WHO: Ofelia & Faihan WHEN: September 6 WHERE: AzĂșcar SUMMARY: Ofelia's son is the devil, but then, who raised him? CW: Mother Issues?
He decided that he would close early. It was, after all, Faihanâs birthday. The midday rush was over, and though people still were dropping by, coming to and from the beach or shopping, it was quiet enough that he thought it might be a good time to start tidying things up in preparation for the impromptu early close.
Perhaps he would go for a walk along the beach, maybe eat a raspado...heâd had one that was chile and tamarind recently, and his thoughts had kept returning to that little slice of Heaven.
The bakery was small. At least the reception area of the bakery was quite small. There was little space between the counter (filled with what remained of his morningâs bakingâall immaculately arranged in pretty rows) and the door. Behind the counter, the doorless entry to the kitchen was visible. It wasnât the biggest kitchen ever, but it beat the kitchen in his tiny apartmentâspacious enough for the work he needed to do. To the right of the counter, a small hallway led to a semi-outdoor patio with a few tables and chairs.
Though it was a bright blue façade (which presently promised a free scoop of lavender ice cream with every purchase of the dayâs special: ), loudly colorful between the adjacent shops, the entire bakery had a very hole-in-the-wall atmosphere.
Hole-in-the-wall and a smidge industrial. It wasnât quite Brooklyn exposed beams and brick, but there was an irrefutable masculine edge and something a bit modern and trendy in the roughness of the decĂłr.
With no one in the bakery, he began to sweep behind the counter, humming to himself. Soon enough, the humming became singing, and he was softly singing to himself, where he could remember the lyrics. It wasnât a perfect science, though he seemed to have the chorus down pretty well.
Ofelia had never wanted children. As a girl, she had never dreamed of raising a family, had harbored no aspirations beyond herself for as long as she could now remember. She was simply not cut out for it, she reasoned. She was not, as a matter of fact, a maternal person at all. Tenderness chafed in her. Love burned in her, making it hard to channel it, to control it and share it as selflessly as a mother was meant to do. Ofelia considered herself, by nature and design, entirely incapable of it and therefore unsuitable for the job.
But here she was: ten years into a gamble she wasnât sure yet would ever pay off, and finding it still no easier than the day sheâd first discovered she was pregnant.
It wasnât that she disliked the boy. On the contrary, she loved Gabriel relentlessly in her heart. Loving him was the easy part; the thing lived in her like an incurable disease, thriving and growing every day. It was the rest she found so difficult to muster: care, attention, amusement, finding the person that was slowly growing out of the infant she had once held like a football (and every bit as uncertain what to do with him). She found the very idea that her son was a person individual from herself appalling.
And so, most of the time, she chose not to acknowledge it.
His whims were her whims. And hers were his. They survived this way, in a kind of symbiotic malcontent.
But she was smiling broadly when the door to the bakery swung open at her touch, red lips outlining rows of perfectly white teeth. Gabriel sidestepped, halfway pushing past her to rush the counter and press his small, pitched features up close to the glass. The smells surrounded themâsweet, sugary, floral, nutty, and powdery airâand, for a moment, Ofelia forgot the rest of her senses.
But she caught the tail end of his humming, and the soft, fading melody as it slipped away drew her back into her body with an ugly sensation. She paused, blinking at the sound, smile unwavering.
âNice,â she said, eventually. âYou sure youâre a baker, not a singer?â
Faihan liked children. The thing about kids: they would scream in your face and kick their feet when they were angry, but when a kid knew they were in your care, they knew they needed you. So they could say they hated you all day, but they still needed you, and they needed you to make it clear that you cared about them. That meant that deep down, they did care about you. Deep down, they wanted you to love them.
And he got that. It made sense to him, because, well, thatâs how he was with most everyone even at 25...because he was 25 today, it turned out. So he never doubted the relationship between a kid and a parent, even as his own relationship with his parents was⊠Well, they were talking now. They hadnât been two years ago. And as much as he would like to just not give a single fuck about whether they loved him or were proud of him...he still did.
He probably always would.
Plus, they were easy to read. The things they cared about, they engrossed themselves inâa T.V. show, a comic book, or in this case, the meticulously arranged rows of sugary sweets in a bakery. A kid who came in and was fussy about Faihanâs creations...always made him feel a little worried inside, second-guessing whether he had made anything that was worth the money the bratâs parents were about to give him. But a kid like this, already pressed against the glass⊠A good kid.
A good kid who had distracted him long enough that he forgot he was still singing, until she brought it up. He knew the Bravo name, though Faihan was not so familiar with the faces. The family was large and he had heard a number of things about them, some said in awe, some said in distaste, and often in envy. But he knew who she was, because she had a face you didnât forget, and the society page of the paper loved her dramatic eyes and red-light mouth.
(Yes, he still got paper newspapers; newspaper was useful for a lot of things. One couldnât look down on the second life of it. Plus, it made him less depressed than scrolling through bad news.)
Ofelia Bravo. She had a sharkâs smile, he thought. Rows of teeth ready to shred. He thought he should probably mind his manners, though he was rarely inclined to to do so with anyone, especially society people. It was just that he didnât know if he could survive the promise of that smile if he provoked her. But he didnât smile at the compliment, because it was one he heard a lot, and it was one that always rubbed him the wrong way. Instead, he cleared his throat, averting his eyes.
âPop songs were made to be easy to sing along to,â he said as modestly as he could muster. Please donât bring up the video. He glanced at one of the signs by the counter forbidding video in the bakery. âHow can I help you, Señora Bravo?â
Briefly, Ofeliaâs eyes followed the subtle line of his gesture to the sign, then flitted back again. It was an odd thing to have put up in a bakery, of all places. But, then, she seemed to recall something about a singing baker, some meme or viral video that had gone around with particular potency for a few months, or so. She remembered her annoyance, but not much else about it. A handsome young man, a beguiling croon, a billion comments extolling the singerâs enrapturing, intoxicating, mesmerizing voice and his beautiful eyesâand Ofelia rolling her own, as sheâd tossed her phone with a growl into a pillow. Yes, she thought, looking away again, this was the very man. And he was handsome, she supposed. And talented; she was also forced to acknowledge this, if her recollection of the video was correct. But plenty of people in this world were beautiful, plenty could carry a tune. She didnât see what all the fuss was about. No, and she never had either. Social media had made everybody in the whole world stupid, she thought; their tastes so fleeting and shallow. Pretty young men would always take the lead.
âSure,â Ofelia said, after a moment, with a shrug, though her lips never closed, her teeth never quite seemed to disappear behind them. The smile was a harsh, solid thing on her face, and it made you wonder how much of it might be plastic after all. âPop songs are all the same in that sense,â she went on, following her son over to the counter. âAnd simple. Made easy for anyone to catch on and be able to sing along to, whatever their skill level. Thatâs how you sell records, after all.â (Isnât that what theyâd told her?) She leaned over the boy, a moment of gentleness between mother and son with her sharp claws light upon his slim shoulders, her hair falling across her cheek as she tipped lower to peer through the glass. Ofelia missed plain old cupcakes, cookies in plastic containers from the convenience store, cheap snacks with papery coconut and icing that tasted more like paint than sugar. But these were no doubt richer, better made, the real deal...
Her son had expensive tastes. She supposed he might never know anything else in this world.
âI guess thatâs why I never liked pop music very much,â Ofelia was saying (though it was, in a way, a lie), tone utterly casual, as her eyes roved across the lines of pastries and unusual sweets stacked in tidy rows behind the glass. âNo real soul, in my opinion. Not that Top 40 shit, anyway. Give me something with a little meat. Something that hasnât been stripped of its authenticity. Something brave, for Christâs sake.â
She straightened, turned her neck slightly to glance back at the shopkeep with that unreadable smile still stretched across her teeth and cheekbones. Her eyes, some would say, were more like a sharkâs than her teeth: almost lifeless, like a dollâs. âYou look like youâre about to close up, though, so maybe we better not keep you. Whatâs on special today? Weâll take half a dozen of that and whatever this is heâs drooling over down here.â She gestured to her son, the glass case, then turned away from him fully, leaving him there to approach the baker. âSo I take it you donât like cameras?â
Yes, Faihan thought to himself, she was a shark. A great white, queen of the IZML oceansâthe most dangerous thing in the water (and, too, on land). Somehow, even her moments of tenderness reminded him of sharp things. He thought that to touch her would, at the very least, leave a scratch. His own mother was not especially soft. Probably softer to him (or was) than she had been to Jomanaâthe older child, the daughter. Their motherâs expectations of Jomana had always been mysterious to Faihan. He could not fathom the relationship between mother and daughter. But he had been her baby boyâher pride and joy.
Naglaa Helal was a complicated woman. She broke from tradition, sinking herself into her career and making herself a peer in a male-dominated field. She had not been willing to put aside her dreams for traditional expectations, and yet she had fettered both her children with expectations. She was a woman who would put aside grading papers to bake sweetsâdelighting in spoiling her little boy, letting him sit in her kitchen and watch her bake (and that was perhaps why he latched onto baking when things went sour; because he had felt safe in her kitchen, he had felt loved, and when he felt so very unlovedâŠ)âbut she was also a mother who believed in study over play, who would not as blatantly laugh in the face of a five-year-oldâs superstitions as her husband, but who nevertheless was also unwilling to tolerate foolishness. She was a scientist. She believed in fact and evidence. Yet, though she had fashioned herself into a world-class scientist, she was still beholden to the rules and mores sheâd grown up with, and those...
Ofelia Bravo was a mother made of points and edges, all serrated and threatening. But he had the feeling she had developed them to defend her son. Naglaa Helal was not made of cutting lines. She was an impenetrable wallâflat and impossible. She did not cut, she bruised (she bludgeoned). Her borders were seamless. Youâd bash yourself to death against her before you would change her mind on anything. He knew. Heâd tried. Why, he wondered, were mothers built like weapons? And, too, he wondered if he might appreciate it more had his own turned her arms to the rest of the world instead of on him. Mothers, it turned out, were a complicated subject for Faihan, only bested by the even more precarious topic of fathers.
His mother had left him a voice message that very morning. Today was important for both of them. A birthday was an ineffable bond between a mother and child, and so she could not restrain herself from observing it. Even in the years of Not Talking, she had still left him birthday messages. They had shared an experience that day that only a mother and child could knowâa once-in-a-lifetime moment. And so they could not avoid thinking of one another, no matter what they tried, on September 6.
She did not ask what his plans were, nor suggest any of her own, but she, perhaps (to her credit) left the message open so that if he were to suggest a plan for meeting...she would be there. He wouldnât. It wasnât in his nature. Because it meant that heâd have to risk rejection on his birthday. And he did not like to risk rejection on a regular day. He did not like to ask for things, because things that you asked for could be denied to you. Thus he never asked for help, never requested even the things he wanted most. He only accepted what he could give himself, because he knew, at least, that could never be used against him.
He finally lifted his gaze from the claws on the childâs shoulder to Ofeliaâs face. She was talking about pop songs, he thought. Heâd missed some of it in his internal wanderings. But he nodded, because it seemed like a bad idea to argue with Ofelia. He did not know exactly what she might do, only that he did not think that he could âwinâ against her in any way, so it seemed better to keep his own teeth carefully hidden.
âChocolate basbousa,â he said. (It was what his mother always used to make for him. A special treat. Not just the joy of basbousa, but the buttery joy of basbousa with a bitter edge of cocoa thrown in.) âAnd no, I donât like videos.â I donât like attention. âPop songs are okay, though. Theyâre meant to be easy...universal, so anyoneââ But he stopped himself, reminding himself to not be argumentative. âI guess they appeal more to some peopleâs experience than others,â he mumbled, pulling out a white bit of cardboard and shaping it into a box. And then, with a bit more oomph, âWhat about Selena? You canât tell me she didnât have soul...er...I meanâŠâ He had not been soft in recent years, and avoiding argumentative remarks was...hard. He cleared his throat and tried again in what he hoped was a more personable tone: âOr Whitney Houston. Do you like her?â
Ofelia lifted an eyebrow, watching him. Her teeth had finally disappeared behind her lips, though the red of them still curled into a sharp little hook at one end. He was repeating what sheâd just said, though he looked almost flustered at the sound of his own voice, as the half-formed remark petered out. Or, at the very least, there was some lingering reticence in the way he let the thought die. He cut himself off, stopped talking, went about his work, was professional and polite. There was something in the baker, though, and she sensed it; an undercurrent he was forcing below his own surfaces, and Ofelia had the most vicious impulse to tear it out of him. Her claws twitching at the clasp of her purse.
But she was like that. She knew this about herself by now. Ofelia could not look at someone behind a glass wall without wanting to throw a hammer at it and break it. She was never sure if she wanted to set the animals free, or if she simply liked the sound of glass shattering. She had notebooks (untouched now for at least a decade) full of destructive words: crack, fracture, damaged, split, splintered, tear, fragments, bust up, finish off, pull to pieces. She supposed she had, when she wrote them down, just liked the sound of them. The way they snapped from the end of her tongue when she sang them, or lumped in the throat like hot coals. Words that could choke you made the best song lyrics; the ability to sing past them, even if your voice tore on them, felt like a kind of grace.
But, of course, these had only ever been the spiky, overwrought dramas of a younger, more theatrical version of herself. Someone who believed too much in over-expressing every damn sentiment. She hadnât opened those books in years for a reason.
âSure,â Ofelia said again with a mild shrug, watching the flimsy white cardboard take shape in his nimble hands. âThereâs soul in the voice too. Of course. Whitney, Selena⊠How am I supposed to argue with that?â she added with a laugh, and her fingers slipped all the way into her purse to fish for her wallet. âBut how many pop stars are actually on that level? Come on. How many actually believe what theyâre singing to you? How many of them do you actually believe?â Glancing up again, Ofeliaâs gaze fell on the basbousa, a bright and airy looking pastry with a sugary crust. It was nearly perfect, and she thought, vaguely, how could a dessert be so immaculate? âA pretty voice and a catchy little earworm is fine, itâs fun,â she said, âbut when I hear Selena, I feel her goddamn heart beating, donât I?â She shrugged again, head tilting, teeth reappearing with a slight smile. âAnd I will always love youâthose are powerful words. So simple, but thereâs power in the simplicity, donât you think? Not originally a pop song, though.â
Very, very wisely...Faihan did not say that he had not even been a twinkle in his motherâs eye when Whitney Houston was belting out those words, so he didnât actually know what it was if not a pop song at its inception. He made a vague gesture, which seemed all-in-all not unlike a nod, and began to busy himself carefully placing basbousa into the box before starting a second one for the macarons which he expected the kid just misunderstood as general âcookies.â
Did little kids enjoy something as delicate in flavor and texture as a macaron? He doubted it, but then, she had told him to pack some up for her, so he dutifully did, picking out the least sophisticated flavors to not offend the childâs tongue later. There wasnât a whole lot left anyway, and so for the most part, he thought Ofelia Bravoâs son would have to make due with the dregs of the morning.
It was kind of funny to think of one of the richest children in town getting âdregs.â Though, he thought, none of his pastries were dregs. They were all carefully crafted and unique. If these remainders were less popular, it wasnât because they were not as good.
âYou know a lot about music. Were you a producerâŠ?â he asked after a moment, closing the second box and neatly stacking them atop one another. He looked under the counter for a bit of twine to tie them together, as well as his shopâs sticker to place on top of the parcel. âOr were you a singer?â he asked, glancing at the child. A pretty songbird, now in a cage. No, with a smile like that, he doubted anyone ever had put Ofelia Bravo in the corner. But perhaps she had tried and failed, in which case he likely shouldnât have asked. But to be fairâhe thought to himselfâshe was being a bit pointed in her assessments. Was tit for tat really that bad?
It could be. Rodolfo Bravo could shut down his shop, he was pretty sure, if he felt like it. He had the money and the pull to do whatever he wanted here.
But it was a simple question. Not a judgement. He hadnât said it in a judgemental tone had he? He could feel sweat pricking at the nape of his neck.
It was trueâshe had to admit; at least privately, and to herselfâshe liked the way he moved. She liked his soft, brown eyes and the flutter of those long, elegant lashes as he looked away from her. She liked the way his careful hands shaped the delicate cardboard, like the petals of a bulging flower, and arranged the desserts in tidy rows against the paper within. He had a craftsmanâs hands. And she liked the glisten of honey, crumbs stuck to his fingertips, as he closed the boxes and set them gingerly atop one another on the counter.
But he was terribly young, Ofelia supposed, with a silent sigh in the back of her mind. And she was getting too old for the terribly young. Even if his gently sonorous voice (even when speaking) seemed to hum in her bones like tree branches at the first whisper of oncoming rains. Gray and unnatural and inevitably unstoppable.
She hated it, but she liked it too.
When he stood again, with the twine, Ofelia had positioned herself with her palms against the counter, her shoulders tipped forward, the front of her blouse hanging loose now with a clever arch of her neck. It was habit, almost automatic, and for a moment, she did not realize her own posture had shifted. Not until he came up again, their faces suddenly closer than they had been a moment before, and he was asking her about her past.
She drew back slightly.
But the smile never left her lips, her teeth still exposed. Even as her eyes went suddenly whiter around the edges.
(They say, when a great white sinks its teeth into its prey, it rolls its eyes back all the way. Not in ecstasy, but in self-protection.)
Ofelia laughed. Something harsh sounding and high in her throat. âOh, Iâm just opinionated, dear,â she smirked, waving a hand and transferring the rest of her weight onto the opposite wrist. She glanced briefly at her son, who was now nose-deep in his phone again, then back again with a smoldering sort of gesture across the counter. âBut I like music. I like...captivating singers.â
But, then, something burst to life from the kidâs phone at her back, and Ofelia snapped, âGabriel!â her voice utterly changed in an instant from low and sweet to piercing.
But it was too late: a video, its familiar audio suddenly filling the small space of the bakery, went on playing, as the boy looked up with a churlish glare.
âWhat, mamĂĄ?â
It took him a second: the sound of oneâs voice recorded always sounds different from what a person hears in their head. So it took Faihan a moment to realize what was happening. Heâd finished securing the twine, even found the sticker and placed it neatly in one corner. But his fingers stilled when the song started playing, strangely loud in the empty bakery.
His eyes moved before his face followed. The Video. The Video. Here, in this shop. On his very birthday.
âStop that!â
Except that it was Rodolfo Bravoâs kid playing that stupid video, and it was his wife who was standing there, doing...he wasnât entirely sure what Ofelia was up to. He thought she might be threatening him in some way, because her smile seemed to imply that she might like to take a bite out of him. And she could. Or her husband could. The Bravos might as well own this island. Their money stretched so much further than anyone elseâs. And he had just yelled at the youngest son⊠He immediately slapped a hand to his mouth, turning red. Both angry at the intrusion and horrified by his own outburst. His hand on his mouth, he glanced back at Ofelia, and now it was his eyes that were showing a bit more of the white. He swallowed.
âI mean, please...donât play...thatâŠâ
He tried not to say it through gritted teeth, but this kid⊠Possibly devilspawn. The little sadist⊠And Faihan was having to apologize to him. He was probably going to grow up jacked up, and the brat would still get everything he wanted. He avoided looking at Gabriel so as to not glare daggers at a child, but the politeness felt bitter on his tongue. It made him feel a little queasy.
This kid had everything he could want. Faihan had little doubt that every material and immaterial joy he had ever requested had been served to him on a silver platter. He couldnât say what the Bravo patriarch might be like as a father, but he had a mother who had the ferocity of a shark in her smile, and looking at her, he had the sense that she would never sink her teeth into her own child. She would put them into herself first. It was only an impression, but he felt sure of it, and so this child even had the mother he had wanted. So why did he have to take anything away from anyone else?
He hated the Bravos. He hated their easy, untroubled existence. How they looked down at everyone from their glittering tower. How they laughed at the daily lives of the people below them. He hated them.
Faihan looked at Ofelia, biting the insides of his cheeks and his tongue to keep himself from saying anything more damning than he already had, because he wanted to. He really, really wanted to. His face burned, and he looked much like he could spit acid, but he kept his mouth firmly shut, wondering if Ofelia would say she didnât want any of this after all. (He also owed her the ice cream, he reminded himselfâever the businessmanâŠ)
âWill that be allâŠ?â he asked, very carefully.
It took her a second: Ofelia had been rejected before, but outright ignored? Well, she considered herself difficult to ignore. Prided herself on it. Even gay men typically found her form captivating in some way, if not sexually, then at leastâŠspiritually.
But this pretty young thing, gay or straight or somewhere in between (Ofelia didnât know, nor did she care at this point) had lost sight of her almost immediately. The music blared to life, her son interfering, as the kid always had a way of doing. And the shopkeep snapped, a touch of anger licking his beautiful voice, then stopped himself, apparently thinking better of the reprimand, just as her son had lifted his doleful eyes in her direction.
The boy could tolerate (even outwardly scoff at) reprimands from his mother. But even the slightest admonition from a stranger, and he would retreat behind her expensive apron strings as if they were unassailable walls.
And so he did. And so Ofelia, acting on some instinct that even now found ways to surprise her, stood straight and lifted her chin. Nearly the picture of a beast looming from a shadow to cover her exposed cub.
Even as, still for a moment, she resented the boy. Felt it in her chest, burning alongside the fire of a shame that felt like a fury. For a moment, she couldnât tell which would consume the other faster. Because it was the idiot cubs that drew the most attention to themselves, the ones making themselves so vulnerable in the face of attack. And her son was an idiot. A spoiled, coddled little fool, who didnât know a thing about the world and had no sense of self-preservation. No amount of shame ever taken root in him; no seed had ever been allowed to fall in that barren landscape. Ofelia supposed that was her fault too, as much as she was also to blame for the grin Gabriel only now barely concealed as he stared point blank back into the shopkeepâs red-faced indignation, the phone still crooning quietly from his hand.
Ofelia sighed, a sound almost like a growl. She forced the smile back onto her face, though it visibly pained her to do so, contorting her features like a badly done seam. Her nostrils twinged faintly, as she slapped her credit card onto the counter.
âGabriel,â she started, just as the video began a second loop. But then Ofelia stopped herself with a glance back at the boy, then up again across the counter. âYou know, I donât see any signs against kids using smartphones in this place,â she said, glancing around as if genuinely confused. Then the smile smoothed itself, became somehow redder, as she turned back to look up at him. âThis isnât a library is it? Well, my apologies. But go on, hurry up,â she gestured to the parcels, her credit card. âI donât have all day.â For a moment, she caught Gabrielâs eye, something unpleasantly amused now replacing her irritation of a moment ago, some unfathomable alliance between mother and son that nevertheless made itself known to the rest of the world around them. âHow about you play this one for me later, sweetie,â she finally decided. âWe donât need to waste this nice manâs time with amateur ticker tocks.â And Gabriel, smiling darkly, clicked off his phone.
You canât ban the Bravos from your bakery.
You canât ban the Bravos from your bakery.
That would be a surefire way to ensure that his business ended up closed. Still, in that moment, he wanted very much so to throw the card at her and tell mother and son to get out. He chafed at the indignity of having to bite his tongue on the kidâs awful behavior, and, too, it stung. In a second, sheâd gone from sniping with her son to presenting a united front.
No, not united. The brat was clearly hiding before her, and she had gone full Mama Bear, using their positions against him to slap him back into place. She was the worst, and she was what he wished his mother had been. He stared at the card, face burning, a confused well of admiration and envy and anger churning inside him.
She wanted him to hurry up? He would hurry up. Silently, he crammed the card into the reader and turned to add a couple of scoops of ice cream to a white cup, capping it and placing it with purposeful elegance atop her parcel. A consummate professional. If he had failed about being anything else worthwhile in his life, at least he still had that, and neither Ofelia Bravo nor her demonic son were going to take that away from him. He didnât smile, but his expressionâthough redâbecame flat and professional as he finished checking her out, and putting her items into a bag with the bakeryâs logo stamped on the front.
He held it out to her politely with both hands, his face still apathetic, but there was heat in his dark eyes.
If ever there did come a moment when he could avenge his pride⊠He was a Virgo. They had very long memories. He lifted his chin.
âHave a good day, Señora Bravo,â he said, all the music drained from his voice, its tone now grey and distant.
She held his dark, roiling gaze for a moment, letting the flat tone of his voice fade from her. Something in the way he addressed her rankled. Though it was certainly polite enough. Though he handed the parcels to her with a certain amount of elegance, even.
Señora Bravo.
The name, like an insult, brought a curl to Ofeliaâs lip, though she went on smiling around it. All teeth, amber eyes licked by flame. Something unnatural tugging at the corner of a red lip.
âCome on, baby,â she said then, taking the bag with indifference to the tender way it had been arranged and offered to her, plastic crinkling cruelly in her claw-like grip. With the opposite, she gently nudged her boy by the shoulder and together they turned toward the door.
But, briefly, Ofelia Bravo glanced back. Not at the young man behind the counter, but at the sign on the wall. As if sighting a familiar apparition, foreboding but, all the same, commonplace. Her gaze snapped again with silent flames, then smoothed itself into a placid, cold nothing. Her shoulders, bare above the line of her black dress, were sharp as cut wings when she turned from it all, finally, and exited the shop.