E.V. Everest - Seven Crowns

E.V. Everest

Seven Crowns

First published by Golden Bird Press 2020

Copyright 2020 by E.V. Everest

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

First edition

ISBN: 978-0-9999041-0-7

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For young women science is within your grasp and magic at your fingertips.

For my two earliest readers.

Find all of E.V. Everests books at:
https://www.evelinaeverest.com/

SHADOWS & STARLIGHT
Seven Crowns
The Botanists Game

Rule of Shadows

Fallen Kingdom

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A warm evening breeze drifted through the back door of the diner, lifting sweaty tendrils of hair from the nape of Anas neck. She submerged her hands in the lukewarm water and retrieved a plate, rinsed it, and placed it on the drying rack.

The kitchen was quiet this time of night, except for the tick, tick, tick of the clock. Occasionally, a sound from the alley would crack the silence. A car engine. Some broken laughter. But mostly it was quiet.

A squeaky grocery cart rolled by in the distance, and Ana turned to see a young homeless man coming down the lane. She watched as he passed by and then returned to her work. Humming a tune, she fell into an easy rhythmplate, rinse, rack, plate, rinse, rack. The flies hung in the air around her as though they, too, were captivated by the diners late-night rhythm.

The homeless man circled back, and Ana realized that the smell of burgers and fries must be drawing him in. She wiped her wet hands on her apron and scooped some fries into a to-go box. He was waiting at the door now. She offered the box to him.

Though his hair was unkempt, his amber eyes had a sharp intelligence. He accepted the box, although he seemed far more interested in her. He opened his mouth to speak but only got out her name.

They were interrupted by her boss, Frank, who pushed through the metal doors. Frank was wearing his usual outfita pair of black trousers, a white button-down shirt, a long white apron, and a paper hat that read Shirleys Diner. He looked like the proprietor of a 1950s soda shop or an old-fashioned milkman.

Ana, I need you up front. Table eight is almost done with their meal.

She nodded but hesitated at the door. How could this stranger know her name?

Frank, a retired police officer, gave the young man a crisp twenty-dollar bill and sent him back into the summer air. Ana watched as he retreated. In the dark alley, he looked back once. His eyes gleamed like a cats. Something she had never seen a human eye do.

Ana shook her head. It must be a trick of the light, she thought. She passed through the kitchen door, resigned to forget the whole thing. She had enough problems without inventing new ones.

The front of Shirleys Diner was a monument to 1950s Americana and diner culture. There were large metal signs, an old-fashioned till, and a bold black, white, and teal color scheme. There were only two customers left in the diner. A man in a flannel work shirt and boots was demolishing an enormous burger, while his tall, lean wife looked on in distaste. She had ordered a chefs salad.

Ana refilled their drinks and returned to her post at the counter.

Frank popped his head out of the kitchen. Im gonna settle the accounts, he said. Although Frank had lived in the South for more than twenty years, his accent had never left New York. Luckily, neither had his cooking.

No problem, she said, stifling a yawn.

And Ana?

Yeah?

No more late nights this week. Youve got school to worry about.

School was the last thing Ana wanted to think about. She buffed her anxieties into the chrome countertop until she could see her reflection. Her once long hair hung in short locks around her face. She had shaved her head during her moms chemo. Her hair only passed her chin now. Her eyes were large, brown, and beautiful but sad.

Her phone chirped in her apron pocket. Frank hated devices in the diner. She checked the glowing screen under the countertop. She had a new text message from her trash bag of a foster mom, Deirdre.

Where were u?! the text read.

Oh crap, Ana thought. How could she have been so stupid? Tonight was Parent Teacher Conference Night. She was supposed to have been at school! Deirdre had been left alone.

Worse yet, Ana had neglected to tell her foster mom a few tiny details, like she wouldnt be moving up to the next grade. Ana had missed too many days of school. There was also the matter of the graffitied prom banner. Honestly, that had been pretty funny. She had turned Melia Ragsdale, the would-be prom queen, into a she-demon with a pitchfork. Nothing she didnt deserve.

The phone chirped again. This wasnt part of our deal.

Ana tucked the phone back into her apron and held down the volume button to silence it. Deirdre was going to be furious. There was no getting around that. After all, having one of your foster kids miss so much school that they failed the year didnt really reflect well on your parenting skills. Still, there was nothing to do about it now.

The woman in the corner booth sighed. Her salad was gone, and it was obvious she was ready to go. Her husband licked the ketchup off his fingers. His gaudy ring gleamed in the harsh diner light, a ruby red stone encased in silver.

Ana stifled a smile. It was one of the ugliest pieces of jewelry she had ever seen. It was obviously fake. Who wore ten-carat rubies?

He fiddled with the ring, trying to remove a spot of ketchup.

She looked down at the countertop to stop herself from laughing.

Then the strangest thing happened. Her hair began to stand on end. Her tired feet felt almost weightless. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the forks and spoons on the table float in midair.

Ana looked up just in time to see them hit the tabletop with a loud clang. Her eyes widened. It couldnt be.

Whoopsie, declared the man. Near bout dropped my fork.

Ana rubbed her eyes. She really did need to get more sleep.

The man took one last swig of Coke, and the couple walked up to the cash register.

Hi, Ana said in the chipper tone she reserved for paying customers. How was your meal?

The salad had too much dressing, the woman said haughtily.

The man rolled his eyes at his wife. Mine was just fine, darlin, he said, handing Ana the ticket. There was something off about his accent. It sounded more like the TV caricature of a Texas oilman than the authentic Southern accents she was used to hearing.

Ana punched the numbers into the cash register. How about a slice of pie to go? On the house, she added, her voice as sweet as the dessert itself.

The man smiled. The lady scowled.

Ana retrieved an enormous slice of coconut cream pie from the glass case. As the unhappy couple walked away, Ana counted the tip under the counter. Forty dollars! That was more than the meal itself. Maybe the ruby had been real.