Page 47 of A Lullaby for Witches

“Oh,” he said, as if just remembering something, “shoot. I actually have dinner plans with Lisa tonight.”

Of course he had dinner plans. He had a whole other life outside of work and she wasn’t part of it. She didn’t know who Lisa was, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to know. “Next time,” she said with a weak smile.

As Augusta walked through the darkening town to the bar a few blocks away she thought of Margaret’s portrait, her knowing green eyes, the challenging tilt of her chin. Something told her that Margaret hadn’t been one to wait around for a man, or anyone else for that matter. Margaret would have taken what she wanted and to hell with the consequences. How freeing that must have been, how intoxicating. For just one night, Augusta wished she could know what it would be like to be someone like Margaret.

The next morning, head throbbing from a hangover, Augusta gingerly set her stuff down in the staff kitchen and plugged in the electric kettle to make some tea. Despite Leo not coming—or perhaps because of Leo not coming—she’d let go the night before and enjoyed herself to the fullest. It had been freeing to forget everything from her unrequited crush, to Chris, to Margaret, even, but now she was paying for it. Every time she thought she might be on the verge of a hallucination, it turned out to just be the effects from a night of too much drinking. So as she climbed the narrow steps to the third floor of Harlowe House, she was half holding her breath, wondering if she was once again going to slip into the past, or vomit all over a historic carpet.

She rarely came up here—there was little reason to—but she needed to check the insect traps. Kneeling down, she fished the glue trap out from behind an empty bookshelf. She recorded the assortment of feckless moths and unlucky spiders and put out a fresh trap. But as she was walking her hands back to stand up, the floorboard wobbled under her. Frowning, she leaned closer to inspect it. If there was something wrong with the floorboard, Reggie would need to know so that he could address it.

Since she had her condition reports with her, she took a quick picture and jotted down a note. It was getting hot up there, but something made her kneel back down and test the edge of the plank again. To her surprise, it came up in her hands. There were probably dead rodents and decades’ worth of dust, but she couldn’t help leaning down and peering in.

The flashlight on her cell phone illuminated something that didn’t look like it belonged under a floor. She drew in her breath, leaning closer. Two books, wrapped in brittle fabric, were nestled in the cavity.

She sat there, motionless. If she had thought that taking the letters out of the desk was borderline unethical, these books would be like lifting the Holy Grail from its resting place. It didn’t even matter what lay between the covers—though she couldn’t help the wild speculations that raced through her mind—just the fact that someone had hidden books in the attic was hugely significant. Opening and inspecting them was a job for a curator or an archivist, someone who could take them to a sterile environment and do it properly. But everything she knew and respected about museum protocol seemed to fly out the window as she gently lifted the first book and thumbed it open.

It was bound in soft leather, a simple gilded embellishment on the spine. The first page was titled in cursive “My Common Book” and underneath was the inscription:

To Louisa Montrose, from her mother, Catharine.

Her mouth went suddenly dry. Montrose. That name again. This was the third time she’d seen it: first, on her family tree, and the most recently just the previous day in the vital records. Again, Montrose wasn’t an uncommon name, but something inside her jumped in recognition, and she knew that whoever this Louisa Montrose was, they had to be related in some way.

She gingerly turned the pages, her eyes scanning the handwritten entries, dated from the 1840s. Who was Louisa Montrose? And why had she hidden her book in the attic beneath the floorboards where no one would ever see it? Most of the entries seemed to be recipes, little songs and some sketches, though they were difficult to make out. Placing it gently on the cloth, Augusta turned her attention to the second book. This one was bound in a much simpler paper binding, the entries written in a different hand. She didn’t need to see the name on the first page to know to whom it belonged: it was Margaret’s. It read more like an account book, people’s names listed with little shorthand entries next to them.

Alice MacKay—husband takes his hand to her when inebriated.

Hattie Mason—three miscarriages. Gave her instructions to drink a tisane of willow bark and mint. Her brother controls her finances and I do not trust him.

She flipped forward. It was all women that Margaret had apparently advised or treated in some way. Had Margaret practiced medicine of some kind? There could have been female midwives back in the 1870s, though Augusta couldn’t imagine that a wealthy family such as the Harlowes would have allowed their daughter to have a vocation. And if she had, surely there would have been some record of it somewhere else.

Downstairs, a phone ringing reminded her that she couldn’t stay up here all day. Quickly, she put both books back in the hollow space, replacing the board. She would not take them, but neither would she tell Jill or Sharon. These were hers, a secret between her and Margaret; Margaret had led her there, she was sure of it, and to lay them bare under the eye of an archivist or the public would be a breach of trust.

She was still sitting on her elbows and knees when her phone buzzed. She jumped,Leoflashed across her screen.Call?it said.

She groaned, suddenly remembering some very drunken texts she’d sent to him the night before. The books were instantly forgotten as Augusta called him back, her heart beating a little faster as she waited for him to pick up. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much, what’s up with you?”

Twirling a strand of hair around her finger like a high schooler, Augusta switched the phone to her other ear. “You wanted me to call just so you could tell me you’re not up to anything?”

“Maybe, would you be mad if I did?”

“I’m livid,” she said, biting her lip to keep from grinning. If she’d made a total ass out of herself the night before, then he was too gentlemanly to say anything about it.

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Yikes, okay. Then I guess I better tell you why I really called.”

Her breath hitched, and for a stupidly drawn-out moment she thought he was going to say something about how he’d been waiting to ask her out. But of course, he was dating the mysterious Lisa. “So I was talking to Lori in Boston, and she said that she was looking through the Ida Foster letters you found.”

Augusta was only disappointed for a fraction of a second. “Oh, yeah?”

“She says that they could go a long way in helping not just our interpretation of the house, but also the community in the 1800s.” He paused. “Well done, you.”

“That’s awesome, I’m glad they’ll be helpful. No Margaret sightings, though?”

“No Margaret sightings,” he confirmed. “But I was thinking of cross-referencing some of the names in the letters with documents in the archives. That’s a thing right, cross-referencing?”

He was too adorable. “Yes, that’s a thing. And it’s a really good idea,” she added.

“Lori sent me home with some photocopies and a list of the names that show up.” She could hear the rustle of papers as he started to rattle off names. “You have a better grasp of the history of Harlowe House than I do, so tell me if any of these are familiar. Let’s see...there’s a Mullins, a Montrose, a Crenshaw, a—”

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