February 6
“And you’re saying that if I keep going to the Beanery,” I say, “I may meet with an ‘accident’?”
“Nothing so sinister,” he says. “No, you’ll be perfectly safe. But it’s like pulling on a thread, or scratching a scab. It might satisfy your curiosity, or sate an itch, but it’s only temporary, and it always leads to more trouble than it’d have been to just leave it alone. Believe me when I tell you that it’s for your own good.”
“I’m still not so sure.”
“I’ve seen your future, Fran Minervudottir,” he says, smiling. “I see you walking the earth, meeting people from everywhere, from this time forward, for a very long time. I see you doing a great deal of good with the gift you have been given, Fran. But the choice is yours. I can’t make you do something you don’t want to do.”
I peer at him. That damn coat is still tightly wrapped, but I have to know what’s under it. I can’t take the suspense much more, and I can take the elevated heat in the room even less. He still hasn’t shown the first bead of sweat. If he doesn’t take it off soon, I’m going to rip it off him and feed it to him. I have no intention of doing anything he says, and I think he knows that.
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