He hung up. TC rubbed against me, purring.
“Oh, now you’re happy. You yowled on purpose, didn’t you?” I was kidding, of course, but when he glanced up, I swear he looked very pleased with himself.
“We don’t need rescuing,” I said as I tramped up the stairs. “He knows that. He’s making a big deal out of it so I’ll owe him. Then he can get away with even more shit, because I’ll remember the times he came running to help me, and I’ll feel guilty.” I glanced at TC, leaping up the stairs alongside me. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
He purred.
I’d get this damn door open if I dislocated my shoulder doing it. I twisted the handle, went to ram it with my shoulder . . . and fell through as it opened. I tripped over the top step and landed on my hip on the kitchen floor, my cell phone skidding across the linoleum. TC trotted over to it, bent, and nosed it my way.
“Thank you,” I muttered as I sat up and grabbed it back. “You are truly helpful. You’re lucky my gun didn’t fall out and shoot you. Accidents happen, you know. Tragic kitty accidents.”
He only sniffed.
I speed-dialed Gabriel. It went to voice mail. Not surprising—it was much harder to rescue someone if she called and told you she didn’t need rescue. I told him exactly that and texted the same message, abbreviated. There could be no question now—I was fine and I’d notified him, so I owed him nothing.
“Okay, TC,” I said, pushing myself up. “Time to go home.”
He darted across the kitchen and into the next room.
“Um, wrong door?” I called.
As I followed the cat, I noticed the elaborate frieze in the front parlor. I looked at one section. Seven magpies. Six leaned over, beak to their neighbor’s head, as if whispering to him. The seventh stood there, oblivious.
Seven for a secret, not to be told.
The old rhyme played in my head.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for birth,
Five for silver,
Six for gold;
Seven for a secret,
Not to be told;
Eight for heaven,
Nine for hell,
And ten is for the devil’s own self.
I craned my neck to scan the entire frieze. They were all magpies, in their groups, from one to ten. The first magpie with its wing over its head, weeping. Then two with their heads thrown back, laughing. I quickly snapped pictures. Then I backed up to the dining room. The frieze here was crows, illustrating a similar rhyme.
One for bad news,
Two for mirth.
Three is a wedding,
Four is a birth.
Five is for riches,
Six is a thief.
Seven, a journey,
Eight is for grief.
Nine is a secret,
Ten is for sorrow.
Eleven is for love,
Twelve is the hope of joy for tomorrow.
TC meowed from the next room. Right. This wasn’t an open house. Time to get my damn cat and go.
“Come on,” I whispered. “We need to leave out the back—”
He darted in the opposite direction.
“Hey!”
I rounded the corner into the front hall . . . only to see him leaping up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
No! The exit is here!”
I jabbed my finger toward the front door. The problem with animals? Rational explanation doesn’t work. Nor does a firm “Get back here now!” At least not with cats, which is why I’m really more of a dog person.
I sighed and ran up the stairs. They ended in a hallway with doors on either side and one at the end. All except the one at the end were open just enough for a cat to slip through.
“TC?”
I couldn’t pick up so much as the padding of little paws.
“Look,” I said. “I’m very good at reading signs, and if you’re telling me you wanted out of that basement but don’t want to go home with me, that’s fine. Just let me put you outside, okay?”
“Mrrow.”
His call came from farther down the hall. Then a scratch at the door—which seemed to be the one that was closed.
“Really? Damn it, you are a pain in the ass.”
I turned the handle and—
Locked. There was an old-fashioned keyhole, empty, and when I shone my light, I could see the latch was engaged.
TC meowed again—from my left, through one of the partly open doors.
“Thank God,” I muttered as I pushed open the door. “Now come—”
He leapt onto a windowsill. I sighed and walked in. It was brighter up here. No closed shutters on these windows, just drawn shades.
Partway to the window, I stopped and stared at the floor. The blocks of parquet formed a pattern in the middle of the room. A symbol.
It was about three feet across, with intricately cut pieces of various shades, painstakingly laid out to form a triskelion. Each “arm” was a stylized bird’s head, done in an old Celtic style, like in the Book of Kells. When I got the angle right, I could tell what kind of birds they were, even with the stylized design. The beaks, ear tufts, and facial disks gave it away. Owls. I was taking out my cell to snap another picture when TC yowled.
He was still on the window ledge, now scratching at the blind.
I sighed. “That’s not an exit.”
When he ignored me, I tugged the blind open a few inches.
“See? Not an exit.”
Rising moonlight shone through. If I wanted a picture, I could use more light. I fully opened the blind to reveal a stained-glass window. Odd for a second story. It wasn’t even all that decorative—panels of leaded glass with a deformed circle of yellow glass in the middle. I turned back to the floor mosaic, and when I did, I had to take a second look. The yellow circle of stained glass cast a light that illuminated the head of one owl.
There were two more windows along the side wall. A lot for a small corner room. I pulled up their blinds. One window had a circle of red, the other blue. The moonlight shone through and lit up the other two heads. I stood, marveling at it . . . until fourth-grade science kicked in and I realized the moon shouldn’t be able to hit three windows at just the right angle to illuminate all three heads at the same time. Even if there was a moment when it could, what was the chance that moment happened to be right now?
I drew closer and took more pictures. There was a symbol of some kind in the middle of the triskelion, but it was impossible to make out from this angle. I stepped into the circle and—
“Oh, now you’re happy. You yowled on purpose, didn’t you?” I was kidding, of course, but when he glanced up, I swear he looked very pleased with himself.
“We don’t need rescuing,” I said as I tramped up the stairs. “He knows that. He’s making a big deal out of it so I’ll owe him. Then he can get away with even more shit, because I’ll remember the times he came running to help me, and I’ll feel guilty.” I glanced at TC, leaping up the stairs alongside me. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
He purred.
I’d get this damn door open if I dislocated my shoulder doing it. I twisted the handle, went to ram it with my shoulder . . . and fell through as it opened. I tripped over the top step and landed on my hip on the kitchen floor, my cell phone skidding across the linoleum. TC trotted over to it, bent, and nosed it my way.
“Thank you,” I muttered as I sat up and grabbed it back. “You are truly helpful. You’re lucky my gun didn’t fall out and shoot you. Accidents happen, you know. Tragic kitty accidents.”
He only sniffed.
I speed-dialed Gabriel. It went to voice mail. Not surprising—it was much harder to rescue someone if she called and told you she didn’t need rescue. I told him exactly that and texted the same message, abbreviated. There could be no question now—I was fine and I’d notified him, so I owed him nothing.
“Okay, TC,” I said, pushing myself up. “Time to go home.”
He darted across the kitchen and into the next room.
“Um, wrong door?” I called.
As I followed the cat, I noticed the elaborate frieze in the front parlor. I looked at one section. Seven magpies. Six leaned over, beak to their neighbor’s head, as if whispering to him. The seventh stood there, oblivious.
Seven for a secret, not to be told.
The old rhyme played in my head.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for birth,
Five for silver,
Six for gold;
Seven for a secret,
Not to be told;
Eight for heaven,
Nine for hell,
And ten is for the devil’s own self.
I craned my neck to scan the entire frieze. They were all magpies, in their groups, from one to ten. The first magpie with its wing over its head, weeping. Then two with their heads thrown back, laughing. I quickly snapped pictures. Then I backed up to the dining room. The frieze here was crows, illustrating a similar rhyme.
One for bad news,
Two for mirth.
Three is a wedding,
Four is a birth.
Five is for riches,
Six is a thief.
Seven, a journey,
Eight is for grief.
Nine is a secret,
Ten is for sorrow.
Eleven is for love,
Twelve is the hope of joy for tomorrow.
TC meowed from the next room. Right. This wasn’t an open house. Time to get my damn cat and go.
“Come on,” I whispered. “We need to leave out the back—”
He darted in the opposite direction.
“Hey!”
I rounded the corner into the front hall . . . only to see him leaping up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
No! The exit is here!”
I jabbed my finger toward the front door. The problem with animals? Rational explanation doesn’t work. Nor does a firm “Get back here now!” At least not with cats, which is why I’m really more of a dog person.
I sighed and ran up the stairs. They ended in a hallway with doors on either side and one at the end. All except the one at the end were open just enough for a cat to slip through.
“TC?”
I couldn’t pick up so much as the padding of little paws.
“Look,” I said. “I’m very good at reading signs, and if you’re telling me you wanted out of that basement but don’t want to go home with me, that’s fine. Just let me put you outside, okay?”
“Mrrow.”
His call came from farther down the hall. Then a scratch at the door—which seemed to be the one that was closed.
“Really? Damn it, you are a pain in the ass.”
I turned the handle and—
Locked. There was an old-fashioned keyhole, empty, and when I shone my light, I could see the latch was engaged.
TC meowed again—from my left, through one of the partly open doors.
“Thank God,” I muttered as I pushed open the door. “Now come—”
He leapt onto a windowsill. I sighed and walked in. It was brighter up here. No closed shutters on these windows, just drawn shades.
Partway to the window, I stopped and stared at the floor. The blocks of parquet formed a pattern in the middle of the room. A symbol.
It was about three feet across, with intricately cut pieces of various shades, painstakingly laid out to form a triskelion. Each “arm” was a stylized bird’s head, done in an old Celtic style, like in the Book of Kells. When I got the angle right, I could tell what kind of birds they were, even with the stylized design. The beaks, ear tufts, and facial disks gave it away. Owls. I was taking out my cell to snap another picture when TC yowled.
He was still on the window ledge, now scratching at the blind.
I sighed. “That’s not an exit.”
When he ignored me, I tugged the blind open a few inches.
“See? Not an exit.”
Rising moonlight shone through. If I wanted a picture, I could use more light. I fully opened the blind to reveal a stained-glass window. Odd for a second story. It wasn’t even all that decorative—panels of leaded glass with a deformed circle of yellow glass in the middle. I turned back to the floor mosaic, and when I did, I had to take a second look. The yellow circle of stained glass cast a light that illuminated the head of one owl.
There were two more windows along the side wall. A lot for a small corner room. I pulled up their blinds. One window had a circle of red, the other blue. The moonlight shone through and lit up the other two heads. I stood, marveling at it . . . until fourth-grade science kicked in and I realized the moon shouldn’t be able to hit three windows at just the right angle to illuminate all three heads at the same time. Even if there was a moment when it could, what was the chance that moment happened to be right now?
I drew closer and took more pictures. There was a symbol of some kind in the middle of the triskelion, but it was impossible to make out from this angle. I stepped into the circle and—
