WHO IS LIKE GOD

8.

DOUBLE-EDGED.

ELI STOPPED in front of a line of brick-laid homes. She turned around and embraced her headrest, placing her chin in the junction between the neck and shoulder.

"Thank you for taking Air— Or, Car, I guess— Elliot. We hope you had a relaxing drive." She held out her hand. "Tip."

Darcy scoffed and shoved the hand into Eli's face. Before Eli could protest she knocked open the door, grabbed Florence's hand, and ran up the steps to one house. Sounds of indignation followed.

She took the stairs two-at-a-time. Florence struggled to rush behind her. Eli ran up the stairs three-at-a-time, practically jumping over them with her long legs. Florence staggered behind. Darcy hauled her up and threw her to the top. Darcy pulled keys from her bag and shoved the door open with her shoulder, immediately locking it once they were both inside.

The second Florence stepped inside, she felt warmth. The front room was tiny and cluttered. Pictures sat atop a table. A smiling man and woman stood outside the house in one picture, holding the hands of a small child that Florence assumed was Eli. The kid looked nothing like Darcy. Those must have been her parents. Florence realized she hadn't really thought of how Eli knew Darcy.

A bang and a tremor knocked her out of her thoughts. Then: "Darcy! Open the door!"

"I thought you said you have somewhere to be," Darcy said.

"I do, but I want to see how this all pans out first. I overheard the phone call. Something about you being a nuisance and disruptive. Very entertaining." The voice muffled through the door but the smirk in Eli's voice was apparent. "Now open the door."

Darcy leaned onto the wood. "No, thank you. Come on, Florence." She disappeared into the small corridor.

Florence removed her shoes and continued into the house. She followed Darcy through a tiny kitchen to a living room so full of stuff that Florence didn't know how anyone could live in it.

There were only two chairs. A worn couch littered with blankets and a small chair with a knit monstrosity thrown on its back. A table sat in the middle with an ottoman beside it, all sitting on a nice and elaborate rug. Darcy sat in the small chair, unfolding the blanket to lay on her lap. Behind her, a fireplace and chimney stood tall, lined on either side by stuffed bookshelves. Even more piles of books laid on the floor before them, all precariously leaning. Two large windows lined the far wall, both of them open. Atop the fireplace, there was another shelf, covered in even more photographs and small trinkets.

When Florence looked at Darcy again, she was staring at her.

This was the home of Darcy Sinclair. It looked like the sort of place a witch lived, making tea and tying sage and looking inside crystal balls. From her place seated across from Florence, wrapped in a colorful blanket, focusing her sharp gaze on her, Darcy looked something like a witch.

"Darcy, is that you? We need to talk about the phone call I got from the school. You can't hang up on me in real life, remember that."

Another woman glided into the room and Florence was proven wrong. This was a witch's house and that was the witch. An older looking woman stared at Florence. She had gray dreadlocks that fell to her waist and wore a gray sweater loosely, the shoulders having fallen to her elbows as she held a large, shifting shadow in her arms. Her eyes were lined with crow's feet though they were bright and inquiring. Florence felt both skittish and comforted by her gaze but the woman smiled kindly at her.

The woman set the shadow down. It unfurled into a concrete creature and padded over to Darcy to put its face in her lap. A dog, Florence realized belatedly. Darcy scratched its ears. "Darcy, who is this? A friend?" the woman asked.