“It isn’t,” the Oracle said. “It is—I am loath to admit—merely a cogent commentary on the state of our once great profession. Where will you find a Thomas Bowlby these days? Or a Sir Henry Stanley? ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume’ has been replaced by celebrity gossip and sycophantic fawning, and I shudder to think what the future may hold for—”
“A ‘she’s right’ would have sufficed,” Carla said dryly.
“My dear woman, I was merely attempting to—”
“Prove that it’s impossible for you Brits to say anything in a single sentence? I’ve often wondered if it actually pains you.”
“Not nearly as much as working with the likes of—”
“Trust me, you would never be working with—”
“Who are all these people?” Witch’s Companion suddenly asked.
“What?” the Oracle said huffily. “What people? My girl, we are trying to discuss important—”
“These people on the concourse. They’re everywhere, and it’s not even ten o’clock yet.”
“The concourse? Where are— My God, she is!” he told someone, sounding outraged. “The little strumpet snuck down while we were distracted and is trying to steal a march on us!”
“I’m not a strumpet!” Witch’s Companion said, her voice coming through clearly, but also hiccupy, as if the owner was being battered around outside. “At least, I don’t think so; I don’t know what that is. And I’m not trying to steal anything. I just want to show the Pythia our latest issue, but these men won’t let me—”
“It’s the damn paparazzi,” Carla snarled, staring at the shop door. “We sit here for weeks and then someone tips them off—”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” the Oracle said. “Everyone knows you obtain half your stories through bribery, chicanery, and deceit—”
“At least we get stories that aren’t a month old! When was the last time you had a scoop?”
“Hey!” Witch’s Companion said. “Hey! Let me go! I don’t want to—”
“We are not concerned with ‘scoops,’” the Oracle said proudly. “We are concerned with the proper reporting of factual, well-researched, well-supported—”
“Can I yawn now?” Carla asked.
“Oh. Oh no,” Witch’s Companion said softly. “You’re not paparazzi at all, are you? You’re—”
The voice abruptly cut off, and her little black fluttery thing suddenly stopped moving and floated gently to the floor, like it was made out of tissue paper.
I bent down and picked it up.
And my bracelet started slamming into my pulse point hard enough to bruise.
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUST—”
My head jerked up, but I didn’t see anything. The shop was designed to keep people’s attention on the expensive wares inside, not on whatever was happening on the concourse, and it worked pretty well. All I could see were glimpses of the usual morning crowd, passing along the drag in colorful tees and unfortunate spandex.
I stood up and started walking cautiously toward the front.
“This is so typical,” Augustine said bitterly, from behind me. “She’s been the official Pythia for weeks now, but has she held a press conference? Given an interview? Made a single statement to anyone? I spend all my time trying to get press, and she spends hers avoiding it! It’s no wonder we’re inundated on a daily basis with nosy types, prowling around, hoping for a—”
“Cassie?” Françoise said, coming up behind me.
“—story, which wouldn’t be so bad if they were planning to mention the shop or the brand—”
“Cassie?” Françoise said again, and then froze, her hand on my arm, as I pulled back a couple of the hanging floral strands in the window.