Page 82 of The Book of Magic

“You say you’re a finder?” she asked this new grandfather of hers, the edge of suspicion in her tone.

Vincent shrugged, not wanting to praise himself too highly. “I’ve had the ability on occasion.”

“I hope so,” Gillian said. “We’ve come across the ocean to see you for that reason. I hope it wasn’t for nothing.”

Franny glared at her niece. “Of course it isn’t for nothing. It’s a talent of his. One of many.”

“You have your own talents,” Vincent reminded her.

Sally was quick to interrupt their mutual admiration. “Shall we begin the search tonight?”

It was not a question really, but rather a demand. She couldn’t quite think of Vincent as family, though he had the gray eyes the Owenses were known for and seemed oddly familiar, perhaps because she’d seen his face in news articles about musicians who had died too young to fulfill their promise. He had that one song their mother, Regina, had played over and over again when she thought her children were asleep.

“We should begin immediately,” Vincent agreed. “Night is best.”

They would proceed to Amulette for the ingredients that were needed. A light rain was falling and Agnes lent her visitors umbrellas and raincoats. “Don’t go over to the other side,” she cheerfully warned Sally and Gillian as she bid them good-bye.

“Unlikely,” Sally said flatly. The left-handed side of magic and its Crooked Path would never appeal to her. She had avoided magic her whole life long and always proceeded with logic.

But people often did the unexpected and left-handed magic was very tempting, even for those convinced they couldn’t be corrupted. It was a way to get what you wanted, and in return all one must do was dispose of both empathy and compassion, bothersome and unnecessary elements when walking the path. Was that really so high a price in exchange for your heart’s desire? For those whose own needs and desires came first, the trade could easily seem worth the price. Still, once you had what you wanted, left-handed magic took everything else in return. You didn’t even realize that you’d been burned until you looked down to discover you had been turned to ash.

They went on foot, through the gardens of the Tuileries, down the stairs leading to the riverbank. In the dimming light Franny had thrown up a cloak of protection to ensure that no one would notice them. This was a private business, after all. The dog, Dodger, was happy to be unleashed as he bounded down to the river, yipping with joy. Franny, on the other hand, had her troubles. Her knee. Her hip. Her condition had been improved with her own salves, yet she was still unable to keep up with the others, which was quite annoying. She had her umbrella to lean on, all the same she took the stairs slowly and Vincent hated to see that.

“I’m old,” Franny reminded him when she noticed his bleak expression. “But it’s still me in here. So be careful.”

Vincent laughed, then offered his arm so that Franny could link her arm through his. He assisted her while acting as if he was merely walking at a slower pace for his own comfort. He remembered that Franny had never liked to ask for help, and that certainly hadn’t changed. They took the staircase back up from the river path near the Île de la Cité, slowly yet again, then crossed to the Left Bank. It was after hours for the other shops on the street, but there were no set hours for what they needed. The sky was still overcast, and if you had the sight it was possible to feel those who had walked through the streets at night, who had lost those they loved during other dark springs.

“What are we willing to do?” Vincent asked as they neared their destination.

“Anything.” Franny shrugged. “Everything.”

Sally and Gillian were ahead of them and although Gillian was busy raising questions about Vincent’s abilities, Sally took note of Amulette right away. The book in the darkened window. The sign above the door written in pale red ink that to her looked gray. She stopped at the threshold, where the ivy with its black edges had to be trimmed back each and every day. Vincent noticed that Sally had the sight and was impressed. Most had to traverse this street several times before spying Amulette.

“Sally has the gift, but she’s never wanted it. You’d know that if you knew her.” Franny was not about to reprimand him, still she carried a measure of hurt over his disappearance “You missed a lot.”

“I had a lot,” Vincent responded.

Franny understood. William. She thought of how happy Vincent had been when he’d first fallen in love, how they’d sat in the small garden on Greenwich Avenue for hours discussing William, and his attributes—smart, loyal, no bullshit—all possessed by one beautiful man. “That you did,” she agreed.

Amulette was shuttered, but when Vincent pressed the bell beneath the ivy, the door opened, and they were briskly ushered inside. It was the proprietor who greeted them at this hour of the night and he quickly supplied the ingredients Vincent asked for: rosemary for remembrance, elm to connect with the inner voice, red chestnut for guidance, walnut to free them from shadows and trauma, mandrake to open the door to the other side. All these were burned in a brass dish. A block of wax held over the heat and softened into human shape.

“Can I have something that belongs to the girl?” Vincent asked.

For an instant Sally panicked, but Gillian whispered, “You have the ribbons.”

In her bag, Sally carried two blue ribbons she had always tied around her daughters’ wrists when they were mere babies. She looked through her wallet and found them. “I’m not sure which is Kylie’s,” she told Vincent.

He closed his eyes and took the first ribbon. “This one.” He tied the thread around the wax figure which was placed in the dish with the herbs where it melted. “Do you have an atlas?” he asked the proprietor. A worn leather tome was brought down from an overstuffed shelf.

“This is the book that will tell us where she is,” Vincent assured Sally.

Who is lost can be found. Who is found can be repaired. Who is repaired can be lost. Who is lost can be found once more.

He needed an amulet, but nothing in the glass case called out to him. He knew that his granddaughters were watching him with critical expressions. He was good at this, he’d been a finder ever since he made his way to Greenwich Village when he discovered who he was, and yet now he was unsure of himself. He hadn’t used any of his skills for years, perhaps he’d lost those talents Franny had spoken of.

Franny knew what he was thinking. “Go on,” she said with complete confidence in him.

It was then that he thought of the key Jet had sent. He lifted off the chain on which it had been strung, then opened the atlas and let the book fall open where it may. A map of seventeenth-century Europe was sketched in shades of red and black. When Vincent held the key on its chain over the page, it began to swing back and forth, faster and faster, until it spun in a circle. By the time it stopped on the correct location, the room had grown so cold that beneath the black drapes the windows were frosted with ice.