“Exactly.”Prudence nods, or does the kitty approximation of it, which is a bizarre sight to behold.Just chock-full of bizarre things lately, my life is.
She puts her paw on it, her tail slapping the countertop furiously.“Pick it up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap at her.
“That kind of tone isn’t like you,” she says, and I hate that she’s right.
“How do you know what is like me?You’ve only known me for one day.”Belligerent, that’s what I am.Driven to belligerence by poltergeists and talking cats.
“Because I’m your familiar, dumbass,” Prudence says.
“Who is unbecoming now?”
“You’re acting like this because you’re under a spell.Touch the damn book or I bite,” she snarls, fangs gleaming.
Dirty cat teeth are not on my desired ways to die list, so I slap my hand on the book.
Poof.
Gold sparkles explode from the cover like a cloud of magical dust and I cough, sputtering as they splash all over me.
“See?Spell’s broken.”Prudence looks smug in the way only a talking cat can look.I assume.
I wave a hand in front of my face, trying to clear the golden dust particles.Magic particles.I don’t have a clue what their actual name is.“Do you think that’s going to affect my lungs?”
“It’s magic, not asbestos.”Her voice drips with annoyance.“I’d be more concerned about your lack of balance and weak ankles if I were you.”
“That’s a low blow,” I mutter, but all that boiling resentment towards her I felt just a moment ago left me at the time of the magical not-asbestos cloud.
The honey-brown leather is soft, not at all dusty or grimy, like it should be after sitting in that bookstore for heaven only knows how long.
It’s a beautiful book, the kind that collectors would itch to have in their collections and libraries would be loath to let patrons touch.Deckled edges tickle my fingertips, and gold-embossed foil glimmers in the overhead light.
“Grimoire: East Texas Coven,” I read, tracing my forefinger along the depressed letters.My head snaps up, and I meet Prudence’s gaze.“This is a big deal,” I tell her.
“Duh,” she says.“That’s why I threatened you with violence.It’s unlike me to be so cruel, but sometimes threat of a serious blood infection is what it takes, you know?”
I snort, shaking my head, and open up the book.“Why would I have been spelled to forget?”
“I have a theory.Several.”
“Share with the class,” I tell her, gaze drinking in the pretty watercolor endpapers.Whoever made this book captured the town in loving brushstrokes that seem to blow across the page.“Holy shit,” I say, eyes wide.
They are literally blowing across the page, the green and pink spring flowers depicted in the watercolor wilting before red and orange blooms of summer lantana and spikes of Texas sage dominate the page.They wilt in fast succession too, and pumpkins and squash and a variety of happy pansies and autumnal mums grow in the planters lining the downtown streets.
Russet and golden leaves dance across the pages, and the book seems to settle in my grip, the seasonal swirl finally stopping as it decides we are, in fact, in autumn.
“That’s a fun spell,” Prudence agrees, swatting at one of the leaves.
“Don’t do that,” I scold her.“You’ll tear it.”
“I didn’t have my claws out.”She sounds grumpy, but she keeps her paws off the book as I finally peel my eyes off the magical painting and turn to the first page.
“Wow,” I say softly.A list of signatures and names line the next dozen or so pages, all dated by the witches who must have kept the grimoire over the last few centuries.“This is so incredible.”
It makes me feel… like maybe this is where I was supposed to end up after all, like all these women who came before me have been waiting to welcome me home.
It makes me feel like maybe, with their hands guiding me through time and space, through these pages, it will be okay.
