Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(77)

“So no leads, is what you’re saying.”

“No leads, and I already talked to the police. They’ve got nothing, either. There’s nothing you can try?”

Velma tugged the cuffs of her cream-colored gloves, tightening the fit. “I don’t know a spell that can track them and return logical information concerning their whereabouts. I can, however, light a fuse from this point that will burn until it finds them.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can work a curse on them. Punish them. But before you agree, hear me out. This is nothing to play around with. A curse deals out the same amount of punishment as the wrong they did. Eye for an eye. And once I set it in motion, there’s no stopping it. I might end up killing these two men, and frankly, that’s not something I want on my conscience.”

“Well, my conscience is happy to take responsibility.”

“Not that simple,” the conjurer said, squinting up at him with sharp eyes. “Curses have a way of causing new rifts. If this is connected to the secret tong you’re talking about, and they have a powerful sorcerer on their side, it might make some waves. You might be setting something in motion that won’t stop until someone else gets hurt—or killed. So if I do this, either you or Aida have to bear the blood-debt. Anything I send out will come back to one of you, not me. Do you understand?”

He didn’t, exactly. But if cursing them sparked a war, then at least all this bullshit would be out in the open. He was tired of shadowboxing. “I take full responsibility—not Aida. She’s a bystander. All the blame should fall on my shoulders.”

Velma nodded. “So be it. I’ll need to collect some ashes.”

• • •

Between shuffling in and out of clothes for the better part of the day, Aida unabashedly gobbled down a mid-afternoon breakfast of toast triangles piled with soft, buttery scrambled eggs, dill, and smoked salmon—Magnusson fish, Astrid proudly clarified. Fresh orange juice and strong coffee washed it all down.

And when all her new belongings had been sorted into piles—keep, return, alter—she settled on a raisin-colored casual dress to wear. Astrid took her on a tour of the house, traipsing through dozens of rooms brimming with objets d’art collected from exotic places—including a sitting area dubbed the Sheik Room, outfitted to look like something out of Arabian Nights.

She met Winter’s mostly Swedish staff: a cook; three maids; a woman whose entire job was handling the laundry,who she later found out was Benita’s mother; a handyman; the driver she’d seen before, Jonte; and keeping watch over all of them was Greta. They eyed Aida with great curiosity. Some spoke little English, and Aida listened in amazement as Astrid vacillated between English and Swedish with ease.

Under Greta’s supervision, Astrid also showed Aida how to operate the elevator and the intercom system installed on each floor. Led her through the kitchen, formal dining room, and downstairs library. Walked her out to see Winter’s cars, where Greta asked her to write down her work schedule for Jonte, who assured her he’d be ready to chauffeur her back and forth from Gris-Gris.

Astrid talked a mile a minute to Greta as the three of them stood in the driveway next to a cream two-seater Packard coupe with its convertible canvas top down. A beautiful car. Far more feminine than Winter’s hell-colored Pierce-Arrow. Aida gazed at her reflection in one of the car’s side mirrors and tuned out Astrid’s chattering.

Aida was bone-weary. Her foot ached. She wanted comfort. Wanted Winter. It was strange to be peeking behind the scenes of his home without him there. Over the past couple of weeks she’d gotten too used to him . . . the way he smelled, the way he laughed. How the mattress sank when he crawled into bed. How he sounded when he came inside her.

Their routine at the Fairmont had been nothing short of bliss, and now it was over. Now she was back to her normal life, where every day was different and nothing could be counted on. Because now that she’d had the entire day to mourn the loss of her possessions—and the locket, in particular—she reasoned that maybe she’d been so devastated to lose them because before Winter came along, they had been her routine. Things. They’d been the only constant in her life. City to city, job to job, stranger to stranger, she could always count on the comfort that her dependable pink Westclox and Sam’s old photograph provided.

The locket had grounded her. But now it was gone, and there was nothing she could do to bring it back. She had to hold her shoulders high and keep going. Besides, Sam would’ve hated that he’d become her crutch, after he’d spent years encouraging her to live fearlessly.

She was good at being fearless. Damn good. That was something. And she wasn’t destitute like she’d been when Emmett Lane had shoved her into the orphanage. Her possessions had been replaced. She was surrounded by nice things and nice people. Lots to be thankful about.

If she only had Winter by her side, she might even be more than thankful—she might be happy. After all she’d been through over the last twenty-four hours, imagine that. If Winter could make her happy on a dismal day like this, how could he make her feel on a good day?

“Do you require anything else?” Greta asked, breaking into Aida’s thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“Anything else?”

After everything they’d already done for her? Aida couldn’t possibly have any other needs. If anything, she should be asking what she could do for them. Then inspiration came to her. A whim. “I would like someone to hang a mirror over Winter’s bathroom sink.”