Chapter 5 #3
“It’s a metaphorical heart. It symbolizes a witch’s power. In this case, it belonged to a witch called Ariana Darkwood,” Miles said. “She was banished from her coven decades ago for practicing black magic.”
“Like necromancy?” I felt vulnerable admitting my concerns about what they’d told me about the maternal side of my family, but I had to know.
“No.” Miles shook his head. “Necromancy is not black magic when used appropriately.”
“ Appropriately ,” I repeated. I had a hard time imagining any circumstance where raising the dead wasn’t considered evil. “I still think keeping books locked away is wrong.”
“Let me ask you this,” Olive said. “Do you think just anyone should be able to utilize these books containing information that we don’t yet understand?
Are you okay with the worst of humanity having access to texts that instruct them on how to summon a demon, enslave their enemy, and curse a family for seven generations?
” She tapped my shoulder bag. “Or raise the dead?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” I muttered. I was ready for the conversation to be over, as I really wanted to move away from this section of icky books.
“What Olive is trying to say with her typical sledgehammer finesse is that most of these books are here because we don’t yet know their provenance or their intent.” Miles pushed his glasses up his nose and tipped his head to the side as he studied me.
“On the upside, those cruel grimoires that you mentioned earlier, Zoe, usually go right upstairs. As they generally have no magic or mystery to them at all,” Tariq said with a grin, and I smiled in return.
I glanced around the main room, looking for something more scientific. “How do you authenticate the materials you acquire?”
“So glad you asked,” Miles said. “This way.”
He crossed the room to another narrow wooden door.
He pushed it open and stepped inside, waving me in after him.
Olive and Tariq joined us, which surprised me, as I didn’t think Olive wanted me to be privy to their secrets.
I blinked as I took in the glaringly bright room.
This was the laboratory I had been expecting.
“Tariq is our master of radiocarbon dating,” Miles said. He gestured for Tariq to take over.
Tariq nodded and crossed the room to a large piece of equipment with coils and wires and tubes. It looked like something out of a science fiction novel.
“This is our accelerated mass spectrometer,” he said.
Yup, totally sci-fi. “It feels rather techy for objects of dubious origin,” I said.
“Science and the arcane can coexist,” Miles assured me. “In fact, it’s generally science that reveals the mystical and magical, shining a light on the mysteries we can’t solve or comprehend.”
I gave him a doubtful look and asked, “How does it work?”
“This machine accelerates negatively charged ions in order to separate the rare carbon-14 atoms from the more common carbon-12 for mass analysis,” Tariq explained. “Once we determine the decay of the carbon-14, we can estimate the age of the paper or parchment.”
I didn’t completely understand, so I asked a follow-up just to be clear. “And we can use this method on my book?”
“Absolutely,” Tariq answered at the same time Miles said, “Potentially.”
Both Tariq and I turned to face him.
“Potentially?” I asked.
“Zoe, I would like to offer you a position here in the BODO,” Miles said.
“What?” Olive and I cried in unison.
“We have a vacancy and I think you would fit in well.” Miles held his hands wide to indicate the lab.
“You’re giving her Niall’s position,” Olive said. It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t sound happy about it.
“He’s been gone for two years, Olive,” Miles said. His voice was understanding but also firm.
Olive turned and strode to the door, where she leaned against the doorframe, clearly refusing to participate.
“Why me?” I asked. “Surely, you have loads of more-qualified candidates and people in-house who would enjoy this collection much more than I would.”
“I’ve seen your curriculum vitae,” Miles said.
“How did you see my CV?” I asked. Miles didn’t answer, but I knew. “Agatha.”
He didn’t confirm or deny, but I knew it was Agatha. She’d always believed I was destined for bigger things than the Wessex Public Library, completely disregarding the fact that Wessex was where I wanted to be.
“You’d bring a unique set of skills to the department,” Miles said.
I stared at him. I knew what he was going to say before he said it and I wanted to argue, but the very book I’d brought here would make a liar out of me.
“The Donadieu coven is one of the oldest and most powerful in the world,” Miles said. “With that blood in your veins and your family’s grimoire, you have the potential to be one of the greatest witches of the modern age.”
“ Pfft ,” Olive huffed from her place beside the door.
“There are two problems with that,” I said. “The first is that I can’t read the book and the second is that even if I could, having not practiced any witchcraft since I was a child, I’m likely not powerful enough to manage any magic at all.”
I didn’t mention my reluctance to examine my abilities.
How could I explain to a roomful of strangers what my childhood had been like?
That I’d grown up in a household where my mother was an extraordinary witch, so much so that the high priestess of the local coven was threatened by her power.
As the members of the local coven frequently turned to my mother instead of the high priestess for help in casting their spells, my father had become concerned that something horrible would happen to my mother because of her ability.
He’d been right. I was never given the specifics, but at a meeting of the coven elders, Mom got into a confrontation with the high priestess.
Going against the laws of the coven, the high priestess had attacked, and Mom was severely injured.
In my mind, I could still see the jagged wound across my mother’s palm inflicted by the high priestess that night.
Mom had carried that scar for the rest of her life.
Dad had waited outside the meeting, and when Mom appeared, cradling her wounded hand, he rushed her to the local witch doctor.
Unfortunately, it was an icy night outside and Dad lost control of the car and crashed into a tree.
He died instantly, while she suffered internal injuries and a concussion.
Mom blamed herself and her magic for her husband’s death.
With the insight of an adult, I knew she had asked me to swear to never use magic to protect me from the same heartbreak she had suffered.
“Are you certain you can’t manifest any magic?” Miles asked.
“Yes.” There was the tiniest hiccup of doubt in my voice, but I soldiered on, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“I appreciate your interest in me, but I don’t think I’m a good fit.
I studied ancient languages but am by no means an expert.
I don’t travel well, and I don’t practice witchcraft.
I am a pragmatic, unimaginative, fact-oriented librarian, and I don’t believe I have anything to offer this department. ”
“Ziakas and I finally agree on something,” Olive said. She gestured to the open door. “Here. I’ll escort you out.”
“I don’t think you see yourself as clearly as I do, Zoe. The offer stands,” Miles said. “At least consider it. Since the book seems bonded to you and we can’t take it from you, if you accept the job, you could make carbon dating and deciphering the grimoire your first project.”
I met his gaze. Behind his glasses, his eyes were benevolent and patient, and as he rocked back on his heels with his hands casually stuffed into his pockets, I suspected he was certain I was going to accept.
Truly, what librarian wouldn’t want to work here?
I genuinely felt bad about disappointing him, but there was no way I was going to change my mind.
“Thank you, but I don’t need to consider it more. I’m happy right where I am.” It was true. I had no intention of ditching my comfortable, stress-free life and I hoped my tone of voice conveyed as much.
Miles considered me for a moment. “If you need us, you know where to find us.”
“Thank you.” I turned to Tariq and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you and thank you for your help when I blacked out.”
“No wahala—it is no problem. My specialty is potions, which I learned from my grandmother, who was a witch much like yours.” Tariq’s Nigerian accent made his words as gentle as a hug. “I do hope we meet again, Zoe Ziakas.”
I turned and followed Olive, who was already striding across the floor of the main room to the large metal door.
Hurrying after her, I felt an insistent tug on my insides, as if the library itself was trying to pull me back, and I wondered for a second, a nanosecond really, if turning down the job was a mistake.
As I stood on the curb, trying to hail a cab, I felt the creepy sensation of being watched.
I cast a quick glance over my shoulder at the glorious library behind me, but the windows were barren and even the security guard was absent from her post. It was ridiculous to think that anyone at the Museum of Literature cared if I left or not.
Still, the feeling of being observed persisted.
I glanced up and spotted a raven perched on the corner of the roof.
It met my gaze and I knew it was the reason I’d felt like someone was watching me. Weird.