Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Hanna makes a small sound behind me.
I spin around and see that she’s standing straighter.
To my relief, I see she’s not just upright—she’s solid. The faint translucence that made my stomach twist into knots is gone. The hollowed, distant look in her eyes has vanished, replaced by her usual practical gaze.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice tight as I reach for her.
She blinks, then takes a deep breath—one that fills her chest fully, like her lungs are finally working the way they’re supposed to.
“Much better.” She straightens completely, rolling her shoulders. “Much more myself, if that makes sense.”
I’m so happy I could cry!
“Is she cured—completely cured?” I demand, whirling on Whistler, who’s still there in my living room as well. He’s just standing near the doorway, looking like we just stepped out of a taxi instead of a tear between worlds.
“Why yes indeed, she is,” he says cheerfully. “For crossing back to the Human World has called back all the pieces of her soul that the Necro Don stole from her. She’s whole again, so to speak.”
I sag against the arm of my rickety secondhand couch, pressing a hand to my chest.
“Oh thank God.”
“Well now,” Whistler continues briskly, already moving. “Let’s see—now that the two of you are back, I must replace what I brought.”
He opens his long leather duster and reaches into one of the many pockets. From it, he pulls a sack.
It looks ordinary. It’s burlap and frayed at the edges. It’s not particularly big, either. I wonder what he has in it.
Then he unfolds the sack and starts pulling things out of it.
First comes Mr. Mittens’ food dishes and his automatic feeder. Then his bag of food—half-full, just like it was when I last saw it. Then out comes his litter box—clean and empty, thank goodness—and the jumbo bag of litter I bought when I went with Yelena to Costco.
Next come Mr. Mittens’ cat toys—all of them. I see the mouse with the missing ear…the feather wand he’s obsessed with and the crinkly tunnel I trip over at least twice a week.
I stare at this spectacle, my mouth open.
“How—how does that all fit in there?” I demand.
Whistler just hums to himself, clearly enjoying this. Maybe he’s a showman at heart. The trick he’s doing certainly beats anything I’ve ever seen at a professional magic show.
“And now that we’ve got all the other things, I do believe we have something special for the furry little gentleman,” he says, with a nod at Mr. Mittens.
A cat tree comes out of the bag next. Not a small one but a full-sized, multi-tiered monstrosity with carpeted platforms, rope-wrapped posts, and a little cubby shaped like a house at the top. Seriously, it’s big enough to keep four cats happy.
Whistler sets it neatly in the corner of my living room, where it somehow fits perfectly.
Mr. Mittens, who has been watching this performance with his furry head tilted to one side, freezes for a moment. Then he launches himself at the huge cat tree like he’s been waiting his whole life. He scrambles straight up to the top and begins exploring the little cubby that’s shaped like a carpet-covered cottage.
“Oh my God,” I murmur. “Is that from Lucian?”
“Indeed it is—he thought your cat would enjoy it. And just look—he was right.” Whistler’s strange eyes twinkle with delight. But he’s still not done because he reaches into the sack again.
Clothes spill out next.
There’s Silk…velvet…soft knits and tailored dresses. Also flowing skirts and shoes—all of the shoes!
After a moment, I realize that these are the clothes from Lucian’s carved wardrobe in his bedroom—the ones he got especially for me.
The ones that made me feel beautiful.
Whistler has Hanna’s clothes in his bag too. He pulls them out, piling them carefully on the couch until my sad little living room looks like the backstage area of a very expensive fashion show.
“Why are you doing all this?” I ask faintly.
“Oh, Lord Lucian wanted to be sure you were happy and well cared for,” Whistler says lightly. “To be sure, he’s got no use for the clothes himself—after all, it’s not like he’ll ever be able to call another Curvy Queen to him.”
My heart lurches.
“What does that mean?” I ask, dread curling cold in my stomach.
The Realm-Hopper pauses, just for a second. Then he waves a hand dismissively.
“Never you mind. He says to say to you that he cares for you deeply and he wants you to have a happy life, even if it can’t be with him.”
My vision blurs suddenly and I have to blink to keep back tears.
“All…all right,” I manage. “Please tell him…tell him I said thank you so much.”
Whistler hesitates. Then, as if remembering something, he reaches into his coat again and pulls out a small object from one of his many pockets.
I stare at it as he flips it in the air. It’s a kind of token, made of dark metal, etched with the same sun eclipsed by the moon motif I saw on the back of the coins at the Crimson Spires.