Page 3 of Witches of Dubious Origin
Agatha turned the book over in her hands. She studied the hexagonal medallion on the cover, tapping it with a pointy purple fingernail. She held it up with both hands as if offering it to the heavens. With a fierce expression of concentration, she stared at the book, and in a low tone, she whispered the words, “Exsolvo liber.”
Unsurprisingly—at least to me—nothing happened.
“Your waves of resistance are impeding my powers,” Agatha said.
“Sorry.” I shrugged. She had been saying this to me since I had arrived on her doorstep at the snarky age of fourteen with a deep-seated fear of magic because of all it had taken from me.
“I have no idea how to open it.” Agatha shook her head. “There’s no indication from the cover or the engravings about what it is. Do you suppose it’s a personal journal that someone wants added to the library collection?”
“Darned if I know.” I sipped my tea. It could use some sugar. “No note came with it.”
“No key? Nothing?” Agatha asked.
“Not a thing,” I confirmed. “There’s no place to put a key. The circular center of the medallion is smooth, like a tiny little bowl, not something a key would fit into.”
“Strange.” Agatha shivered again and quickly put thebook back in the canvas bag. Her mouth turned down at the corners and a frown line appeared between her brows. I knew that look. Something was bothering her.
“What is it?” I glanced at the bag and then back at her face.
She lifted her head and met my gaze. “There is tremendous power in that book.”
I put my teacup down and crossed my arms over my chest. Agatha was a self-proclaimed kitchen witch and used cooking as a way to practice her craft, while I refused to practice magic. It was one of the only differences of opinion we had. “How can you tell when you can’t open it?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” Agatha wagged a finger at me while retrieving her tea with her other hand.
“I didn’t have a tone,” I protested. I didn’t like that I sounded exactly as I had when I was sixteen and she’d busted me for breaking curfew.
“Oh yes you did,” Agatha said. “You sounded exactly like your mother when we were teenagers and she was feeling peevish. And then she would deny it, as if I didn’t know exactly how my lifelong best friend was feeling. I don’t know who she thought she was fooling.”
She stared at me until I cracked. “All right, maybe there was a hint of a tone, but you know how I feel about all things woo-woo.”
“And now you’re going to double down and be disrespectful?” She leaned back and looked me over as if to say,the audacity.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. I knew being a witch was part of her identity, but I saw nothing useful in practicingspells or magic. In my experience, witchcraft left only death and destruction in its wake.
“Zoe, you know your mother was a witch—” Agatha began, but I interrupted.
“I know.” I held up my hand. “And you know the promise she asked me to make when she dropped me off at school.”
“What she asked of you…” Agatha’s voice trailed off and she shook her head. “It’s not my business.”
“It is,” I said. “You stepped in and raised me. I think that makes it your business.”
“For her to ask you to swear that you would never use your magic, to deny your abilities—it’s just not right,” Agatha said. “And I believe your mother would have seen that if she’d—”
“Been around for more than an afternoon here and there? Maybe.” I shrugged. “But the truth is, I came to the same decision on my own. I’m not interested in magic or in being a witch. I just want to be normal and oblivious to the craft like regular people.”
It was my turn to stare at her. Agatha knew I didn’t like talking about my mother or my grandmother and their witchcraft. Despite being well into my thirties, I found the entire notion of casting spells and whatnot deeply uncomfortable. I was a librarian and operated in facts. Period. Full stop.
“Thank you for looking at it.” I changed the subject. “I suppose I could just toss it out like those moldy books people insist on donating to the library because they’re certain they’re worth something even though they’re water stained or reek of cigarette smoke or mold.”
“No!” Agatha cried. “You can’t do that. It might be valuable.”
I glanced around her house, noting the piles and piles of belongings left behind by her family.
“Don’t say it.” She shook her head. “Just because I have a problem sorting my family’s possessions doesn’t mean I’m wrong about this. That book isn’t visibly damaged, and it might be an important historical artifact.”
“Fine. If I can’t throw it away, what do you suggest I do with it?” I asked. “I can’t open it without tearing it apart, so what purpose does it serve?”
