Page 18 of Witches of Dubious Origin
“And she’d bring you the most extraordinary gifts.”
“I remember.” I rolled my eyes. “I wanted a flip phone and she’d show up with an antique dollhouse. I wanted a curling wand and she brought me an antique brush and comb set. And how about that last gift? What was it? A crow? No, it was a raven puppet that looked as if it was a century old.”
“I do remember.” Agatha looked thoughtful. “Didn’t she tell you something likethe raven is your friend?”
“She said she’d had a vision and I shouldtrust the raven.” I felt a shiver ripple down my spine as I thought of the raven outside the museum.
“Did you ever wonder why?” Agatha asked.
“Because she didn’t know me at all?” I picked up a cookie and bit into it with more force than was necessary.
“Possibly, or because the gifts were whatever she could get her hands onat the time,” Agatha said.
I squinted at her. “What are you saying?”
“I’m just speculating that maybe the reason we could never find your mother was because she wasn’t in awherebut rather awhen.”
“Whoa.” I dropped my cookie onto my plate. “Is that even possible?”
“It would take a very powerful witch, and she was one. It’s just a theory.” Agatha bit into a cookie and made a face. She was not a fan of packaged baked goods. “But I believe your mother most definitely could have conjured a spell that would allow her to move back and forth through time.”
“Okay—whoa—but okay. Now, here’s a question: Why would my mother send me the grimoire when she made me promise to never practice witchcraft?” I asked. “It makes no sense.”
“You make a solid point.” Agatha finished her cookie. “But we don’t know for certain it was your mother who sent you the grimoire.”
“Except the handwriting on the envelope looked like hers.”
“Easily faked, especially using magic, which could also be why the envelope disappeared. It was likely spelled to leave no trace, and witch fire is the best way to do that,” Agatha said. “Listen, I think the universe is handing you an incredible opportunity to expand your talents and embrace your witch heritage.”
“Maybe, and that’s a very big maybe.” It was the most I could offer at the moment. “As for the job offer inthatlibrary, I need more time to think about it at the very least.”
She studied me for a moment as if trying to decide whether to push or not. “If I know Miles, he left the offer open?”
I nodded.
Agatha rose from her seat and stood facing me. “Then take the time it deserves and really think about it, Zoe.”
“I want a quiet life, Agatha,” I said. “The years between my dad dying and my mom dropping me off in Wessex were,as you know, awful. We were always on the move. We never stayed in one place longer than a season, and we frequently slept in our car. After that, I promised myself that when I was a grown-up, I would live a simple, stress-free life. From what I saw at the museum, the BODO is not that.”
“This isn’t a quiet life; this is hiding from life. There’s a difference,” Agatha challenged me.
She was probably right, she usually was, but I wasn’t ready to admit it yet. We were at an impasse and we both knew it. Agatha sighed and hugged me. “Just think about it, kiddo.”
“I will, but don’t get your hopes up.”
She pushed the bag she’d brought across the counter. “Reheat the lasagna in the oven, three hundred fifty degrees for thirty minutes. Do not eat it cold.”
I laughed because I had absolutely planned to eat it without warming it. “Fine, I’ll use the microwave.”
She shook her head, her white ringlets bobbing against her shoulders. She refastened her coat and said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I stood on the porch, watching until she drove off. Again, I had the tingly, uncomfortable sensation of being watched. I scanned the area and gasped. Perched on my mailbox at the end of the driveway was a raven and, again, it was staring at me. I popped back inside and shut the door. It had to be a coincidence, I told myself, even though I didn’t believe in coincidences.
The October evening was cool, so I lit a fire in the fireplace and made myself a hot cup of cocoa. I put on my blue-and-black-plaid flannel pajama bottoms with the matching black thermal top and draped my gray chenille throw overmy legs as I hunkered into my favorite reading chair and opened my current book. It didn’t go well.
Three times I tried to get into the story, but my mind kept bouncing back to the Museum of Literature. Claire had met Olive and me at the museum’s exit. Olive had departed with a tersegoodbye, and Claire had been disappointed to hear that I wasn’t interested in a career shift to the museum. For the millionth time—and I would never admit this to Agatha—I wondered if I had done the right thing, which in and of itself was weird because I didn’t usually doubt myself.
When I had changed into my jammies, I’d locked my book of dubious origin—the department name was definitely apt—in the small fireproof safe where I kept all my important papers. I was confident, mostly, that it would stay put.
