Free A Magnificent Crime by Kim Foster

went up. “That’s true? That all happened?” She looked at me for confirmation. I shrugged, conceding the truth.
    â€œOkay, Sophie, okay,” I said. “I get your point. It’s weird, and I’m not sure I can explain it all. But what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t refuse because of that. Faulkner is serious,” I said, taking care to lower my voice. “When he says he’s going to sever my hands . . . well, I believe him.”
    Sophie said nothing.
    â€œIf I have to choose between a possible threat of some mysterious curse that may result in me getting my head cut off like Marie Antoinette . . . and the very real threat of a flesh-and-blood bad guy who will remove my hands? I’m taking my chances with that curse. I have to. It’s the only thing I can do.”
    At that moment, a waitress came by to clear our dishes. We watched in awkward silence as she stacked the plates and left.
    â€œBesides,” I continued, lifting my coffee cup, “nothing bad has happened in recent years. People freaked out when the Hope was donated to the Smithsonian.” I smiled and took a sip of hot coffee, thinking of the self-righteous and panicky letters I’d read last night, written to newspaper editors with outrage. One began,
    If the Smithsonian accepts the diamond, the whole country will suffer.
    â€œBut nothing has happened lately. In fact, most people feel the Hope has been nothing but good luck for the Smithsonian, bringing in millions of visitors.”
    I hoped my voice sounded firmer and more confident than I felt. And that my friends could not tell that a creepy, cold fear twisted my gut.
    They were right. It was a crazy thing to do. It was impossible, curse notwithstanding. I needed a way out of this mess. But so far, there didn’t seem to be one.
    The curse? That was the least of my worries.
    It was actually the Louvre I was more concerned about. The guards at the Louvre carried semiautomatic weapons, for one thing. And then there was just the matter of being a thief in general. Things went wrong sometimes. You had to escape through the roof sometimes. You had to crawl through vents sometimes. Places where there was little ventilation. Places where you could fall from.
    There were infinite ways a thief could be injured or killed. I had no illusions about this.
    And even if nothing went wrong . . . there was still that pesky issue of my own fears. Was I going to have a panic attack at a critical moment, say, and ruin everything?
    We left the restaurant and walked through the underground labyrinth called Down Under, a jumble of merchants, comic book stores, and antiques dealers. Our heels clicked on the polished wooden floors. The air down here smelled of incense and patchouli tinged with the faint smell of urine coming from the truly terrifying public washroom down the corridor and around the corner.
    We passed a shop, a tiny wedge-shaped nook of a store, with a sign that read: WORLD-FAMOUS “ROMANY ROSA,” SOOTHSAYER, FORTUNE-TELLER, GYPSY. FORTUNES TOLD. PALMS AND CARDS READ .
    â€œOh, perfect!” Sophie said. “Let’s go in.”
    I hesitated, hanging back. This was not the kind of thing I went in for. Mel flat out refused as a first reaction.
    â€œCome on,” Sophie said, goading us. “I missed my appointment with my psychic last week. Ridiculous meeting at work ran late,” she grumbled.
    â€œUm, your psychic, Soph? That’s not normal. You know that, right?” I said.
    She ignored me. “I just want to go in for a sec and get caught up.”
    I glanced at Mel, and she just shrugged. Reluctantly, we walked into the fortune-teller’s shop, parting a jangling curtain of beads. The air was heavy with the perfumes of tea and sandalwood. Soft flamenco music played from an old radio in the corner.
    As soon as we walked into the room, the fortune-teller looked up. She gazed at the three of us in turn, but her