Illicit Magic by Camilla Chafer Read Free Book Online

another one.”
“Where are we anyway?”
“Heathrow. Terminal five to be exact.”
    I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath so I took a gasp of air. I may have never been to the airport before but at least now I knew where we were. My Oyster card was probably in my bag. I could get the tube home. Hmm, maybe not. “What are we doing here?”
    Étoile frowned and snickered. “Catching a flight, of course.” If she’d added “well, duh,” I wouldn’t have been surprised.
    “I don’t have a passport.” I’d never needed one.
    “All taken care of.” Étoile produced a slim clear plastic envelope from the inside of her coat with a little flourish. She opened it and handed me a slim passport. I leafed through it. My name and picture was inside, but it wasn’t a British passport.
    “Is this a forgery?” I gasped in disbelief. Didn’t people go to prison if they were caught with a fake passport? I didn’t want to go to prison and spend a lifetime dodging fallen soap.
    “No,” she sniffed, seemingly insulted. “We have someone who helps us from time to time when we need a rush job.”
    “I’m not American, either,” I pointed out, tapping the blue cover.
    “Well, technically, you’re only half American but that’s good enough for a passport,” replied Étoile, as if it should have been obvious. “Anyway, I’ve only been here a few days and there wasn’t time to get a British one as well, but it will hardly matter.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t think you’ll be coming back for a vacation anytime soon.”
    “Am I ever coming back?” I’d deal with the absurdity of throwing my lot in with a woman I’d known for ten minutes, whose first name was the only thing I did actually know about her, later. Scratch that, I knew she was more like me than a regular person. That had to count for something. Plus she hadn’t left me to roast. I was feeling positively warm towards her.
    “I can predict shorter queues at immigration,” said Étoile which apparently was supposed to suffice for an answer. “We should check in. The sooner we are out of this god forsaken country, the better.”
    I slung my bag across my shoulder, taking care to avoid using my blistered hand and picked up my sports bag; then followed Étoile as she opened the door to the bathroom and stepped outside. I felt gross and hoped I didn’t smell but no one glanced our way as we followed the signs for check in. Étoile avoided the queues and walked straight to the empty business class aisle. She took my passport and handed it, with hers, to the uniformed woman behind the desk who checked them, inquired after our luggage and printed our boarding passes, all while barely glancing in our direction. I meekly followed Étoile to the security queue and we silently stuck our bags and shoes in the plastic trays before walking through the metal detectors. There was something slightly absurd about seeing Étoile in her socks.
    Once through, we rejoined the throng of people putting shoes back on, fixing belts and buttoning up jackets. I shivered, reminded once again that even indoors it was still cold at this time of year and my jacket was probably burning to a crisp right at this moment. I wondered what I might have had in my pockets. I’d dumped my gloves on top. Drat . At least I’d kept my boots on. I wondered what the hell I was doing following this woman around when I should probably make a break for it.
    “I don’t think that would work out too well for you,” said Étoile as if she had plucked the thought from my head and I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. The look clearly wasn’t working for me and my shoulders shuddered with the cold. “Let’s do something about that,” she said and, taking my hand, she pulled me in the direction of the closest shop in the duty free zone, as I looked about me, drinking in the sights. Airports were a new and interesting thing for me, despite the situation. I’d never had the chance to go