Page 84 of The Book of Magic

“I’m so sorry,” Helene said in a clipped tone, not quite as affable as she’d been previously, her expression revealing her distaste. “I have no idea what you mean.”

A clerk named Edward had overheard, a shady young fellow looking after his own interests. When Kylie left the shop, Edward was waiting outside, finishing up a cigarette. “I know where you can find what you’re looking for.” Edward looked over his shoulder to make certain no one could overhear, before turning back to Kylie. “It’ll cost you.”

Kylie offered up the locket that her mother had given her on her birthday, which contained a photo of Jet. Edward studied it with a suspicious glance. The color was black, not silver as she said, and that confused him. Kylie witnessed an aura blazing around the clerk. Green, the color of a fool. “Believe me, it’s silver and it’s worth more than you deserve for some information you should willingly share.”

“Keep your jewelry. I’d rather have cash,” Edward informed her. “People don’t share information about the Crooked Path for nothing,” he said scornfully. Americans were so entitled, even in matters of magic.

Kylie took out twenty dollars. “It’s the best I can do.” Kylie seemed dangerous at that moment, as women often do when they know what they want.

“It won’t hex me to have dealings with you, will it?” Edward asked, hesitating, before he took the cash. He’d had some run-ins with left-handed magic when working as a delivery boy for the shop and had a missing tooth to show for it.

“Of course not,” Kylie said, even though the clerk would likely have a bad case of hives by morning, with a hex from The Book of the Raven that was more sleight-of-hand trickery than real magic, a small reminder that he had done his best to extort her. That’s how the left-hand path began, with small resentments and bitterness receiving the first dark responses. “Go on, then,” Kylie urged.

Edward proceeded to prattle on about a private library not far from where she was staying, near Lancaster Gate, across from Hyde Park. “They’ve got everything you could be looking for. Names, faces, places. Only thing is, you’ve got to be a member to get in. And don’t mention me to anyone there. I’ve made a few deliveries to them. They tend to get pissy about their privacy.”

The Invisible Library had existed for hundreds of years, but had been at the same address since the mid-nineteenth century when the neighboring blocks of terraced houses were built in the Georgian style. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you would never see it. If you narrowed your eyes and half spied it, a woman named Mrs. Hempstead, a housekeeper of sorts who lived in the basement apartment, would come out and chase you away, accusing you of disturbing the privacy of nonexistent tenants.

The collection of books of magic had begun in 1565, funded by wealthy men who were interested in magic, but who didn’t wish their curiosities and pursuits to be made public. It had occasionally been forced to shut down, during the war, for instance, when bombs were falling in London, and then in the eighties, that egocentric decade, when it had been impossible to find a librarian willing to take on a position that was quite thankless. One had to be on call twenty-four/seven in case of emergencies, and the silence of the job had driven one librarian mad at the turn of the century. In the sixties another librarian, high on pot and willing to expose the library’s membership and location, had spoken with a reporter, but thankfully the journalist could never find the address to document the story.

There was a metal box at the top of the steps in which people could leave manuscripts, with a notice on the lid firmly warning that once deposited, a manuscript could not be returned and that there was no assurance a book would be accepted. People brought books they had found in attics and at jumble sales, books their grandmothers or aunts or they themselves had written, books of family lore, personal Grimoires whose owners had passed away, books with brown-paper covers that were said to make a reader lose his or her vision, left-handed books that stank of sulfur and fish.

Kylie knocked on the door to the library, not the usual way to gain entrance, for members had keys and let themselves in. If Gideon were with her, she would likely have had more courage; she wished she could conjure him to stand beside her on the step.

When no one answered, Kylie tried the brass door knocker. Nothing happened. She imagined Gideon whispering in her ear, the half Gideon who was there in her imagination. You can’t give up now.

Kylie took The Book of the Raven from her backpack and invoked an entry incantation.

What you were, you will no longer be. What has been broken, will be restored. Open to me.

When Kylie and Antonia were growing up, their mother had told them if they ever were lost it was always best to find their way to a library. The sisters had depended on one another from a young age. I love you was always answered by I love you more. But if they were alone or separated, if they were in need, or in trouble, if they were in search of knowledge, or a friendly face, or simply a phone to use to call home, all could be found in a library.

Please Kylie added to her entreaty. Please let me in.

Her voice was barely audible, yet she heard the lock click. She stumbled on the stair, and the librarian, a man in his seventies, reached for her arm and ushered her inside.

This morning a spoon had fallen while the librarian had made his tea, which predicted company coming, although he hadn’t imagined this childlike tall young woman, clearly lost. Yes, the rule was you needed to be a member to be admitted to the library, but rules didn’t always apply. It was an extraordinary place, after all, in both form and content. The floor was marble throughout, the hanging lamps were crystal, and the extraordinarily elaborate ceiling moldings had been painted a deep, glossy red. The fabric of the draperies was a rich scarlet velvet that didn’t let in the sunlight, for the books must be protected from light and greed and misusage.

The librarian introduced himself as David Ward. He was tall and distinguished looking, his eyes a cloudy blue that revealed nothing of what he felt inside, a man who was calm even in the midst of a storm. He’d had a storm in his life, and it had ruined him, and he’d vowed never to allow his raw emotions to control him again. He had recently passed his seventy-fourth birthday, but despite his vow, he had never been able to escape his past. He often felt too much, as he did now when he saw a girl who was on the edge of taking the Crooked Path.

“I suppose you’ve come for a book,” David said.

“Actually, I already have a book. I just can’t open it.” Kylie reached into her backpack to bring forth the small black text she now cradled in her hands.

David Ward narrowed his gaze, astonished by what he saw before him. He was well aware of the author of the book and of her reputation as a poet and a courtesan. There were those who believed that Amelia Bassano was the Dark Lady of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and others who were convinced she was the true author of his plays. Though she was the woman few had heard of, it was possible she had been the author of the greatest plays ever written.

David hadn’t been aware that Amelia Bassano had written this second book, but he understood its purpose after one glance. The Book of the Raven was a Book of Shadows, a dark Grimoire, one she’d written both for herself and for the benefit of others. “I assume you’re here to donate the text.” He was actually quite excited about it. There was no doubt that however dark it might be, the book was a treasure.

“Absolutely not.” The girl looked fiercely territorial upon hearing his suggestion; she held the book more tightly, refusing to relinquish it. “I need to find information about the author and about my family.” It was then that she dropped her brave face. “I’m cursed,” she said in a reedy voice.

David felt prickles down his neck. He gazed at his left hand and saw that his fate was changing as the girl spoke.

He brought Kylie to the reference room where there were dozens of oak cabinets set under glass fixtures shining down pools of dull yellow light. The library still made use of the old method of cataloguing, each entry written on a white card, some of them three hundred years old. David had begun to digitize the library’s holdings, but some of the material was resistant to technology and there were books that spat at him when he attempted to nudge them into the modern age. He had found references to Amelia Bassano in other Grimoires on the library’s shelves in the past, for she had moved in both royal and literary circles, and had been a student of Queen Elizabeth I’s astrologer, Dr. Simon Forman, but he had never seen a direct reference to The Book of the Raven.

When Kylie pointed out that her ancestor Faith Owens’s name had been written down in the seventeenth century as the owner of the book, David wondered how it had fallen into her hands. He brought them both cups of tea and set to work beside Kylie, so that they shared an unexpected intimacy. They had a similar style, neither spoke while researching and assessing the information they gleaned, much of it in bits and pieces. After an hour more in which they had little success locating the Owens name, the librarian realized Kylie held her hands over her eyes. Daunted, having discovered nothing of any use, tears had welled up. David wanted to say something reassuring, but he was no good at sympathy. Instead he handed the girl a handkerchief. That was when he saw that the tearstains were black.

“You might have mentioned you were a witch,” he said gently. “It will help with our research.”

Kylie glanced up at him, her eyes brimming and black, truly bewildered. It was then the librarian understood she was unaware of the truth about her family or herself.