Page 14 of Witch and Tell

“Maybe someone dumped his body.” I couldn’t think of any other explanation.

“And took it away again?” Sam stepped closer. “You say Ian has been missing?”

“Yes.” A thousand thoughts whirled through my mind. “Lalena hasn’t seen him for days. She asked me yesterday morning to try to find him.”

I was sure I’d just seen Ian. Positive. Where had he gone?

“Wherever he is, he’s certainly not here.” Sam eyed me curiously. “You say you talked to Lalena about him?”

I nodded. Sam didn’t believe me. I could tell.

“That’s it, then. You were asleep and dreamed the whole thing.”

“No. No, I tell you. I saw him.” I should have taken a photo. I did see him. Didn’t I? I breathed in and listened for the books. They would back me up. But they were silent.

I didn’t want to look at Sam. I didn’t want to see his look of pity—or worse.

“I’d better get home. Nicky is still sleeping.”

I couldn’t respond. Finally, I lifted my head and searched that face I loved so deeply, but I couldn’t read it. He was thinking something, and he had something to say. He thought I was crazy, maybe. I’d told him I was a witch, and it was as if I’d ceased to exist. He hadn’t replied to any of my calls or texts. He had cut me cold.

“Josie,” he said at last. “Don’t play with me.”

Then he walked away.

Chapter Eight

The next morning at the library, I felt hungover, even though the strongest thing I’d drunk all week was coffee—this morning’s coffee being especially power ful. I was bewildered and humiliated.

Last night after Sam left, I had checked the library’s perimeter, testing locks and doors. Not one of them was open. There was no sign of entry, let alone Ian’s wheelchair. Was Sam right, and I had hallucinated the whole thing? Yet I could close my eyes and see it all: Ian’s black hair splayed under his head, the scar on his cheek especially white and waxy. The books had refused to let out even a murmur. Library patrons seemed to note my air of distraction and stayed away.

One name haunted my thoughts:Beata. Could she have had anything to do with last night’s drama? If so, I couldn’t figure out how or why. Each time I passed through the atrium, chills rumbled through my gut. As I’d noted last night, when my mother had visited a few weeks ago, she’d suspected Aunt Beata and Babe Hamilton were linked. That was a possibility. But what about Lise Bloom, the stranger at the retreat center? Some thing was oddly familiar about her, yet I was certain I’d never met her before yesterday. My urgency to find Ian intensified.

Just past noon, Lise Bloom came into the library. She stopped in the atrium to stare at the mansion’s carved wooden moldings and three-story ceiling topped with a cupola—most newcomers did. I remembered my grandmother’s warning about Beata. She could charm you into seeing whatever she wanted.

Wary but resolute, I joined her in the atrium. “You’re still in town.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry for being so mysterious yesterday. I wanted to explain.” She pointed to Marilyn Wilfred’s portrait. “Who’s that?”

I followed her gaze to the full-length painting over the entrance to the foyer. “That’s the library’s founder.”

Marilyn stared down at us in a 1920s flapper gown. I’d always wondered if she had some sort of magic about her. Sometimes I swore she saw me and wrinkled her brow in warning or smiled with encouragement. Maybe the books’ energy animated her. I didn’t know— there was still a lot about magic I was learning.

“She looks alive, doesn’t she?” Lise said. “Like she’s ready to step from the painting. As if she’s watching us.”

I examined Lise Bloom again. A tremor of energy passed between us.My Aunt Beata could appear to me as anything, I reminded myself.

I was about to prompt Lise about her “mystery” when Lalena pushed her way through the front door with Sailor on a ribbon-leash behind her. She cast a brief glance at Lise, then laid a hand on my forearm. “Josie. We have to talk.”

“Don’t mind me,” Lise said. “I’ll have a look around.” She wandered toward the conservatory.

Reluctantly, I let her go as Lalena pulled me into Old Man Thurston’s former office, now Children’s Literature. The oak-paneled room with its immense desk might have seemed an odd choice for kids’ books, but somehow it worked. Instead of feeling foreboding, the stately paneling was cozy. Even the portrait of Thurston Wilfred over the mantel seemed to smile as if the town’s children were his personal offspring. One of my favorite sights was Mona reading to a circle of toddlers, and one of my favorite sounds was the melody of circus music, kitten’s mews, and chattering kindergartners the books sang to me. Today the books were silent.

I had no time to ponder that as Lalena gestured toward the desk and perched on its edge.

“It’s Ian,” she said. “He’s still gone. It’s worse, though.” She dropped Sailor’s leash, and he trotted out, surely to find Rodney. “Sam’s asking around town about him.”

“He is?” My heart skipped a beat as I realized Sam had at least taken me seriously enough to check in on Ian.