TWENTY-EIGHT
Some might have considered it a misuse of county equipment, but I didn’t object when Adam offered to have a uniformed officer drop me off downtown, and the officer did not object to fulfilling a childhood fantasy when I asked him to put on the sirens and lights. Cars pulled over and pedestrians stopped to wait for us as we flew down Waters to Wheaton to Randolph, finally arriving on Broughton. The officer stopped beneath the SCAD Theater marquee and turned off the siren and lights. He put the patrol car in park and got out and came around to open my door.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“Sure thing, Miss Taylor,” he replied before shutting the door.
“Can I treat you to something?” I asked, nodding toward the ice cream shop.
“No, thanks, ma’am,” he said, patting his stomach and returning to the car. He pulled out into traffic.
The siren had caused a number of people to gather outside Leopold’s, and I jostled my way through them. A group of children in the shop’s party room still had their faces pressed against the window, trying to spot the cause of all the excitement. Behind them, the party’s hired entertainment, a man wearing the odd combination of a pirate outfit and a white clown’s face looked a little less than happy to get second billing.
“Everything okay, Mercy?” asked Josh, a student at SCAD and part-time scoop jockey, as I came through the door.
The worry melted from his face when I replied, “Emergency ice cream craving.”
“Craving, huh?” he asked as he rolled up a sleeve and exposed a tattoo, one undoubtedly of his own design. I repressed a shudder—his innocent tattoo brought to mind the markings on Ryder’s arm. I acknowledged his underlying question with a smile and nod. “Well, congratulations,” he said, seeming truly happy for me. “Might I recommend our newly created mother-to-be tasting menu?”
The squeals and laughter from the birthday party made me smile. I’d had more than a few of my own celebrations in the side room, and hoped to have many more here with my son. “Oh, yes, that sounds perfect. Newly created?”
“Yep. About seven seconds ago. Grab a seat.” He nodded at a table near the window. “Not doing your tour anymore?” he called out as I took my seat.
“No, I think I’ve told enough lies about this poor old town,” I said and smiled at him.
He had arranged a dozen or so small paper cups on a tray and was digging away in the cooler. “Mind if I take up the mantle, then? It would be a shame for a good idea like that to go to waste.”
“Not at all,” I said, feeling only a twinge of sentimentality. I’d been doing the Liar’s Tour since I was twelve. Giving it up to someone else would mean closing a door on a big chunk of my past. Deep down though, I knew that the door had already closed. “Come by the house sometime, and I will give you the leftover souvenirs.” I had about five hundred Liar’s Club to-go cups, or “walkers,” as we called them around here, stashed in my closet. A few T-shirts too.
“Sweet. Thanks. Here, on the house,” he said as he walked over and placed the tray in front of me with a flourish, then returned to the counter to help another patron. As I ate my ice cream, I was flooded with memories of the days I’d spent leading groups around the squares and coming up with the most audacious lies I could think of. A couple laughed as they walked down Broughton, and the sound pulled me back to the present. I gazed out the window, my eyes settling on the library across the street, an unremarkable building that had once been a department store. Special to Savannah in that there was nothing visually interesting about it. Architectural white noise, wallpaper.
As I scanned the building’s lines, I became aware of a figure leaning up against the gray kiosk that stood before it. He wore a dirty red baseball cap, the bill of which he had pulled down to hide his eyes. His clothes were worn, his jacket torn on the shoulder. By outward appearance, he could have been one of Savannah’s homeless. Even though he didn’t look directly at me, I felt his interest in me, his intention that I should notice him. He lifted his cap and ran his hand through his hair. My heart pounded when I recognized him. It was my mother’s driver, Parsons.
I pushed away from the table and darted out the door. Parsons had already made it halfway down the block, and he raised his hand and waved, signaling me to follow him. I felt like I was walking in a dream. Uneasy memories of his masklike face and out-of-sync voice warned me to turn around. But still I felt compelled, whether by magic or curiosity, to follow this odd man, disguised as a homeless man to avoid notice. Parsons turned at Habersham and laid an envelope on one of the benches in Warren Square. Without pausing or giving me another glance, he pulled his cap tightly over his eyes and headed over to a rusted Impala parked at the far end of the square. The car shot out black puffs of exhaust as it fired into life. I watched Parsons pull away, and ran to the bench to grab the envelope he had left behind.
My name was scrawled on it in unfamiliar cursive. I ripped the envelope open, and a piece of card stock fell to the ground. I picked it up without looking at it, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope and read:
My dear daughter,
If you are reading this, then our time together has been cut short, and my most trusted servant, Parsons, has been obliged to risk his own life to deliver this to you.
I returned to Savannah in the hope that I would find a way to make things right. To make peace with my family. To help you save your sister from the hell to which the line has sentenced her. To reclaim our lives together. To watch your child grow in the way I was denied the joy of watching you and Maisie as you matured into the strong, beautiful women that you are.
I failed to protect your sister, but I have not failed to protect you. The witch families have used your fear to extort most of your rightful powers from you. They have also constrained your direct access to the energy of the line, but I have created another source of power for you, one over which they have no control. I grant you now the only inheritance I can, the full use of the power I have collected through Tillandsia. Use the enclosed invitation to gain entrance to Tillandsia and claim your birthright. Protect yourself. Protect your child. Trust no one.
With more love than words can express,
Your mother
I refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. I felt the card in my hand, letting my finger run over the engraving. “Tillandsia,” I read aloud. The word and a two-color drawing of the black-and-red door were all that had been printed on the front. On the reverse, handwritten in an unfamiliar but elegant script was “Mercy Taylor and Guest,” and beneath our names, the message, “Tonight, sunset. Black tie required.”