27. Grandmere’s Journal
TWENTY-SEVEN
GRANDMERE’S JOURNAL
A word of caution to all pure-blooded witches and wizards: Once committed to parchment, secrets are no longer truly your own.
To record private thoughts, spells, or family lore is to invite prying eyes—intentional or otherwise—into the sanctity of your mind and lineage.
Such writings should be confined strictly to one’s family grimoire, and even then, must be protected by layers of charms, hexes, and enchantments, ensuring only the worthy may access it.
Particularly perilous is the growing trend of keeping an Ordinary journal, a frivolous indulgence of lesser beings.
While these lesser folk may have little to lose, a pure-blooded witch’s every word carries weight.
Should such writings fall into the wrong hands, even the most innocent reflections could be twisted into weapons against you.
–EXCERPT FROM THE ARCANE ELITE: UPHOLDING THE SANCTITY OF WITCH BLOODLINES
Minerva managed to swipe some biscuit bits from the coffee shop, but the cheese fridge had bested her.
It was almost torture, seeing the Gruyere through the glass and being unable to reach it.
The door was just too heavy. She even tried to summon her broom again, in the hopes that it could act as a lever.
But she only heard the distant clatter of the enchanted object falling over.
Try as she might, she could not get her faithful ride to do her bidding.
Still, this was progress. She’d gotten the thing to move.
At first when she returned to the fireplace she wondered how she was going to get back up the precipitous slide. But upon inspection, Minerva discovered that the opposite column contained a spiral staircase beneath its twisted barley carved design.
“You might have led me to this one and saved me the bumps and bruises,” she grumbled at the house. It seemed to chuckle back at her, lights twinkling.
After she climbed her way back up, she stopped for a nibble, settling herself on the mantel beside Papa Lathrop’s clock.
She pulled out the small journal that she’d swiped in passing from the library.
The once violet ink was faded to a claret color, too old to even leave a trace scent.
The writing was in French, a fine loopy script that was still perfectly legible.
Fortunately for Minerva, French was one of the nine languages she was well studied in.
She’d suspected whose journal it was, and these suspicions were confirmed upon reading the very first entry. Grandmere.
My name is Flora Lathrop and I am 24 years old, in human years.
I am writing this entry from the deck of my ship.
The year is 1685 and my husband and I have set sail for the colonies.
I know not what lies ahead, all I know is that it is not safe for our kind to remain in France any longer.
From the Affair of the Poisons to the Dancing Plagues, our kind are in constant fear of discovery.
If discovered there would be no question as to our fate. We are in the gravest danger.
For my beloved and I the risk is even greater, as neither of us can rely on the shelter and protection of our native communities any longer.
Lionel and I first met at the court in Versailles. In such a place, infested with intrigue and charged with the magic of many charlatans, it was necessary for those with real magic to avoid too much scrutiny. We both stuck to the shadows, hiding our true selves.
Happenstance placed us both in the palace library on the fated day we met. Has it really been three years hence? It didn’t take long for us to form an allegiance. We immediately recognized each other for what we were.
For whatever reasons, thank the stars, neither of us have carried the burden of past prejudices forward into our hearts and minds. It was simply wonderful to find a friend in this potentially hostile territory.
How many times has our alliance served us?
I do not think either of us would be alive to tell our tale had we not met.
My magic gives me unique access to Les Ordinaires, including those at the highest levels of court.
Lionel’s gifts have also come in handy. His talent for magical contrivances is unparalleled, allowing him to rise in the ranks of courtly craftsmen quickly.
To be sure, he could have taken almost any young witch in Paris as a wife.
In fact, his family thrust many options upon him.
But it was too late. We were already in love.
The heart, once decided, pays no attention to the outdated rules of society.
And so, neither have we. We do not feel, nor accept, that such rules should apply to us.
Yet there was no way that his family, or mine if they were still alive, would have accepted such a forbidden union. We had no choice but to?—
Here the writing trailed off, as though the author had been interrupted mid thought.
Minerva took a bite of her biscuit and considered the entry.
Papa Lathrop was a legendary figure in her family lore, but his first wife, Flora, was less well known.
Quiet and bookish, she had started the library within the Mudpuddle that had grown into the bookstore and Archives that still existed today.
But beyond this, Minerva knew very little about her third great grandmother.
Minerva turned the minuscule book over in her paws and flipped through the pages. There were small sketches scattered throughout. Flowers, landscapes and more than one sketch of Papa Lathrop. The next entry had him standing at the rails of the ship.
Lionel is much more himself since we have arrived.
The sickness we’d hoped was only due to the passage has proven as much.
He continues to gain strength daily. With the money we accumulated at court, we have been able to purchase a sizable plot of land, hidden inside the small British village of Charlestown.
Leo hopes to build a house there, and we both agree that a library will be its central feature.
The house will be large, and Lionel promises me that there will be space for both of our families to seek refuge there, should the need arise.
In time we hope they will come to accept our union.
But I fear his family would never knowingly wish to dwell where my kind lives and the opposite is also quite true.
Her ‘kind’? Minerva wasn’t sure what Flora could have meant by that. Perhaps they were from rival wizarding families?
Minerva flipped towards the middle of the journal. Flora appeared to have abandoned writing for several years, as the entries grew farther apart, and increasingly more mundane in nature. Her ancestor wrote about shopping trips and the scarcity of certain goods.
She drew dozens of illustrations of flowers, small delicate bouquets tied with bows.
Some of the entries were tearstained. Minerva didn’t have to wonder what had happened those years.
She could easily guess. A row of tiny gravestones in the family cemetery documented Flora’s sad story, in a different way.
Were these the flowers that she’d laid on the graves of her stillborn children? She traced a finger over the inscription beneath one bouquet. Posey. There was a stone with that name in the plot. She felt quite certain the years would correspond.
Finally in 1690 the entries began to take form again. Flora wrote about the troubles in Salem and her fears for herself, Lionel and their children.
We did not come all this way to continue on in so much danger,” Flora had penned in her signature plum colored ink.
“But Lionel thinks he has a solution. He has purchased more land, and invited other magical folk to take refuge.
Primrose Court, for that is what we have decided to call it, will always be a haven for magic and those who would otherwise be persecuted for their inheritance of the trait.
There was a drawing of a basket of yarn at the end of the entry. It looked surprisingly like the one Minerva had fallen asleep in, back in the Mudroom. And coincidentally, there was a tiny mouse sleeping in the basket in the drawing as well.
Minerva yawned and stretched. Now that her belly was full, she was already tired again.
She closed the diary and gathered up her bundle of biscuit bits and pieces.
She stared sadly at the cafe, thinking it could really use a good dusting.
She missed the smell of baking and, handy as it was, she might have traded her tail for a good cup of tea.
But there was nothing she could do about any of that right now.
She needed to bide her time, continue to do research, and rest. Rest was not a thing that came naturally to Minerva.
Sleeping past daybreak, and taking a nap were two things that were literally unheard of in her world.
Yet here she was, plotting her path back to one of the mouse sized apartments.
Surely there were beds in them—and it was barely noon.
Suddenly the clock chimed and Minerva jumped. The book fell out of her hands, opening to another page with a drawing of a mouse in it.
The entry read:
Auntie Estelle on the day she came to visit us in Primrose.
We have opened the home to my family at last. Lionel has contrived a way to bring the court to them, within the walls of the Mudpuddle.
At long last we shall be one happy family again.
If only his family were a bit more open minded about our union.
Perhaps when Mirabelle is a bit older. They cannot help but find her charming.
She is so like her father. In fact her likeness to me has lessened with each passing month.
Perhaps this is for the best. She is an easy baby.
In many ways she is like my second child.
The first of course, being this magical house.
Minerva slammed the book shut.
“Mother of all moonbeam madness!” Minerva cried out. “Was my great, great, great grandmother a mouse shifter?”
The lights flickered all around her, as if in answer to the question.
Then the mantel shook somewhat violently.
Minerva heard the distinct clatter of books falling from the shelves and hitting the carpet in the reading rooms next door.
Was she experiencing an earthquake? She clung to the pine cone finial she’d been leaning against, hopeful she’d be able to ride whatever it was out.
The thought of Zephyr flew through her mind once more.
Oh, Zephyr! What would he have thought of her now? As broad minded as he was, she still worried that he wouldn’t have wanted her if he’d known the truth about the Lathrops. Nobody would have.
Ever since Mirabelle and her younger half-brothers grew this community into what it is today, it has been an unspoken agreement that in times of trouble, it was acceptable for magical folk to band together and act as allies, and even possibly fraternize. But it should never go beyond that.
Mating between species was a dangerous and terrible idea.
She thought of the row of tiny gravestones again. There was a larger stone beside them, decorated with a wreath of flowers. Flora had only lived to the age of thirty-five.
Minerva squeezed her eyes shut tight as the house shook again, swaying from side to side like a ship backing into its berth.
Then, with one last jolt and a short shudder, the shaking of the house ceased. All was eerily still. Everything felt solid again.
Minerva opened one eye to peek at the damage.
Much to her surprise, daylight was pouring through the windows. She could hear the birds chirping outside.
“Well, well, well!” she squeaked. Her mouse voice was starting to sound more familiar to her own ears. “You decided it was time to go home. What a good girl! But whatever changed your mind?”
She patted and stroked the pine cone finial as if she was coddling a pet.
The house did not reply, and the flickering lights in the walls were no longer visible either. For a moment Minerva was sad. The house hadn’t been such terrible company for the past few days.
“Nevermind, I’m sure you’ll tell me when you can.” Minerva sighed. “In the meantime, I have a lot of work to do, don’t I?”
She was still tired. Perhaps even more so when she considered her predicament. Even though the house was back where it belonged, how would she ever be able to communicate what had happened? Who would listen to a mouse?
Partly from relief, partly from a food coma, and partly as the result of all her exertions, the exhaustion was overwhelming her now. She needed to lie down for a bit. The important thing was, her home was home.
When she woke, she would make a new plan.