Heavy footsteps on the stairs announced company. The scent of chocolate wafted into the room, followed by a smiling Beryl and a smiling, handsome devil of a demon. “We’ve brought sustenance,” she said. “Did you find anything?”
I welcomed the marshmallow-topped, oversized mug into my grabby hands and explained what I’d found. “Though there’s a riddle in here I haven’t solved,” I said. “There’s a number at the end of most entries. Rémy’s is ninety-eight. Have either of you seen anything up here, or downstairs, with numbers on it?”
“All of the information we’ve seen thus far relates to the client seeking a match. What if that number represents Moira’s suggested mate?”
“That would make sense, but where did she keep her numbered list of candidates?” I sipped at the cocoa and let it soothe my nervous system. Chocolate was a gift from the gods, a certainty that had been drilled into us repeatedly by our Mexican grandmother. “Did you and Rosey find anything in the shop?”
“Not yet. But we did discover that Mom didn’t sell the books downstairs, she loaned them out, like a library. She had her own numbering system and everything.”
I choked on a glob of melting marshmallow. “Beryl, did you hear what you just said? Mom had a numbering system. Numbers.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Beryl grinned at me over the top of her mug. “Let’s go. And bring the ledger with you.”
Three rotating metal racks filled with paperback romances were jammed into one alcove at the front of the store. When I was a kid, the racks had been placed in easy reach of the padded chairs and overstuffed pillows clustered within the two alcoves at the front of the store. Most of the color had faded from the books’ once-glossy covers, washing them in uniform pale blues and pinks.
I set my mug on the checkout counter, crouched by the nearest carousel, and picked out a book. A Hunger Like No Other, by Kresley Cole. Made sense Mom would have paranormal romances to loan. Near the bottom of its spine was a square sticker with the number seventy-four written in black marker. I straightened my legs and turned the spine to face Kostya and my sisters.
“How much do you want to bet Mom used trope-filled romance books as a way to figure out what kind of matches would give her clients their happily-ever-afters?” I asked, cracking my biggest smile in days. I read the back cover of the book and added, “Tormented Lykae warrior anyone?”
“Clementine, you’re brilliant!” Alderose gave me a high five. “I’ll clean off a couple of shelves so we can line up the books in numerical order. Leave a space for ones that are missing and stack any unnumbered ones on the cutting table.”
By ten thirty—even with breaks to read over-the-top book blurbs aloud to one another in an effort to see who could get Kostya to blush the most—we had all of the paperbacks sorted, spines out. Fewer than ten were unaccounted for. I volunteered to skim through number ninety-eight—the story of a moody, brooding lighthouse keeper and the young woman he rescues during a storm—to see what kind of magical being Mom had chosen for Rémy. Perhaps she knew of a mermaid or a dolphin shifter in need of an able-bodied protector with a hero complex.
“I’m going back upstairs.”
“I’ll be up soon to look through whatever records Mom kept on clients she was finished with,” Beryl said. “Oh, I cleaned the bathroom. Leave your mug to soak in the sink.”
I practically skipped on my way to the back of the store. The entire space looked and felt brighter, and the porcelain sink shone. Beryl had used elbow grease and Mom’s favorite cleanser to scrub off years of neglect. The rubber plug, though cracked, was usable. I filled the sink and gave the mug a few moments to soak.
The last of the chocolate and sticky marshmallow came off easily. I removed the plug and watched the water spiral down the drain, taking bright green flecks of the cleanser with it.
Mundane chores. Chocolate rewards. Moments of normalcy between my sisters and me smoothed the jagged edges off the anxiety triggered by Rémy’s attack. I rested my palm on the edge of the sink and leaned toward the mirror-fronted medicine cabinet attached to the wall. If I took a photo of the marking on my neck and ran it through an image search, maybe I’d come up with a clue as to its meaning or origin.
The entire cabinet shifted when I went to open it, requiring me to stabilize it with both hands before I tried again. Inside, the stained, narrow shelves were bare but for a tube of mascara. In the middle of the metal backing was a slot for used razor blades.
Curiosity got the better of me. I unscrewed the mascara. The wand was coated with usable product. I didn’t recognize the brand.
Crumbling plaster fell from behind the mirror and dusted the back of the sink. I hastily recapped the mascara, tucked it into my back pocket, and closed the front of the cabinet. Taking hold of both sides, I wiggled the unit toward me. The pull chain dangling from the light fixture slid over the top as I freed the entire thing from the wall.
I giggled. Now what was I supposed to do? Put it back? I turned in the tight space and set the cabinet faceup on the toilet seat. Thick ropes hung in the space between the bathroom’s horsehair-plaster-and-slat wall and the exterior brick wall of the building. I stuck my hand into the hole. Cool air
