Page 99 of The Book of Magic

“We can’t follow a runner,” the driver warned when Ian turned into the park. “He’ll be on paths.” It was a warm morning and Ian had stripped off his shirt, clearly not one to follow the rules of decorum. Just as the driver began to warn Sally that this fellow she wanted followed would likely run across the grass, Ian took off over the dewy grass and they could no longer closely follow him.

“Just do your best,” Sally suggested.

They lost him for a while, but then she caught sight of Ian crossing Bayswater, headed toward Lancaster Gate. She felt her heart pound; it was as if she were tracking a wild creature, one that preferred to disappear. Sally quickly paid the driver, thanked him for being so persistent, then got out and crossed the street. She had borrowed one of Ian’s white shirts without asking, not that it mattered. He had plenty more. He turned as if she’d called his name even before she darted up the steps to join him. “I assumed you might run away,” she said.

“Run away from my own flat?” Ian opened the door, gesturing for Sally to enter.

“I thought we might have scared you.”

“You don’t scare me.” You’re still a good liar, he thought to himself. You’ll help them as you’re bound to do, and it will all be over soon. It’s nothing anyway. It’s your imagination.

“What is this place?” Sally asked.

“A library. For people like us.”

“What sort of people is that?” She had narrowed her eyes, clearly expecting an answer she wouldn’t like.

“People who like books,” Ian said, proud of his dodgy answer.

“I like books,” Sally said. “I’m a librarian.”

“Are you?” Of course she would be. Ian found women who were librarians exceedingly sexy. It was a combination of their love of books, which always increased their beauty, along with the fact that they usually knew more than he did, which he found oddly arousing.

Sally eyed the ornate moldings, extraordinary in detail, but, in her estimation, spoiled when painted a deep, glossy red. “Awful color,” she noted.

“It’s the color of magic. That’s probably why you don’t like it.” Ian gave her a sidelong glance and when she stared back at him he felt a sort of panic. Fuck, he thought. It can’t be this.

Sally disapproved of the library. It wasn’t just the color that glazed the woodwork that disturbed her, it was the content on the shelves. “Magic ruins people, why would I like it?”

“I used to believe that, but then I grew up.” Ian gave her a look he intended to be mocking, but it turned out to be something else entirely, some raw emotion that embarrassed him. Why was he debating her? He knew who he was, a self-centered man, not terribly interested in other people’s issues, always the thoughtless boyfriend who didn’t blink when a woman decided she’d had enough of his cool, selfish ways and left him, since that was what he wanted all along. No entanglements or complications. His work was more than enough for him. He’d seen what love could do, how it drove so many to practice left-handed magic; he’d been happy enough to wake alone in his bed.

“So you found your salvation in magic,” Sally said in a scornful tone. “And you think it’s fine if you occasionally go to the left to get what you want.”

He heaved a sigh. What made her think she knew him, and worse, what if she did?

“It’s written all over you. You don’t just believe in magic, you’re consumed by it.”

Now he was provoked. There were a thousand other things he could be doing this morning. “If you so disapprove, maybe you should go your way and I’ll go mine.”

Whenever Sally was vulnerable she was unpleasant and she knew it. Could it be they were alike in this? “I shouldn’t have said those things,” she admitted. “I’m desperate.”

“We can find her.” So now it was we, was it? Ian felt ploddingly stupid. He was overthinking. What they were forging was a business transaction, the oldest one of all. A life for a life.

He went to speak to the librarian, who had helped in his research before. When he began asking questions about The Book of the Raven, the librarian nodded, and led them down a long corridor to the reading room. Ian glanced over at Sally, who seemed folded in on herself. Magic hung in the air, thick moody gasps of it in every breath.

Vincent had been at work for well over an hour. He’d been given a pair of black cotton gloves to use as he looked through stacks of Grimoires, some donated, others stolen or found by accident, still others having narrowly managed to escape being burned, their pages singed, the paper emitting the acrid green scent of smoke. So far, he’d unearthed several references to Amelia Bassano, who knew astrologers and royals and theater people, but no mention of The Book of the Raven.

Sally wasn’t surprised to find that her grandfather had beaten them to the library. Her aunt Franny had confided that long-ago Vincent had practiced on the left-hand side, and that he’d been born with the temperament for magic, always curious, able to see what others could not.

“Your girl was here,” Vincent told Sally. “Yesterday. She has the book, but it refuses to open.”

Stunned, Sally turned to the librarian. “Did you help her?”

David Ward explained he’d found little concerning The Book of the Raven, only a mention of Amelia Bassano’s practice of magic. The librarian seemed to be more interested in references to the Owens family history.

“Our history?” Sally said, wary.

He thought it wise to pursue that avenue of research, for every curse began in the past.