Page 48 of Witch and Tell

“We have no choice.”

Rodney jumped off my lap and leapt to the window sill.

“I have to do it, kitten. It’s this or a conviction for murder.”

* * *

I slid the trunk of my grandmother’s letters from under the bed. Rodney jumped onto the cotton coverlet that had replaced the quilt Beata had charmed, and he tapped a paw near me.

“We’re going to do it, baby,” I told him.

He backed away and settled down.

I opened the trunk and thrust my hands into the letters. This time, they lay cold, but beneath them, my grandmother’s grimoire burned hot. As my fingers reached it, magical energy surged into my hands, causing me to inhale sharply and raising goosebumps up my arms.

For a moment, I let the energy metabolize, and I looked around my bedroom, hoping it wouldn’t be for the last time. Here was the tall walnut headboard with its Victorian spindles and carvings. There was my nightstand, bare but for a vase holding one glorious scarlet dahlia. I knelt on a rag rug. Across the room was a window that looked across the garden to Big House, and Sam. My heart ached.

I lifted the grimoire onto the bed, and Rodney padded over to sniff its edges. The scent of fresh rosemary and verbena—impossible so many years later, but present nonetheless—wafted into the room. The smell of my grandmother.

I knew books. I loved books. In my years as a librarian—first at the Library of Congress, then at Wilfred— hundreds of thousands of books had passed through my hands, sharing everything from Victorian household hints and Chinese travelogues to histories of snake charmers and bluegrass song lyrics. But this one, my grandmother’s book of spells, was like no other.

Every word, every sprig of dried thyme, every sketch of the moon’s phases was redolent of my grandmother and pulsed with magic. I opened the grimoire. Its pages began to tremble on their own and flipped slowly forward, then back, then sighed and lay flat. I lowered my fingers to the opened page and jerked them back at the heat, which rippled orange-yellow over the page’s surface. Slowly, I lowered my hand again and let the energy surge into me.

Spell to Summon a Witch, the page was titled. Voices— not just my grandmother’s, but several women’s voices— recited the spell together. Words—sing, cast, moon, wind—swirled around me. Were these the voices of my grandmother’s mother, and her mother, and hers? Perhaps my voice would join theirs someday, as well. Not too soon, I hoped.

As the voices read the spell, Rodney’s eyes halfclosed, and his purr rose. Then he did something I’d never heard him do before: underneath his rolling purr, a growl edged in. I moved my hand away. I was at once exhilarated and terrified.

When the reading was complete, the grimoire closed on its own, green-gold energy flowing into it and vanishing. Now I knew what to do to draw Aunt Beata to me.

I couldn’t do it here, at the library. I couldn’t risk Beata’s magic souring the library—or worse. That said, the library’s books fueled my magic. Without them, I was still a witch, but I existed like a car without gas. Even a mighty jet engine is nothing without fuel.

The witch’s circle. I could go there. I was sure Beata had something to do with the body Sam had found there, and her energy would linger in the rocks and trees. I’d be far enough from the library that she couldn’t infect my world. As far as energy went, I would bringGrimm’s Fairy Tales, the most powerful book I possessed aside from the grimoire.

I would summon Beata, and she would appear. A foreboding shiver ran through me. I was the stronger witch, I reminded myself. As long as I didn’t do anything stupid, she couldn’t harm me.

Chapter Twenty-six

The moon drew a pale sliver on the velvet night. I clutchedGrimm’s Fairy Talesfor comfort. Was I an idiot for summoning a witch I knew was out to get me? Yet, what other option did I have?

To protect myself, I had to confront Beata. To confront her, I had to call up every whisper of magic I possessed and keep my wits sharp. I yawned, then shook my head and yanked my eyes wide. I still hadn’t recovered from my night in jail.

Although I hadn’t asked him, Rodney had followed me. He padded silently at my side, and I was grateful for his company.

“Here we are, baby,” I told him. “I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?”

Rodney ignored me and settled on a fallen log, curling his tail around him.

“You don’t have to be here.” I knelt to kiss the top of his head. “It will be dangerous. You’d be safer at home.”

He responded by tucking his paws under him in classic cat loaf position. He was staying put.

I filled my lungs with night air and slowly released it. Far off, an owl hooted. Otherwise, it was unnaturally quiet here. No crickets, not the merest crackling in the underbrush. The air was still.

I lit a taper and tipped it to drip wax onto a rock in the middle of the fire pit I’d built when I burned Babe’s linens, a mere three nights ago. Its center had been thoroughly raked and swept for evidence, but the police tape, if there had been any, was gone. I steadied the taper in the melted wax, and Rodney leapt from the log to join me. My heart, formerly thumping at a paradelevel volume, steadied.

I stood tall,Grimm’s Fairy Talesat my feet, feeding me energy. I faced east. “Wind, with the force of gales that send ships over oceans, lend me your protection.” A breeze rose, ruffling my hair before subsiding.

I turned toward the south. Was that a rustle I heard near the trail? I scanned the dark but saw nothing. “Fire, you foster life with the sun, stirring seeds into fields of grain, rousing an acorn into a mighty oak. Lend me your protection.” The candle’s flame stretched thin and tall, then shrank.