“Anything particular you’d like to sample tonight?” Mrs. Mercier asked.
Scout did a little bow. “You’re the expert, Mrs. M. Whatever you’ve got, we’d love to sample. Oh, and Lily’s a vegetarian.”
“You’re in luck,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the stoves behind her.
There were pots and pans there, which must have been the source of the delicious smells. “We made dal with potatoes. Lentils and potatoes,” she explained. She put a hand on my shoulder and smiled kindly. “Is that okay with you?”
“That sounds really great. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome. Any friend of Scout’s is a friend of mine.”
Mrs. M plated up a heaping mound of rice topped by the saucy lentils and chunky potatoes, and brought us glass cups of dark, rich tea that tasted like cinnamon and cloves. She pulled up a chair as we ate, crossing her long legs and swinging an ankle, arms crossed over her chef jacket, as Scout filled her in on our last few weeks of adventures. The dinner was amazing—even if stew hadn’t been our only other option. And it felt normal. Just the three of us in the kitchen of a busy bakery,
eating dinner and catching up.
It was clear that Mrs. M loved Scout. I’m not sure what specific thing had brought them together—although I assumed the youngest Mercier had been targeted by a Reaper and that Scout had helped. That was, after all, the kind of thing we did in Enclave Three.
When we were done with dinner, Mrs. Mercier walked us back to the front of the bakery. The workday was over, so the bakery was closing up. The OPEN sign on the door had been flipped, and Henry stood in front of the case, spraying it with glass cleaner and wiping it down.
Mrs. M gave Scout a hug, then embraced me as well. “I need to get a cake ready for tomorrow. Take back some snacks for yourselves and your suitemates, if you like.” She disappeared into the back room, leaving me and Scout staring at a good twenty feet of sugar-filled glass cases.
“Holy frick,” I said, trying to take in the sight. I wasn’t really even hungry, but how was I supposed to pass up a choice like this? I thought of my dad—it was just the kind of decision he’d love to make. He probably would have spent ten minutes walking back and forth in front of the case, mulling over flavors and calories and whether such-and-such would be better with coffee or wine.
A stop at a doughnut place usually took twenty minutes, minimum.
Scout looked equally serious. Her expression was all-business. “Your mission,
Parker, should you choose to accept it, is to select an item from the bakery case.
It’s a difficult choice. The perils are many—”
“You are such a geek,” Henry said, the glass squeaking as he wiped it down.
“Whatever,” Scout said, tossing her head. “You’re a geek.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said doubtfully. He put his bottle of cleaner and a wad of paper towels on top of the bakery case, then walked around behind it. “All right, doofus.
What do you want for dessert?”
Scout leaned toward me. “Whatever you get—I’m eating half of it.”
“Good to know,” I said, then pointed at a sandwich made of two rings of pastry stuffed with cream and topped with almonds. “I’ll take one of those.”
“Excellent choice,” Henry said. “You have better taste than some people.”
Scout snorted.
Henry packed it in a small white box, taped it closed, and handed it over with a smile. Then he turned to Scout. “And you, little Miss Geek? What do you want?”
“I am not a geek.”
“Okay, dork. What do you want?”
This time, Scout stuck out her tongue, but that didn’t stop her from pointing to a small tart that was topped with fruit and looked like it had been shellacked with glaze. “Tartlet, please,” she told Henry. He boxed one up for her, and after teasing her with the box for a minute or two, finally handed it over.
“You kids have a great weekend,” he said, as Scout and I headed for the door.
“You, too, geeko.”
The door chimed as we walked through it and emerged back into the hustle and bustle of Chicago. Couples heading out to dinner and tourists getting in some final shopping hurried up and down Erie. Even though the workweek was officially over,
the city didn’t seem to slow down. I wondered what it would take for Chicago to be as quiet and calm as my small town of Sagamore . . . and I bet freezing winter winds and a few inches of snow probably did that just fine.
“They’re good people,” Scout said as we crossed the street.
“They seem great. The youngest son—”
“Alaine,” she filled in.
“Was he a Reaper target?”
She nodded. “He was. He went to school with Jamie and Jill. They tagged him when he was pretty far gone—depressed all the time, not interacting with his family.
And how could you not interact with that family? They’re awesome.”
“They seem really cool,” I agreed. “And Mrs. M clearly loves you.”
“I love her back,” Scout admitted. “It’s proof that sometimes people come into your life you didn’t expect. That’s how a family is made, you know?”
Having been dropped off by my parents at a school I wasn’t crazy about—and having met Scout on my first day at St. Sophia’s—I definitely knew. “Yeah,” I said. “I get that. You and Henry get along pretty well.”
“Ha,” she said. “Henry’s a secret geek. He just doesn’t want to admit it. He watches every sci-fi movie he can find, but wouldn’t tell his friends that. He plays baseball, so sci-fi isn’t, you know, allowed or whatever.”
We walked quietly back down the block, pastry in hand.
“Are you ready to talk about whatever it is you’re not talking about?”
I trailed my fingers across the nubby top of the stone fence around St. Sophia’s.
“Not really.”
“You know I’m here for you, right?”
“I know.”
She put an arm around my shoulders. “Do you ever wish that sometimes the world would just stop spinning for a few hours to give you a chance to catch up?”
“I really do.”
She was quiet for a second. “At least we have dessert.”
That was something, I guess.
It wasn’t until hours later, when Scout and I were in her room, listening to a mix of music from the 1990s, that I finally felt like talking.
“Jump Around” was blasting through the room. Scout sat cross-legged on her bed, head bobbing as she mouthed the rhymes, her Grimoire in her lap. Since my plans to sketch the SRF still hadn’t worked out, I sat on the floor adding details to a drawing of the convent, filling in the texture of brick and jagged stone while I picked at my pastry. And Scout had been right about that—maybe it was the whipped cream (the real kind!), or maybe it was the sugar (lots of it), but it did help.
I finally put my sketchbook away, put my hands in my lap, and looked up at her.
“Can we talk about something?”
She glanced up. “Are you going to break up with me?”
“Seriously.”
Her eyes widened, and she used the remote to turn off the music. “Oh. Sure. Of course.” She dog-eared a page of her Grimoire, then closed it and steepled her fingers together. “The doctor is in.”
And so, there on the floor of her room, I told her what I’d seen in the SRF, and what I’d learned in my follow-up visit to Foley’s office.
And then I asked the question that scared me down to my bones.