All Our Hidden Gifts by Caroline O’donoghue (books for 10th graders .TXT) 📗

Housekeeper ripped open in the world, and I am the one who gave her the knife. I squeeze my eyes shut and see my sister’s bleeding eye, the lens of crimson flowering out of her irises. Sister Assumpta’s glowing, moon-like cataract. Harriet Evans and her winged eyeliner.

I have to fix it.

I have to fix it.

I have to fix it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

WE HAVE A HALF-DAY ON THURSDAY AND FIONA SENDS ME with a shopping list to Divination. She’s still in play rehearsals, so her free time is at a premium right now. It’s hard not to accuse Fiona of treating this spell as another new hobby she has to master, yet another string on her ever-growing bow, but I’m trying not to be irritated by it.

“Maeve Chambers,” the shopkeeper announces as I walk through the door. It’s the only place in the world where someone is guaranteed to call me by my full name. Today there’s a dreaminess to the way she says it, like she’s not completely focused. She’s moving some dried herbs between her fingertips, lavender flowers shredding in her palm.

“Hey,” I say, unfurling my list. I don’t want or need to fall into another psychic conversation with her. I just need to get some candles and other supplies. I pluck what I need from the various sections. I’m so accustomed to this shop now that I’m half convinced that I could run it for an afternoon, if she ever wanted me to.

The silence between us is unsettling. I’m used to her chatter, her advice, her weird tidbits about my menstrual cycle. Instead, she has drifted to the window and is staring listlessly at the passers-by. Her blonde hair is messy, falling out of its ponytail. She looks exhausted.

“So, I was thinking about what you said about sensitives,” I say warily. “You know those Children of Brigid people? I think the reason they’re so powerful right now is because Aaron – he’s, like, their leader, I guess – is one. A bad sensitive.”

She says nothing. In fact, she doesn’t even register that anyone has spoken.

“They got to my sister,” I say, trying to provoke some kind of reaction out of her. “My sister and her girlfriend.”

The word “sister” seems to shake her out of her stupor.

“You have to look after your sister,” she says, her voice croaky and tired.

“I know.”

“Don’t let her slip away, Maeve. Don’t ever let your sister slip away.”

“I … won’t?”

This is extremely strange now. I’m used to weird declarations from the shopkeeper, but usually there’s a thread I can catch and follow to the source. She gazes off again, out of the window.

“Do you know what they used to sell in this shop, before I took over?”

“No.”

“Statues of the Virgin Mary. And the Infant Jesus of Prague.”

“Is that the one holding the little egg thing?”

She doesn’t answer me. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that, for everyone over thirty at least, religion has played a huge part in their lives. Mum has stories about nuns who used to terrorize her, and Abbie had a famous phase where she was obsessed with becoming a child saint. But no one my own age thinks or talks about the Church at all, even though we’re constantly preparing at school for some Mass or another. But even that is just singing and Hail Marys. Occasionally cracking out the Beatitudes for a special occasion.

“I didn’t think I should take over the lease. Not after everything that happened.”

Her eyes go back to the window. I feel I should leave, but I won’t have a chance to come again before the ritual. And we need this stuff, if we are to have any hope of this spell working. I quietly locate the items on my list. Hemlock and mandrake, Saturday’s plants. Black candles for the new moon. I get stuck when it comes to the tanzanite crystals, for communication with the spirit world. There’s a huge display of them by the door, but not all of them are very clearly marked. I keep googling tanzanite and holding the images up to various rocks, but I’m having trouble finding anything that looks like the blue stone on my screen. Eventually, I find a little pot filled with rough, fingernail-sized stones that look like they might be what I’m looking for. I take photos and send them to Fiona for confirmation.

“Do you work here?”

I jump. A delivery guy in a red DPD coat is standing patiently with a cardboard box.

“This is a tracked delivery. From Italy. I need you to sign for it.”

I look around, and see that the shopkeeper is gone. She must have slipped out while I was comparing and contrasting crystals. My notepad still in my hands, I realize that the delivery guy must think I’m taking inventory. I feel a bit proud, thinking I look old enough and cool enough to work in a shop like this. Thank God I changed out of my uniform at school.

I peer at the box. Judging by the packaging, it’s a shipment of tarot. Italy has the best tarot in Europe. Fiona and I have already started talking about convincing our parents to let us do an exchange there. Even though, as I keep grumbling, it would mean having to speak Italian.

The man is still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“Um…” I cast a glance around again. “Sure, I can sign for it.”

Now he’s sceptical. “You do work here, right?”

“Yes. This is my mum’s shop.” Wow, what a surprisingly easy lie. “I help her out.”

He shrugs and hands the electronic pad over. I scrawl something vague and he doesn’t even look at it. The machine spits out a little receipt and he hands it to me along with the package.

“All right, have a good day, Miss Evans.”

I stiffen. Miss Evans?

Somehow I manage to put the box on the counter, without letting it fall to the floor, and just nod at the DPD guy until he leaves the shop.

I read the label on