Chapter Five.

It was odd, this "walking around thing". This "putting one foot in front of the other". She'd been up and walking around for most of the last fifteen and a half days since Wilson had ended it. But then she'd been at it for years, really, this walking business. Annabelle called on those years of experience as she left Manhattan's main post office and made her way downtown.

Equally amazing was this seemingly infinite ability to make it through the day. Communicate. Order coffee to go. Speak to people - people who were strangers, speak to them without crying? Easy peasy, really. It was the moments in between that were still a challenge. Moments like ... oh ... this one, moments in which she was alone with her thoughts.

Anything could set her off. Songs that formed the soundtrack of their days together were able to bring her to her metaphorical knees, and she'd had to leave Macy's the other day because they started blaring a truly horrible-under-any-circumstances Justin Bieber hit, but see, it had been playing in the taxi they took back to her place the first time they'd made love ...

Time for a lamentation break. A Latin American hot dog vendor caught her eye and put his hand on his heart. Annabelle smiled weakly, and as she passed him, he ran out from behind his cart and pressed a few napkins into her hand.

"He not worth it, mami," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "You gonna be all right."

She thanked him and walked away. Two blocks down the avenue it struck her that maybe he was an angel or something, that maybe if she turned around to look for him, he wouldn't be there, cart and umbrella vanished in the blink of an eye. But, no, she could see, even from this distance, that he was there, and busily making his next customer one with everything.

Annabelle dabbed at her drippy nose with one of his napkins. Well, it was kind of him, anyway. She turned to begin her solitary stroll down to the subway when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the shop window on the corner of Eighth and Thirtieth.

Oooh. A new witchy store.

Annabelle was pretty sure that she knew every single herbalist, tarot card reader, reiki practitioner, chakra adjuster and purveyor of crystals and incense in the five boroughs. This was a new one on her - and it looked as though it had been there for ages, its dusty front window packed to the gills with books, decks of tarot cards, and a crystal ball perched, extremely precariously, on top of the whole shooting match. There was no name on the door, just a symbol, a small spiral painted in gold. Her hand on the doorknob, she felt a moment's hesitation, a cold feeling going up the back of her neck, the kind of shiver she got when she was working a ritual that actually seemed to be ... working. She took her hand off the knob - something, some small voice at the back of her head started to whisper a cautionary phrase - and then the door swung open with an eerily echoing chime, a minor scale than descended rather than ascended, and Annabelle crossed the threshold.

The smell of sage was overpowering. Smoke from several bunches of the dried herb billowed from sconces along the wall. More candles than seemed possible, much less safe, flickered from tabletops, bookcases, and from chandeliers hung from the low ceiling. Crystals sparkled from display cases, alongside silver jewelry and embroidered leather pouches. Books piled upon books, in no particular order, with no regard for subject matter or alphabetization by author. Annabelle was appalled. The ominous little nurgle at the back of Annabelle's neck turned into annoyance as she surveyed that haphazard display. It was the first feeling of determination she'd had in a week, and honestly, how in the world was anybody supposed to find what they came for if they didn't know where anything was - "I know where everything is."

Annabelle dropped the pile of books she'd begun to sort. The voice, rasping yet somehow melodious, sounded like it was coming from overhead.

"But the true question is, do you?"

Annabelle swung around. Now the voice was coming from behind her. The smoke seemed to billow more furiously, and the candles to flicker more madly, and the music that had piped softly over the stereo system seemed to swell as Annabelle peered into the depths of the shadowy shop, trying to locate the voice that had just read her mind.

"Not much mind reading to be done, chicken. I know a control freak when I see one."

The voice took shape and came forward out of the gloom. Raven black hair hung in waves down her back. Eyes the color of burnished jade regarded Annabelle from behind surprisingly trendy spectacles, and her small white face was pointy at the nose and chin. Great swathes of multi-colored scarves covered her from head to toe, but Annabelle could see a regular old pair of Levis showing above the bright red Chuck Taylor sneakers.

"I'm not a control freak," retorted Annabelle, belatedly. "I'm organized."

The apparition snorted with un-apparition-like disdain.

"I'm not! I mean, I am! I mean - " Annabelle almost shrieked. She never shrieked.

"Would you ever calm yourself, pet. Come have a cuppa."

The woman led the way back to a small circular table tucked into the farthest corner. A great glob of melting candle pooled in the center of a worn velvet cloth, and an unusual deck of cards was spread out along the very edges of the surface. Before Whoever-She-Was hastily gathered them up, Annabelle thought that the house pictured on one of cards looked very much like her family home, that one of the little boys looked like her brother when he was in kindergarten, and that there were several of her with an unknown man who looked - wow! - pretty darn hot.

"What are those? Are they tarot cards? Do you do readings? How long have you been here? What were those - "

"Oh, sit down and have a biscuit."

A tin of chocolate cookies was dropped brusquely in front of her, and Annabelle sat down. Somehow, she didn't feel unsafe, exactly - maybe slightly asphyxiated from the endlessly burning sage, but otherwise, well, what the hell?

"Hell's got nothing to do with it," cut in Whoever-She-Was. "That sort of thinking was attached to any practice, even the simplest herbology, back in the middle ages when the old way was forced out by the Christians. No offense to the Christians, mind you. Sure, I'm one myself. I can remember, back in the day - "

Annabelle took her cup, milk and two sugars, just as she liked it, and butted in. It seemed, if impolite, the only way she was going to get heard.

"Who are you? Some kind of psychic? Do you do readings or what?"

The woman huffed. "No patience, not a bit of patience." She threw herself into the chair opposite Annabelle. "Sure, just grab a handful of any old stones, call them runes! Buy a wee book on the Tarot, and suddenly you're an old hand. Stare into a puddle of water and call it scrying, and when you tell yourself what you want to hear, call it divination. Rubbish!

"I am called Maeve and I am one of the Old Ones. I am everywhere and nowhere. I know everything and nothing. I see into, out of, through, and beyond. I am, if you don't mind, The Real Thing, Miss 'I am a Witch' and you'll pay your respects and wait on me!"

Whoops. Annabelle grabbed a cookie. She took a sip of tea. She tried to visualize the distance to the door behind her, wondered if she'd make it if she - "No need to make a break for it," sighed Maeve. "Got a bit dramatic there, did I? Sorry, sorry. It's just I do hate to see the young squandering their gifts. It's time you put yours to better use, you see. It's time for you to meet your destiny."

"But, but, but - " Destiny? "I don't have gifts. I mean, I'm just kind of investigating, like, The Goddess, and, and, maybe doing a spell or two, and, you know, doing a bit of aromatherapy, mixing my own oils - "

"Don't go all squirrelly on me now, girleen. Too late for that. The Pooka won't wait any longer."

Annabelle sat frozen in her chair as the many candles in the shop mysteriously extinguished, leaving only the mess of wax on the tabletop aglow. The background music had changed to the simple beating of a muffled drum, and as impossible as it seemed, the sage continued to burn and burn, and smoke and smoke, until it seemed as if she, Maeve, and the table were floating in midair. Annabelle grabbed onto the edge of the table - it felt as though the room had begun to spin. The drum beat faster, and the smoke billowed around the madly dancing flame of the candle. Annabelle began to feel dizzy, her blood pounding in her ears, the palms of her hands sweaty and slowly slipping from the edge of the table, she felt her chair shift and rock along with Maeve's swirling voice, and when she thought she would surely suffocate, faint, collapse - A hazelnut hit her on the head and bounced into her lap.

The table stopped spinning.

The once dark room was full of light, and empty of smoke.

Everything was back to normal.

"Now." Maeve nodded. "There you are."

"Here I'm where?" Annabelle sputtered. She brandished the hazelnut. "What the hell is this?"

"Language, missus! Although I daresay yer one and ye will get on just fine."

"Look, Maeve - I'm new to this, right? I mean, I do my tarot thing, go for a biannual auric cleansing, phone the Psychic Friends, whatever. I come in here, minding my own business, and get caught up in some ritual or whatever - and what's this about a Pooka? Isn't that like a, a, a poltergeist or something? What's that got to do with me?"

"No patience!" Maeve roared. "It must be this city, each and every one of ye running around like there's no tomorrow - well, there is a tomorrow, and one after that, and one after that, and if you want to know anything, anything that is of, or not of this world, then you must show some patience!"

"Don't yell at me!" yelled Annabelle, clutching the hazelnut.

They glared at each other across the tiny table. Maeve's scowl quickly turned into a knowing, smug grin.

"Well, now, chicken. Haven't even cast your mind toward auld Wilson, have you? Hmmmm?"

Humming to herself, she rose, and cleared away the tea things. Annabelle sat stunned, the tiny hazelnut in her hand growing warm and, she had to say, it felt like the thing was giving her a bit of comfort.

"Take your time, child. Do your research. Look up Pookas in one of yer auld books. Wait. Watch. Learn." Maeve came over, and held Annabelle's face in her two small hands. "Heal."

And then it was over, and Annabelle was out on the sidewalk. Blinking in the sunlight, the sounds of the traffic alien somehow, she began to wander off down the avenue. She rubbed the hazelnut between the palms of her hands and realized, yeah: she hadn't fretted about Wilson, nor about the latest rejection she'd gotten on her book. She felt weird: tired and sad, but not hopeless. She felt pretty good - not freaked out or anything.

Until she turned to take one last look at the shop.

And it wasn't there.

She ran back, rattled the doorknob - and it came off in her hand. She pressed her face against the dusty picture window, and couldn't see past the stacks of boxes and the general gloom. She walked backwards into the middle of the sidewalk, and looked up at the building. The whole thing was derelict, and looked like it hadn't been inhabited in a hundred years.

The hazelnut leaped straight up out of her palm, somersaulted in the air, and fell back into her palm, where it shook itself as if ... as if it were laughing.

She looked at the nut and then at her watch.

"I'm late!" She groaned. "Lorna's going to kill me!"

Chapter Six.

Lorna checked the time, and then slammed her iPhone down on the table. Maria Grazia tore her eyes away from the menu at the sound, and shrugged.

"No show," she said. "Weird."

She went back to her menu as Lorna's lethal manicure drummed a death march on the tabletop.

"Every minute I spend out of the agency requires an hour of overtime to make up for it," Lorna grumbled. "She knows that."

"She's got a lot on her mind, you pain in the ass, the least of which is your work schedule. Give her a break."

Lorna huffed through her nostrils in reply and toyed with her flute of sparkling Italian mineral water. Sunlight poured through the atrium of the painfully hip Upper West side restaurant. Fiero's was as exclusive as it got, and was clogged to its cathedral ceiling with types: established celebrities and their entourages, celebrities on the ascendant with their hyper-alert managers, celebrity wannabes and the publicists who would mold them into fame.

Each table was draped in hand-embroidered, hand-woven linen from the hills of Tuscany, and were placed at cunningly discreet distances: far enough apart to promote privacy, but close enough should an occupant want his or her hottest bit of gossip or latest triumph to be overheard and make its way around the room, and out into the world at large.

Lorna instantly found comfort - not via the delicate touches of greenery strewn about or the gorgeous scents wafting out of the kitchen - but in the feeling one can only get when floating on a cumulative cloud of expensive perfume and when bobbing in a sea of Dolce & Gabbana.

Maria Grazia, meanwhile, found the design to be pleasantly airy but pretentious and devoid of originality. She glumly examined the breadbasket, grudgingly left by a waiter hampered by serious delusions of grandeur. Swathed, as if the product of a royal womb, in a square of rust-colored raw silk, were three of the tiniest rolls she'd ever seen.

"If Belle chose to ditch us, I can't blame her. Look at these!" she demanded, thrusting the basket across the table. "I've seen cold sores bigger than these rolls."

"Do tell, oh celibate one." Lorna reared back from the carbohydrates as though avoiding flaming toxic waste.

"Cold sores, not herpes." A waiter with a haircut more expensive than Maria Grazia's shoes sailed by with an enormous plate that played host to what appeared to be three ravioli and a seared stalk of celery. "Did you see that? I'm going to have to have lunch right after I have lunch. I hate this place."

"We could have eaten at my desk," snapped Lorna, and cutting across Maria Grazia's sarcastic "Woo hoo!" she continued, "But I'm treating, so I get to choose."

She raised one perfectly polished index finger ever so slightly, and as if on wheels, their supercilious server glided toward them.

"Paolo, I'll have my usual, thanks." Lorna handed him her menu, a roll of hand-illuminated parchment, and scanned the room once more. Nobody was here today.

"For appetizers, I'll have the radicchio and asparagus confit, the mozzarella tomato salad, and the panzanella, and for an entree I'll have the bistecca and eggplant roulade with a side order of minestrone soup. Can you tell me if that entree actually comes with any steak?"

The waiter was looking so far down his nose at Maria Grazia that his eyes were practically shut. Then Maria Grazia smiled, and all was forgiven; Paolo stumbled toward the kitchen and actively contemplated how he could work harder to make Table Sixteen happy.

Lorna laughed. "Don't you get tired of that?"

"Of?" Maria Grazia quirked a brow.

"The Smile, and the effects thereof."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she sighed theatrically, as she shook out her napkin - or tried to. It was especially large. "Listen, it's just as well that Belle's not here. She's in pieces and this is no place for human emotion. Her sorrow would have clashed horribly with the frescos."

"I wanted her to feel surrounded by luxury. The good life," Lorna insisted. "But I will agree that it's not precisely her style."

Maria Grazia buttered the tiny pieces of bread as best she could, and waved the now-empty silver basket at the pining Paolo. "She is the true starving artist of the three of us. In theory, anyway. Ideals, idealism, and all that."

"I wish she'd get her work on track," Lorna exploded. "We both know that she is an extremely accomplished writer. Why does she insist on focusing these dry-as-dust historical novels? We both know that her talents run more to documentary than narrative, so to speak. How does she stand it? No career, now no boyfriend - good riddance, but she does like having boyfriends - and on top of it she lives in Brooklyn. My God!"

"We love her anyway, despite the geographical flaw."

"What are you implying? I adore her!" Lorna delicately placed a hand on her heart; several rivals seated nearby wondered if indeed anything beat there. "And I can't stand watching the friend whom I adore just spin her wheels!"

Paolo arrived laden with plates, all for Maria Grazia, and another serving of bread. He waited vainly for another flash of The Smile but Maria Grazia never grinned with her mouth full.

Lorna went charging on. "And what about all this new age-y witchy business? I'd never been to her apartment, I'd had no idea that there were candles everywhere, and all those straggly pots of herbs on her windowsills, and that truly bizarre lunar calendar - "

"It's more a spiritual pursuit than anything else, and, dear Lorna, it's not really any of our business. No one scolds you about the way you carry on."

Lorna sat up so straight that it appeared as if someone had tugged her up by the tops of her ears.

"I do not 'carry on'."

"You work like a drayhorse - "

"Excuse me, a what?"

" - and you sleep around like a Chelsea boy - "

"A dray horse?"

" - and smoke too much, but it's nobody's business but your own, even though there are those who might think that you're squandering your life."

"A horse? Do I look fat in this?"

"My point; I did not come here to dish Belle."

Lorna's furious riposte was dampened by the reappearance of Paolo, this time with Lorna's organic salate di spinaccio in lemon juice, and Maria Grazia's steak. She looked at her plate, and couldn't claim to be surprised by its lack of bulk. "This must have been raised on the Upper East Side." Nevertheless, she dug in.

Lorna stabbed her fork around her plate; she had a vague sensation, the kind she hadn't allowed herself to experience since she was a teenager, that quite possibly could have been her feelings feeling hurt. How dull, she thought, and strove to keep the rhythm alive.