53 Birdie #2
This is a state-of-the-art, temperature-controlled archival space .
. . hidden beneath an old hay barn. There are three walls of bookshelves, with more shelves, smaller, dotting the middle of the room.
All the shelves overflow with books in all sizes and stacks of papers.
More boxes rest on the floor, stacked three and four high.
I inch closer to the nearest file cabinet and read the labels on the doors, scrawled in a scripty font. One reads “Deeds.” The other reads “Birth Certificates.” The bottom drawer is labeled “Death Certificates.” I turn on my heel, glancing all around. “What is this place?”
“Ruby is our Memory Keeper,” Jasper replies.
“Your what?”
“Memory Keeper,” she repeats. “A Dent has served as Memory Keeper of the Burr Island Coven since Washington was president. We’ve changed with the times, as you can see.
” She gestures around at the walls. “This is all spell-safe, reinforced concrete. And that glass there is bulletproof. State-of-the-art ventilation and fire warning systems too. And only one key, one way in or out.” She pats her chest, where the key must once more be hidden.
“And . . . what are the memories you’re keeping safe down here?”
“The memories of our coven,” she replies. “All these books, the photos, the documents—it’s the history of the coven, the proof of our lives made manifest. And I am the Keeper.”
Dáinn has drifted over to the opposite corner, inspecting the shelves. He points to a shelf of large, leather-bound books. “Are these grimoires?”
“Yep!” Ruby stuffs her hands in her pockets.
“That section there is all Hastings Family stuff. I think those spell books belonged to Hortie’s grandmother Edwina.
She was a prolific potioneer. Half of the books on that shelf are her recipes.
But you gotta be careful. She liked to tuck a recipe for turnip soup in between the pages of a wart-shrinking spell or a potion to cause eternal sleep. ”
God, that sounds fascinating. What I wouldn’t give to turn the pages of every book down here. I glance around again. “Are you sure the grimoires of the First Five aren’t down here already? I mean, maybe—”
“They’re not,” Jasper says over me.
“The oldest grimoire I’ve dated down here is from 1807,” Ruby adds.
I find I’m blinking back tears. Even without those earliest grimoires, this is the holy grail Howe is looking for, not some charred bodies buried in the dirt.
He wants stories. He wants memory made manifest. He wants to reshape the way history sees witches and witchcraft in America. This room could do that.
But what would that do to the families? What would it do to Jasper? If the contents of this room were ever made public, the Burr Island witches would never know another moment’s peace. Their lives would be ripped apart and studied, their magic put under the microscope.
Jasper is right, my system of calculus for determining risk is fundamentally altered.
Magic is real, and that changes everything.
The Birdie from a week ago would have been stumbling over herself to document this place and share its secrets with the world.
But then I crossed the threshold. Jasper invited me in, and now everything has changed.
Magic must be protected. So too must the people who wield it.
Taking a deep breath, I turn to my high priest. “Howe can never find out about this place.”
Dáinn steps in next to me, clearly no less affected by the contents of this room. He looks anxious, almost scared. “Neither can Ludmilla. She would kill you all, tear apart your island stone by stone if only to get a glimpse of these books.”
Jasper nods. “I know. Why do you think I agreed to help you kill her?”
From the corner, Ruby calls out. “Hey—I think these might be the journals you were asking about!” She’s bent over, reaching for something on a bottom shelf. “Uncle William’s journals, right?”
I leave Jasper and Dáinn in the middle of the room and step in behind her. “Let me see.”
She hands me a small, brown leather-bound book. It fits the dimensions of the photocopied page I saw with Howe. I thumb through it gently, recognizing the slanting script of Robert Dent. My heart skips as I look to Jasper. “This is it.”
He watches over my shoulder as I turn the pages. After a moment, I shake my head. “I don’t think this is the right one.”
“Why not?”
“The photocopy I saw was of a page torn from one of the journals,” I explain. “The pages of this one all look to be intact.”
“There are more.” Ruby rights herself, holding a stack of what looks like eight more books. “Could it be one of these?”
“Bring them over to the table.”
All four of us move to the table in the middle of the room, and Ruby sets the stack of journals down.
I reach for the journal on top. “It will be faster if we all look. Everyone take two. Gently,” I’m quick to add.
“Avoid touching the pages too much. The oils in our hands aren’t good for the parchment.
Bacteria and grime can eat away the paper.
And try not to bend the pages too much either. That will only flake the ink.”
“I think she just called us grimy,” the wraith mutters to the witch.