Cordelia said as we hurried through the streets. “That was a close call,” Jackson corrected, but there wasn’t any real warning in his tone, only an amused sort of exhilaration. “Not really.” Cordelia skipped ahead of us, then turned to face Addie and me, walking backward. She grinned. “He was just worried we were corrupting your sweet fifteen-year-old mind. Gang initiation, maybe.” “It’s not really your birthday, is it?” Sabine asked. Addie shook our head. “Good going, then. Nearly fooled me.” “It’s my birthday,” Cordelia said in a surprisingly good imitation of our voice—only higher and breathier. Addie blushed, and Cordelia laughed. “You sounded like an angel, my darling. Nobody in a thousand years would ever suspect you of anything.” The photography shop was marked by nothing more than a plain door and a wooden sign declaring Still Life in elegant, black script.
