Page 21 of Witch and Tell

I clicked off my flashlight. Within twenty minutes, I’d gathered enough rocks to construct a rough fire pit. I inhaled deeply to center myself, then pulled out my salt canister—no fancy silk pouch of sea salt, but it would do—and poured a circle a few feet outside the rocks. This would be my sphere of protection. As the salt’s trail disappeared into the earth, I whispered a spell of safety, and my birthmark burned with the spark of magic. No dark forces would reach me here. Nothing that wasn’t already here, that was. The pile of linens now rested in a crumpled heap in the fire circle’s center.

“Here goes, Rodney.”

Rodney mewed a long meow that stretched into the night. He wasn’t often a vocal cat, espousing the view that actions spoke louder than words, but he had something to say now.

I laid the kindling over the sheet-wrapped bundle of linens, dumped lighter fluid on it, and lit a match.

The flame tightened into a black spiral, like a tiny tornado, and for a moment I feared it wouldn’t catch. The night was completely silent—I knew it was—yet the screaming of crows pierced my eardrums. I covered them with my hands and screwed my eyes shut. Then I felt the birds in my hair, pulling, pecking, screeching, but when I went to swat them away, nothing was there.

I pulledGrimm’s Fairy Talesto my chest and willed whatever magic I had left to come to me. Through the deafening shrieks of the crows, the book dared a few words, “Our Lady’s Little Glass.” This was one of my favorite stories and only a paragraph long. When I was a little girl, I begged my mother to read it to me again and again—its simple ending soothed me. I recited the story’s closing lines by heart:

Then Our Lady plucked a little white flower with red stripes, called bindweed, which looks very like a glass, and gave it to the wagoneer. He filled it with wine, and then Our Lady drank it, and in the self-same instant the cart was set free and the wagoneer could drive onwards.

The crows’ crying fell away. At the same time, the bundle caught, and flames leapt high. The linens were burning, blue sparks dancing above them. With each second that passed, I felt as if chiffon-thick layers of oppression were lifting and dissolving, drifting up with the smoke.

I woke to the night at last. The air smelled of dried pine needles and earth, and patches of warmth from the fire and chill from under the protective boughs of the fir trees drifted over me. I was lighter. The shackles on my magic burned away with the fabric, and I smiled, then laughed, when I realized I could hear books again.Grimm’s Fairy Taleswas positively chatty. Rumpelstiltskin, Sleeping Beauty, and Hansel and Gretel all clamored for my attention.

“I hear you,” I told them, so happy I could barely choke out the words.

The fire burned strong. Beyond the smoke, the stars shone crisp. Two shooting stars, one right after the other, sailed over me like flaming arrows, vanishing into the night.

Babe Hamilton. She had come to Wilfred and set up shop, waiting, because she wanted to use me. She watched me through crows. She used glamour to shield her identity. My grandmother had warned me about Beata, and here she was.

As the linens burned to ashes, my magic poured back into me. I felt it in my body as a thrumming current, but I also knew it from the intensity of the colors and smells suffusing the night woods. I was free. My magic had been restored. Whatever it was Beata wanted, I felt more than ready to face it head-on.

Chapter Thirteen

Despite my late night, I woke up invigorated. I threw back the covers and rushed to the landing outside my living room, overlooking the atrium.

“Good morning, books!” I shouted.

Their greetings streamed from every room: highpitchedhellos from Children’s Literature; the trumpeting of elephants from Natural History;guten tagfrom Foreign Language; and, from Music, Grieg’s melody fromPeer Gynt, “Morning Mood.” It was a beautiful morning, indeed. The spell was broken. Everything was sweeter. Sure, I’d have to be wary. I couldn’t let down my guard around Babe/Beata, but I was more than prepared to deflect whatever she dealt me.

I couldn’t wait to help patrons choose their reading. The books would brim with recommendations. More than that, now that my magic was on board and energy back, I would have even more ability to help Lalena track down Ian.

As I circled the library, opening curtains and turning on lights, I made a plan. First, I’d check with Lalena to see if she’d been in touch with Ian since yesterday or if she had any fresh ideas of where he might be. If she didn’t have leads, I’d get back in touch with the construction manager at the Empress.

Then there was Lise Bloom. She was a recent arrival to Wilfred, too, and despite having no obvious business here, she kept hanging around.

All the time, of course, I’d need to steer clear of Babe Hamilton. The glyphs—her spells—had been potent enough to hamper me as long as I didn’t know about them, and her glamour was strong enough to seduce me into a friendship and to mistake her as benign. However, I’d been able to break the spells fairly easily once I’d found their source.

My grandmother had bound the greater part of her sister’s magic, but not all of it. As long as Grandma’s spell held and I guarded against her, Babe-slash-Beata would not be able to hurt me. Or so I hoped.

When her spells collapsed, Babe may have sensed her magic returning to her, deflected from me. I hoped she would acknowledge defeat and leave Wilfred. Until then, I’d do my best to avoid her.

I returned to my apartment to lock up and found Rodney in my living room, sitting on a pile of shredded paper. “What is it, kitten? Have you turned gerbil?”

I picked up a shred and laughed despite myself. It was Ruth’s notes from the other day, now completely illegible.

Rodney was feeling good today, too.

* * *

Buoyed by the return of my magic, I settled at the circulation desk. A woman trailing two boys was the first patron. I awaited the books’ recommendations of adventure stories, but instead, one title floated into my brain:Mindfulness for Anger Management.

“May I help you?” I asked.

“I want to make a formal complaint,” the woman said.