Page 45 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mariah felt beautiful tonight. As she settled a napkin on her lap, she felt eyes on her.

Her hair was freshly washed, her dress of Moroccan origin, made of light airy cotton with long sleeves and a modest neckline, the hem falling just below her knees.

She’d cinched the waist with a long braided-leather belt of her mother’s and worn long, delicate earrings that caught the light of the candles.

People noticed her, the women and the men, and she beamed a little, knowing it was random, not unique to her, like being a flower in bloom.

Once her mother told her to enjoy it—it didn’t last forever.

Veronica received a text. “It’s from Jill,” she said. “First of all, your uncle is home.”

“Yay!” Mariah said.

“She also sent more of the letters from your mom to my email, which is good. I got a lot out of the first few.” Veronica, too, looked especially good tonight, Mariah thought.

Her hair was loose on her shoulders, waving softly, and she’d lightened up on the makeup, just a little shine on her mouth, some mascara.

There was a glow in her eyes, and Mariah thought it was Marrakech. It affected some people that way.

But those clothes! She wore a plain white shirt that buttoned up the front, and jeans. She needed something new. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. Find some clothes. Yeah?”

Veronica hesitated. “I’m happy to go with you, but I’m not a big shopper for myself.”

“We’ll see,” Mariah said. “Tonight”—she raised her mint tea in a glass decorated with blue and gold around the top—“let’s enjoy Marrakech.”

“Is there another city with more of a sense of mystery?” Veronica asked, raising her glass.

“So many,” Henry said in his rich voice. “You’d like a lot of them, I think.”

“To exploration.”

They toasted.

“Are we ordering like your mom would have?” Veronica asked, scanning the menu.

“Let’s just have a normal meal,” Henry suggested.

“I’m down with that,” Mariah agreed. The night was cooler than she’d imagined, and she pulled a shawl around her shoulders. “I definitely want some finger foods, the olives and apricots and bread,” she said, “although I know you guys already had some.”

They debated the qualities of tagines, and pastilla . “Pigeon?” Veronica echoed. “Hmm. It’s new, but ... that’s hard to think about, for me.”

“Some women here don’t eat pigeon or dove to honor a woman named Lalla Zohra, who took the shape of a dove at night to fly around the city and do miracles,” Henry said. “You can just claim to be one of her acolytes.”

“That’s a great story,” Mariah said. “I’ve never heard it before.”

Veronica beamed at him. “Thank you for letting me off the hook.”

Henry smiled back, lingering, and Mariah saw something shining from him. A light she hadn’t seen in him before.

Oh, shit. It was Veronica . Who sat there all dewy and pretty, all for Henry.

That raised a lot of tangled feelings in her gut, things she didn’t have any right to feel, and she didn’t want to deal with them anyway. She focused back on the menu.

After they ordered, she realized she was still too cold. “I need to get a sweater,” she said. “Veronica, do you want me to grab something for you?”

Veronica scooted back her chair. “I’ll go.”

“I’ve got it. The exercise is good for me, right?” She waved Veronica back down. “Where is it?”

“Mine is on the back of the couch, I think. I had it there earlier.”

“I’ll be back.”

She wove her way through the network of hallways and stairs, remembering the tricks she’d learned over time, and let herself into the small complex.

A lamp glittered in the courtyard between their rooms, casting star-shaped light on the walls and the fountain.

She picked up Veronica’s sweater and turned back toward her room, noticing a cat lounging by the fountain. She reached over to stroke its ears.

The cat growled at something behind her, and Mariah jolted in fear, worried it might be a snake or something, but when she turned, there was nothing. Only the lamp, shimmering, and then—

Oh, cold. Such cold. Despairing, icy cold. A hundred times worse than whatever was in the basement at home. She froze in it, arms locked around her chest.

And then it was gone.

For a long minute, she stood still, waiting. Was she just out of her mind? Were all the psychic shows she’d been watching making her imagine things?

The cat wound around her ankles, and she bent down to pet it. “What do you think, baby?”

It blinked, gave a little meow, then headed off through some hidden door and disappeared. The lamp shimmered, steady and bright.

She shook her head and went back downstairs.