Page 9 of Witches of Dubious Origin
The pain was so intense I felt tears spring to my eyes. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t speak. I tried to point to the book, but before I could lift my hand, I blacked out.
• • •
I could hear people talking in hushed tones. As I listened, I gender-identified the voices as belonging to two women and two men. There was an agitated quality to their conversation, but I couldn’t make out the words. I blinked and saw a fancy ceiling with swirling plasterwork overhead. That’s right. I was in New York City in a meeting at the Museum of Literature.
I forced my eyes fully open and discovered I was lying on the couch, with a man seated in the chair beside me, wafting the fumes from a small handheld diffuser over me. The scents of lavender and vetiver were strong and I assumed he was using them to calm me. It must have worked because my headache was mostly gone.
“Welcome back,” he said. He had a soothing Nigerian accent, if I was guessing correctly, and he was very handsome,with a deep brown complexion, warm brown eyes, and a wide smile. He was dressed professionally in a white dress shirt with a blue-striped tie and navy slacks. “My name is Tariq Silver. I work for Miles.”
“Awkward to meet you, Tariq.” I tried to make light of my embarrassment and his smile widened. “I’m Zoe Ziakas.”
“I know.” He glanced over his shoulder to where the others were standing at the far side of the room. He raised his voice and said, “She’s awake.”
Claire immediately started toward us while Tariq helped me to sit up. “Can I get you anything?”
“Not unless you have my dignity in your pocket,” I said.
“Sorry, no,” Tariq said with a soft laugh.
He switched off the diffuser and set it on the table. I noticed the book was there, out of the box. Olive and Miles followed Claire, who sat down on the couch beside me, leaving the chairs for Miles and Olive. Tariq crossed the room and carried a chair from in front of the windows back to our little circle.
“What happened?” I asked. Although I suspected I knew.
“You fainted,” Olive said.
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the judgment in her voice or if she really did find me weak. I sat up straighter.
“I never faint. How could that happen?” I asked. The question was rhetorical, but the expressions on their faces were considering.
They were collectively silent. I suspected they were trying to decide what to tell me. Annoying. They all turned to Miles. He bobbed his head once in acknowledgment, a habit of his that I was beginning to recognize.
“I believe the book is a grimoire,” he said. “Are you familiar with the term?”
“Of course, I readHarry Potter.” Yes, I said it just to see Olive roll her eyes again, which she did. “But I’m also a librarian, so I know thatgrimoireis a word derived from the Old Frenchgrammaire, which originally referred to any book written in Latin. Grimoires of the Middle Ages favored ceremonial magic and were unsurprisingly written primarily by men who wanted to exact vengeance on their enemies, locate lost treasure, or have the woman they desired forcibly delivered. They also included spells and rituals that advocated animal cruelty, theft, magical rape, and even murder.”
I saw Olive’s eyebrows lift just the teeniest bit. Was she impressed? Hard to say. I doubled down.
“In later centuries, grimoires became known as handbooks for magic,” I said. “And presently, the term is used by Wiccans to refer to their personal spell books, which are more remedy-based to serve their communities.”
“You’re very knowledgeable,” Claire observed.
I shrugged. “I read a lot and I have a good memory for obscure facts and odd details.”
“Good?” Claire shook her head. “Agatha said you have an extraordinary memory. She said she’d call it a photographic memory if such a thing existed.”
“Which it doesn’t,” I said.
Miles leaned forward eagerly. “Still, having such a skill must be an invaluable tool in your work.”
I shrugged. “It helps with law statutes and sports statistics.”
“How do you recall things?” Tariq asked. “Do you see pictures in your head of pages you’ve read?”
“Not pictures,” I said. “It’s more like I have all of this information sorted in my brain and I just need to find the right section.”
“Like a very large filing cabinet, then?” Claire asked.
I nodded. “That’s as good a description as any other.”
