I glanced out at the street, making certain no one had seen what had just happened. Ever since my childhood, unexpected magic had always made me anxious.
I took another look around the porch and yard before I went back inside, then locked the dead bolt. I studied the aged volume more closely. It was a shade of black so matte it seemed to soak up light. The edges of the pages were jagged and uneven. And the book’s hexagonal metal latch was rusted from humidity or lack of use, I couldn’t tell which. I brought it to the kitchen, thinking I could open it with a knife.
Not wanting to lose a finger, I chose a butter knife. I slid it under the decorative metal band and tried to pry it loose. The metal didn’t budge. I tried to pop the hexagon with the blade as well, but it held fast. I set down the utensil and glanced at the door. If it wasn’t Bill who had dropped the book off and made the envelope gopoof…nope. I refused to go there.
• • •
The pin pricked my finger and blood beaded up out of the wound.I yelped and dropped the pin. Drops of blood dripped from my middle finger and I pressed my thumb to the tip to stop the flow. Had I just stabbed myself with a pin…on purpose? I blinked. I glanced down, noting that I was wearing my pajamas.
Relief whooshed inside me. It was okay. It was just a dream. An awful, stupid, painful dream. I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. It didn’t work. It couldn’t…because I was already awake.
I glanced down at my kitchen counter, where small splats of blood marred the smooth surface. The battered old book that I had tucked into my shoulder bag earlier sat on the granite beneath my pricked finger.
Shit!I had almost bled on the book. I spun away from the counter and rinsed my finger in the sink. What the hell had just happened? Sleepwalking? Night terrors? Had I actually pricked myself with a pin?Why?
Grabbing a paper towel, I wiped the blood off the granite. I rinsed off the pin and returned it to the container I kept in the utility drawer at the end of the counter. I threw the towelin the trash and stood, staring at the book in confusion. What was the book doing on the counter when I was certain I had put it in my bag?
Insistent whispers sounded at the edge of my mind. Like shadows that faded as the sun rose, the words weren’t quite loud enough for me to make out, but I knew. I knew without a doubt that those whispers had been in my dreams and that they had instructed me to stab myself with the straight pin. I glanced down. Goose bumps raised on my forearms as I gazed at the black book. I ran an uninjured finger over the cover, half expecting it to be absorbed into the black leather, as if it could pull me in just as it seemed to soak in the light. It didn’t and I lifted my hand and noted my fingers were trembling.
I’d had a strange feeling about this mysterious volume from the moment I’d first touched it, and I knew of only one person who might be able to help me.
2
“You think grief is making me lose it,” I said.
During the month since my mother had passed away, Agatha Lively—my friend, mentor, and auntie all rolled into one loving yet bossy package—had repeatedly encouraged me to go to grief counseling, even though my mother and I had been estranged for years. I’d refused, feeling that I couldn’t grieve a woman I didn’t know. In my heart I understood that the only thing I mourned was that any chance at a relationship with my mother was now gone forever. Okay, so maybe some counseling wouldn’t have been completely out of order.
“I didn’t say that, Zoe.” Agatha lifted the crocheted cozy that resembled a fat white goose off the delicate Haviland teapot and poured me a cup of rose hip tea. She was a big believer in its antioxidant properties. “I merely pointed out that you haven’t slept properly since your mother’s funeral, and this might be because you’re sleep-deprived.” She gestured at my finger with the Mickey Mouse bandage on it with a pointed look.
“No judgment, please. I am a meagerly paid public servant and these were on sale.”
“I don’t remember you being a sleepwalker. Is this a new development?” She ignored the explanation of my choice of bandage, which I wouldn’t have needed except that the pinprick had been pretty deep. I was relieved to be up on my tetanus vaccination.
“No, as far as I know I’ve never done anything like this before.” I took the teacup she offered. We were seated in the cluttered front parlor of Agatha’s house. It was an old Victorian that sat prominently on the Wessex town green and had been in the Lively family for generations. Agatha was the last surviving Lively, and the house was packed to the rafters with her family’s odd heirlooms, treasures, and tchotchkes. None of which she would consider parting with despite the collective mess. Having lived with her during my school vacations, I had tried to declutter it to no avail.
Sometimes I worried that Agatha would be done in by a falling stack of books or she’d trip on the variety of small cauldrons that lined the outer edge of the steps on the central staircase or, even more horrifically, she’d be eaten by one of the many sundew plants in the greenhouse. Yes, they were carnivorous and they gave me the heebie-jeebies. Although, to give credit where credit was due, she never seemed to have a problem with insects of any kind.
Agatha was short and curvy, with a deep brown complexion, white hair that fell in orderly ringlets to her shoulders, and professorial dark-rimmed glasses, which she lowered so she could peer at me with her direct deep brown eyes when she asked, “Have you tried taking valerian root?”
“Is it candy?” I met her gaze and she sighed.
“Of course you haven’t. How you have survived to almost forty years of age from the nutrition found in a vending machine is beyond me.”
I smiled, mostly because it was true. Not only had Agatha been my legal guardian since I was fourteen, she had also been my first boss. Like her, I was a librarian and Agatha had hired me fresh out of library school fifteen years ago when she was the director of the Wessex Public Library.
She had witnessed firsthand how I’d cobbled together my meals of Rice Krispies Treats (breakfast), Cheez-Its (lunch), and Snickers (dinner), preferably with a cola, not diet, on the side. Of course, I ate other stuff, but those were my mainstays.
“Ignoring my poor nutrition for the moment, what do you think of the book?” I asked.
Agatha sipped from her cup as if bracing herself. She set it down on its saucer atop an impressive stack of magazines. I’d sat in this room thousands of times over the years and I still had no idea what the coffee table beneath all the magazines and books looked like.
“You absolutely can’t open it?” she asked.
“No. Whatever sort of lock is on it, it’s impossible to crack. Believe me, I tried everything.” I took the book out of the canvas bag at my feet and handed it to her.
Agatha accepted the book and a delicate shiver rippled through her body. She glanced up at me and said, “October’s first chill has arrived.”
I glanced through the large picture window at the town square. The leaves were displaying their final burst of color.My favorites were the vibrant red of the sugar maples before they all fluttered to the ground. The nightly temperature had dropped and the days were crisp like the apples for sale at the local farmers market. Personally, I couldn’t wait to spend the next month consuming copious amounts of Halloween candy while working my way through my to-be-read pile.
