Anathema (Causal Enchantment #1)(5)

“Of course, if you want to continue working at Newt’s, you’re welcome to,” Sofie added as if reading my mind.

The offer was turning richer with every second that I dithered. I didn’t know what to do. I wished I could ask my mother for advice. “Wow. You’re hard to refuse,” I began, smiling nervously.

“What’s there to refuse?” Sofie reached out, a cordless phone in her hand. “Tell you what: if your parents are okay with it, then you know it’s a good idea, right?”

I hesitated for a few seconds but eventually accepted the phone and dialed home.

My foster mom picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Uh, hi, Shelley?”

“Yes, Evangeline. What would you like?” she asked in her typical polite but detached tone. She was never unkind, nor was she overly friendly. She was just there. All of my foster families had been the same. I was used to it. Sometimes I wondered if they were government–designed robots disguised as foster parents—programmed to conform to the law but incapable of exhibiting emotion.

“Um, well, I got a job yesterday, down at a café in the Art District,” I began. This was the most I had spoken to her in days.

“That’s nice.” Silence.

“And my new boss just asked me to go to New York to help her with some business. Would that be okay with you?” I held my breath.

“You turn eighteen tomorrow. You can legally do what you want.”

I was amazed that she’d remembered my birthday. Clearly she had no plans to celebrate it. Not a shocker. I normally went full–fledged hermit on my birthday anyway, burrowing under a blanket with a bag of popcorn and a mittful of Disney classics. “Okay, well, I may go then. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, though.”

“Have fun.” I heard the phone click before I could say another word.

“Well?” Sofie asked.

I stared at the dead receiver in my hand. How representative of my life. In the five years since my mother’s death, my existence had become like a one–way conversation with the world—a solitary life spent drifting through homes and schools, all but invisible to those around me.

Until now. Sofie had noticed me.

“I think I’d like to come to New York with you, if that’s alright.” Am I really doing this?

“Wonderful!” Sofie said, revealing a rare spike of excitement.

“Yes, great.” I smiled nervously, half expecting men in white coats to storm through the door. “So, when are we leaving?”

Sofie reached under the counter, retrieving a purse and coat. She walked toward the door, her stilettos clicking sharply against the wood floor. “Now,” she called to me, flicking off the light switch. I stared, waiting for her to elaborate. “Don’t doddle!” she added, suddenly urgent.

I joined her at the front door and we stepped out just as a black sedan pulled up to the curb. “You’re kidding,” I exclaimed, my nerves stirring my bladder.

“Hop in!” she instructed, opening the door for me.

“But … I should pack some things …”

She waved away my concerns. “Don’t worry about any of that.”

I stood there, baffled. Don’t worry about clean underwear and a toothbrush?

A sharp edge in Sofie’s voice brooked no argument. “Get in the car, Evangeline! The plane is waiting.”

2. The Gift

My hands fidgeted in my lap as I surveyed the bright and airy cabin of Sofie’s friend’s private jet for the umpteenth time. We were about two–thirds of the way to New York and I was on my third glass of red wine. I had politely declined when the flight attendant first offered, admitting I was underage. But Sofie rolled her eyes dramatically and ordered the woman to disregard my silliness and keep my glass half full at all times.

I had protested then. Now, feeling the alcohol–induced relaxation seeping through my body, I silently thanked them for ignoring me. Easing back into my chair, I pressed a button on the side of my armrest and watched with fascination as a footstool magically rose from the floor.

“Finally … you’d think we were escorting you to an enema,” Sofie muttered, glancing up from her magazine.

“Sorry.” I offered a sheepish smile. “I’m a little nervous of flying.” I was lying, of course. Flying didn’t bother me—that part was exciting. The fact that twenty–four hours ago this woman was a complete stranger and now I was flying to New York with her—without so much as an extra pair of underwear and for God knows how long—had me frazzled.

Sofie, on the other hand, was totally relaxed, stretched out in one of the ivory leather lounge chairs across from me, her long, slender legs crossed at the ankles; she could easily be posing for the cover of a Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous magazine.

“So this friend of yours who owns this plane … what does he do?” I asked.

“Oh, Viggo has his hands in everyone’s pocket,” Sofie answered cryptically, setting down her magazine to root through her purse. “Here. “ She handed me a long, narrow wooden box. “As a thank you for coming. Also, I noticed on your application that your birthday is tomorrow, so … happy birthday.”

I gaped at her, speechless.

“It’s nothing extravagant,” she added.