The Wish Collector
Page 28
And maybe she was waiting for the right person too.
Marco leaned in, his eyes moving to her lips. He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him.
“Excuse me,” a female voice interrupted. Annoyance flashed in Marco’s eyes before he pulled away, glancing over his shoulder as whoever she was, cleared her throat. “We’re up in ten minutes.” It was Roxanne, a fellow apprentice, and she gave Clara a curious, though not unkind, stare before turning and walking away.
Marco shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I almost forgot you’re performing. You should go get ready. You only have ten minutes.”
Marco released a frustrated breath, giving a terse nod. “Yeah.”
He pulled back, taking her hand and walking her to the edge of the dance floor. “The performance is only thirty minutes or so. Wait here?” He gestured to a table at the edge of the dance floor that would be the stage where a handful of dancers performed for the guests.
Clara hadn’t volunteered—there had been plenty already—and now she was glad. It was nice to be part of the audience for once, and her feet could always use the break anyway.
Sitting at the table, she smiled at Marco before he sauntered toward the stage. “Good luck,” she called, knowing very well Marco didn’t need any. He was one of the most skilled dancers she’d ever met.
She ordered a glass of wine when a server came by and sat sipping it leisurely until the ballet dancers were introduced and the lights dimmed.
Clara loved this moment, loved it from either side of the stage, loved those breath-stealing seconds when her heart was hanging by a string as she waited for something wonderful to happen. There’s nothing else like it, she thought as happy anticipation prickled her skin.
The lights came up and Clara’s breath released on a slow exhale. Marco stood in the middle of the stage with Roxanne, posed and completely still.
A saxophone began playing, the smoky sound filling the quiet room as the couple began to move in sync.
Something overhead caught Clara’s attention and she glanced up. It was a moon, suspended above the dance floor/stage, a thousand tiny lights sparkling in the ceiling to mimic the stars.
Roxanne spun away and Clara returned her attention to Marco as he moved alone under the glow of the created night sky.
Your true love dances between moonbeams.
Clara’s heart jumped. Had the fortune teller been referring to Marco? She watched him for a moment, trying again to see him with newer eyes than the ones that had first judged him. The eyes that had seen the women waiting for him after rehearsal—different ones each week. The eyes that had watched as he flirted with co-workers as they looked at him with hope in their eyes, only to be crushed days later when his attention moved elsewhere.
He moved beautifully, skillfully, his expression filled with such intense concentration. He wasn’t an emotional dancer—he didn’t pull at her heartstrings like some of the other dancers she loved to watch. But he was good. Amazing, in fact. But she didn’t think the music, the story of the dance, filled his soul.
She was probably the opposite. She felt the story too much, and forgot to execute the movements with perfect precision. The greats had both, Clara thought. And that was the rarest of all.
Her small evening bag buzzed softly, the screen lighting up in her purse and creating a soft glow. Clara snatched it, her mind immediately going to her dad. She stood from the table as the music soared and slipped away into the darkened room, waiting until she was far enough away not to interrupt the show before taking her phone from her purse and reading the text from an unknown number.
You look beautiful tonight.
Clara stared at the words, a shiver moving through her. Who in the world?
She brought her head up, glancing around the darkened room, her eyes moving to Marco still dancing under the starry moonlit ceiling and then away.
A shadow moved near one of the exits, stepping through the doorway. She swore the man glanced back and directly at her before he disappeared around the corner.
Clara moved in that direction, her heart skipping a beat as she texted back.
Who is this?
I’ve been called the wish collector.
Clara sucked in a sharp breath, halting for a second in surprise and then moving forward again, stepping around a couple who was standing at the back of the room.
The couple spared her a quick glance and then went back to watching the dance performance. Clara hurried toward the door through which the man had disappeared. You’re here, Jonah? How? And how had he picked her out from the crowd? Half her face covered by a mask nonetheless.
The door exited into a courtyard with a fountain bubbling in the middle. Large potted trees were placed around the perimeter of the space, their fronds casting moving shadows on the cobblestone. He had disappeared.
She ventured slowly forward, her heart galloping, her skin prickling. The air was mild, but her skin was flushed with nervousness, doubt, and a tinge of fear.
A shadow moved to her left and she let out a surprised squeak, turning in that direction.
It was a man, tall and broad, his shadow mingling with all of the others and then becoming sharper as he stepped forward.
Clara was uncertain, scared, poised to run, only . . . this was Jonah. There’s nothing to be afraid of, she told herself, the internal words buoying her confidence.
The wonder of him standing directly in front of her outweighed her doubt, and she stepped forward in order to see him better.
Something inside of her whispered softly, a warning that told her everything was about to change. Everything. She took another step, her vision adjusting further to the dark.
Her eyes widened as his face became clearer, her mouth falling open in shock, her pulse jumping at the skeletal lines of his face. Her breath rushed out. But no, it was just a mask, half of it fully covering his face and painted to look like a skeleton, and the other half only covering one eye and a portion of his nose.
Though her gaze didn’t stray from his face, she also noticed he was wearing a black tuxedo, the white bow tie standing out in stark contrast, just as the milky bones of his mask glowed against the darkness covering most of his skin.
The air stilled, the scent of night-blooming jasmine reaching her nose, the tinkling sound of splashing water breaking through her excitement and fear and confusion, and a hundred other emotions she didn’t have the wherewithal to separate.
“This isn’t the fountain where you were supposed to meet me,” she uttered breathlessly taking several more steps toward him.
He appeared frozen, the set of the half of his mouth she could see a grim line.
He paused and then it twitched up slightly as he apparently registered her words. “No, I know.” It was him—her wish collector. She’d recognize that deep tenor with the lilting accent anywhere, the voice made for storytelling, for weaving spells, for convincing and cajoling. For seducing and luring and for making dreamy-eyed girls do things they hadn’t intended on. Was that what he’d been doing to her right from the beginning? And if so, she wondered, why do I love it so much?
Clara stepped right up to him and felt the heat of his body. There was a sudden shift in the air, something chemical Clara couldn’t explain but still felt. Like the way she could tell when a thunderstorm was approaching. The colliding of atoms, the buzz of ozone, only in this case it existed exclusively in the small space between them.
He’s here, her heart whispered. She was standing right in front of him, no wall between them.
Awe filled her, a sense of unreality as if this were merely a dream and she might wake up at any moment.
She extended her hand and touched his arm, her fingers skimming the stiff material of his jacket. There was nothing separating them, nothing at all. Well, except their masks.
She reached for hers, swallowing nervously as she pushed it up so it rested on the top of her head. She brought her eyes to his shyly, her face fully exposed to him as she tilted it toward the light. From what she could see, his expression didn’t change.
“Hi, Jonah,” she whispered. This is me, she thought. She had no idea what he expected, if he expected anything at all, but nerves assaulted her all the same and made her blood tremble within her veins.
“Hi, Clara.” His tone was gravelly, unsure, and when she reached for his mask tentatively, he leaned back into the shadows again. Her hand fell away. “You’re beautiful.”
Marco leaned in, his eyes moving to her lips. He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him.
“Excuse me,” a female voice interrupted. Annoyance flashed in Marco’s eyes before he pulled away, glancing over his shoulder as whoever she was, cleared her throat. “We’re up in ten minutes.” It was Roxanne, a fellow apprentice, and she gave Clara a curious, though not unkind, stare before turning and walking away.
Marco shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I almost forgot you’re performing. You should go get ready. You only have ten minutes.”
Marco released a frustrated breath, giving a terse nod. “Yeah.”
He pulled back, taking her hand and walking her to the edge of the dance floor. “The performance is only thirty minutes or so. Wait here?” He gestured to a table at the edge of the dance floor that would be the stage where a handful of dancers performed for the guests.
Clara hadn’t volunteered—there had been plenty already—and now she was glad. It was nice to be part of the audience for once, and her feet could always use the break anyway.
Sitting at the table, she smiled at Marco before he sauntered toward the stage. “Good luck,” she called, knowing very well Marco didn’t need any. He was one of the most skilled dancers she’d ever met.
She ordered a glass of wine when a server came by and sat sipping it leisurely until the ballet dancers were introduced and the lights dimmed.
Clara loved this moment, loved it from either side of the stage, loved those breath-stealing seconds when her heart was hanging by a string as she waited for something wonderful to happen. There’s nothing else like it, she thought as happy anticipation prickled her skin.
The lights came up and Clara’s breath released on a slow exhale. Marco stood in the middle of the stage with Roxanne, posed and completely still.
A saxophone began playing, the smoky sound filling the quiet room as the couple began to move in sync.
Something overhead caught Clara’s attention and she glanced up. It was a moon, suspended above the dance floor/stage, a thousand tiny lights sparkling in the ceiling to mimic the stars.
Roxanne spun away and Clara returned her attention to Marco as he moved alone under the glow of the created night sky.
Your true love dances between moonbeams.
Clara’s heart jumped. Had the fortune teller been referring to Marco? She watched him for a moment, trying again to see him with newer eyes than the ones that had first judged him. The eyes that had seen the women waiting for him after rehearsal—different ones each week. The eyes that had watched as he flirted with co-workers as they looked at him with hope in their eyes, only to be crushed days later when his attention moved elsewhere.
He moved beautifully, skillfully, his expression filled with such intense concentration. He wasn’t an emotional dancer—he didn’t pull at her heartstrings like some of the other dancers she loved to watch. But he was good. Amazing, in fact. But she didn’t think the music, the story of the dance, filled his soul.
She was probably the opposite. She felt the story too much, and forgot to execute the movements with perfect precision. The greats had both, Clara thought. And that was the rarest of all.
Her small evening bag buzzed softly, the screen lighting up in her purse and creating a soft glow. Clara snatched it, her mind immediately going to her dad. She stood from the table as the music soared and slipped away into the darkened room, waiting until she was far enough away not to interrupt the show before taking her phone from her purse and reading the text from an unknown number.
You look beautiful tonight.
Clara stared at the words, a shiver moving through her. Who in the world?
She brought her head up, glancing around the darkened room, her eyes moving to Marco still dancing under the starry moonlit ceiling and then away.
A shadow moved near one of the exits, stepping through the doorway. She swore the man glanced back and directly at her before he disappeared around the corner.
Clara moved in that direction, her heart skipping a beat as she texted back.
Who is this?
I’ve been called the wish collector.
Clara sucked in a sharp breath, halting for a second in surprise and then moving forward again, stepping around a couple who was standing at the back of the room.
The couple spared her a quick glance and then went back to watching the dance performance. Clara hurried toward the door through which the man had disappeared. You’re here, Jonah? How? And how had he picked her out from the crowd? Half her face covered by a mask nonetheless.
The door exited into a courtyard with a fountain bubbling in the middle. Large potted trees were placed around the perimeter of the space, their fronds casting moving shadows on the cobblestone. He had disappeared.
She ventured slowly forward, her heart galloping, her skin prickling. The air was mild, but her skin was flushed with nervousness, doubt, and a tinge of fear.
A shadow moved to her left and she let out a surprised squeak, turning in that direction.
It was a man, tall and broad, his shadow mingling with all of the others and then becoming sharper as he stepped forward.
Clara was uncertain, scared, poised to run, only . . . this was Jonah. There’s nothing to be afraid of, she told herself, the internal words buoying her confidence.
The wonder of him standing directly in front of her outweighed her doubt, and she stepped forward in order to see him better.
Something inside of her whispered softly, a warning that told her everything was about to change. Everything. She took another step, her vision adjusting further to the dark.
Her eyes widened as his face became clearer, her mouth falling open in shock, her pulse jumping at the skeletal lines of his face. Her breath rushed out. But no, it was just a mask, half of it fully covering his face and painted to look like a skeleton, and the other half only covering one eye and a portion of his nose.
Though her gaze didn’t stray from his face, she also noticed he was wearing a black tuxedo, the white bow tie standing out in stark contrast, just as the milky bones of his mask glowed against the darkness covering most of his skin.
The air stilled, the scent of night-blooming jasmine reaching her nose, the tinkling sound of splashing water breaking through her excitement and fear and confusion, and a hundred other emotions she didn’t have the wherewithal to separate.
“This isn’t the fountain where you were supposed to meet me,” she uttered breathlessly taking several more steps toward him.
He appeared frozen, the set of the half of his mouth she could see a grim line.
He paused and then it twitched up slightly as he apparently registered her words. “No, I know.” It was him—her wish collector. She’d recognize that deep tenor with the lilting accent anywhere, the voice made for storytelling, for weaving spells, for convincing and cajoling. For seducing and luring and for making dreamy-eyed girls do things they hadn’t intended on. Was that what he’d been doing to her right from the beginning? And if so, she wondered, why do I love it so much?
Clara stepped right up to him and felt the heat of his body. There was a sudden shift in the air, something chemical Clara couldn’t explain but still felt. Like the way she could tell when a thunderstorm was approaching. The colliding of atoms, the buzz of ozone, only in this case it existed exclusively in the small space between them.
He’s here, her heart whispered. She was standing right in front of him, no wall between them.
Awe filled her, a sense of unreality as if this were merely a dream and she might wake up at any moment.
She extended her hand and touched his arm, her fingers skimming the stiff material of his jacket. There was nothing separating them, nothing at all. Well, except their masks.
She reached for hers, swallowing nervously as she pushed it up so it rested on the top of her head. She brought her eyes to his shyly, her face fully exposed to him as she tilted it toward the light. From what she could see, his expression didn’t change.
“Hi, Jonah,” she whispered. This is me, she thought. She had no idea what he expected, if he expected anything at all, but nerves assaulted her all the same and made her blood tremble within her veins.
“Hi, Clara.” His tone was gravelly, unsure, and when she reached for his mask tentatively, he leaned back into the shadows again. Her hand fell away. “You’re beautiful.”
