I frowned as she continued to wince and pant. Was she alright?
The curator lifted a hand to the device in her ear. After a moment, she excused herself and promised to be back soon.
I sidled up to join Peter, the agitated Daisy, and lurky Quentin beside the cursed blood painting. Cool cool cool.
Quentin shifted on his feet, almost compulsively, side to side, wringing his gloved hands. Well, if I had to give stage directions for someone who was hiding something….
“So you really believe these things are cursed, huh?” I raised a brow. “Yet you feel okay handling and working with them?”
He held up his hands. “These gloves are enchanted—they protect me from the curses whenever I’m touching them. And I have a healthy respect for the objects—I think they sense that.”
Respect, or reverence? He seemed waayyy too into them. Which, for me, might actually be handy.
“So you know a lot about curses in general?”
“Well.” He rolled his eyes and pushed his square glasses up his nose. “I’m no expert like Dr. Slinghamer at the National Air Kingdom Museum but I know my way around a few hexes and maledictions.”
I thought of my own predicament and the glowing potion my former coworker Eve had thrown on me to enact my curse. “Could you identify a curse just from a description of it?”
“Perhaps.” Quentin pressed his lips together and looked off, thinking it over. “I’d have to consult my records and notes down in the basement.”
Peter grinned at me, encouraging. “Great. Maybe we could do that?”
“Now?” He startled. “Oh, no. I’m too busy right now. Ms. Magaro says we’ll have to work nonstop practically to get the collection ready for opening night tomorrow evening.”
I bit my lip, disappointment heavy in my stomach. “Okay. Maybe another time then?”
He nodded. “Once all the craziness is over, you bet.”
“One last question—you have your own key to the museum?” Peter watched Quentin carefully.
He nodded. “I do. I often work late cataloging and filing and—”
Peter nodded. “Thank you.”
We left Quentin to his work and moved back through the creepy displays toward the black curtain that led to the museum exit. A ghost lurched forward out of the shadows, and I screamed and grabbed Peter’s arm.
He hugged me tightly to him for a moment, before the woman’s shrieking face swirled and disappeared into the mist. I huffed and shot Peter a grateful look before prying myself from his side. What was this—a museum or a fun house?
He squeezed my hand before we continued on. “What do you think?”
I glanced up at Peter. “My bet’s still on the director. Kalia doesn’t seem to have a motive, and Quentin, though weird, seems to genuinely believe the curses caused Geoffrey’s death.” I glanced down at Daisy. “At least, Daisy seemed to think he was telling the truth—she didn’t call him out otherwise.” I frowned. “Though she seems kind of out of it.”
Peter nodded as he studied his panting dog. “You’re right.” His tone softened. “You okay, girl?”
She looked up at him, adoration in those big dark eyes, and licked his hand. Peter’s lips quirked to the side, a crease of concern between his brows. “Let’s get you home.”
15
MUSEUM SHOP
We’d crossed the main room of the museum and nearly exited the lobby when a man with a scruffy beard wearing a threadbare jacket shoved by us, nearly running into me. He clutched a garish figurine of a witch, painted in golds, blues, and reds. It must have been the same kind used to kill Geoffrey Ibsen.
I scoffed. “Excuse you.”
“Hey!” Peter lurched after him, but the guy pushed out the museum doors without looking back. Sounds of the raucous protestors outside flooded in, then grew muffled as the door slammed shut.
“Rude.” Peter’s nostrils flared. “But unfortunately not illegal.”
I chuckled. “I wasn’t expecting you to arrest the guy for nearly bumping me.” I arched a brow. “But if he had made contact, I’d absolutely press charges.”
Peter looked down at me, eyes wide with surprise. I rolled my eyes. “Kidding. Snakes, you’re easy.”
He chuckled and moved to exit, but I grabbed the sleeve of his uniform and pointed. “Look—the museum shop is open.”
Golden light glowed inside the frosted glass doors of the museum’s gift shop just off the lobby.
“You wanted to talk to the lady who works in there, right?”
Peter placed a hand on the small of my back. “Good call.”
My skin tingled where his hand had been the whole way over to the shop. Peter held the door for me, and we stepped inside—Daisy scooting in front of me, then shooting me a triumphant look over her shoulder. I rolled my eyes.
Shelves lined the perimeter and tall displays dotted the floor, all dripping with tchotchkes. Toys for kids—wands and bouncing balls with swimming fish inside—were piled high in bins, while woven tapestries and wooden masks lined the walls. A second set of frosted doors opened to my left, presumably an entrance from the museum itself.
There were books and keychains and postcards and rolled-up posters and miniature bottles of glowing potions everywhere. A few displays near the front looked new— replicas of some of the cursed objects. I spotted the covered mirror and a haunted amethyst brooch.
I found the figurines of the witch and pointed them out to Peter—they took up almost an entire bookshelf, a dozen rows of them. I thought of the man who’d just left with one and frowned. Odd that they were so popular.
They looked cheap and garish to me—definitely not my style. Then again, most people would probably argue my “style” could only loosely be considered one, seeing as my decor mostly consisted of “whatever I could find off the street” chic. A few golden candles guttered in lamps mounted to the wall here and there, but it kept the space fairly dim, like the rest of the museum.
Peter made a face. “Do people… decorate with
