“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mirabel says. “It has rather heavy Persephone overtones.”
“Queen of the Underworld,” Zachary says, staring at the painting, trying to figure out how to give it keys and failing. He wishes the pomegranate had a keyhole painted into it, that would be whimsical and appropriate.
“You’re well-read, Ezra,” Mirabel remarks, sliding down from her perch.
“I’m well-mythed,” Zachary corrects. “When I was a kid I thought Hecate and Isis and all the orishas were friends of my mom’s, like, actual people. I suppose in a way they were. Still are. Whatever.”
Mirabel lifts an open bottle of champagne from an ice bucket on one of the tables. She holds it up and offers it to Zachary.
“I’m more of a cocktail guy,” he says, though he is also of the opinion that sparkling wine is an anytime beverage and appreciates Mirabel’s style.
“What’s your poison?” she asks as she refills her glass. “I owe you a drink, and a dance, and other things, I’m sure.”
“Sidecar, no sugar,” Zachary replies, distracted by the deck of cards sitting next to the champagne.
Mirabel slinks over to the wall on the other side of the painting, her gown following behind. She taps a part of the wall that opens, revealing a hidden dumbwaiter.
Zachary returns his attention to the cards.
“Are these yours?” he asks.
“I shuffle them compulsively more than I read them,” she says. “I’m surprised there aren’t more down here, they’re basically stories in pieces that can be rearranged.”
Zachary flips a card, expecting a familiar tarot archetype but the image on the card is a strange one: a black-and-white anatomical sketch surrounded by a swirl of watercolor blood.
The Lung
The title is appropriate for the illustration: a single lung, not a pair. The watercolor blood looks like it is moving, swirling into the lung and out again.
Zachary puts the card back on top of the pile.
A chime sounds from the door on the wall, startling him.
“Does your mother read cards?” Mirabel asks as she hands him a chilled coupe glass, its rim distinctly un-sugared.
“Sometimes,” Zachary says. “People tend to expect it so she’ll lay out some cards when she reads but she mostly holds objects and gets impressions from them. It’s called psychometry.”
“She measures souls.”
“I guess so, if you’re into direct translations.” Zachary takes a sip of his sidecar. It is quite possibly the most perfect sidecar that he has ever tasted and he wonders how perfection can be so disconcerting.
“The Kitchen is an excellent mixologist,” Mirabel says in reply to his litany of facial expressions. “As I was saying, we should lay low. Pun not entirely intended. Don’t tell me you can’t find anything to occupy yourself with, or anyone for that matter.” Mirabel continues before Zachary can protest the statement, “To think if you’d picked up a different library book you wouldn’t be here right now. I’m sorry you lost it.”
“Oh,” Zachary says, “I had it the whole time. Dorian had put it in my coat.” He takes Sweet Sorrows from his bag and hands it to Mirabel. “Do you know where it came from?”
“It could be one of the books from the Archive,” she says, flipping through the pages. “I’m not certain, only acolytes are allowed in the Archive. Rhyme would know more but she probably won’t tell you, she takes her vows seriously.”
“Who wrote it?” Zachary asks. “Why am I in it?”
“If it is from the Archive it was written down here. I’ve heard that the records kept in the Archive aren’t exactly chronologic
al. Someone must have removed it and brought it topside. That might be why Allegra was looking for it, she likes keeping things locked up.”
“Is that what she’s doing, trying to keep it locked up?”
“She thinks locking it away will keep it safe.”
“Safe from what?” Zachary asks.