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#I swear I will finish adding pretty headers to the sections when I have the time
shoomlah · 1 year
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after eight years, I finally updated my huge Historical Fashion Reference & Resources Doc! Now in the form of a MUCH more easily updated Google Doc with better organization, refreshed links, and five more pages of books and online resources.
I know tumblr hates links, but it’s worth it for a doc that I can now update with far more regularity going forward! RIP to the original, you did your duty for far longer than you should have. 😔🙏🏼
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welcometophu · 6 years
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Not Your Destiny: Chapter 20
Marked Book 1: Not Your Destiny
Chapter 20
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Mrs. Hannigan is pleasantly surprised to see Ángel, and on a quiet summer night, she’s more than happy to help him find the archives of the local papers. She sets him up in a corner with a microfiche machine, because the archives have yet to make it into the digital collection. It’s not Ángel’s first time digging into old material, and he knows where the microfiche is stored and how to navigate through the drawers. He’s more than willing to help himself as long as she’s willing to let him.
And of course, Mrs. Hannigan is willing to let him dig, as she heads off to help a young mother and her two children find books in the children’s section.
Ángel brings out his laptop, glad he lugged it into work so he has it now, and gets it powered up and connected to the library wifi. He opens a new document to capture his notes as he makes them, then tries to figure out what, exactly, he’s digging for.
He knows his abuela came to the States from Cuba in the early 1960s, and a quick search for information about Castro makes him think that it had to be before 1962. He types in a header for Verita Cruz (name?) and Carlos Cruz then follows that with Bonita Mollicone (NAME?). He adds Cuba and Italy after each name, and leaves himself a few blank lines.
Tony’s parents goes on the next line with a date of 2012. Ángel remembers that it was the end of the school year, during a storm, but he can’t remember more than that. It was early in storm season, and he figures he’ll be able to find the dates and the information in the paper. That one might even be online.
He hesitates before adding another header, then slowly types Mami, even though he’s sure her death had nothing to do with anything. Still. It’s just something else, another big change in his life when he was only twelve years old, and he figures it’s data as much as anything.
Besides, if he’s looking into the grief his new friends suffered, he should look into his own family.
He makes another heading for Carlos Cruz, for information separate from Abuelo’s marriage to Abuela. He remembers him, but he remembers that while he was loving, he could be a quiet, austere man at times. Ángel always thought that the arrow was because that was what Abuelo reminded him of. Dangerous, and rigid. He wonders if he would have accepted Ángel the same way that Abuela has.
Probably not, and it feels as if that should ache more. Ángel tries not to think about the relief of knowing that he’s accepted, and not having to worry that his dead grandfather would disapprove.
He starts with the microfiche from the local papers in 1960 and 1961, scrolling through the social pages. He doesn’t expect that his family made news. Not the big news, not the things that would be in the front sections. But he knows that his abuela had three siblings, that they all came from Cuba at the same time. That her older brother raised them while Abuela and the two younger girls finished school. So he searches through society pages, trying to link his grandparents, or better yet, trying to find a Bonita to link to his abuela.
He finds himself falling into a spiral, digging through articles about the debate team at the high school, or the football team’s losing season. He’s almost stopped hoping when he finds a small article in early 1961 about the graduating senior class, and two girls who were able to win scholarships in science to the local university: Verita Rojas and Bonita DelVecchio. The two girls sit in chairs that are slightly turned toward each other, their hair pulled up into tight ponytails, their skirts spread over their knees, legs crossed at the ankles. Their chairs are close enough that they almost touch at the knee, and their faces are turned toward the camera. Thick black framed glasses perch on Bonita’s nose, dwarfing delicate features. Abuela smiles wide enough that her pride shines brightly, and Ángel swears he sees a hint of shimmer all around her even on film.
He writes down the name, knowing that has to be her. This must be how they met, bonding over a love of science. Abuela received her degree in Chemistry in 1965 from that very university, and Ángel wonders what science drew Bonita in. If they both went to school together, if they remained friends through their education. He makes a quick note, remembering that Abuela married Abuelo in 1968, that Papi was born in 1970. That’s still a long time for the friendship to have flourished, right?
It would be handy if the microfiche had been digitized and cross-referenced, but he’s going to have to search manually for any other references. He skims forward faster now, finds an image of Carlos Cruz accompanying his fiancee, Verita, that December to midnight services at the Cathedral Basilica in St. Augustine. He lingers there, prints the image, because they look happy. He doesn’t remember his abuelo smiling like that often, as if he were staring at the sun.
There is another picture, a year later, of newly engaged Bonita DelVecchio and her fiancé, Vincenzo Mollicone, attending the same services. Ángel prints that as well, and when he looks in the background of the image, he spots someone who might be Abuela looking over at the happy couple.
They don’t appear in articles after that, but when he finds the graduation announcement, they are both in the picture, on opposite sides of the image.
Ángel prints that one as well, because they aren’t looking at each other at all. It’s a marked difference from the earlier pictures with both of them, and he has a feeling that something happened during that time period. He just doesn’t know exactly what.
Clan and Mage, though. He can guess it has something to do with that.
He leaves that avenue behind, not sure what he’s learned, or whether it’s useful. It’s easier to find the modern information, his mother’s obituary still available in the online resources for the local paper. He touches the screen when it comes up, her smile making his heart ache. Grief is something that you move on from, but you never entirely lose. It’s been eight years, but it’s still hard to remember her and realize that she isn’t here. Joey is wonderful, but she’s not Mami.
Ángel pulls his hand back, reads the obituary. The illness. The blessed release at the end of a swift, furious descent after a stage four cancer diagnosis. Tears well up at the corners of his eyes, and he inhales roughly, holds his breath until the urge to let go—let the tears win—abates.
It’s easier to look at the obituary for the Mollicones. The passing of Lydia and Dominic, pre-deceased by his parents, Bonita and Vincenzo, survived by their five children: Zita, Antonio, Stefano, Gabriella, and Alonso. There’s no mention of any of Lydia’s relatives, which Ángel makes note of as slightly odd.
There are more articles about the storm, the vicious weather that swept through northern Florida in 2012. The accident is attributed to the storm, water washing the Ford Ranger off the road and into a ditch, where it flipped, and the two Mollicones were killed on impact.
It was almost the end of the school year when it happened, and news had spread quickly. Ángel remembers the way Gabi had looked like a ghost in class after that, had made it through the remaining few weeks in near silence.
The quiet Mollicones had retreated completely by the following year, snapping at anyone who dared to speak to them. Ángel had thought about trying harder—he knew what grief did to a person—but at the same time, his life was filled with complicated things, and a new stepmother, and Abuela moving in. He never made the effort.
It’s all a dead end, really. None of it changes anything that he knows, none of it makes more sense out of anything he’s learned in the last week and a half. He shuts down the microfiche machine, puts his films back in the drawer where he found them. When he settles in at his laptop again, he opens his email and pulls up a new message to Pawel Szczek.
I’m okay, he types first, because he knows Pawel well enough, after a year and a half of Coven and in his major, that Pawel will ask after him. I have a mark now, and I don’t know who it is. Hayley’s mark is for my best friend, Tanner. I think they’ll be good together and I’m happy for them.
He considers how to ask what he wants to ask, and decides blunt is probably the best option.
I’m writing about Tanner’s brother, actually. He has a Talent but it messes with the synapses in his brain, causes things to jump the gap incorrectly, and he has seizures. He had a really bad one recently, and I was wondering if there are any rituals that you know about that might help him gain control over his Talent. He makes colorful bubbles, that mostly change color when he’s stressed or emotional. He’s fourteen. He’s pretty much always emotional.
I figure you won’t see this until after the holidays. Hayley and I are staying in Florida for the first two weeks of the year; we should be back after that, before classes begin again. If you think of something I should look at, please let me know.
Ángel doesn’t bother to sign it; it’s email, after all.
It’s close to 8:30, and Ángel figures if he packs up now, he might have time to sit out front and watch funny videos or something while waiting for Gabi to come back to get him. He packs his things away, stands up, and comes face to face with Daphne Hamilton.
She smiles, and Ángel swallows.
“Hi,” he says, drawing the word out like a question. She’s tall in her heels, her eyes not quite on a level with Ángel, but damned close, and she leans in close like she wants to be intimidating. If Ángel hadn’t been spending the last several days with people with no sense of personal space, it might’ve worked.
As it is, he’s tempted to shove at her shoulder and push her back, but that would be rude.
“Ángel, isn’t it?” she asks, and he frowns at the way she knows his name. Her smile is gentle, sweet like fake sugar, and she touches his shoulder when she goes on. “You work at the shop, now. You answered the phone for me the other day, didn’t you? And Luca mentioned your name when I stopped in.”
Because Ángel wants to think about that day, about the way Tony stood there so stiffly with her, then lost his appetite. He licks his lips, gaze shifting away before he pulls himself back, forces himself to meet her eyes. “I’m working there until after Maritsa and Cleto get married, yes,” he says, because that’s innocent enough to admit.
She squeezes his shoulder, leans in to murmur, “I’m so glad to hear that. Tony doesn’t know how to delegate, and I worry about him sometimes. That he’s going to work himself to death in that place, and forget all about his life outside of it. It’s good to know that they’ve brought you in to take care of things so he can finally relax.”
“Tony loves the cars,” Ángel says, thinking of that ragtop Mustang just waiting to be worked on.
“Of course he does,” Daphne says softly, patting his shoulder like he’s a child to be soothed. “But he loves other things as well, and sometimes he loses sight of that.” Her fingers catch on his shirt as she pulls away, baring the temporary ink. Before he can blink, she tugs the edge of the sleeve up, then quickly lets go as if it never happened. “You have a rose,” she says.
Ángel touches it reflexively, uses the moment to put some space between them. “Gabi designed it for me. Said it would be better than the angel wings I was thinking of doing as a memoriam for my mother.”
“Angel wings.” Her tone is soft, neutral. “How divine that would be, and a beautiful memorial.” She cocks her head, smile sliding into place to light her features. “Speaking of things outside the shop, you will be there at our party for the new year, right?”
“Your party? I’m already—”
“We hold it at Tony’s home, of course, and I’m certain that Gabi and Luca have invited you. It’s obvious that they’ve adopted you.” Daphne leans in, whispers, “Don’t let Gabriella get away, darling. She’s a beautiful girl, if a bit standoffish. She seems to have taken to you more than anyone else outside the family. Stay strong; she’ll let you in eventually, I’m certain of it.”
“She licked me,” Ángel says, because it’s become his standard response when it comes to Gabi. Even though Daphne is making him uncomfortable with the way she keeps inching closer, keeps insinuating herself into his space. “But I’m not interested in dating her. She’s like a sister.”
“Oh, I doubt that, if she licked you.” Daphne’s eyes go wide and innocent, but her tone is anything but. “What a wicked thing to do.”
Who says that? Who actually says something like that who isn’t ninety years old?
“But yes, I’m going to the party. They all made sure I’m invited,” Ángel says firmly, even though he can’t remember which one of them issued the original invitation. “They said it’s a family party, so I’m bringing Tanner and Hayley, and maybe my family, if they’re interested.”
“That sounds like an intriguing mix.” Daphne’s eyebrows slide up, and Ángel is sure that he’s actually managed to surprise her.
He can’t resist trying to do it again.
“And Tony said I should drop off some clothes there, in case I decide to crash again. Better than waking up and not being able to get dressed on the morning after,” Ángel says blandly.
Daphne blinks, is silent.
It’s all true, too. Tony told him to leave a change of clothes at the house, in case someone brings him home again. So did Gabi, and Luca. They offered the guest room, but right now, with the way Daphne’s looking at him, Ángel’s not going to say that.
Her gaze narrows for a moment, then the lines across her brow smooth out as she eases into a quiet smile. “You see,” she says softly. “You have Tony’s blessing. Gabriella has probably talked to her brother already. Just in case.”
“Or Luca mentioned that he’d be into it if I wanted to jump him,” Ángel says dryly, and it’s worth it just to see the look on her face, the way she takes a quick step back. It lets Ángel breathe, getting her out of his space, and he keeps talking, takes a step forward just to make her step back again. “I’m not sleeping with either Luca or Gabi,” he says firmly. “I’m not interested in dating either of them. And yes, I’ll be at the party, because they all invited us.” He almost say that he’ll see her there, but he doesn’t want to sound like he’s inviting her.
Besides, Tony’s probably already done that. Daphne’s implying that they’re throwing the party together, after all.
The thing is, Ángel doesn’t like her, doesn’t want her to be there when he rings in the new year. It adds a sour note to the beginning of the year that he just doesn’t want to think about.
“Ángel?” Mrs. Hannigan calls out quietly, and Ángel steps around Daphne, makes his way toward the front of the library.
“I’ll see you soon, Ángel,” Daphne calls after him.
Ángel bites his tongue, doesn’t retort not if I see you first and can avoid it, because that would be childish. True, but childish.
Gabi leans against the front desk, chatting with Mrs. Hannigan who now stands behind it, gathering up a small stack of magazines that someone’s returned. Her gaze narrows, nostrils flaring. She meets Ángel halfway, grips his shirt, leans in and inhales roughly. “You reek,” she mutters, and Ángel wonders if she’s smelling his emotions or Daphne.
Probably both.
“Let’s stop off at my place so I can take a quick shower and get changed,” he mutters.
Gabi sidles in close, her arm around his back. “We’ll stop at your place, and you’ll pack some things to bring and leave at ours,” she says firmly. “You can shower there. And this way you’ll be prepared if you end up there in the future.”
“Planning on keeping me?” Ángel tries to shift his voice back to light, to tease her, and she smiles slightly, like she can tell what he’s doing.
“Licked you, didn’t I?” She grips his wrist, threatens to do it again, and they’re both laughing as they stumbles down the steps of the library together.
As Gabi pulls out of her parking space, Ángel spots Daphne standing on the steps of the library, watching them go. He doesn’t think Gabi noticed Daphne, but he knows Daphne saw them both. Even from a distance, he can see the way her shoulders are set, her arms crossed tight.
Daphne really doesn’t like Gabi and at this point, Ángel’s pretty sure Daphne doesn’t like him either, no matter how much she smiled.
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