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without her gifts.
    A car alarm went off in the street. All three women jumped. So did Vivian, but she pretended that she hadn’t. To cover her own nervousness, she poured tea into all four mugs.
    “You were going to explain things to me,” Vivian said, her hand shaking. She set the teapot down. She was more on edge than she had thought.
    “We were,” Clotho said.
    “But first,” Lachesis said.
    “Explain why you weren’t studying with Eugenia,” Atropos said.
    “I didn’t know I was supposed to,” Vivian said.
    “Surely she invited you up here,” Clotho said.
    “She wanted me to spend some time with her, yes,” Vivian said. “But I had a business to run, and she wouldn’t come to L.A.”
    “A business?” Lachesis said. “You mean that psychic hotline?”
    “You thought that was more important than your training?” Atropos asked.
    Vivian felt her cheeks flush. If she had known Eugenia was going to die so soon, she would have made a point of coming here. But she hadn’t known. That wasn’t how her gifts manifested themselves.
    “I think I did some good with that hotline.” Vivian’s voice sounded small.
    It had seemed like a good idea at the time—a psychic hotline with real psychics, not people who traced your phone number or used your credit reports (gleaned from your credit card number) to give them their “special” knowledge.
    And it had worked. Her hotline got to be known as the hotline to call. But she had to shut it down. There weren’t that many real psychics walking around Los Angeles, and most of the real ones didn’t want anything to do with her little idea.
    Eventually, there were too many calls for her to handle. Even though she was minting money, she had to close the doors—and then she slept for what seemed like two months straight.
    That was just before Eugenia died.
    “Some good?” Clotho said.
    “You would have done more good if you had had training,” Lachesis said.
    “Training in what?” Vivian asked again.
    “Magic,” Atropos said.
    “But Aunt Eugenia wasn’t a magician,” Vivian said.
    “No,” Clotho said. “She was a mage, just like you will be someday.”
    “A mage,” Vivian said, trying to wrap her mind around the difference between mage and magician , besides the spelling and the number of syllables.
    Another car alarm went off, and then another. The three women clutched each other’s hands.
    “He’s getting close,” Lachesis said.
    “This was a stupid idea,” Atropos said.
    “We agreed on it,” Clotho said.
    “We were forced into it,” Lachesis said.
    “It’s too late,” Atropos said. “We made the choice.”
    Vivian glanced out the window. Three cars in front of the building across the street were blaring, their headlights blinking on and off. She had no idea what could have set them off.
    “All right.” Clotho’s delicate mouth was covered in chocolate. She didn’t seem to notice. “We’ll do our best to explain, but since your mentor failed on the job, you probably won’t believe this.”
    Lachesis handed Clotho a napkin, then said, “Before we do this, perhaps we should ask her about Blackstone.”
    “Blackstone? The magician?” Vivian asked.
    “Yes!” they said in pleased unison.
    “Do you know him?” Atropos asked.
    “I know of him,” Vivian said, wondering how she could know a man who had been dead for a very long time.
    “Good.” Clotho looked relieved. “Then you go to his restaurant.”
    “What?” Vivian asked. That spinning feeling had returned.
    “What’s it called?” Lachesis looked at her companions. “Quixote?”
    “Quixotic?” Vivian asked. “It’s next door.”
    The women smiled at her as if she’d won a prize.
    “I’ve been there. What does it have to do with Blackstone?”
    “He owns it,” Atropos said. “Or he did. It wasn’t open this morning. Do you know why?”
    Vivian shrugged. “It doesn’t serve breakfast. I’m sure it won’t open until eleven or so.”
    A dog started