The Zodiac Collector (8 page)

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 when 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 into 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.”

“You're okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She stays close as we walk.

“I am Zeena, the Zodiac Collector,” the old woman tells us when we get to her little shack. It's situated in the middle of a little clearing, on top of a small hill. With the sun beating on it, it almost seems quaint. Like the gingerbread house that Hansel and Gretel got lured into.

Zeena opens the door. It creaks loudly. Inside is packed with all kinds of things, and a dusty, moldy scent occupies the empty spaces from months of non-use. If she opens the window and keeps the door open—and maybe lights a few dozen scented candles—the smell might evaporate by the end of the faire.

She shuffles to a wooden chair and side table tucked into a corner. The floorboards moan and creak under her weight. Shelves line all the walls. Candles, jewelry trees filled with necklaces, pins, rings, and earrings, glass bottles of various colors and sizes filled with powders or liquids, books—you name it, she has it.

She swings her arm in an arc, the sleeve of her robe billowing. “See something you like?”

Mary and I scan the room.

“You've got lots of stuff,” I say.

“Here's my favorite collection.” She pulls a velvet-covered, notebook-sized plaque off a shelf. On it are trinkets for each zodiac symbol—waves for Aquarius, an arrow with a line through it for Sagittarius, a circle with a curlicue tail for Leo. All of them are there except for Libra, Aries, and Gemini.

“Oh, we're not interested in buying anything.” Mary smiles sweetly, softening the blow of saying no.

“I'm not selling these, dear. I'm collecting them.” Her eyes shift to my pin.

I cover it instinctively. “This was a gift,” I blurt.

“Are you Gemini?”

We nod in unison.

Zeena's mouth quivers. “Do you know the original Gemini twins?” The room darkens, as if the sun has gone under.

“Castor and Pollux. Our dogs are named after them,” Mary replies.

A rush of wind comes up and swirls around the shack. It chatters under the pressure and the door slams shut with a
bang!

Mary yelps and clutches my arm tighter.

The old woman's gaze darts to the single window. “Such a smart girl.”

“We should get going. Thanks for showing us around.” Mary edges toward the door.

“Hold on. I want to give you girls something.” She cradles the plaque in one arm while drawing her fingers along a shelf of potions. She taps a bottle with her fingertip and picks it up. The white powder inside shimmers. “Here it is.”