“So witchcraft is fine, but God is not.”
“Sort of, yeah,” Fiona continues. “I can accept that you accidentally summoned a demon to take away your best friend, but I can’t accept the concept of original sin.”
“It’s not definite that I summoned her,” I correct her, remembering my lie to Roe. “We could have both done it.”
“But you were the one who said the words—”
“I know. I know. But … Roe doesn’t.”
Fiona nods slowly. “Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Right now, I think it would just upset him.”
“You mean it would make him upset with you.”
“And what good would that do?” I counter. “He would go off on his own and we’d be no closer to finding Lil.”
We sit with the facts for a minute, mulling over whether Roe should be told.
“Let me draw a card,” Fiona says, and I hand her the pack. She plucks out the Star and smiles at me.
“Hope,” we both say. The bell rings, and lunch is over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I RING FIONA’S DOORBELL AND A WAVE OF PANIC RUSHES over me. Roe and I are squeezed into the narrow patio between the glass screen and the front door, our shoulders touching as we try to avoid tripping over the plant pots scattered around us. The panic, to my great shame, isn’t about Fiona’s aunt Sylvia or what she might tell us about the Housekeeper.
It’s about the simple, unavoidable fact that Fiona is beautiful and witty, that Roe is handsome and smart, and that I, Maeve Chambers, suddenly feel like I have very little business with either of them.
“We don’t have to stay long,” I suddenly blurt out. “I’m sure Fiona will be busy.”
“Sure,” Roe says.
“All of her friends are older, you know. Her last boyfriend was twenty.”
“OK.”
“So she might want to head out with them. We shouldn’t keep her too long.”
“Isn’t Fiona your best friend?”
I glow with pride. She is, in a way. She’s certainly the person I spend the most time with these days. The feeling is immediately dimmed by the fact that I have effectively replaced my last best friend, a girl who is currently under the possession of a demon I summoned.
Life.
Fiona’s cousin José opens the door, gnawing on a soggy Pom-Bear. He’s about three. God, why don’t I ever know what to say to children?
“Uh … is Fiona there?”
He turns around, letting the Pom-Bear drop to the ground. “FIIIIIFIIIIIII!”
He turns back to us. “I did a poo in the snow today.”
“Did you … like that?”
Fiona jogs to the door in sweatpants and a horse T-shirt that is too small for her. For some reason, this feels like the height of rock ’n’ roll.
“Hey,” she says, folding her cousin into her arms. “Did Jos tell you about his snow poo?”
“Yes.”
“He was very proud of himself. Me, less so. C’mon in.”
She quickly nods at Roe. “Hey, Roe. You can leave your shoes here.”
The last time I was in Fiona’s house, there were at least twenty people in it, so it feels bizarrely spacious now. The living room has three guitars leaning against the wall, an upright piano and a music stand.
“Wow, I thought your mum was just into the saxophone.”
“That show-off? Please. She used to be in a cover band. They even toured in America before she came here. Do not ask her about it. She won’t stop once you get her started.”
“So that’s where you get it from. The performance stuff.”
“I guess. Did I tell you I got Desdemona? The director texted.”
“Wow! That’s amazing. Congrats.”
I can’t help beaming with pride. Not just for Fiona, but for the fact that I am here talking to Fiona, and Roe is here, listening.
Roe starts tracing his finger on the neck of a steel guitar.
“You can play it if you want,” Fiona offers. “Mum won’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine,” Roe responds, his face glowing with hope. He is willing her to say, “No, really, it’s OK,” and a moment later, she does. He gently picks it up and starts playing a melody.
“I’ve never played one of these before,” he says, unable to keep the grin off his face. “They’re mostly for bluegrass and country music.”
He starts playing a tune. Fiona cocks her ear and listens. She smiles, opens her mouth and starts to sing. There’s no warm-up. No tentative talk-singing while she gets the feel of it. She immediately announces the song with a Southern drawl.
“Aiiiiiiiiiii am a maaaaaaan of constant sorrow,” she sings. “I’ve seen trouble all my day.”
And then, to my great horror, Roe starts singing along. Fiona’s singing is high and sweet, the kind of voice a sea witch would try to steal. Roe is less controlled, but every bit as affecting. His voice has points and edges, scratches and yelps. But it’s good. There’s no denying that.
Fiona and Roe are singing. They are singing together.
They look at each other and smile, communicating something that I have no way of possibly accessing. Why don’t I do music? Why don’t I know songs?
Their voices blend together, and they’re harmonizing. Harmonizing.
And suddenly, I imagine myself giving a speech at their wedding.
Well, I always knew they were meant to be together when I stood in Fiona’s living room and listened to them harmonize after five minutes of knowing one another.
I want to be sick.
“Fifi!”
The sound of the front door slamming in the hallway. Roe puts the guitar down sheepishly. Thank God.
Marie is in the doorway in her uniform, smiling but clearly exhausted from her shift at the hospital.
“Fifi! Are you in a band?” Marie says, looking as though she may explode with pride.
“No. Definitely not,” Fiona says, her face flushed. “Mum, this is Roe, he’s Maeve’s … friend.”
We hear the words “snow poo” and Aunt Sylvia is standing in the doorway with Jos in her arms.
“Tita, my friends wanted to talk to you about tarot cards.”
Sylvia looks perplexed. She’s younger than Fiona’s mother, in her late thirties or so.
“Fifi, I’m not making anyone a gayuma.”
Marie suddenly bursts out laughing.
“What’s a
