Chapter 12 #2
The memory of my promise to my mother weighed heavily upon me.
I could recall the intensity of that moment as clearly today as it had been twenty-two years ago.
It was early autumn and we were standing on the front steps of the Wessex boarding school while Agatha waited nearby.
Mom cupped my face and met my gaze. Her eyes had a fierce light in them and her mouth was tight, as if holding back emotion.
When she spoke, her voice held an urgency that made me squirm.
“Promise me, Zoanne,” she said. “Promise me that you will forget everything Mamie taught you, you will forget about being a witch and the craft, and you will never practice magic again. Promise me.”
“But I’ve only used it a little bit since we left Mamie,” I protested. Even at fourteen, the promise she was asking of me didn’t sit right.
“Please, Zoe. I have to leave.” She squeezed my shoulders with her thin fingers until it hurt. I pushed her hands off me.
“Fine, I promise.” I glared at her.
“Thank you.” My mother pulled me into a hug even though I resisted. She kissed my forehead and said, “I know you don’t understand, but you have to trust me. I’m doing this to protect you.”
Before I could ask what she was protecting me from, she climbed back into her car and drove away as if the police were after her.
I saw her only a handful of times after that and for only a few hours at most. As time went on, I assumed she’d meant she was protecting me from using magic because of her guilt over my father’s death.
Still, I had kept my promise—it suited me and the quiet life I longed for—and I hadn’t practiced magic since.
I glanced down at the open grimoire. Centuries of ancestors and their spells were carefully archived in the volume in front of me.
Had I gotten it wrong? Had my mother been protecting me from something or someone?
If what Eloise had said was true and someone had murdered both Mamie and my mom, I had to consider the possibility that my mother had been running from something that neither Agatha nor I knew anything about. The thought gutted me.
I dropped my pencil onto the table and leaned close to the book. “I need a minute.”
I expected the book to slam shut in a huff, but instead, its cover gently closed and the metal bands locked into place with a soft click.
I paused to do a vibe check and felt sympathy coming from the small black book.
I resisted the urge to pat its cover as I pushed back my chair and rose from my seat.
I climbed the nearest spiral staircase all the way to the top and walked along the upper level until I reached a quiet alcove.
We were in the basement of the museum. There were no windows here and for the first time since I’d started working in the BODO, I felt claustrophobic.
I sat on the floor, leaned my back against the wall, and pulled my legs into my chest. I lowered my forehead to my knees and sighed.
What was I going to do? I was no closer to translating the book than I’d been the first time I’d opened it. Eloise was going to run out of smaller body parts soon, and what was she going to do if she lost an arm or a leg? I swallowed. I felt sick to my stomach.
But my upset wasn’t just about Eloise. Every day I spent in the BODO researching witches and witchcraft was another day I was confronted with my past. More and more memories resurfaced from my visits with Mamie at her home on Hagshill Isle and the memory of the simple spells she’d taught me tempted me.
I wanted to try them out and see if I still had the magic that Mamie had seen in me when I was her chaton.
It occurred to me then that if I could decode the grimoire, I could call Mamie and my mom back across the veil.
I could see them again. The mere thought of it was almost beyond my comprehension and I felt jittery and off-kilter with a mix of happiness and trepidation, as if I’d had way too much caffeine on an empty stomach.
If I could see them again, ask them what had happened and why my mother had felt the need to leave me, maybe I could find closure on so many unanswered questions about my life.
I thought of my mother as I remembered her best—the happy woman who had loved me so damn much—and I knew that version of my mother would want me to have that peace even if it meant using magic to get it.
I closed my eyes. Jasper had said belief was the key to magic. Okay, then. I hadn’t attempted to do anything since the night I’d levitated, but here in the quiet, I thought, Why not try it just to see? If I could float my entire body, surely I could manage to float a book off the shelf.
I cleared my mind, pushing away all the negativity and self-doubt.
I focused on the books in the stacks beside me.
In my mind, I gently lifted one off the shelf and visualized it floating in the air.
I felt the same pulse of peaceful energy that I’d felt while I’d been levitating fill me with a warm glow, as if I had embers gently burning in my core.
This was magic. I recognized it as the same feeling I’d had as a child when Mamie would teach me simple spells of practical magic.
Deep in my visualization, I knew it was the moment of truth. If all went well, when I opened my eyes, I expected the book would be hanging in the air right there in front of me. Simple enough, right?
“Bloody hell! Freya, are you flying?” Jasper’s voice, normally so deep and calm, sounded agitated.
I opened my eyes just in time to see Freya fall into Jasper’s outstretched hands. Her tail was at peak terrified floof and he cradled the book against his chest and stroked her spine until her trembling stopped and her tail disappeared inside the book.
“There, there, you’re all right, love,” he said. “Now, off you pop.” He let go of the furry gray book and she drifted through the air into an open slot on the bookcase. It was the first time I’d seen magic actively used by anyone at the BODO and it weirdly felt absolutely normal.
“Sorry, Freya,” I said. There was no response from the book-cat, not that I had expected any.
“She’ll be all right.” Jasper crouched down in front of me.
I turned my head and met his gaze. A small smile played upon his full lips and I realized I hadn’t seen him in days and I’d missed him.
“She’s never going to forgive me for that.” I sighed.
“Freya? Not to worry. She doesn’t hold grudges, otherwise she’d never forgive Tariq for turning her into a hat.”
“He did not.” I laughed at the image despite my doubt.
“He most certainly did,” Jasper insisted. “He wore poor Freya all winter while he tried to figure out how to reverse the spell.”
“Is everyone at the museum a witch?” I asked.
Jasper pursed his lips as he considered the question. “Not the museum, no. Here in the BODO, however, I suppose the simplest answer is yes, we all have our own talents. Claire, who does not possess any magic, has chosen us each for our different skill sets.”
“She’s created a department of witches to deal with the dubious books.”
“Technically, women are called witches whilst men are referred to as mages . Because of the nature of our work for the museum, we tend to think of ourselves as academics first. Our mission is to be good stewards for the collection that Mabel left in our care.”
“Mabel Stewart, Thomas’s wife, the woman in the portrait in the hallway outside Claire’s office?” I glanced out at the many shelves of the collection and then back at him. “Was she a witch?”
“She was,” he said. “And she made it her mission to collect as much information as she could because she feared it was a dying art. She wanted to provide a place where witches and mages in future generations would be able to learn their craft but also to contain those materials that could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands. The Books of Dubious Origin collection was built for people like you and me, Zoe.”
I felt the crushing burden of unmet expectations flatten me. I was failing spectacularly and was quite certain Mabel Stewart would be woefully disappointed in me.
“I’m making no progress.” My voice sounded positively defeated.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Jasper said. “You managed to bring Freya to you.”
“Against her will, no doubt,” I said.
“An even bigger achievement.” His eyes twinkled. “Your first intentional magic?”
“Not my first, but it’s been a really long time.” I squinted at him. “What I meant was I’m having no luck translating the grimoire.”
Jasper nodded. “Miles told me.”
I dropped my chin to my knees. I felt like such a fraud. Why couldn’t I crack this code?
“If you’re done beating yourself up, I’d like to show you something.”
“I’m not…That’s not what I was doing.” It totally was and clearly he knew it.
“Of course it was,” he said. “I expect you’re not used to being unable to find the answers you seek, and that has to be a bit of a blow to your ego.”
“This has nothing to do with my ego,” I protested. Although, truthfully, it positively chafed that I couldn’t figure out the meaning of the symbols in the grimoire. “I’m merely upset that I can’t help Eloise.”
“Zoe, it’s not just on you,” Jasper said. “We’re a team here. We’re all trying to help her.”
Miles and Tariq had said as much, but I wasn’t a group project sort of person, so I was adjusting to that as well.
“Is that why you’ve been gone?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was trying to track down an obscure text at the Bodleian that Miles thought would be helpful. Sadly, it’s on loan to a scholar in Sweden.”
“The Bodleian? As in the library at Oxford?” I asked. My inner librarian started to geek out so hard.
“Is there another?” he asked.
“I didn’t realize. I mean, I knew Tariq was calculating the age of the book, but I didn’t know you were working on it, too.”
“As I said, we’re a team, and that includes you.”
“I don’t think Olive sees it that way.”
His lips curved up. “Perhaps not, but she doesn’t view any of us that way.”
That surprised a huff of amusement out of me.
“Come on.” He patted my arm and stood.
Reluctantly, I followed. I’d sat there for so long my body had gotten stiff and my first few steps were painful as the blood moved back into my limbs.
“Where are we going?” I asked as I fell into step beside him.
“You’ll see.” He headed for the back. It was quiet, as the sounds from the open library below were muffled by the volume of books.
Jasper turned down a narrow passageway and stopped in the corner.
The narrow bit of wall that was visible was done in decorative plaster much like the domed ceiling of the upper hallway in the museum above us.
The plaster here was shaped to resemble a large pillar with a grapevine twining around it.
Jasper stopped in front of it and pressed on one of the grapes.
There was a click, and a narrow door swung open and revealed a dimly lit staircase.
I glanced at him in surprise. “Where does it go?”
“Out,” he said. “You didn’t think the main entrance to the BODO is our only way of coming and going, did you?”
“Didn’t really think about it, to be honest.”
Jasper turned sideways to fit his broad shoulders into the narrow passageway. The stairs were steep, almost a vertical climb. I didn’t hesitate as I ducked inside and followed.
My thighs burned from the incline and I recommitted to getting in better shape if I was going to work in this staircase-infested facility.
We passed two doors on our ascent, but Jasper didn’t stop until we reached the door at the top.
It was plain, with a round brass knob. Jasper turned it and pushed the door open.
Bright sunlight and a cold breeze greeted us.
Jasper led the way, stepping outside onto the flat roof of the museum.
I gawked. Despite the arrival of autumn, we were standing in what was clearly an immense garden.
Most of the raised beds were now barren, but a large greenhouse was on the north side of the roof and I could see that it was full of greenery.
Amid the long raised beds, small café tables and chairs had been scattered, as if inviting visitors to linger. At one of the tables, Miles and Tariq sat with a pot of tea and an empty two-tiered plate between them.
“Glad you could join us, Zoe,” Miles said. He gestured to the vacant seats at their table in silent invitation. Tariq poured tea into two mugs and pushed them toward us, indicating the little pitcher of milk and the sugar on the table.
“A bit early for tea, isn’t it?” I asked Jasper.
“It’s four o’clock somewhere.” His lips curved up on one side and he winked at me.
We sat down and I gratefully cupped the hot beverage in my hands. A stiff breeze blew across the roof from the reservoir and I shivered. Without saying a word, Jasper shrugged his jacket off and draped it over my shoulders.
“Thank you.” I tried to sound normal, as if hot guys offered me their coats all the time, when I was certain that this had never happened to me—not once—in my thirty-six years of existence. I refused to be weird about it—at least on the outside.
“This is an amazing space,” I said. “It must be beautiful in the spring.”
Tariq beamed. “It was my idea. I take full credit.”
Miles and Jasper sent him amused glances as if they’d heard him say this before.
“What inspired it?” I asked.
“I was homesick.” Tariq’s expression was bleak for just a heartbeat, but then his usual smile appeared, beaming like the sun.
“I grew up outside Abuja near Zuma Rock. Nigeria is in a tropical climate, you know, and I missed the vegetation—I use so much of it in my potions—so I asked to put in a greenhouse and Claire agreed.”
“Then other librarians and curators wanted garden beds, and the kitchen staff felt they needed one, too, and the next thing we knew, the rooftop garden came to be.” Miles held his arms wide.
“It has been a boost for everyone’s mental health to be able to get a little fresh air and take a plant break during the workday. ”
“I can see why.” I took a deep breath, and even with all my anxiety about Eloise and the mystery surrounding my mother and grandmother, I felt myself relax a smidge.
I glanced at the now-dormant beds and noticed that one of them had a short wrought iron fence around it, and it wasn’t in alignment with the others but rather was off to the side, isolated.
Tariq followed the line of my gaze. “I wouldn’t go near that one. That’s Olive’s poison garden.”