Page 11 of Witches of Dubious Origin
I hesitated. “Do I need to say an incantation or something?” If I had to say something, that would be crossing the line and breaking my promise.
“That’s a Hollywood thing,” Olive scoffed. She looked dismissive and I wondered if I’d imagined the sympathy I’d seen moments ago.
“If the grimoire belonged to your family, just your blood should do the trick,” Miles said.
I noticed my hand was shaking as I moved it over the hexagonal medallion. I squeezed my finger again and watched as several drops landed right in the circle. It occurred to me then that what I had thought was rust or tarnish on the hexagon had actually been dried blood.Ew.
I stared at the hexagon. Was I supposed to twist it? Was there a button to press? Anything? Nothing happened. We all leaned back.
“I guess that’s that.” I refastened my bandage. “This grimoire clearly didn’t belong to my family and whatever this book wants, it isn’t from me.”
Click. Screech.
I glanced down at the book. The hexagon was rotating all on its own.Shit.
5
“It’s opening!” Tariq clenched his hands into fists of excitement. “This never gets old.”
“Easy,” Olive hissed.
Click.The hexagon stopped turning and the engraved metal band that encircled the book popped out of each side of the hexagon. The book appeared to heave a sigh of relief, which I was certain I imagined. Books did not sigh.
I glanced at the others, but they were all staring at the book as if expecting something. Olive glanced at me and gestured impatiently. “Well, open it.”
I was half-afraid the book was going to sprout teeth and bite me, but I figured if it did, it was best to do it here, where there were witnesses who could call for medical help. I shook my head. My imagination was running wild.
The cover was thick, made of calf hide that was smooth to the touch. Swallowing past the anxiety that constricted my throat, I gently lifted the cover to reveal the endpapers. They were a weighty parchment in a rich shade of ecru without a mark upon them. I turned the first page and stared at thewriting, clearly done by hand, in a deep brown shade of ink or—please, no—blood?
Collectively, we hovered over the book to get a closer look. I couldn’t read the writing. I flipped through several more pages. The precisely written figures continued line after line, page after page. I mentally sifted through all the ancient languages I had studied over the years, trying to identify it. I couldn’t.
Disappointment sucker punched me. This was a cipher I’d never seen. I glanced at the others. The frowns marring their faces indicated they had no idea what any of this meant either. Great, just great.
“It’s similar to theBook of Raziel.” Miles scratched his chin in thought.
“It seems more Code of Hammurabi to me,” Olive countered.
“Cuneiform?” Miles considered the book. “No, it’s not that linear. What do you think, Tariq?”
“The symbols resemble runes.” Tariq drew one in the air with his finger. “Like the Istaby Runestone.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I held up my hands. “None of that makes any sense. TheBook of Razielis believed to be thirteenth century, and the Code of Hammurabi is seventeenth century BCE, and the Istaby Runestone is from…what…the year 800?”
“Somewhere between 550 and 790, actually,” Tariq said.
“Whatever. This is clearly a bound book.” I pointed to it. “Parchment pages, a metal latch, and some sort of cured calf hide for the cover. There is no way it’s more than a few centuries old—at best. It’s definitely not as old as the Voynichmanuscript from the early fifteenth century, which is also indecipherable. In fact, if this is from my family, specifically my mother, it’s most likely something she created for her own amusement. You have to understand, my mother had a lot of…issues.”
I paused, not wanting to share the details of my dysfunctional childhood with a roomful of strangers, and found they were all staring at me. “What?”
“You’re very knowledgeable about ancient texts and languages,” Miles said.
“Librarian.” I pointed to myself, relieved that he was focusing on my knowledge instead my family.
“You know a lot more than the average librarian,” Claire said. She sounded impressed.
“The Museum of Literature is always interested in librarians and curators with exceptional abilities,” Miles mused.
“That’s not me. I took a class on the history of language and writing.” I waved my hand dismissively. “It was fascinating, but it has nothing to do with this book, which is likely a…hoax.”
