The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

Jane felt sure she could stay there long enough to see something useful.
    When Jane’s vision cleared, Annette was slicing lemons into wedges. A cheap-looking paring knife cut methodically into the yellow peel over and over, separating it into quarters and then eights.
So ‘something useful’ is still a ways off.
Jane tried to focus on her peripheral vision and could tell she wasn’t in her dingy, depressing apartment; this space looked bigger and darker, although early morning light sifted through a small window in the background. A bar, she guessed, straining her eyes to see the corner of something that might be a jukebox. Annette swept the lemon pieces into a white plastic bin, and Jane tensed in anticipation. But the girl just pulled another lemon from a different bin without even needing to look up, sliced the fruit in half, and began again.
    You’ve got to be kidding me,
Jane tried to shout, but Annette’s jaw didn’t so much as quiver.
I pull this spell off all on my own, and you’re going to spend the whole time doing
mise-en-place? She didn’t know how long she would be able to stay this time, but lemons were too universal to help her one bit.
    Annette finished her slicing, swept the pieces into the bin with the rest, and turned. Jane clenched every non-corporeal muscle, in her excitement, and then relaxed them into a disappointed heap: Annette was only looking for limes. They were a bit farther along the bar from the container that held the lemons, but as soon as she located them, Annette dropped one on her cutting board and carried on with her incredibly dull work.
    I saw something,
Jane realized after a few moments of watching the knife slide through the translucent green flesh.
There was something . . . look back!
    Annette finished cutting her lime, dumped the pieces into an empty white plastic container, and turned away from the bins and the cutting board entirely. Jane felt her own muscles pull and joints pop as her host body stretched hard, her hands clasped over her head and her back arching like a bow. Annette’s field of vision was now largely consumed by rows of variously shaped glasses, fanciful bottles of liquor. Behind the bottles, she noticed a dusty, black-spotted mirror. It showed a dark room full of wooden booths and benches, as well as an outlined rectangle of white-grey light.
    The window!
she realized in a heart-pounding rush. It was backward, she knew, and her eyes were nearly closed; but it didn’t matter: the silhouette outside was symmetrical and enough light filtered in that she could make out the general shape.
Two large windows, like halves of a split barrel,
Jane told herself rapidly, trying to memorize every detail.
Yellowish brick. A tower in the middle, with a little clock.
Before she was sure she had it, a large red blur passed in front of the window, blocking the entire building from view. Annette began to turn back towards her cutting board, and Jane mentally tugged at the girl’s mind, trying to get her to slow down. But her magic evidently didn’t work without her body, because Annette continued towards her work without any hesitation.
    As she turned, though, Jane’s eyes caught the thing that had nagged at her mind earlier. A folded newspaper sat on the polished bar beside the bin of limes, and this time Jane got a clear glimpse of it before she was stuck again with the sight of the citrus-stained cutting board.
    The Times,
it read quite clearly, with an intricate crest between the two words. It was a popular enough name for a newspaper, but Jane knew exactly what she was looking at. After all, she had seen the same crest every day for two years next to her desk at Atelier Antoine, because Elodie Dessaix, the daughter of a British diplomat, was a lifelong subscriber to
The Times
of London.
And that red thing . . . I’m almost positive that was a double-decker bus.
    Jane could feel her spirit starting to tug her away from Annette’s. The sensation was mild so far, but she suspected that it wouldn’t stay that way for long. She had done well this time, but the spell still couldn’t last for ever. She thought about trying to fight its pull, but the memory of being torn forcefully back into her own body made her feel faint.
And I’m exhausted,
she realized; her whole spirit felt shaky and weak.
I have to let go.
    Jane’s will collapsed then. She blinked briefly and saw the plain white ceiling of her hotel room and felt the quilted bedspread beneath her