Page 19 of Witch and Tell
“Beata. Aunt Beata. My mother was telling me about her. She’s been on my mind, and I thought . . . I wondered….” I couldn’t think of a way to wrap up my thoughts. “Sorry for busting in on you like this.”
“Never mind. I’m glad you stopped by.” She stood. “I would have come up to the library today to see you, anyway. I found something you should have.”
Babe pulled a sheet from the stack of linens on the kitchen chair. She set it on my lap. Time had dimmed to ivory the sheet’s thick cotton-linen blend, and many washings had softened the fabric. “For me?”
“Yes. Look.” She pointed to the initials embroidered into its top edge surrounded by vines and smooth, deco-inspired dots in glossy cotton thread.J. W.My initials. “I thought of you right away.”
I ran my palm over the fabric. So beautiful. “I didn’t bring my purse.”
“Darling, please. It’s a gift.” She patted the sheet and stood. “Beauty is comfort. Get it where you can. Besides, you’ve been a good customer.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Babe.”
She pulled me into a motherly embrace. “Don’t worry about Sam. Things will turn out how they’re meant to.”
“It’s not just that.” As true as my words were, my voice was unconvincing.
“Don’t worry about Ian, either, honey. Now, have a good day, and we’ll talk soon.”
It wasn’t until I was almost all the way home that I wondered,How did she know about Ian?
Chapter Eleven
Babe Hamilton wasn’t my Aunt Beata. Seeing her so drab and bereft of her usual charm had convinced me she didn’t have it in her to lasso my magic. I hadn’t felt the slightest magical tingle in her presence. If not her, then who?
It was hard to focus that day at the library. The crow that followed me home from Babe’s had added another layer of worry. He’d perched on my bedroom window’s sill and winged off only when Rodney had hissed at him.
When Maury Johanssen asked me for a recommendation for a western with a strong romantic subplot, normally four or five titles would have leapt to mind. Instead, I was reduced to searching my memory, then turning to the internet. When Ashley Pitt stopped by the circulation desk to see if I knew any good books about winter farming, I drew a similar blank.
My thoughts turned to Ian. Could he be stealing my magic? He was mysterious, that was for sure, and he held a deep interest in the occult. I cringed at the memory of his body in the atrium and my call to Sam. Glamour might have easily transformed him from Beata, and his appearance here, in the middle of the night, could have been a play to weaken me. If so, it had worked.
Then there was Lise, the stranger. She was somehow familiar. Perhaps it was a blood link. Maybe she was Aunt Beata. She had no good explanation for staying in Wilfred.
A rap on my desk disturbed my pondering. Mona— no foster animal with her this time—leaned close.
“Did you see them?” she said in a low voice.
“Who?”
She gestured toward Old Man Thurston’s office across the atrium. “Wanda and Ruth. They’re in the children’s room, making notes.”
Wanda wasn’t due to start her shift as a library volunteer for another hour. “Notes about what?”
“That’s just it—I don’t know. They’re being really mysterious. I tried to look, but Ruth tipped the notebook against her chest so I couldn’t see.”
Remembering Wanda and Ruth’s confab at the café, I pushed myself away from the desk. If it were Wanda alone, I’d assume she was getting familiar with the library and ignore it, but Ruth Littlewood was a library trustee. I needed to know what she was up to. I crossed the atrium to Children’s Literature, Mona behind me.
“Hello Ruth, Wanda,” I said. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No, Josie,” Ruth said. “We’re doing just fine, thank you.” She set a sheet of paper on a chair. It was half-full of some sort of entries, but I couldn’t make out details.
“It’s not time to meet yet, is it?” Wanda asked. She stood facing me in front of a shelf, but kept a finger wedged between two books, as if she were marking her place.
“No,” I said. “Are you looking for a particular book? I could search online for you.” Back when my magic was at its peak, all I’d have to do was let my mind relax, and titles would fill it. Not now.
“As I said,” Ruth said, her tone of voice making clear that the subject was concluded, “we’re doing fine.”
Just then, a blur of black fur rocketed through Old Man Thurston’s office, snatched the sheet of paper Ruth had set on the chair, and tore through to the atrium.