Page 11 of The Diamond in the Rough

“But?”

“The last thing he did was put it in a box. Like a gift box.” Obviously the necklace could have been exchanged without anyone making physical contact with it. What I’d learned from Mason was that magical objects needed to be handled carefully—you didn’t want to touch one with your fingers unless you were going todosomething with it.

“So?” Parikh seemed confused.

“A practitioner wouldn’t handle a magical object unless they were going to use it,” I explained.

“So you’re telling me that this thing”—He gestured at the necklace.—“could have gone through another dozen pairs of hands and you wouldn’t know?”

“Not literally,” I replied. “If it had touched their hands, I would know.”

He gave me a look that I didn’t quite understand, as though I’d said something confusing. But I didn’t know what was confusing about what I’d said, so I just didn’t say anything.

He let out a heavy sigh, then stood, collecting the necklace and returning it to the evidence bag, although he didn’t bother re-sealing it.

“Thank you for your time.”

2

More goddamn bills.Some day—probably in a decade, given his luck—they’d finally pay back all the damn medical bills.

Admittedly, they’d had a pretty good streak the last couple of years, managing to avoid any more hospitalizations, but between his spinal injury and Mason getting shot, they still had outstanding debts.

At least the business was doing well enough that they were able to do more than just the minimum payments. And Eleanor seemed to think that another five years was all they’d need to get back in the black, even with the renovations to the house.

He wondered how much it was going to cost to adopt kids.

I sighed,wiggling my fingers a little as I put the letter-opener back into the cup on the desk, and reminded myself for probably the dozenth time that I should remember to put my gloves on when I opened up envelopes. I usually did, but the machine-run ones that were mass-mailings rarely had any impressions on them—but I’d forgotten,again, that sometimes otherpeople used the letter opener if they got to the mail before I did because it was the only one we actually had.

Maybe I should just buy another one. Or a set, and give them to everyone else to keep in their offices.

It wasn’t that I minded occasionally getting impressions from Ward—or from Mason or Beck, since I liked them all—it just sometimes, like now, felt a little personal. Invasive. Like I knew things I wasn’t supposed to know.

I knew Mason and Ward liked kids because they brought Jackson to work sometimes, and they both clearly adored him. Part of me felt a little jealous that the boy got the kind of childhood I’d never had—the kind of thing I’d wished for from the lonely solitude of my room, especially in the aftermath of a so-called ‘therapy’ session when they’d forcibly stripped magic from me.

Jackson was being trained to use his abilities by people who loved him. My family had tried to strip mine away, not cultivate them.

Sometimes, Mason or Ward worked with both of us—Jackson was a death witch, like me—on a particular skill, and I had to remind myself that it wasn’t some sort of competition or indication of worth if I was more or less adept at whatever it was than a twelve-year-old. Jackson had been raised by a family who cultivated and applauded witchcraft, while I’d learned nothing about mine that I hadn’t taught myself until I was twenty. But I was also twice Jackson’s age, and there were definitely things that I understood much faster—and that shouldn’t have been a point of pride.

I wondered how far they were in the adoption process—if Ward and Mason were simply thinking about it or if they’d gotten serious.

And then I reminded myself that it really wasn’t any of my business.

Still flexing my fingers, I threw out the mass-mailing telling us about window replacement sales and tried to push Ward’s worries about bills and future kids out of my mind.

I was back at the front desk, sorting through email requests, following up with those that needed following up, booking those that I knew Ward, Mason, and Beck would want prioritized. I had green tea in my mug, heavily dosed with sweet cream creamer. I liked tea lattes, but I hated going to coffee shops and I couldn’t realistically afford to buy them regularly, so I made do with creamer.

I was focused on the spreadsheets in front of me when the door was essentially flung open, admitting an average height, ruddy-faced man in a business suit, a few drops of sweat forming at his thinning temples despite the fairly cool temperatures. He wasn’t wearing a mask and didn’t pull one out of his pocket, which made me a little nervous—shifters and other Arcanids might not have to wear masks, but this man was neither. I could tell from the lack of magic around him.

He stopped suddenly, staring at me, and I stared back, perhaps because his surprising entrance had startled me into forgetting that I wasn’t supposed to stare at people. I was also supposed to welcome them and ask if I could help, but he spoke before I managed to do more than pull up the gaiter-style grey mask I wore around my neck for when people came in.

“Where’s the medium?” he demanded, turning away from me, his eyes focused down the hallway, as though by looking for Ward, he could summon him. The man’s accent was one that I couldn’t quite identify. It was vaguely southern,but not familiar enough to be Virginian. I thought perhaps Georgia, or maybe Tennessee.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” I asked politely, as I managed to realign myself with the walk-in client script.

“What?” He seemed surprised that I’d spoken. Or maybe just that I’d questioned his presence.

“Do you have an appointment?” I repeated.