The Zodiac Collector Read online

  We rotate slowly on imaginary skewers so she can see every angle. Her eyes burn hotter than any campfire. My flesh sizzles under her gaze.

  While she pins various bits to fix, I ask, “We don’t have to wear these on our birthday, do we?”

  She freezes, holding a pin inches from the hem of my bodice. Her hand shakes a bit. A flurry of rapid blinking stokes the blaze in her eyes. “You know how important it is for you to show these gowns around the faire.”

  “Yeah, but our birthday is toward the faire’s end, anyway, and it’s only one day.”

  “It’s not ‘only one day.’ Don’t forget, you’re in school this year during the day for your SAT review and the test itself and most people are gone by evening, so you’re already doing less.” She shoves the pin in the fabric, almost stabbing me with the tip.

  I shy away on instinct.

  She winds her wiry fingers around my upper arm and gives a socket-tugging yank. “Don’t be such a baby.”

  “Can you give us the evening off, maybe?”

  Mary whips her head back and forth, warning me to drop the subject.

  “Why?” Mom shoves us out of the room.

  “It’s our birthday.”

  “Change out of those and give them back to me so I can make the alterations.” She slams the door in our faces.

  Mary slugs me in the arm. “Why’d you piss her off?”

  I rub my arm. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Thought you wanted to keep everything secret.”

  “I do.”

  She rolls her eyes and heads down the hallway to the den.

  The doorbell chimes, and Mary halts.

  I walk to the door and pry open the curtain. William and Evan stand on the porch.

  William waves at me. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” A smile instantly erupts on my face. I open the door and step outside. Mary crowds behind me and I shift to the side so she can come out.

  “Wow, you guys look awesome.” William checks out our dresses. He checks out mine more than Mary’s.

  Heat flames my cheeks from his attention. “Thanks.”

  His gaze meets mine and his dimples flash. “Makes your eyes look super green.”

  “Yeah?” I twist a strand of hair around my finger.

  Evan coughs. “Uh, Mary, I like your dress, too. Reminds me of the color of Mountain Dew. Did you know the term used to refer to moonshine?”

  Mary giggles and fluffs the skirt a bit. “That’s cool.”

  Evan smiles. “Yeah. Another term is white lightning.”

  I have to cut this off before they both get their nerd on. “What brings you guys by?”

  “Ev and I are watching B-list sci-fi flicks. Wanna join?” He hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. For the love of all that’s Elizabethan, he smells so good. Clean and fresh, like the park after a warm rain. Or fresh laundry. Or the forest on a scorching summer day.

  Let’s see—an evening out of the house, away from Mom, plus hours with the cutest boy I know? Tough decision. “Sure. Let us change.”

  Chapter Seven

  Morning sun strikes through my bedroom window, searing my eyelids. Birds chirp in a random chorus, fighting to keep their territory. I want to duct tape all their chipper little beaks shut. A torrent of emotion swirls inside me. I ride the wave, floating on the memories of sitting next to William for hours on end, paying more attention to his breathing, laughing, and yummy clean smell than to the movies we watched. Then I sink into a whirlpool, smacked in the face by the eddies of goofed birthday chants and failed negotiations with Mom. Disappointment lingers over my shoulders like a damp wool cloak.

  I roll out of bed, disturbing Castor. Poor thing stuck out the night with me, despite my kicking him in the head a dozen times. He hops off the bed and sneezes. I chuckle as he wags his tail and yaps at me. Really, I have no other choice than to pick him up and pet him.

  “Where are Mary and Pollux, eh?” I coo into his ear. His tongue laps at my chin. “Let’s go find them.”

  Castor hops around my legs all the way downstairs, through the foyer, and outside to the front porch. Mary’s sitting on the wrought-iron bench Dad built out of scrap metal. White paint flecks off every time someone sits on it because of the years of neglect. Refinishing it is on his to-do list, but everything’s on hold until the faire ends. Pollux hovers at her feet—most likely praying for her bowl of cereal to spontaneously capsize so he can snarf it down.

  It’s a blessedly normal morning, no weirdness in sight. I tell myself a new day means a fresh start.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I use my hunky-dory, everything-is-great voice and sit next to her. A cool breeze rustles the leaves and rattles the rusted wind chimes hanging from the porch roof. It reminds me of the tornado that took over our room yesterday. I shiver, chilled more by the memory than the temperature.

  Mary swallows a mouthful of frosty flakes and points with her spoon. “The caravans are here.”

  Pollux wags his tail, ever hopeful. Castor joins him and yips a greeting.

  A line of cars, vans, and trucks hauling campers whizzes past in a constant stream. Each vehicle is at least twenty years old. Some have duct tape holding bumpers and windows together. Others are painted in patchwork-quilt patterns. An epic fantasy battle between wizards, dragons, and ogres decorates the side panel of one van. It’s followed by a van with a haunted cemetery scene. Half the cars are burning oil, and the acrid stench turns my stomach and burns my nose. I should’ve grabbed my inhaler.

  “More cars this year,” I say, stealing a sugary corn flake from Mary’s bowl.

  “Hey, go get your own. It only seems like more because you’re up early enough to watch the whole procession.” She peers at me out of the corner of her eye. “Why are you out of bed, anyway? You tossed and turned all night.”

  I shrug. “I had trouble sleeping.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno.” Staring at the traffic helps me lie. If I look at her, then I’ll have to tell her about my nightmares about pissed-off warrior stars and Mom attacking me with lance-sized sewing needles. Then she’ll have more reason to pick on me about the magick spells.

  “Uh-huh. Right.”

  “And I suppose you slept just fine?” I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice. Guilt wags its accusing finger at me, saying I shouldn’t be getting angry at her simple question. I should be mad at myself for making Mom angry, for chanting before Gamma taught me how, and for freaking Mary out.

  Pollux barks. His patience has expired. Castor simply lies on my feet. He’s pretending to be laid back, little faker. Mary surrenders the remains of her breakfast to Pollux. Castor swoops in like a piranha. Pollux doesn’t complain. “Look, what happened yesterday—”

  “Is my fault. Just like everything else.” I stand and fold my arms.

  “Everything else?”

  “Yeah, making Mom mad, fighting with you, pretending magick will work…all of it.”

  She clears her throat. “You need to chill out.”

  “I need to chill out?” I point to my chest, eyes bugging out of my head. “You’re one to talk, Miss Everything-Gives-Me-a-Panic-Attack.”

  Her leg bounces up and down like a seismometer pounding out the quaking in her brain. “I’m not trying to fight with you.” Pain tightens the angles of her face, pinches her mouth, and hoods her eyes. The aftershocks radiate out to me and my anger crumbles from a slab of granite to pebbles and dust.

  I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Why do you get mad all the time?”

  “I’m not mad all the time.”

  “Yes, you are. Sometimes you act like Mom.”

  “That’s so unfair! At least I’m not a coward. You want a birthday party as much as I do, but I’m the one who has to do something about it.” I pick at her, unable to leave alone the festering pimple that is our oozing, infected relationship.

  “Not wanting to make Mom mad doesn’t make me a coward. Sometimes I think you enjoy it w
hen she’s angry.”

  “You calling me a chaos boss?”

  “No, I’m calling you a drama llama.” She snatches the empty bowl from the dogs and heads inside, fleeing like a jackrabbit running from a coyote.

  “Hey, we’re not done.” I follow her straight to the kitchen.

  She scrubs her bowl with a hypoallergenic sponge. “I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “You didn’t want the spell to work.”

  She smacks the bowl on the drying rack and goes at her spoon, rubbing it so hard sparks might start flying. “You’re not saying what happened was my fault, are you? Because it’s not. You don’t know what you’re doing. Grandmother said you shouldn’t even—”

  “I know what she said.” Heat flares into my cheeks and I fist my hands. The pinch from my fingernails digging into my palms shocks me almost as much as her accusation.

  It’s so unfair. I’m not an idiot. And I’m not like Mom. I just get mad sometimes. Doesn’t mean I’m crazy.

  I head to the shower to cool off. As I lather my hair, I vow to myself to learn how to chant properly. Then I’ll show Mary that it works and I can do it. With any luck, I’ll figure it out before our birthday and we can still have an awesome party.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m finishing straightening my hair. Mary’s sitting on her bed studying, as usual.

  She stays quiet. And she will as long as she has nothing to say.

  Mary and I fight like tectonic plates sliding over and under one another. We have to be together all the time, but sometimes the pressure builds up and we blow, causing an earthquake. After, everything settles down again. It bothers me—a lot.

  I can’t stand the silence any longer.

  “I’m going to check out the jousting arena. Maybe William needs help setting up or something.” If I act like nothing’s wrong, maybe Mary will, too. I pull my flat-ironed hair into a ponytail, praying it stays somewhat smooth. I have to use six different products to get it to stay straight. Maybe I should embrace the natural curls, like Mary. Somehow, she makes them look good and I just look scruffy. I don’t know how that’s possible, since we’re identical twins, but it’s true.

  “You guys should just admit that you like each other already.” I catch her playful smirk in the mirror. Maybe some of the built-up pressure between us is blowing off.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re just friends.” I whirl, elated she’s not giving me the silent treatment anymore. I slip into my favorite silver ballet flats and smooth my green-striped polo shirt, a strategic choice on my part. William had commented on Mom’s green dress bringing out the color in my eyes, after all.

  “You are such a bad liar.” Mary closes her textbook, hops off the bed, and crowds the mirror to check the collar of her white blouse and apply her grape-flavored lip gloss.

  The only thing similar about our outfits is our jeans—dark wash, skinny cut.

  “Well…you wouldn’t be all dressed up if you didn’t think Evan would be there!” I tease her back.

  “Shut up.” She tosses a Robin Hood hat at me.

  I catch it mid-air and toss it on the desk.

  “What, you don’t want to wear it? Then you can say to William, ‘does this hat make my eyes look greener?’” She bats her eyelashes.

  “Shut. Up.” I narrow my eyes at her, but smile.

  She laughs and slips her camera into her pocket. Always on the lookout for some random snapshot.

  I affix a pin in the shape of a Gemini symbol to my lapel. We wear them on opening day every year. I forget why we started doing it, but now it’s tradition and we have to.

  She puts on her own pin, then holds out her hand for a fistbump. “We cool?”

  Warmth seeps from deep in my soul, down my limbs, and kindles a smile. A truce. A connection. A reboot to factory settings. I extend my arm. “Always.”

  Our knuckles collide, and a clap of thunder almost snaps me out of my shoes.

  “Holy crap!” Mary dashes to the window. “Weird. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.”

  My stomach goes all wobbly. “Yeah. Weird. Come on, let’s go.”

  Before things start flying around the room again.

  * * *

  The park is close, so it only takes a few minutes for us to walk there.

  We present our merchant passes to the security guard. He examines them for a full minute before waving us through. His executioner’s mask hides his expression. His chainmail shirt does not hide his gut. I try to ignore the fact that he’s wearing pale gray tights. Yikes, what a sight!

  We follow the dirt trail marking the outer rim of the grounds toward the jousting arena. To our left is the forest. To our right is a “street” of merchant shoppes and tents. Some buildings are sided with dark-stained planks, and others are Tudor-style plaster and timber. The gypsy tents are thick canvas stretched over wooden stakes pounded into the ground. Layers of brightly colored fabrics line the fences nearby. The only stone structure is the one-story castle replica that provides a backdrop to the arena. Its central gate is arched and decorated with Dad’s wrought-iron designs.

  Mary veers left along a trail winding into the trees. Multi-colored streamers hang from several branches. A wooden sign nailed to a trunk reads “Enchanted Forest.” She reaches for her camera while her head tips back to the canopy above.

  “Hey, where are you going?” I follow her. Though I’ve been in these woods dozens of times, it’s different during faire weeks. Like the collective imagination of the actors, patrons, and period players primes the trees, making them take on the role of a magick-laden dark forest. My skin erupts in goosebumps and my breath hitches. I reach for my inhaler and try to shrug off the heavy, oily sense that someone’s watching.

  “This is neat,” she calls, already focused on whatever it is she wants to photograph.

  “What’s neat? We should be looking for William.” I scan the area, searching for anything remotely unique. Then again, through her eyes, something ordinary could become extraordinary in the correct lighting or at the best angle. Veined leaves, mushrooms growing out of bark, birds’ nests made of string—who knows what will trigger her inspiration? The sooner she finds it, the sooner we can get back to the main path. I squeeze the inhaler, almost to the point of cracking the plastic.

  She pauses. “Shoot, I must’ve scared it off.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She twists to me, eyes wide. “I saw a fairy, but it flew away.”

  I blink. “Uh, are you making fun of me?”

  She blows a raspberry and snaps a photo of me. “It’s the Renaissance Faire. The only place where magick really is real.”

  I scrunch my nose at her.

  She grins and clicks another pic.

  “I’m going to hold you to that and make you chant here, on the faire grounds.”

  Her smile fades. “You never let anything go.”

  “What do you mean?” I reach out and yank a leaf off a nearby maple.

  “You’re not giving up on this magick thing, are you?”

  I stare at the leaf’s veins. “It’s real, Mary. You said you remembered…”

  “Yeah, that it didn’t work. We’ve already talked about this and we had a fight. I don’t want to discuss it again.” She palms her camera and walks toward the main path.

  “Why can’t we talk about it?” I stomp after her, huffing with every step. The pollen mixed with the frustration of Mary dodging yet another important conversation inflames my lungs. I pause long enough to use my inhaler.

  Mary twists to face me. Her brow furrows, shifting her from avoidance mode to overprotective mode. “Anne, are you okay?”

  I lean over and prop my hands on my knees. The trail’s entrance—and the freedom of open air—is so close and yet so far. Oxygen is oxygen, but magickal, dark-forest air has a decidedly heavier quality than sunny field air.

  She rushes over to me. “You sound wheezy. I’m sorry, all right? Don’t go int
o a full attack because of me.” She rubs my back like it’ll open my lungs or something. “Focus on breathing.”

  “Yeah, I’m doing that.” I close my eyes and visualize cool, clean air opening my airways and expanding my lungs. The tightness eases some. The confusion about Mary thinking the asthma flare is her fault doesn’t. Asthma is asthma. The only person that brings it on is me—when I’m upset, it’s worse. No one can control my emotions, except me. And I suck at it.

  “Are you girls lost?” A dry, gravelly voice interrupts us.

  We spin to face an old woman standing just a few feet away. Dressed in a black, hooded cape, she looks a lot like the witch in Snow White. Without the warts and hooked nose, but with twice the wrinkles.

  “Twins. How lovely. The bond between twins is so much stronger than that of other siblings.” Intense black eyes scour over us. Her jagged smile slashes at me like the tines of a rusty rake.

  “Where’d you come from?” Mary asks, trying to sound polite. Her fingers digging into my arm, however, tell me she’s feeling anything but friendly.

  The woman’s gaze locks onto mine and my mind splits open, leaving me raw and exposed. My heart races in a rush to heal the assault of her cleaving stare. “I have a shoppe at the end of the trail. I sell trinkets, love potions, herbal teas, talismans, and the like.”

  “That’s nice.” I cough and suck on some albuterol, telling myself she’s an innocent, old woman dressed up as a witch to sell her goods, not some sorceress wandering a forbidden, magickal forest.

  She stretches a crooked index finger and points at my pin. “The Gemini symbol. Wonderful!” She laughs, but it comes out as a half-cackle, half-grunt. “I collect Zodiac symbols. I could show you. Come take a look. You might find something you like.”

  “Maybe later. We’re meeting someone.” Mary bites her lip.

  “It won’t take long. This way.” She waves her arm and limps along the footpath, deeper into the woods.

  I glance at Mary. The asthma attack is fading, otherwise I’d get the heck out of there, but… I can’t let an old woman freak me out. Someone famous somewhere—or some “when”—said you have to confront your fears and, well, this seems like a good opportunity. We’ll look at her shoppe, see how lame her stuff is, and go about our business without the fear of running into her for the next couple of weeks while the faire is open. Besides, I’ve faced Mom a million times, and she’s a dragon. I can take on a little, aged witch. “She’s an old lady. Let’s take a look to make her happy.”