us the other day. “After Ace told me about Adelaide Herrmann, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. So I did more research and came across all these other stories of women who’ve been overlooked by the magic community. I want to celebrate them along with Aunt Violet.”
Being the supportive parents that we are, Gabriel and I have expressed our deep enthusiasm for the museum, particularly if it’ll be located in the Willow Glen area and require Quinn to spend a lot of time on-site (naturally, she sees right through us).
As for Violet Mania, thankfully, it’s died down. #violetisback activity has dwindled, and while Strange Exits remains a popular podcast, fans are grumbling about the decline in episode quality and surplus of advertisements since the episode with Quinn and me aired.
An hour into the flight, half the plane is asleep as I get up to use the restroom. It’s tiny, and being in such a tight enclosed space is unexpectedly nerve-racking. I use one of the Portal Approach breathing techniques I learned to steady myself.
A minute later, the plane dips and shakes. Before I can find something to hold on to, I’m catapulted against the door, headfirst. The FASTEN SEAT BELT light dings on, and I try to pull the door open, but it won’t budge. The turbulence worsens and there’s a roaring in my ears as I slide to the floor. My entire body vibrates, and the edges of my vision are going dark, dark, and darker, until I’m out.
* * *
“Now do you believe it?” The question comes from behind me, the husk she inflected in her voice still present, an aural tattoo from a time when she wanted to mask her girlishness and be taken seriously.
Slowly, I turn my head, prolonging the disambiguation. It could be somebody else. It could be a hologram, a mist, or nothing at all. The peripheral glimpse is promising enough that my feet follow through and face the source of the voice.