WIP First Page
The woman was utter perfection from head to toe. Her graceful arms stretched high above her head, and her pleated skirt splayed out around her hips like a gossamer cloud. She was stunning. Captivating. And, if I kept my gaze just a tad fuzzy, I almost couldn’t see the crooked angle of her neck, or the slight withering of her skin.
Birch’s Secretary Dead: Dark Magic Suspected.
“Well that’s a kick in the knickers” I muttered to myself. All the headlines on all the newspapers at Joe’s stand brandished a similar headline in bold, black typeface.
Blast, I really didn’t have time to stop and gawk. Not only was rain slipping down my neck at an alarming rate, mussing what little control I had gained over my dark waves, but I was about to have what might be the most important meeting of my life. Yet…I couldn’t help but be entranced at the latest development in what was now a string of murders.
“Curiosity killed the cat, Ivy.”
I tore my gaze away from the girl splayed out over the New York Times and released the breadth of my smile on the grizzled newspaper hawker. It was a tactic that had gotten me more than a few free papers over the years.
“Come on, Joe, I thought curiosity was your bread and butter?”
He chuckled, and rubbed his hands together against the chill. At least one of us was staying dry inside the stand. “This story’s too hot. I can’t have you reading more than the headline. You can buy the paper, or you can wait to hear the tale of Mr. Birch’s poor murdered secretary tonight in the clubs.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Secretary, or mistress?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Joe winked, then mimed locking his lips up tight and throwing away the key. He then held his hand out for emphasis.
The rain really was coming down. The first vestiges of a shiver rolled up my spine as I stepped as far under the awning as I could manage and fished in the pocket of my satchel for the five cents it’d cost to purchase the paper.
“You’re more demanding than a gal who’s had her first sip of champagne,” I chided, placing the money in Joe’s wrinkled palm before retrieving my hard earned prize from the stand. Almost immediately, my wet fingers smudged the ink and I scowled. I had ruined part of the image.
You should be happy. Now you’ll be the one to regale everyone with the story when you go out dancing tonight.”
“I don’t usually go dancing,” I mumbled as my eyes skimmed the front page. The first few paragraphs were simply a rehash of the James Birch murder. Taking the pages carefully between my forefinger and thumb so as not to do any more damage, I turned to the next page to continue reading. “And I certainly don’t want to risk it with the ban.”
“Abstention was a good law,” he said with a sniff. “Look at these murders. Drith floating around hexing people to death. They’re taking our jobs and our lives. Without the ban, people like you and I would struggle to get a leg up.”
I lifted my face from the tale of murder and raised an eyebrow at him. “I sincerely doubt that people with magic float, nor do they hex. Besides, the ban’s only been in effect for a year. You’ve had your stand for how long?”
He looked down at the ground, “Fifteen years.”
“And I got my internship three years ago.” I finished. “There were no Drith that stood in our way.”
“Sure, but you and I got wits and good looks. That goes just as far as magic.”
I shot him a sly smile at the compliment. “The ban didn’t help poor Miss Lewis,” I noted, lifting up the paper for emphasis. “Besides, it also deprives me of my evening sherry.”
His grizzled face cracked into a laugh. “You’re a strange one, that’s for sure,” he managed before I inhaled so sharply I nearly choked on my own spit.
“She was murdered inside the Birch house?” I stuttered through a volley of coughs as I read the meat of the article.
His eyes widened and he snatched the paper from my hand. I pointed to the line I had just read and we bent our heads over the paper to continue.
What is known is that Miss Lewis, a childhood friend of Lisabet Birch, and most recently, the late James Birch’s private secretary (and rumored mistress) was found dead locked inside Mr. Birch’s private office. What was she doing there? The police won’t speculate, but this reporter will. Was she there to make amends with Lisabet? Or perhaps, she had arrived for a more insidious reason: to alter the Birch will— the details of which are still unknown. What is known is that dark magic seems to be at play, as evidenced by —
A chiming from the large clock that sat atop the Chicago Relics Museum chimed in a clang that reverberated through my very soul.
“Dash it all to Hades, I’m late!” I gasped, snatching the paper from Joe and stuffing it into my handbag.
“You be careful in the rain, Ivy!” he shouted after me. “And tell the Professor I’ll save him a donut at lunchtime.”
“Sure thing!” I called over my shoulder with a goodbye wave. Running across the street with no regard for femininity, I took the stone steps of the museum two at a time while my sage wool skirt swished around my calves, and had almost made it to the large oak doors when I slipped on the stone like an ostrich on rollerskates.
My elbows screamed in pain as I took the landing hard. The fact that I had fallen forward, and not back, was little consolation, considering that I was now soaked through from my neck to my hemline. Add to that my heightened anxiety about the murder of poor Louis Lewis, and I considered that the events of the morning did not bode well for my meeting.
The last chime echoed out of the austere building. Eight A.M.
“Great,” I whispered, picking myself up and brushing the wet off. “Now I’m late.”
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