Of Witches and Wind (32 page)

Now Dad looked at me sharply. “Rory—”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it bad,” I said hastily, but Brie Catcher laughed—kind of loud.

“You're funny. Your dad didn't tell me you were funny,” she said. “You have a casting call this afternoon?”

“Yeah, we were going to see if we could borrow your dressing room for a sec, but . . .” Dad squinted at the left side of my face. “Rory, do you have a black eye?”

I covered it up with my hand. That was what he had been staring at. I'd totally forgotten about it. I struggled to remember what lie I'd told Mom. “I walked into a baseball. I mean, a game of catch—”

“It looks a lot worse in direct sunlight.” Dad frowned. He was deciding whether or not he could take me out in public.

I looked down. I couldn't think of anything to say.

“Rory, let me see,” said Brie, and I turned to her automatically. “Oh, that's nothing. It's not even swollen anymore. I once got a really black eye before an audition—a little sister for some sitcom. I think I'd wiped out on a treadmill or something. But I still got the part. The casting people said it made me look spunky.”

That made up Dad's mind for him. “Okay. Now, the office is right down the way. The waiting room's marked. You want to get dressed and meet me there, or did you want me to wait for you?”

Brie opened the door to her trailer, and Dad set my duffel inside. This was one of those situations where the grown-up is acting like you have a choice, but really, it's very clear what he wants you to do. “I'll meet you there.”

Dad grinned and kissed my cheek, then Brie's. “Still on for a late lunch in a couple hours?”

Brie nodded. Waving good-bye to my father, she said, “Want to come in? You'll have to ignore the mess.”

There
was
a mess—dirty coffee mugs on the counter, and a table scattered with scripts and magazines, and a comfy-looking love seat buried under discarded sweaters, purses, and jeans.

I pushed a few shoes into the corner so I could open my duffel.

“Yeah, I'm kind of a slob. Those are all my clothes, by the way. I'm usually a little bit nicer to the wardrobe the studio gives me.” She pointed to a rack against the far wall, where lots of dresses hung, just as airy as the one she had on. She peered into my duffel and pulled out a shirt with a glittery smiley face. “Ooh, what about this red one?”

I'd known her for two minutes, and she already thought she could dress me. Not that I cared too much. I carried it in behind a folding screen, scarves hanging from one corner.

“Yay! I mean, you don't have to, but I love red. I usually can't wear it very much—with my hair.”

Wow. Dad's girlfriend was really a talker. At least she wouldn't hear me when I whispered into my M3. “Ready?”

It's really close,
Lena's next note said.
500 yards or less. I'm trying to find the lot number for you.

I sighed and changed.

“Should I not have picked one for you? I talk a lot,” Brie said. “My friends tell me that I just say whatever pops in my head, and it's almost true. I say almost everything I think, and right now, I'm thinking that I do talk too much.”

She paused, probably to let me speak. I couldn't think of anything to say. I just walked out and kind of smiled awkwardly.

She smiled back. “Want to borrow my hairbrush? So you don't have to look for yours?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I said. She beamed as she passed it over.

I stood in front of the mirror. I hadn't brushed my hair since I'd gotten to Atlantis. I hoped Brie wouldn't notice how long it would take me to get out all the tangles.

But Brie was busy folding the clothes piled on her chair. With her long, pretty fingers, she made even that look elegant. One of the magazines—something Madison had read out to me—had said that she had a “goofy glam appeal,” and now that was all I could think about. She had an old Hollywood sort of grace, but she managed to make whatever she did seem silly and fun—whether it was walking down the red carpet, or jumping on a little kids' bouncy castle, or talking to her boyfriend's daughter.

I turned back to my reflection, so she wouldn't catch me staring. The black eye was almost healed, but when I tilted my head and caught the sunlight, the bruises were a lot easier to see. Yellow-green. Ugly.

The only thing that could make her look uglier is a black eye,
Madison had said.

Suddenly, it was hard not to notice how big my chin was.

“You know, I can take care of that, if you want,” said Brie. “The bruises are so light they'll be invisible under a little makeup. I
mean, I think you're striking enough to pull off a teensy-tiny black eye like that, but you need to do what makes
you
feel comfortable.”

“That would be great, actually,” I said, relieved. At least Dad wouldn't look at me like that again.

“Yay!” Brie pointed to a cushy chair beside a mirror lit up with lightbulbs. The little table under it was covered with eye shadows, lipsticks, and makeup brushes. Rings, earrings, and necklaces glittered in a cup. She pulled up a stool next to me, dug a sponge out of a side drawer, and sat. With a concentrating sort of frown, she dabbed some skin-colored goo on my face. “Did you want to do mascara, lip gloss, and that whole shebang?”

I couldn't stay that long. “No, I should probably get to the casting call—Dad probably already told them I'm here—but thanks for offering.”

Brie's sponge stopped patting. “God, Rory. You're such a good kid. My sister and I were such little terrors when my dad was ever with somebody, whether it was serious or not.”

Uh-oh. The conversation was shifting in a more dangerous direction, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Is it okay with you? You know, it would really help if you gave us permission.”

I couldn't believe Brie would ask
now
. I mean, they had been dating for almost a year. Maybe she was warning me they were getting serious.

I must have given her a weird look, because she added, “I mean, not permission, exactly, but you know what I mean. I wouldn't say we need it, because I think you'll eventually warm up to the idea. I really believe we can make each other happy. But knowing that you were okay with it, we would both feel better.” She looked at me with an expectant, hopeful look, and guilt did jumping jacks in my stomach.

I couldn't think up a response. Especially not one that would get me out of the trailer so I could go find the Hidden Troll Court.

“Can I have more than ten minutes to think about it?” I half smiled, hoping that it would sound like a joke. Maybe this talk could be steered into less intense topics. “It's been kind of a long day. Long week, actually . . .”

“Why? Do you mean the flight?” asked Brie, brushing some powder over my cheek. “No, your friend is having a family emergency. Is everything okay?”

My heart panged. Mom and Dad hadn't even asked. They assumed that nothing was really wrong.

Brie Catcher was going to be harder to fool than my own parents.

“Oh, no. It's not, is it?” Brie said, sounding worried. “Did you want to talk about it?”

“I should probably get going soon, if you don't mind,” I said quickly. “Otherwise Dad might come looking for me.”

“Right. Of course.” She straightened and put the powder down. “Well, your face is all set. I'll see you for lunch later, though. I'm really excited about it.”

You could barely see the bruises. The only hint that I had a black eye was a deepish line running down the side of my nose. Even Madison couldn't find anything to make fun of.

Brie wasn't a bad person. She couldn't help that I had way too much going on to deal with her, too. “Me too. Thanks for this,” I added, tapping my cheek lightly.

“You're welcome.” She smiled tightly—like she wanted to say more, and like
not
talking was a little painful.

I grabbed my duffel, just to make sure I wouldn't have to come back and get trapped in a trailer with my dad's girlfriend again.
Then I waved a little and slipped out the door and down the alley toward the offices, relieved about my escape.

No wonder EAS and all its weird magical escapades had seemed kind of normal after a while. My regular life was pretty bizarre. Most girls my age would have been thrilled to meet Brie Catcher. They would have been thanking their lucky stars and glitter eye shadow for a chance to try out for a part in a movie. Madison would sacrifice the KATs for a chance to do both.

But most girls my age didn't have to keep a bargain with a fairy prince.

I squeezed my duffel through the doors and followed the sign that read
CASTING CALL
.

A few hopeful child actresses and half the mothers looked up when I shouldered my way into the waiting room. My face flamed.

I wished Lena would hurry up and find the lot number.

A door opened at the far wall. A woman with a severe-looking bun stood in it, holding a clipboard. “Jenkins and Johnson.”

Two girls—one with long brown hair and another in an extremely pink dress—stood up and disappeared after bun-and-clipboard lady.

Good. They were going in alphabetical order, and they were only at
J
. Judging by the number of people waiting, I had maybe eight girls ahead of me. Plenty of time for me to leave, find the Hidden Troll Court, steal a scepter from a bunch of trolls, and get back.

I glanced round the room, wondering if I'd gone to school with any of these girls before I moved, but I didn't see anyone I recognized. Well, the one shredding a flyer between her hands looked exactly like Madison—

Oh, my God,
I thought, as the girl looked up and my gaze shot down to the duffel under my feet. It was Madison.
Crap
.

She had definitely recognized me, too. She straightened up and squared her shoulders. I resisted the urge to touch the makeup on my eye. Great.
Now
I was officially nervous.

“Rory!” hissed the magic mirror in my hand.

I slung on my carryall and marched out, leaving my duffel behind.

“Sorry!” I whispered to the mirror, as soon as I ran out into the sunshine.

Lena waved aside the apology, as I dodged some women dressed like Jane Austen—extras in some sort of period piece. “I figured out what was taking so long. It's in the Shed.”

“What shed? Like a costume-production workshop?”

“No, the lot's name is the Shed.”

“Um . . .” I'd never heard a lot being called something like that. I glanced up at the sign, the one that said 16 to 20 were to the right and 21 to 25 were to the left. “All these lots are numbered.”

“Exactly! So this lot must have been built and taken over before there were so many of them,” Lena said happily, like this was helpful information.

I stepped over to the wall so a tour tram could drive by. “But which way am I supposed to go?”

“No, Rory—it no longer exists! That's why it's hidden! It's the most brilliant thing ever! Either the trolls have one smart person, or someone else came up with the design.”

The excitement was too much for Lena. She started coughing so hard that she fished in her pocket and unwrapped a cough drop.

“Lena, saying something doesn't exist doesn't help me,” I told her, kind of freaked out. “We need the Hidden Troll Court to exist. We need that scepter.”

“In 1924 the whole studio burned down, right?” Lena
explained, kind of hoarse. “It's like the carryall backpacks. You burn down a space into its essence and you incorporate it into the backpack. Same deal—the trolls did the same thing with one of the lots. That's why everybody knew it was in L.A., but no one could find it.”

“Wow, Lena,” I said, impressed. “Only a genius could make that connection.”

“Well,” Lena said, “I've also spent a lot of time with carryalls recently. Now you just need to find the external container—the thing that's like the actual backpack part of the design.”

“Oh,” I said with a sinking feeling. Looking for something a lot smaller than an abandoned lot might slow us down.

“According to my scrying spell and Google map calculations, it should be right next to lot sixteen,” Lena said, and I jogged right, searching. “You should be able to see it from there. And it'll be pretty—I don't think the trolls can help themselves.”

•  •  •

I found lot 16 and flattened myself in its doorway. I scanned the area, but all I saw was the back lot, which looked like an empty neighborhood: a small bakery, a law office, a brownstone with a short flight of steps leading up to the front door, a fountain attached to the side—

“What about that?” I flipped my M3 around so that Lena could see the three-foot statue backed up against the wall—a young couple doing a tap number. Water spewed from their outstretched jazz fingers into a basin about the same size as a plastic kiddie pool.

“Yes!” Lena said. Two set designers gaped at me as their trolley passed, one almost dropping his staple gun.

Blushing, I noticed the plaque as I got closer:

J
ANE
O
LIVIER AND
M
ARTY
T
HOMAS LOST THEIR LIVES IN A STUDIO FIRE ON
J
ULY
19, 1924. T
HE TIP-TAPPING STEPS AND REAL-LIFE LOVE OF THIS MARRIED DANCING COUPLE WILL ALWAYS BE REMEMBERED IN SUCH FILMS AS
L
OVE
K
NOCKS
O
NLY
T
WICE
AND
T
HE
M
AN IN THE
G
REEN
T
IE
.

That was actually kind of sad—both the lame movie titles and the fact they'd died. “It's a memorial.”