Seconds pass in silence, and then he ducks out from the back room and greets me with an ivory smile.
“There you are,” he says cheerfully, as if greeting an old friend. I return the smile and hand him my application.
“Hello,” I say softly. I don’t remember his name, though. Did he even tell me his name? I can’t very well call him fairy godblazer for the next three hours.
“Roonie...” he nods, reading my name off the application, and then extends his hand. “I’m Anderson.”
“Like Hans Christian Andersen?” Creator of fairy tales? My eyes widen as I grip his hand and try to follow the rhythm of his bouncy handshake.
“With an ‘o’, but yes.” He shoots me another ivory smile and gestures for me to follow him around the back counter. I do so.
I’ve never been in an employees-only area before. It feels one-part Cinderella at the ball, and one-part dream come true.
We head into the back room, passing shelf after shelf of neatly packed boxes, and head toward a door at the back. He holds the door open for me, and I enter an office area with papers posted all over the cork board and a surprisingly old computer sitting on a cluttered desk.
Anderson files my application in a wall-mounted folder and turns to me.
“And that concludes our tour,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him back out into the store.
Hurriedly, I follow.
“All you have to do is clean. If any customers come in, just holler.” He stops at a supply closet. Inside are the familiar tools of my old trade: a vacuum cleaner, paper towel, cleaning spray, things like that. Definitely Cinderella. “Start at this shelf over here and work your way around. I’ll be in the back. I have a backlog of orders, and I want to have them and your necklace done before closing.”
I dutifully nod.
“You’ve got everything you need then?” Anderson asks.
I nod again.
“Good stuff.” He claps his hands and disappears into the back room. Guess that’s that.
I am left alone in the showroom. My only accompaniment is the hum of the air conditioning.
I crack my knuckles and then grab the dusting cloth. Time to get to work.
As I dust each shelf and display case, I hum to myself. Humming turns into wordless singing, which turns into a yelp.
A splinter pierces my rubber gloves and stabs my finger. Its tiny size is more than compensated for by its sharpness. Drawing a strained breath, I pull off my glove. The splinter dislodges.
I wonder where it came from. Maybe it was placed here by a wicked witch who wants to put a curse on me. Just like how Sleeping Beauty was destined to prick her finger on a spinning wheel on her sixteenth birthday. Maybe I was meant to get this splinter and unleash a terrible curse.
I freeze, waiting to see if I, too, might fall asleep—but nothing happens.
Wicked witch, wicked witch... I sing softly as I finish wiping the shelf free of dust. Upon closer inspection, there is a little rough patch with a few shreds of wood hanging loose, which explains the splinter.
“You’re not a witch’s curse, are you?” I ask softly.
Then the bells above the front door jingle, and the familiar looming shadow in the doorway makes me think I spoke too soon.
Instinctively, I duck behind the display case. I wish I could hold on to my precious necklace fragments for reassurance, but they’re with Anderson, so I hold my breath.
Crouching, I hope against hope that he won’t see me, even though I certainly saw him. I would recognize that lanky figure and black hair anywhere. Silas.
I knew it was no ordinary splinter. I must be cursed.
Instinctively, I think up a song about a curse, and I’m forced to squeeze my lips tight so no sound escapes.
My hands are trembling as I wait for him to go away. Seconds pass, but his dark shadow still lurks by the door. I can’t say exactly why I feel so afraid of him, especially after I kicked him in the balls. Maybe it’s because I kicked him in the balls. Either way, I can’t face him right now.
“Hello?” Silas calls out.
I hold my breath, waiting for my fairy godblazer to rescue me.
“Just a moment,” Anderson shouts from the back.
Silas steps further into the store, humming a familiar tune under his breath. It’s the chorus I heard him sing, the one Charles and JJ said he can’t seem to get past.
I long to sing it with him, to help him come up with the next verse, but he wouldn’t want my help. Plus, then he’d know I was hiding behind a shelf the whole time, spying on him when he thought he was alone.
Footsteps echo from the back, and Anderson steps out. “Now, how can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you buy used jewelry?” Silas asks, and something clinks onto the counter.
I picture Anderson picking up whatever it is Silas brought with stubby fingers. Then I realize that I’m still hiding behind a shelf, and wonder if he’ll notice that I’m missing. What if he calls out my name and Silas finds out I’m here?
He doesn’t.
“Those are some wonderful-looking pieces,” Anderson says, sounding impressed. “You’re sure you’d like to sell these?”
Silas hesitates. For a second, I think he might change his mind, but then he says, “I’m sure.”
“Then wait right here. Let me grab a few things from the back, and I’ll assess these for you.”
Anderson disappears again. I expect Silas to stay at the counter, but he takes a step. Toward me. A few more steps, and he’ll be on my side of the display case. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him see me.
As quietly as a mouse, I creep alongside the display case. Just like a mouse, all I want to do is to avoid the bite of Silas the Snake.
Shuffling sideways, I’m careful not to lose my balance. I can’t risk dropping to all fours and trying to crawl. It would make too much noise.
Silas takes another step. I picture him examining some of the shiny diamonds in the display cases, not paying me any attention. He’s about to spot me, so I quickly scramble around the corner of the display.
Except that’s when Silas suddenly changes trajectory. Instead of continuing around the case, he goes back the way he came. Fast steps as he hums his chorus. One. Two. Three. He crashes right into me.
With a yelp, Silas takes a stumbling step back. Startled, he starts to lose his balance and grabs onto the first thing he can—a protruding shelf. He clings onto it and tries to right himself, but then it makes a sickening crack and starts to tilt forward.
Silas lets go, as if he were burned, and falls flat on the floor. Bracelets and necklaces rain down onto his head, and he lets out several pained grunts. One flies a bit further and hits me on the knee, which throbs painfully. Poor Silas.
Then one particularly large item, a jewel-encrusted keepsake box, slides off the shelf and hits Silas on the forehead. He lets out a pained cry, covering his head while it crashes to the ground and instantly shatters.
I gasp, and Silas looks down at the broken box in horror. Then I gasp again when he turns his horrified eyes on me. Blood trails down his forehead, and I’m about to rush to his aid when his face transforms.
His nostrils flare. His skin reddens. His lips curl. He reminds me so much of Father that my heart nearly stops.
I prepare to flee when Anderson’s distant voice pierces the silence. “Is everything all right out there?”