Page 11 of Witch and Tell
The woman closed her eyes, her chest rising with her breath. “They smell like vanilla, don’t they? So calming. The books, that is.”
I had to look twice. On the face of it, the stranger and I shared only a few similarities. We were both about the same age and build. But instead of a mass of red curls, she had straight chestnut brown hair braided and looped around her head. Her eyes were mossy green, not blue, like mine, and freckles dusted her face, while my freckles had vanished with childhood. My style was practical librarian. While also practical, her style looked artfully gathered from vintage clothing stores, giving her the vibe of Grace Kelly on a budget. Yet there was something familiar about her. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I stood. “I’m Josie Way, Wilfred’s librarian. I was just swapping out a few of the books. This is a sort of satellite library for visitors.”
“Lise Bloom.” Judging from her stare, she seemed fascinated by me, too. She broke her gaze with a glance toward the bookshelves. “Sorry I’m being rude. It’s just that I feel like I’ve met you. Have you spent time in Astoria? That’s where I live.”
Astoria was a small town a few hours away, where the Columbia River met the Pacific Ocean. Sam and I had spent a weekend there once, walking the hills among the Victorian houses and strolling the waterfront eating fish and chips. We’d stayed at a hotel with a turntable and vinyl records, and Sam surprised me by knowing the lyrics to a Barry White album. Sam was no Wanda, but I could have danced with him all night. I didn’t know if I had the heart to visit Astoria again. Not without him.
“A couple of days. That’s it,” I said. She might not live on the East Coast where Ian was from, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a recent transplant. I wanted to ask her straight out why she was here in Wilfred, but it would seem too abrupt. Instead, I said, “Are you enjoying your time here?”
“Sure,” she said, but didn’t seem to pay attention to my response. Instead, she studied me.
What did she want? Perhaps she knew Ian was dating someone and wondered if I was his girlfriend. Or maybe I was totally wrong, and she was here to make etchings of lichen or write haikus.
“You must know people in town,” I said, fairly certain she didn’t—unless she knew Ian, that is.
“No.”
“People have stayed here between retreats to meditate,” I said. “Or hike.”
“That sounds nice.”
To heck with subtlety. I couldn’t wait any longer. “What brings you to Wilfred, anyway?”
She examined me again. “Truthfully? I don’t know.”
Chapter Six
That night, as darkness fell, I finished my dinner of leftover pasta and pondered my interaction with Lise Bloom. How could she travel somewhere with no agenda? Some people were wanderers. But to spend days in Wilfred? It was scenic, sure, but there was nothing to do here except wander the woods. I finished washing my dinner plate and went to the living room. Rodney was already curled up in my armchair, his tail flicking.
My apartment abutted the atrium at the back of the house. At the right of the staircase was the entrance to my living room with its Victorian sofa and fireplace, and through that, my bedroom. Windows in both rooms looked over the lawn and oak trees to Big House.
Beyond my living room, two floors above the library’s kitchen, was my own small kitchen and bathroom. If I turned left at the service stairwell instead of right, a short hall led to the open-air tower room.
I nudged Rodney aside and picked up my novel—Death of a Peerby Ngaio Marsh—flipped through its yellowed pages, then rested it on my lap. I couldn’t focus. The books had stopped speaking again, and my thoughts had thickened like molasses in January.
Then one voice pierced the library’s quiet: my grandmother’s. Her magic lessons called. Eagerly, I set my book aside and went to my bedroom.
I lit a beeswax taper. Rodney, purring, jumped to the bed and circled to make a nest in my quilt. I slid the green trunk from under my bed and let my hands sift through the sealed envelopes inside. Each envelope contained a message to me from my grandmother, a letter she’d written before she died and before I knew I was a witch. She’d foreseen I’d need a mentor. Every once in a while, as tonight, the letters asked to be read. Somehow I always chose the lesson I needed.
My fingers skimmed the letters until one warmed and seemed to move of its own volition to my palm. This was the one that held what I needed to know now. So much felt askew in my life. Would the lesson be about Sam? My heart ached at our distance. Or maybe about the lapses I’d felt in my magic. Or maybe a spell to find Ian.
I took the letter to bed. My curtains rustled in the night breeze, making a moving pattern of moonlight across the wood floor. Rodney crawled into my lap. This letter was fatter than the others.
I ripped open the envelope.
Dear Josie, I read. My grandmother’s voice drifted from the pages and suffused me with warmth. I held the paper to my chest for a moment, enjoying the feeling. All at once, the warmth chilled. Not a good sign. Rodney’s purring ceased, and he looked up at me, his whiskey-tinted eyes wide. Slowly, I unfolded the letter.
Dear Josie,
How I hoped you’d never read this letter. As I write, I hope it still. Perhaps this will be the envelope you never have to open. Perhaps this letter will stay cold and alone when all the others have been read and, I hope, have helped you become a strong, safe, and ethical witch.
But here you are.
Tonight—for I see it as night, perhaps summer, the breeze holding something more malevolent than sleepiness and the chirp of crickets—will not be a magic lesson. Instead, I write to you about power and an important chapter of our history.
You are a moral person, Josie. I see it in you, even as a child. Your sense of justice infuses your worldview. You are outraged when your sister is bullied by a classmate and tearful to find a baby bird who didn’t survive its maiden attempt at flight. Coupled with the force of your magic, this sense of justice can lead you to accomplish great things.