She shook her head, her eyes wide in disbelief as she watched them fly. “What are you doing?”
He smiled. “You never really believed in magic, did you? You were mostly just trying to antagonize your parents.”
The moths settled on her black shirt, transforming into tiny, colored gems. She gaped at them before lifting her eyes to stare at Jack again. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
He flashed his most charming smile, beginning to understand that there was another way to this girl’s heart. The usual way. He tilted down his head, gazing at her from beneath his lashes. This was his James Dean look—sultry but troubled. “I sense that you’re looking for something more from life. Sure, you’re beautiful and smart, but it’s not enough, is it? There’s that ever-present emptiness.” He gently touched the center of her chest with a finger as she stared into his eyes. “The void that can’t be filled.” He ran the finger along her neckline, nodding toward the street. “You’re not like those idiots out there. You need meaning. And I can help you find it.”
“You want me to help you with magic?”
“Not parlor tricks like the one I just showed you.” He pressed closer, their breath mingling. “You have a spark of genius, and you should’t let it die. I need your help with writing a computer program. In exchange, I will teach you some real spells.” He glanced around the room. “You must know by now that none of this really works, right?”
She exhaled, long and slow. “What’s the program for?”
He curled a strand of her hair around a finger. “To crack the Voynich manuscript. You see, Alexandria, it holds the key to rewriting all of creation.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fiona
At the head of the long table, below the scarlet-clad image of Great-Great-Grandmother Edgar, Dr. Mellior’s tall, lanky frame dwarfed Mrs. Ranulf. The esteemed psychiatrist’s florid cheeks shined like waxed fruit, and droplets of carrot soup hung suspended in his black beard. He looked around the room through a pair of wire-framed glasses. His hunched, angular posture reminded Fiona of a praying mantis.
Their first group therapy session was set to take place over a dinner of brown rice and green beans. On the other side of the table, Alan and Mariana whispered conspiratorially between sips of kale smoothie. Mariana was probably filling him in on the plan to investigate the crypt tonight. We’ll find out exactly what—or who—Mrs. Ranulf has locked up in there.
From Alan’s side, Sadie was trying desperately to eavesdrop on their conversation, while red-eyed Jonah wolfed down his food without speaking to anyone. How is he managing to get stoned here?
Munroe’s younger brother Harrison crawled under the table, giggling as he touched people’s legs. But Fiona’s attention was focused on Tobias, who sat to her right. She was determined to speak to him in private. After flying back to her bedroom last night, she’d sat up in bed, staring out the window. Mrs. Ranulf had never strode back through the gardens—but Tobias had. He had slipped along the path from the magnolia grove, smoothly and quietly.
Fiona still didn’t know what he’d been up to. After a long day of classes and supervised badminton in the back gardens, she hadn’t had a chance to speak to him alone. And now, Munroe monopolized his attention from the other side of the table as she prattled on about dressage horses.
Dr. Mellior fiddled with a wedding ring. “Well, now that we have nourished our bodies a bit, why don’t we begin the healing process?”
Fiona couldn’t stop staring at the globules of soup stuck in his beard. Does he have anything to do with the person locked in the crypt?
He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, missing the bright orange drops. “You may note that I take an unorthodox and informal approach to group therapy. However, my research into family systems therapy indicates that mealtimes are an ideal environment, strengthening one’s ability to heal after a trauma with a wholesome setting. It’s important to have the support of family. And here at Winderbellow, we are a family.”
“I like that we’re safe here.” Connor spoke a little too loudly from the other end of the table.
Mrs. Ranulf shot him an irritated glare.
“Well, let’s begin the healing process.” Dr. Mellior stared at Mariana. “Mariana. Why don’t you tell us about your experiences that day, when the Harvesters came?”
What is she supposed to tell them? That she’d spent the day helping to resurrect a Wampanoag king?
“I remember the building being on fire. Everything was hot.”
“Hot.” Dr. Mellior’s glasses had slid down his bony nose, and he peered at Mariana over the rims. “Go on.”