“Was that satisfying?”
“Of course not,” Mirella said, a little sharper than she’d intended, and Louisa gave her a surprised look.
“We should go somewhere,” Louisa said. “Maybe rent a cottage, get out of the city for a few days.”
“That sounds nice.” But Mirella was startled by the unhappiness that flooded through her at the suggestion. She very much did not want to go to a cottage with Louisa, she realized.
“But first,” Louisa said, “I need another drink.” She went inside and Mirella was alone for a while, then a woman came over to ask for a light and offered to tell Mirella’s fortune in return. Mirella held her hands out as instructed, palms up, embarrassed by the way they trembled. How could she have fallen out of love with Louisa so suddenly, so cleanly? How could the man in the tunnel in Ohio have surfaced all these years later in New York? How could Vincent be dead? The fortune-teller put her hands over Mirella’s hands, their palms almost touching, and closed her eyes. Mirella liked being able to watch her unobserved. The fortune-teller was older than Mirella had thought at first, somewhere in her thirties, first lines visible on her face. She was wearing a complicated arrangement of scarves.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Ohio.”
“No, I mean originally.”
“Still Ohio.”
“Oh. I thought maybe I heard an accent.”
“The accent’s from Ohio too.”
The fortune-teller’s eyes were still closed.
“You have a secret,” she said.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Her eyes opened. “You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine, and we’ll never see each other again,” she said.
It was an attractive proposition. “Okay,” Mirella said. “But you go first.”
“My secret is, I hate people,” the woman said, very sincerely, and for the first time Mirella liked her.
“All people?”
“All except maybe like three,” she said. “Your turn.”
“My secret is, I want to kill a man.” Was this true? Mirella wasn’t sure. It had a ring of truth about it.
The fortune-teller’s eyes darted over Mirella’s face, like she was trying to work out if this was some kind of joke. “A specific man?” she asked. She smiled tentatively—You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding?—but Mirella didn’t smile back.
“Yes,” Mirella said. “A specific man.” It became real as she said it.
“What’s his name?”
“Jonathan Alkaitis.” When had she last said the name out loud? She repeated it to herself, more quietly this time. “Actually, maybe I just want to talk to him. I don’t know.”
“Pretty big difference,” the fortune-teller said.
“Yeah.” Mirella closed her eyes against the dark of the sky, the tumult of the nearby party, the reek of cigarette smoke, the fortune-teller’s face. “I guess I’ll have to make up my mind.”
“Okay,” the fortune-teller said, “well, thanks for the light.” She slid away from Mirella and vanished into the party, through an open door like a portal into a lost world. It was a cold night, and the moon was brilliant over New York City. Mirella stood looking at it for a moment, then returned to the party, which felt like a dream she’d had once, all abstract color and commotion and lights. Louisa was dancing in the living room. Mirella stood watching her for a moment, then waded through the crowd.
“I’ve got a headache,” Mirella said. “I think I’m going to go.”
Louisa kissed her, and Mirella knew it was over. She felt nothing. “Call me,” Louisa said.
“Adieu,” Mirella said, as she backed away through the crowd, and Louisa, who spoke no French and didn’t understand the implication, blew her a kiss.
3
Last Book Tour on Earth /
2203
The first stop on the book tour was New York City, where Olive did signing events at two bookstores and then found an hour to walk in Central Park before the bookseller dinner. The Sheep Meadow at twilight: silvery light, wet leaves on the grass. The sky was crowded with low-altitude airships, and in the distance the falling-star lights of commuter aircraft streaked upward toward the colonies. Olive paused for a moment to orient herself, then walked toward the ancient double silhouette of the Dakota. Hundred-story towers rose up behind it.
The Dakota was where Olive’s new publicist was waiting, Aretta, in charge of all events in the Atlantic Republic. Aretta was a little younger than Olive, and deferential in a way that made Olive nervous. When Olive walked into the lobby, Aretta stood quickly, and the hologram with whom she’d been speaking blinked out. “Did you have a nice walk in the park?” she asked, already smiling in anticipation of a positive reply.