Page 4 of Witches of Dubious Origin
“We won’t know until we can read it.” She took a bracing sip of tea.
Obviously, she was much more interested than I was. This wasn’t surprising, as I was unsentimental by nature. Compared to her house, the aesthetic of my cottage on the other side of town could best be described asno one lives here. I didn’t have any pictures on the walls, there were no collections of any kind except for my books—it’s not hoarding if it’s books—and I firmly believed in a place for everything and everything in its place. I think that was one of the traits that made me such a good librarian.
“If you say so,” I said.
“I do.” Agatha refilled my teacup and then her own. “Listen, if you really want to know more about the book, you need a professional appraisal. There’s only one place that can help you—the Museum of Literature in New York City.”
I blanched. This was problematic. I rarely left Wessex and never by choice. I simply did not enjoy leaving my zip code. “I can’t go to the city.”
“Zoanne Ziakas.” Agatha’s voice was sharp. “I have never known you to be a coward.”
“I’m not,” I protested. “It’s just that my comfort margin is very narrow and happens to fall inside the border of Wessex.”
Agatha tsked and picked up her teacup. “Do you really want to keep having dreams where you prick yourself with a pin?”
“What makes you think it will happen again?” I asked.
“What makes you think it won’t?” she countered.
Damn. She made a good point.
“What if next time you wake up to find you’ve removed your eyeball with a spoon?” she asked.
“Ergh.” I blanched. “Way to go to the dark side.”
“Clearly something in that book disturbs your unconscious. Who knows what you’ll do next?” Agatha shrugged. “My friends at the museum can help you.”
“Is this the place where you’re on the board of directors?” I asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. “It’s the only place I’ve allowed some of the Lively family heirlooms to be on loan. I trust them implicitly.”
I knew Agatha was right that the book needed a professional’s assessment. Of that there was no question. But the thought of driving to the nearest station and taking the train into New York City was daunting, to put it mildly.
“You can do this, Zoe,” she said.
I glanced at the book in the tote bag and then at the bandage on my finger. I hadn’t told Agatha about the murmurs I’d heard in my dream before I’d come to my senses. The voice had whispered to me in a language I’d never heard before,and yet, in my dream, I’d understood it perfectly. Had it come from the book? Or was it just my overactive imagination? It had to be me. I refused to believe otherwise. Still, the unsettled feeling persisted.
“I know Icando it.” I glanced back at Agatha. “It’s more a matter of do I want to?”
“Do you have a choice?” she asked.
I glanced at my finger and then at the book. No, I didn’t.
3
Manhattan. I stepped out of the Harlem–125th Street train station and was immediately hit by a thousand volts of frenetic human energy. After scoring a seat in the quiet car on the ride into the city, the high frequency of humanity was a jolt to my system. I immediately missed my serene little village.
I opened a directional app on my phone. I knew it would take forty minutes to walk to Museum Mile, where the Museum of Literature was located across the street from the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir in Central Park, but my appointment was in fifteen minutes. I hailed a cab and was fortunate enough to get the third one that cruised by.
Upon hearing the address, my driver took it as a personal challenge to deliver me to my destination as swiftly as possible. As he whipped down Park Avenue, jockeying for position and navigating through the glut of other vehicles, I lowered the window beside me, hoping a blast of cool air in my face would keep the queasiness that was starting to churn in mygut at bay. It helped just enough to keep down my breakfast of a Twix bar and a cup of salted caramel coffee.
With a sharp right, the driver zipped down the one-way street, stopping in the middle of the narrow road with a piercing squeal of his brakes, giving me the opportunity to test the restraining power of the seat belt. When I fell back against my seat, he pointed at a large stone building set back from the street and surrounded by an intimidating iron fence and said, “There.”
This was the most conversation we’d had during the entire trip, which was fine with me. I paid him and added a healthy tip for dropping me off in one piece. When the driver behind us lay on his horn, I hurriedly grabbed my leather shoulder bag and stepped onto the curb. I studied the imposing building in front of me and glanced at the time. Five minutes until my meeting.
I waited for a break in the traffic and dashed across the street. My high heels protested at the uneven pavers that made up the herringbone pattern in front of the building, but I soldiered on. A security guard in a tailored black wool coat over a white shirt and black pants stood to the left of two ornate bronze doors. As I approached, she gave me a quick once-over.
“I have an appointment,” I said. “With Director Carpenter.”
