The hot morning had turned to rain by the time I’d gotten up again, and it felt odd rising so close to sunset. I’d gone to bed in a bad mood, and I awoke with the same, having been startled into consciousness by Skimmer ringing the front bell at about four in the afternoon. I’m sure Ivy had answered it as fast as she could, but going back to sleep was too much an effort. Besides, Ceri was coming over tonight, and she wasn’t going to find me in my underwear again.

My arm ached as I stood at the sink in my shorts and camisole and polished the copper teakettle; Ceri’s silent disgust at my kettle this morning had galvanized me into cleaning it. She was going to help me sketch out another calling circle. Maybe in chalk this time, so it wasn’t as gross. I was starting to look forward to Minias’s visit. He might destroy the focus in exchange for my finding Newt for him, and after watching Ceri bargain with Al, I wanted her help with Minias. That woman was more devious with her turns of phrase than Trent.

I had called David before falling asleep, and after a heated discussion that had emptied the church of every last pixy, he flatly told me that if the murderer hadn’t tracked the focus to him by now, whoever it was probably wouldn’t, and moving it out of his freezer would only draw attention to it. I wasn’t convinced, but if he wouldn’t bring it to me, I’d have to go get it. Meaning I’d be bringing it home on the bus or the back of Ivy’s cycle. Neither of which was a good idea.

Blowing a red curl out of the way, I rinsed the kettle, dried it, and set it on the back burner. It wasn’t gleaming, but it was better. The cloying scent of polish was thick in the close air, and since the rain had stopped, I shoved the window open with two gritty fingers.

Cool damp drifted in, and I looked out onto the dark, soggy garden as I washed my hands. A frown settled as I saw my nails, the polish ruined and green in the cuticles. Crap. I just did them, too.

Sighing, I set the dish towel aside and turned to the pantry. I was starved, and if I didn’t eat something before Ceri got here, I’d look like a pig when I ate the entire bag of cookies intended for the occasion. I stood in the walk-in pantry, staring at the cans of fruit, bottles of ketchup, and cake mixes in the tidy rows into which Ivy organized our groceries. She’d probably label them if I let her. I reached for the elbow macaroni and an envelope of powdered sauce—quick, fast, full of carbs. Just what the witch doctor ordered.