Page 71 of Witches of Dubious Origin
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“Murdered.” I needed to repeat it because my brain wanted to refute it totally and completely even though I’d suspected as much for weeks.
“Yes.” Olive nodded. Then, as if it occurred to her belatedly to offer sympathy, she added, “Sorry.”
I staggered to my feet and said, “I need some air.”
“There’s a balcony upstairs, feel free to step outside, but don’t do anything dumb.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. You librarians are an overly emotional sort, so I feel compelled to caution you against being impulsive.” Olive’s focus returned to her laptop.
I blinked. “That’s the first time I have ever been called too emotional because I’m a librarian.” The mere suggestion almost made me smile as I thought of every overthinking, pragmatic librarian I had ever known during my years of service.
“Just stating facts.”
“M’kay.” I turned and headed for the upper floor.
“Your room is second on the left,” Olive called after me. Iraised my hand in acknowledgment. Whether she saw it or not, I hadn’t a clue nor did I care.
I pulled myself up the spiral staircase and saw the balcony doors. I turned the handle and stepped outside. The cold air hit my face like a slap. It felt good. Even as I shivered, I was grateful for the sting.
I stepped up to the waist-high railing and noted the stairs that led to the roof above. I wondered if it had a garden like the Museum of Literature did. When I hauled myself up, I was disappointed to see a barren landscape of roof. No garden beds, no chairs, no Miles and Tariq enjoying tea.
Why this gutted me, I had no idea, but I sank to the ground as tears blurred my vision. I sat on the ledge, letting my legs dangle. Then I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed.
The terror of the day, almost being strangled—twice!—the endless reveals about my family and the past, the probability that my mother had been murdered, combined with the overwhelming sense that I was failing at what I was supposed to be doing—figuring out who did it—all of it took me out at the knees and I indulged in a pity party of epic proportions.
I don’t know how long I sat there or when exactly I felt another presence on the roof, but as my sobs diminished, I knew with a sudden clarity that I wasn’t alone. I swiped at the wetness on my face with the sleeves of my coat. If it was Olive, I would never live down the humiliation of proving her right about the overly emotional state of librarians.
I dropped my hands and lifted my head. I put on my most disinterested expression, usually reserved for library patrons who offered scathing opinions about books they hadn’t actually read, and prepared to face who or what was out there.
“Oh, hey, you.”
Perched on the ledge mere feet from me was a raven. He was big, black, and boldly beautiful. His eyes were the same light blue that I remembered, which meant that he was young, probably a fledgling, as his eyes would change to a darker color when he matured. Yes, I’d looked it up.
I tipped my head to the side. Was he the raven who had taken up residence on my mailbox? We were in another state and more than two hundred miles from home. Ravens were known to fly up to thirty to forty miles from their roost to their feeding areas each day. It couldn’t be him, could it?
“Are you following me?” I asked.
The raven tipped his head to the side as if he were listening. Weird. Was his appearance right here and now just a coincidence or did the bird have business here as well? Okay, that was ridiculous. What sort of business did a raven have on the top of a four-star hotel in the Boston suburbs in November?
“Apologies, I realize your life is not my business,” I said. My voice was gruff from crying. I sniffed and sighed. “I’m not normally so impolite. It’s just been a really rough day.”
The raven turned to the view, then he very carefully began to sidle down the ledge toward me. He stopped when he was mere inches away. I wondered if he was a zombie raven that I’d inadvertently resurrected. He didn’t look undead. If he wasn’t a zombie bird—oy!—was he my familiar? If I did have the gift of necromancy, a raven would certainly be an on-the-nose choice.
My throat hurt, my eyes were swollen, and my nose wouldn’tstop running. I had no doubt I was the picture of misery. Perhaps having a designated magical buddy wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Still, I didn’t want to assume.
“Are you my familiar?” I asked. If the bird had talked back, I probably would have fallen right off the roof. He didn’t. Instead, he inched closer to me and then he leaned in, pressing against my side.
It was then that I remembered my mother’s words when she’d given me the raven puppet so many years ago.I’ve had a vision about you and a raven. You need to trust the raven, she’d said. Had the vision indicated that the raven was my familiar? I had so many questions and no way to get any answers.
I felt a sob bubble up, but I held it in my throat. I didn’t want to scare my bird friend away. It was such an unexpected comfort to have this wild creature be so seemingly in tune with my emotions, which were all over the place at the moment.
There was nothing like being forced to confront my own mortality to make me realize I had so few connections in this life that practically no one would notice if I were suddenly gone.
Agatha. Agatha would miss me. A handful of people would notice I was no longer at work, mostly Bill, but the rest of the world would just sail on, going about their business as if Zoe Ziakas had never existed. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
